THE OLD SAW MILL. 43^3 



Anon with watchful glance he sees, 



Slow moving down the road, 

 The low log- wagon, oxen drawn, 



And creaking with its load. 

 He grasps the toilsome cant-hook tight, 



With horny hands and brown, 

 And with the teamsters' added help 



The logs come thundering down. 



Through toiling years he wore away 

 His life upon that mill ; 



When death smote one he smote them both 

 And left them ever still. 



He who uprightly walked the earth. 

 Full careless of its pelf, 



Now in his plain-made coffin lay- 

 He sawed the boards hims'elf. 



He sleeps in peaceful rest beneath 



The daisy-sprinkled sod ; 

 No more to care for summer's drought, 



Or spring-time's angry flood. 

 As neighbor good, as friend oft tried. 



With large and kindly heart. 

 His life, well spent, this tribute earned— 



" He acted well his part ! " 





