"Go back an' git dat cross-cut saw!" he said.
Bob, as ex-warrior, took precedence even of his elders now.
"Fool niggers don't seem to know dar'll be mo' wood to burn if we don't waste de chips!"
The wisdom of this was clear, and, in a few minutes, the long-toothed saw was singing through the tough bark of the old monarch—a darky at each end of it, the tip of his tongue in the corner of his mouth, the muscles of each powerful arm playing like cords of elastic steel under its black skin—the sawyers, each time with a mighty grunt, drew the shining, whistling blade to and fro to the handle. Presently they began to sing—improvising:
Pull him t'roo! (grunt)
Yes, man.
Pull him t'roo—huh!
Saw him to de heart.
Gwine to have Christmas.
Yes, man!
Gwine to have Christmas.
Yes, man!
Gwine to have Christmas
Long as he can bu'n.
Burn long, log!
Yes, log!
Burn long, log!
Yes, log,
Heah me, log, burn long!
Gib dis nigger Christmas.
Yes, Lawd, long Christmas!
Gib dis nigger Christmas.
O log, burn long!
And the saw sang with them in perfect time, spitting out the black, moist dust joyously—sang with them and without a breath for rest; for as two pair of arms tired, another fresh pair of sinewy hands grasped the handles. In an hour the whistle of the saw began to rise in key higher and higher, and as the men slowed up carefully, it gave a little high squeak of triumph, and with a "kerchunk" dropped to the ground. With more cries and laughter, two men rushed for fence-rails to be used as levers.
There was a chorus now:
Soak him in de water,
Up, now!
Soak him in de water,
Up, now!
O Lawd, soak long!