—Pygmy assailing with dull steady knock.
Trunk yawning wide with a hideous gash.
Snow-covered limbs thrown a-sprawl; and
then crash!
The pens and the presses are waiting, and eyes
That will glow with delight, or dilate with sur-
prise.
For there in the heart of the spruce there is
rolled
The fabric for thousands of stories untold.