Jolly Jack Tar—and all that sort of thing! Yachtsmen, who merely have fun with boats and the sea, understand why Jack is so jolly and care-free. They know it is due to his philosophy—a point of view that is the result of taking things as they come. It blows; it blows devilish hard! And then it doesn't blow et all, writes a contributor to "Field." That is all to do with the jolly part of Jack. The name of "Tar" stuck to him because, years ago, he often wore garments made from oiled or tarred canvas—in fact, tarpaulin.
But today there is rarely a smell of tar about Jack. He wears faultless blue serge; and sometimes an aroma from delicately perfumed hair oil might be noticed—a fragrance which rather clashes with a smell of stale beer here and there as the "liberty" boat fills up, and shore leave is ended. When my nose is tickled by Stockholm tar—a clean pungent smell; a smell which somehow mixes well with the brew from hops—I invariably mutter, "Pleasant smell, is that!" And then the law of association begins to work. I have often wondered why the smell of this tar should be so pleasing—to me. Before I had anything to do with boats, sails or the sea, T liked it. Psychologists would probably dive down into depths where I could not follow in their efforts to explain this partiality of mine, but the whimsical part of me prefers to find other reasons.
There is a pine, known as the swamp pine which grows in Carolina, Georgia and Alabama. I have not been to these places; I know little of swamps. Carolina I seem to remember in song; minstrels have told us of the delights of returning to Georgia; and I have listened while crooners "on the air" became sentimental over "stars" falling in Alabama. Yet, I feel just mildly interested when I learn that wood tar is distilled in these states of America.
But the pine forests of northern Europe—Russia, Sweden and Finland—these stir me far more. It may be due to the fact that when very young I heard tales of the lonely charcoal burner. I must have been greatly impressed by the things which were told me concerning this man who lived alone in the dark forests, for although I have never seen one of those mysterious beings who burn wood in a manner to produce charcoal, I had a picture of him in my mind, And through this medium of mind I have seen men in the pine forests of Nor-them Europe dragging along the resinous roots and stools of the Scotch fir, or Siberian larch, to a place where there had been erected an elevated platform. The platform was slightly concave, and covered with a layer of clay and tiles. In the centre of it there was a hole.
Perhaps the workers listened to the wind that is always moving in the tops of tall trees as they stacked the selected timber in preparation for a wonderful fire. The wood pile was built, on the platform, in the shape of a cone the outside of it covered with material which would offer resistance to combustion and keep out unwanted eir. Generally turves, or earth and sand were used. A few holes, left in the covering near the bottom for obvious reasons, were gradually closed when the wood was well and truly burning.
Text read from the printed page and cleaned; old type leaves the occasional error.