By the time Ben returned with the plank the tree was down.
“Now, Joe,” said Uncle Isaac, “you can take one side of the tree, and I will the other, and see if you can keep up with your grandfather. You, Ben, may saw up that plank into pieces three feet long, and make some wooden pins.”
By nine o’clock the drag was made.
“There,” said Uncle Isaac, “that hasn’t killed anybody; ’twould have been an awful waste to have taken good daylight for that. I’m not sure but ’twould have been a sin; and we’ve plenty of time left to sleep.”
Thursday was occupied in framing together the sills, and laying the lower floor, in order that they might have it to stand on while rolling up the logs. It was left rough, because Uncle Isaac said it would wear smoother than if ’twas planed.
“I hope,” said Joe, “it won’t be like old Uncle Yelf’s floor. He had a floor of hemlock boards, rough from the saw; they had a heap of grandchildren, every one of them barefoot. Go in there when you would, for a fortnight, there’d be old granny with her darning-needle, and a great young one’s foot up in her lap, a-picking out the splinters, while the young one, with both hands on the floor, was screaming bloody murder. By the time she’d picked the splinters out of his feet, there’d be as many more in his hands.”
Saturday forenoon was spent in hauling logs, and rolling them up on skids, preparatory to hewing.
Just as they had finished dinner, Joe suddenly cried, “What’s that in that bushy spruce on the edge of the bank?”
“I don’t see anything,” said Ben.
“Nor I, now; but I know there was something there, and I believe it’s there now.”