Straining
and tearing, the muscles, at every slightest wish, seemed to exude
energy and health, glowing strength and power.
It was all so natural and apparently easy--an epic in moleskin and human
flesh, with only the little glimmer of oil-lamps, which darted from side
to side in a mad mazurka of toil, crossing and recrossing, swinging and
halting, the flames flattening out with every heave of their owners'
bodies, then abruptly being brought to the steady again. Looked at from
the road-foot, it was like a carnival of fireflies engaged in trying how
quickly they could dart from side to side, and cross each other's path,
without coming into collision.
Who shall sing in lyrical language the exhilaration of such splendid
men's work? Who shall catch that glow of strength and health, and work
it into deathless song? The ring of the hammers on the stone, the dull
regular thud upon the timber, the crash of breaking rock, and the
strong, warm-blooded, generous-hearted men; the passionate glowing
bodies, and above all, the great big heroic souls, fighting, working,
striving in a hell of hunger and death, toiling till one felt they were
gods instead of humans--gods of succor and power, gods of helpfulness
and strength.
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