The Preacher of Cedar Mountain

I paid two bucks for a single page of writing the other day. This page.

"A burnt, bare, seared, and wounded spot in the great pine forest of Ontario, some sixty miles northeast of Toronto, was the little town of Links. It lay among the pine ridges, the rich, level bottomlands, and the newborn townships, in a region of blue lakes and black loam that was destined to be a thriving community of prosperous farmer folk. The broad, unrotted stumps of trees that not so long ago possessed the ground, were thickly interstrewn among the houses of the town and in the little fields that began to show as angular invasions of the woodland, one by every settler's house of logs.

"Through the woods and through the town there ran the deep, brown flood of the little bog-born river, and streaking its current for the whole length were the huge, fragrant logs of the new-cut pines, in disorderly array, awaiting their turn to be shot through the mill and come forth as piles of lumber, broad waste slabs, and heaps of useless sawdust."

I looked at the faded green volume in my hand, with an uncertain $2.00 written on the first page, as if the people running the tiny booksale weren't sure that anyone would pay that much for a worn hardback printed in 1920. That first page was enough to convince me. If you can read that, and not understand why, then I have no use for you. If you do, then you can pick up cheap copys of "The Preacher of Cedar Mountain" by Ernest Thompson Seton at amazon.com.

Now, to read the entire book.