THE WOODPILE. 



FRANK H. SWEET. 



What a satisfaction it is to see a gen- 

 erous, whole souled woodpile! It gives 

 one a better opinion of the world, and 

 brings up a rich flood of memories and 

 associations. One has no need to be told 

 that the owner is the father of half a dozen 

 boys and girls, and that the neighbors like 

 to gather under his roof during the long 

 winter evenings, when the snow and wind 

 outside but emphasize the warmth and 

 cheer within. One has no need to call on 

 the imagination to see the great pile of 

 extra logs in 'the corner, awaiting their turn 

 at the fiery carnival dancing and glowing 

 in the fireplace; or the half circle of merry 

 story tellers gathered about the hearth, 

 eating apples and cracking nuts, and ex- 

 changing experiences of farming and hunt- 

 ing with one another. 



There is something wonderfully warm 

 and suggestive about the great hospitable 

 looking pile. Every log has a whole even- 

 ing of cheer and hilarity bottled up in its 

 taciturn depths; every stick and piece of 

 rough bark has a story of its own — remi- 

 niscences of deep, silent woods, and of 

 birds and animals it has helped to nurse 

 and shelter. 



And this cheerful, glowing blaze in the 

 fireplace is a fit ending for the rough 

 barked old tree that has passed its life in 

 such ministering service. If one listen 

 closely to the snapping and cracking he 

 may almost distinguish the chirps and love 

 calls of the birds, the chatter of the squir- 

 rels and the low, distant soughing of the 

 wind through its branches. 



No wonder the farm boy grows to have 

 a fondness for the woodpile. It is replete 

 with associations and memories. He 

 helped to cut and haul and pack the logs; 

 and he has stories to tell of the chestnuts 

 and walnuts and wild apples which they 

 once yielded. He may declare that he 

 "hates the woodpile," and that "cuttin' 

 wood's the hardest work ever was," but 

 it is mere bravado. When his friends 

 come to see him he always takes them to 

 the woodpile, and each has his favorite 

 perch among the logs. He eats his apples 

 on the woodpile, and it is on the woodpile 

 that he dreams his plans and castles for 

 the future. 



During the late fall months, after seed- 

 ing and shucking and apple gathering and 

 cider making are over, the teams go into 

 the woods and bring home the logs, which 

 have been mellowing and seasoning since 



the winter before. Load after load, they 

 are brought and heaped up, until the pile 

 rises above the eaves of the sheds and sta- 

 bles. Then the real life of the wood-pile 

 commences. 



Saws and axes are brought from the 

 woodshed and sharpened, and the boys se- 

 lect a sheltered spot on the South side of 

 the great pile. The older ones saw and 

 the others split, and the merry music of 

 their saws and axes rings out through the 

 keen December air. Profiting by their 

 preoccupation the blue jays make frequent 

 trips to the corn crib, and even the more 

 venturesome squirrels occasionally steal 

 from the woods near by. Sometimes the 

 boys see them, and there is a sudden aban- 

 doning of saws and axes and a chase 

 which rarely results in capture. 



During the first few days the dogs circle 

 about the boys, whining and wagging their 

 tails, and trying to entice them away to 

 the woods ; but after a time they seem to 

 understand that such frivolous pleasure 

 must wait until the work is done, and they 

 slink off to some sunny spot behind the 

 logs, where they sleep and dream, and 

 make the short peculiar barks which only 

 dreaming dogs know. 



Day by day and week by week the great 

 pile of wood passes under the saws and 

 axes, and is thrown out on the other side, 

 to await its summons to the kitchen stove. 

 After a time the small boys begin their 

 part, and the newly split wood is packed 

 into huge, symmetrical blocks that shall 

 rise above the drifting snow which will 

 presently come whirling down from the 

 North and Northwest. Sometimes the 

 girls come out to help, and then there is 

 a gay passing of snowballs and much 

 laughter and merriment. 



What an open, large hearted hospitality 

 such profusion of wood suggests. It 

 never occurs to one that the owner may 

 be niggardly or churlish. Such a pile of 

 wood can only belong to a man whose 

 heart is large enough to take in the whole 

 neighborhood. 



But what a contrast is the woodpile 

 across the way. A few sticks, that even 

 the house dog refuses to sleep behind. 

 No wonder the boys are thin and sickly 

 and the girls weak and discontented. One 

 can scarcely imagine a smile, or a bit of 

 laughter, or a jest, passing through a door 

 that overlooks such a pile. 



"You say you have had your entire com- 

 pany vaccinated? Where did you vaccinate 

 the fairies of the ballet?" 



"In the wings." — New York Herald. 



43° 



