Oakwood

She stood there for a moment, entirely alone in the dreaming oakwoods […]

He says moreover the Earl of Galloway had an oakwood of three miles extent along the Cree, whence a great part of Wigtonshire is supplied with timber[…]

Then I ran into the wilderness again of Wolf Creek, and spent 25 cents of the last little money I had in buying a can of salmon, which I devoured sitting on a log in the forest, and came at night to Grave Creek, and split a pile of oakwood, getting a good supper thereby and a long talk with the hired girl, who was pretty and pleasant, not deeming me a common tramp.

When you went in the heavy front doors of Grandpa Cook’s house, the first impression was of burning oakwood. […] The room I always slept in there, and that was especially for grandchildren, was a gloom. It had a no-lived-in feeling, no magic, no smell of its own, except that of the all-penetrating burning oakwood.

The acrid smell of sweat and burning oakwood vied with the sweet fragrance of roasted beef to fill her nostrils and envelop her senses, while the heat of the vast chamber threatened to overwhelm her more completely than the rigours of the journey.

The Marlfox ignored the jibe, listening to the steady ring of axeblades against oakwood.