Never had anything absorbed him so.

Life seemed a new thing.

The idea of disappearing from the place where, with a stroke of his fingers, he moved five thousand men, or swept a forest into the great river, or touched a bell which set going a saw-mill with its many cross-cut saws, or filled a ship to take the pine, cedar, maple, ash or elm boards to Europe, or to the United States, was terrible to him.

He loved the smell of the fresh-cut wood.

The odour of the sawdust as he passed through a mill was sweeter than a million bunches of violets.
Many a time he had caught up a handful of the damp dust and smelt it, as an expert gardener would crumble the fallen flowers of a fruit tree and sniff the sweet perfume.