Falchion. The place was
all peace: a very monotony of toil and pleasure. The heat drained through
the valley back and forth in visible palpitations upon the roofs of the
houses, the mills, and the vast piles of lumber: all these seemed
breathing. It looked a busy Arcady. From beneath us life vibrated with
the regularity of a pulse: distance gave a kind of delighted ease to
toil. Event appeared asleep.
But when I look back now, after some years, at the experiences of that
day, I am astonished by the running fire of events, which, unfortunately,
were not all joy.
As I write I can hear that keen wild singing of the saw come to us
distantly, with a pleasant, weird elation. The big mill hung above the
river, its sides all open, humming with labour, as I had seen it many a
time during my visit to Roscoe. The sun beat in upon it, making a broad
piazza of light about its sides. Beyond it were pleasant shadows, through
which men passed and repassed at their work. Life was busy all about it.
Yet the picture was bold, open, and strong. Great iron hands reached down
into the water, clamped a massive log or huge timber, lightly drew it up
the slide from the water, where, guided by the hand-spikes of the men, it
was laid upon its cradle and carried slowly to the devouring teeth of the
saws: there to be sliced through rib and bone in moist sandwiched layers,
oozing the sweet sap of its fibre; and carried out again into the open to
be drained to dry bones under the exhaust-pipes of the sun: piles upon
piles; houses with wide chinks through which the winds wandered, looking
for tenants and finding none.
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