A NEW ENGLAND WOODPILE 



gled odors of the many woods freshly 

 cut and the indescribable woodsy smell 

 brought home in the bark and moss, and 

 listening to the hum of the bees and 

 harsher music of the saws and axe, the 

 sharp, quick swish of the whip-saw, the 

 longer drawn and deeper ring of the cross- 

 cut, and the regular beat of the axe, — 

 fiddle, bass-viol, and drum, each with its 

 own time, but all somehow in tune. The 

 parts stop a little when the fiddler saws 

 off his string, the two drawers of the long 

 bass-viol bow sever theirs, and the drum- 

 mer splits his drum, but each is soon out- 

 fitted again, and the funeral march of the 

 woodpile goes on. Here is the most de- 

 lightful of places for those busy idlers 

 the children, for it is full of pioneers' 

 and hunters* cabins, robbers' caves and 

 bears' dens, and of treasures of moss and 

 gum and birch, and of punk, the tinder 

 of the Indians and our forefathers, now 

 gone out of use except for some conser- 

 vative Canuck to light his pipe or for 

 boys to touch off their small ordnance. 



It is a pretty sight to watch the nut- 

 hatches and titmice searching the grooves 

 of the bark for their slender fare, or a 

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