freely. Poplar is tough and spongy so soft 

 that the axe buries sometimes half-way to 

 the eye so deep that the handle splinters in 

 the effort of withdrawal. 



The racers have a care for such mis- 

 chance. See how they temper their stroke. 

 Up, down, in, out, the keen blade flashes ; 

 alow, aloft. Two either side, they stand, 

 bending, swaying, flashing steely arcs mo- 

 mently over and around them. Heroes of 

 toil, they fight with this towering giant a 

 battle to delight all Walhalla's warrior-gods. 



Listen ! What rhythm of stroke ! If the 

 forest must fall, could it wish a statelier 

 death-knell ? The pulsing sound throbs up- 

 hill, down dell ringing, rolling, in long, 

 reverberant swells. It is at once march of 

 doom, anthem of promise, whose fulfilment 

 Summer shall write large in Plenty's golden 

 smile. 



With a wild leap the great tree crashes 

 downhill, quivering in all its length, vibrant 

 to tiniest tip. Its conquerors barely breathe 

 them ere they mount the prostrate trunk, 

 measuring, lopping, tossing in piles the 

 fine intricacy of small branches. Soon they 

 stand arow, each in his allotted place ; axes 

 fall swift and swifter on the wood beneath 

 their feet. Big chips and small go splut- 



