“Mother, you don’t know how many things I’ve thought about, while I’ve been sitting under the old maple this summer, that I would make for you to have in the house, when I got my money for the baskets, and could get some tools of my own. Mother, you don’t know how glad I am we have got just such a house as we have, where there’s no end of things to make, and things to do; also, a barn to build, the land to clear, and the house to finish. Now, if all this was done, there would be no fun--nothing new to look forward to; one day would be just like another. You couldn’t look at things after you’d made them, and say, That is my work; I took it out of the rough; that’s mine, for I made it; but, however nice it might look, you’d have to think it was somebody’s else wit and grit did it. That would take all the good out of it for me. I’m sure I think more of my canoe than I should of ever so nice a one that anybody made and gave me.”