JOHN Milton, the blind poet, said that a book is the blood of an idea, preserved and embalmed, to be handed up from age to age, throughout all time. I hope you have found this to be such a book. What is it that after all these pages is still missing? Everyone loves a story that has a happy ending. I haven't given you that in the story of Joe Two Trees. The picture of a human being voluntarily divorcing himself from all others, and existing as a misanthrope for nearly sixty years, is quite another ending. But is this the story's end? I sincerely hope not, for then this book will have been written in vain. If you, the reader, will take time to tell this story to your children, perhaps it will have a happy ending. In his telling, Two Trees asked no more of my father than that he remember and retell these exploits. In that way, believed Joe, he would never be completely gone from the trails and trees of his beloved land. When you go to the quiet places that still remain within our steel and stone city, it is just possible that you could meet him. I know you won't see him as a person, but the vee of Canada geese obeying their ancient migratory imperative, or the furtive glance of a raccoon, the blaze of a gorgeous sunset, one of these, or all, will be Joe.
Don't lose him. When we allow the new to replace the old to such an extent, we will lose more than an ancient Indian story. Keep in mind that in our rush to meet the future, we must be sure to keep the past. Without its foundation, no structure stands for very long. As the Algonquin fell and was replaced in such a short time, so can we expect to fall unless we read a small lesson in the life that has passed.