"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!
There was a tightening of big, black biceps, a swelling of powerful
thighs, a straightening of mighty backs; the severed heart creaked and
groaned, rose slightly, turned and rolled with a great splash into the
black, winter water. Another delighted chorus: "Dyar now!"
"Hol' on," said Bob; and he drove a spike into the end of the log, tied
one end of a rope to the spike, and the other to a pliant young hickory,
talking meanwhile: "Gwine to rain, an' maybe ole Mister Log try to slip away like a thief
in de dark. Don't git away from Bob; no suh. You be heah now Christmas
eve--sho'!"
"Gord!" said a little negro with bandy legs. "Soak dat log till
Christmas an' I reckon he'll burn mo'n two weeks."