M DANVIS FARM LIFE 



or cheapens the storekeeper's wares till "chore- 

 time " draws nigh. 



Loads of logs are drawn to the sawmill, a 

 quaint old structure whose mossy beams have 

 spanned its swift raceway for half a century or 

 more. The green ooze of the leaky flume turns the 

 icicles to spikes of emerald, and the caves beneath 

 the log dam have crystal portals of fantastic 

 shapes. Heaps of logs and piles of boards and 

 slabs environ it on the landward side, and a pleas- 

 ant odor of freshly cut pine pervades the neigh- 

 borhood. Its interior is as comfortless in winter 

 as a hill-top, "cold as a sawmill" bemg a New 

 England proverb; and it is often said of one who 

 leaves outer doors open in cold weather, "Guess 

 he was brought up in a sawmill, where there 

 wa'n't no doors." It is a poor lounging-place now 

 for our farmer, but the dusty gristmill hard by 

 offers greater attractions. Maybe he has brought 

 a grist atop of his logs, and has good excuse to 

 toast his shins by the miller's glowing stove 

 while he waits the grinding. 



On the millpond, alder-fringed and overhung 

 by Uthe-Umbed birches, the farmers gather their 

 ice-crop, one that New England winters never 

 fail to produce most bountifully. Simpler tools 

 are used here than are employed by the great ice 

 companies of the cities. The same cross-cut saw 

 that cuts the logs with a man at each handle is 



