earth from the larger
roots. Then he puts his pipe in his pocket, and settles to the serious
work of the 'great axe,' as he calls it. I never could use this ungainly
tool aright: a top-heavy, clumsy, awkward thing, it rules you instead of
you ruling it. The handle, too, is flat--almost with an edge itself
sometimes--and is quite beyond the grasp of any but hands of iron. Now
the American axe feels balanced like a sword; this is because of the
peculiar curve of the handle. To strike you stand with the left foot
slightly forward, and the left hand uppermost: the 'S' curve (it is of
course not nearly so crooked as the letter) of the American axe adjusts
itself to the anatomy of the attitude, so to speak.

The straight English handle does not; it is stiff, and strains the
muscles; but the common 'great axe' has the advantage that it is also
used for splitting logs and gnarled 'butts.' An American axe is too
beautiful a tool for that rude work. The American was designed to strike
at the trunk of the tree several feet from the ground, the English axe
is always directed to the great roots at the base.

A dexterous woodman can swing his tool alternately left hand or right
hand uppermost. The difference looks trifling; but try it, and you will
be astonished at the difficulty. The blows echo and the chips fly, till
the base of the tree, that naturally is much larger, is reduced to the
size of the trunk or less. Now a pause, while one swarms up to 'line'
it--_i.e._ to attach a rope as high as possible to guide the 'stick' in
its fall.

It is commonly said that in climbing it is best to look up--a maxim that
has been used for moral illustrations; but it is a mistake. In ascending
a tree you should never look higher than the brim of your hat, unless
when quite still and resting on a branch; temporary blindness would be
the penalty in this case. Particles of decayed bark, the borings of
insects in dead wood, dust, and fragments of twigs, rush down in little
streams and fill the eyes. The quantity of woody powder that adheres to
a tree is surprising; every motion dislodges it from a thousand minute
crevices. As for firs, in climbing a fir one cannot look up at all--dead
sticks, needles, and dust pour down, and the branches are so thick
together that the head has to be forced through them. The line fixed,
the saw is applied, and by slow degrees the butt cut nearly through.
Unless much overbalanced on one side by the limbs, an oak wi