As we tramped towards the maple, tracks were noticed that started us
guessing. They looked like two footprints close together a couple of
feet apart. Was it a mink or a weasel? It seemed too big for a weasel. A
light snow had fallen on the previous night and the fresh tracks were
easy to follow. They were much more interesting than that maple stub and
I insisted on following them. We might get a mink. I have known men to
draw to a mink and catch a fur-lined overcoat, so why shouldn't I? About
fifty yards further on the tracks disappeared in a hole in a snowdrift
beside a log. We were certainly in luck. By using the axe and kicking
vigorously the snow was soon removed and a snug nest of leaves and mouse
fur was found in a hollow under the log. It was still warm, showing that
the occupant was at home. A few pokes with the axe handle brought out a
more than snow-white ermine with a black-tipped tail. For about five
seconds I was as active as a political K.C. hustling for a vacant
judgeship. There was enough ermine in sight to make a beginning on a
judge's robe, but only for a few seconds. He disappeared into a hole
that led under the stump of an uprooted tree and I was looking at the
place as disconsolately as a political K.C. reading the notice of a
rival's appointment. A brief investigation showed that he was safe from
pursuit. There was nothing to do but go at that miserable maple stub.
The maple stub measured two feet at the stump and was as sound as a
bone. The top had been broken off by a windstorm a year ago and ever
since it had been seasoning. After a notch had been cut on the side
towards which the tree was to be made to fall we proceeded with our
Gladstonian task. Working a crosscut saw in its natural position is bad
enough, but working it on its side to cut through a standing tree--Oh,
well, everything has to end some time. Presently it came crashing down.
"As falls on Mount Alvernus
The thunder-smitten oak."
As the echoes died away another sound was heard. It was the call to
dinner. Say, have you ever heard the call to dinner in circumstances
such as have been described? It is the most joyous sound in the world.
If the women-folks only knew how good their voices sound at such times,
they would call oftener--and earlier.
During the dinner hour the ermine--everybody else called it a weasel,
but I had the _Century Dictionary_ to back me--was discussed and the
fiat went forth that he must be trapped. Where hens are kept weasels and
similar vermin are not popular. There was a vivid recollection of
twenty-six chickens that had been killed by a weasel one night last
summer, so this one must be destroyed. No objection was made, for
setting a trap is easier work than dragging a crosscut saw through a
maple log. Nevertheless I scorned the preparations that were made. The
dictionary describes the weasel as being remarkable for cunning,
wariness, and alertness. It quotes the proverb about "catching a weasel
asleep" and gives the impression that this creature, above all others,
is capable, as the nature-fakirs say, of matching the intelligence of
man with his cunning. The preparations for trapping were such as would
be laughed at by a young rat, not to mention an old one. A dead hen that
had been in cold storage in a snowdrift for a couple of months was dug
out and laid beside a stump near the creature's hole. Around the hen a
little hut of rotten wood was built, leaving an opening at the bottom.
In this an ordinary rat trap was placed without any attempt at
concealment. The whole arrangement was one that a cow would avoid even
if it was baited with turnips. It was absurd to think that a weasel
would be so foolish as to walk into a danger so "gross and palpable."
A time always comes when excuses and shifts fail, and at last there was
nothing for it but to tackle the crosscut saw again. My hinges all felt
rusty, and how sore those blisters felt! The first cut warmed me up and
I felt better, but the second cut brought back the symptoms of asthma
and apoplexy. Then I thought of a story.
"Talking about weasels, did I ever tell you about the Presbyterian elder
living less than twenty miles from here who broke the Sabbath to kill
one? He is the strictest Sabbatarian in the county and keeps the Sabbath
in a way that makes the blue laws of New England look frivolous. He has
all of the Sabbath food, fuel, and water prepared on Saturday, goes to
church three times, and will allow no visitors. Well, one Friday night
last summer a weasel got into his hen-house and killed all his hens but
three. On Saturday night he came back and finished the three. On the
Sabbath morning the elder saw the vermin skulking about the barn, and
throwing his record to the winds he took out his shotgun and peppered
the weasel." (This story was good for a five-minute rest.)
Another cut. "Tang, tan-n-n-ng." You will notice how slow and long-drawn
the sound was becoming when I drew back the saw.
When the cut was finished I just had enough breath left to start a
discussion of the comet that is now appearing in the west. The papers
have not told definitely whether it is Halley's comet or another
visitor. But even that ended.
After the next cut I managed to work up a talk about the plans of the
Hydro-electric and to paint in glowing colours the good times we would
have when electricity would be used to heat houses and for cooking. It
wouldn't be necessary to cut wood then. Whew!
While the next cut was coming off a blister broke and I couldn't think
of anything to talk about, so we plunged recklessly into another. Then I
began to count the strokes. I found it took five hundred to take off one
block. That may not show well beside some of the records made at the
sawing matches, but it must stand. About this time I thought it would be
a good idea to take the measuring stick and mark off the rest of the
stub. Twenty-nine more cuts. At five hundred strokes to the cut, you can
figure out what that would amount to. When I realised what this meant I
sat on the log and, as Meredith says, my "thoughts began to bloat like
poisoned toads." Would the sun never go down? I was killing time as
shamelessly as a plumber. To work again, and then another blister
broke. I don't believe the stories they tell about two men cutting eight
cords of wood in a day with a crosscut saw.
As the dragging minutes passed I began to sympathise with Sisyphus, who
had to roll a stone uphill, only to find that it always rolled back. No
matter how savagely I yanked that saw towards me, it would be yanked
away. As I kept up the dreary task I began to admire Schopenhauer, and
decided that henceforth I would be an outspoken pessimist. Still the saw
whimpered--
"Tang, Tan-n-n-n-g!"
At last, when "even despair grew mild," I was told the time had come to
do chores. Without a word I shambled towards home and, like Hosea
Biglow, I went
"Back
Along the very feetmarks of my shining morning track."