HARDWOOD RECORD 



IS 



The Old Cross-Cut SaW. 



BY LUELLA WILSON SMITH. 



On a January morning when the air showed signs of thaw, 



Dad would go out to the woodshed and take down the cross=cut saw; 



Then we'd hear him filing, scraping, making an unearthly noise. 



And we knew that meant employment for a couple of lively boys. 



Quick we'd have alarming symptoms on the lounge we both would crawl,- 



Dick would have a jumping toothache -with the stomachache I'd bawl; 



And we'd lay there moaning, groaning sickest boys you ever saw— 

 Just because we heard Dad filing that old creaking cross=cut saw. 

 'Twas no use— our Dad had been a scheming lad himself, you know. 

 And those little subterfuges with our parent wouldn't go. 

 So with boots all freshly tallowed, "warmuses" all buttoned tight. 

 Pockets filled with spicy "rambos," just to coax our appetite. 



Slow we trudged along behind him saddest boys you ever saw- 

 Through the pasture to the wood=lot in the January thaw. 

 When we reached the scene of labor followed by our faithful dog. 

 There we saw stretched out before us our big "stunt" a hick'ry log. 

 How we listened for the farm=bell, how we felt our stomachs gnaw; 

 As we stood there pushing, pulling that old creaking cross=cut saw! 



When the task was half completed, Dick, the younger brother, cried: 



"We could get along lots faster if you didn't have to ride." 



"I ain't ridin'!" "Yes you are, too." "You're another, now so there!" 



"Jus' come on you little 'fraid=cat." "Guess I always take a dare!" 



And we fought it out together -maddest boys you ever saw^ 



On that wet and snowy hillside in the January thaw. 



How we scrapped! 'Twas one confusing mass of legs and fists and arms. 

 Dog beside us barking loudly— he was used to war's alarms- 

 Down the hill we rolled together, where the underbrush, grown thick. 

 Saved us from a bath, untimely, in the waters of Bean Creek; 

 Then from hill=top came the summons in a voice we understood, 

 "Now you boys just quit that fighting and get back to sawing wood!" 



Years have passed; long separated, burdened with affairs of men, 

 We no longer push the cross=cut— now our tool's the faithful pen; 

 For my sturdy little brother— older grown and more sedate, 

 In a far=off western city wrestles with affairs of state; 

 And I sit here in the twilight by the grate=fire's cheery glow. 

 Musing o'er the days of boyhood in the dear old long ago; 



As 1 watch the burning hick'ry, hear its quick, familiar snap, 



I can hear the old saw's music, I can smell the fragrant sap; 



Work that once seemed hard and dreary, looked at through the mists of years 



Beside harder tasks that followed, recreation now appears; 



We have found in life's hard struggle- he succeeds who can make good. 



And whate'er our occupation -we must keep on "sawing wood." 



