Where Town and Country Meet 



itself, and some farmer-legislator be able to 

 keep tally of his wood-pile, in the pauses of 

 public deliberation. 



What rambler does not love the sound of 

 the ax, in spite of the fact that it is all 

 the time robbing him of his best-loved do 

 main ? When I enter the crisp woods, on a 

 midwinter day, and hear its cheerful, ring 

 ing stroke pervading all the air, like the 

 tap, tap of a great woodpecker, I feel a 

 thrill of sympathy and companionship with 

 the sturdy man, in felt leggings and flan 

 nel shirt, who is hewing out the chips some 

 where yonder with his bright blade. The 

 whole wood echoes with his firm strokes, 

 and I seem to hear the comfortable, as 

 pirant ah, ah, with which he registers each 

 blow into the heart of the tree. It is hard 

 to trace him out, for the sound seems to 

 come from everywhere; but at length, try 

 ing this way and that, and stopping to meas 

 ure the growing or diminishing volume of 

 the sound, as one stalks a drumming par 

 tridge, I get his direction, and soon catch 

 a gleam of his ax through the trees. As I 

 approach, he willingly stops his work to 

 chat with me, and I find, as I trusted, that 

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