“Cold, isn’t it?” said Grandfather as he held the cup fresh from the spring to the lad’s lips. “Yes—cool and refreshing. And now we’ll be ready for work again.”
“Yep,” said Ginkle; “Grannyfader, what makes the water bubble that-a-way?” Ginkle was pointing at the spring.
“Oh,” explained the other, “The water’s trying to talk, and bubbles are the best it can do.” Setting to work at the tree, his ax rang for some time very vigorously.
“That pine’s big,” exclaimed he, as he stopped to wipe the sweat from his face.
“Uh-huh,” agreed Ginkle.
This time Grandfather went to work in earnest, cutting away some brush in order to make room. He chopped away more vigorously than ever, and for a time he forgot his little grandson altogether. Suddenly he remembered.
“Ginkle, oh Ginkle, where are you? Keep away—look out!” he called. He had cut at the tree from both sides and had gone deeper than he thought. Suddenly the big pine began to totter. Glancing about for fear the boy might be caught, he cried out in warning. Ginkle was at a safe distance, but Grandfather forgot himself. As he turned he found the tree falling fast in his direction, and as he sought to jump away, his foot caught in some brush and he fell headlong, the tree across his prostrate body. Swish went the branches among the brush. Face down lay Grandfather, groaning under the fall and the heavy pressure of the fallen trunk. The cry that Ginkle gave was a relief, even in spite of his own danger, and the little fellow came to Grandfather’s side and tugged at his arm, crying big tears of fear and grief.
“Grannyfader hurted? Grannyfader hurted?” sobbed the lad.
“Help—we’ll need help,” groaned the prostrate man, “I—I’ll never get out of this without help.”
“What do, Grannyfader, what do?” exclaimed Ginkle, still tugging at his sleeve.