Some packagers sneak soft wood into their firewood. They look gorgeous, but burn out fast. You know, darling, I’ve always had the finer things in life before I came here. Best leaves, best soil, best sunlight; I lived in luxury. But that was years ago, before hard times came and the tree where I’d grown up was chopped down to clear land for a condominium. What would my dear parents say if they could see me now? No longer am I waited on by well-mannered chipmunks and the occasional squirrel. Now the only animals I see are the gnawing, dirty mice and the slinking cats who pursue them. And don’t get me started with those disgusting dogs! I’ve tried to earn my keep, but I wasn’t raised to perform menial labor. I’ve flitted from job to job, trying my best to succeed, but I tire so easily, and after a week of drudgery I’m worn out. My life has been a downward spiral until I landed here, in a wood pile, at the bottom of the heap. Someday, the divine hands which keep this pile will find me. I’ll be taken up into the sunlight again, remembering my former glory, until I’m tossed into the burning fire. But don’t expect me to give heat and light for long, darling. I was raised for finer things and now give out easily.