II. The Sawmill
After they had gone all over the house, they bade Mr. Emerson good-by and drove away.
“Won’t it be fine! How I should love to live there!” The children were still talking about the new house.
“Where do you suppose Mr. Emerson got the wood?” questioned Ruth.
“I know,” answered Wallace; “at the lumber yard.”
“Did he, father? Couldn’t he have just chopped down some of those trees over there?” asked Ruth, pointing to a wooded hill to the right.
“I hardly think so,” replied Mr. Duwell. “Before trees can be used in building they have to be—”
“Sawed into boards and planks,” finished Wallace.
“Good!” said his father. “And where is that done?”
“At the sawmill,” said the boy.
“That reminds me—” said Mrs. Duwell; “there is a sawmill over at the bottom of that hill. Mr. Emerson told me about it. Some of his lumber came from there.”
“Then this road must lead to it,” said Mr. Duwell, pulling up at a cross-road that ran through the woods towards the hill.
“What does that sign-post say, Wallace?”
Wallace jumped out and examined the dingy sign, which was hardly readable.
“Sawmill Road; this is the right way!” he cried.
They had not driven far along the shady road when a peculiar, whistling sound met their ears.
“There’s the saw, now, I believe!” exclaimed Mrs. Duwell.
“So it is,” said Mr. Duwell. “Trot along, boy!” he urged the horse.
At a turn in the road they came upon the old sawmill, nestling at the foot of the hill. The smooth mill pond shone brightly in the sun. As the water fell over the dam, it tumbled into a noisy little brook which ran under a bridge and away down the valley. The refreshing odor of pine and cedar filled the air.
Several men were busy sawing the trunk of a pine tree into long, clean planks. The children watched the circular saw with wonder as its sharp teeth ate into the sweet-smelling wood. Its shrill music delighted them.
“Yes, sir,” the foreman replied to a question of Mr. Duwell’s, “most sawmills are run by steam power. Very few old-fashioned water wheels are left in this part of the country. Let me show you our wheel.”
“This is the sluice-way,” he explained, pointing to a long narrow canal full of flowing water. “The sluice-way leads the water from the pond to the top of the wheel.”
Going down a flight of steps on the outside of the building, they stood right beside the old moss-covered wheel. It was a huge wooden framework with shelves or buckets all around the wide rim to catch the water.
The water poured out of the sluice-way over the wheel, turning it slowly and steadily. As the wheel turned, the water kept falling with noisy splashes into the stream below.
“What makes it go round?” asked Wallace eagerly.
“The force and weight of the water pouring over it,” replied the foreman. “That is what we call water power.”
“Think of it, children!” said Mr. Duwell. “That old wheel helped to build Mr. Emerson’s house.”
“Yes,” said the foreman, “it has helped to build many houses besides Mr. Emerson’s. That old water wheel has been sawing wood just as you see it now for over a hundred years.”