"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."




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