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WDS Publishing
Chips And Splinters
Chips And Splinters
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I halted one day for lunch on the bank of Sawpit Gully. On the slope, now covered with ferns, was a half-filled pit, with heavy junks of partly-sawn timber, a rotten cedar log, and a couple of old rusted saws lying about it.
Those saws had once been the pride of the men who worked there. They kept them as bright as a new shilling, and loved to hear the swish of their savage teeth through the fragrant red-wood.
Then, when the buzz and hum of the circular was heard, those saws, that no other dared touch before, were thrown aside in disgust. The deserted sawpit was eloquent. "We won't want them any more, Jack," it echoed still. "We've got to find another job."
Those saws had once been the pride of the men who worked there. They kept them as bright as a new shilling, and loved to hear the swish of their savage teeth through the fragrant red-wood.
Then, when the buzz and hum of the circular was heard, those saws, that no other dared touch before, were thrown aside in disgust. The deserted sawpit was eloquent. "We won't want them any more, Jack," it echoed still. "We've got to find another job."
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