ropped out a minute to breathe and rest when exhausted,
another sprang into his place, and toiled and strove like an engine.

There was something great and inspiring even to look on at those mighty
efforts--something exhilarating and elevating in the play of muscles
like great long shooting serpents under the glistening skins of the men.
Arms shot out, tugged and tore, jerked and wrenched, then doubled up and
the muscles became knots, bulging out as if they would break through the
skin, as the great blocks were lifted; and then the blocks were cast
into the tub, the knots untied themselves, and slipped elastically back
into their places, and the serpents were momentarily at rest until the
body bent again to another block. Out and in they flew, supple and
silent, quick as lightning playing in the heavens; they zig-zagged and
shot this way and that, tying and untying themselves, darting out and
doubling back, advancing and retiring in rhythmic action, graceful and
easy, powerful and inevitable. Bending and rising, the swaying bodies
gleamed and glistened with greasy dust and sweat, catching the gleams
from the lamps and reflecting them in every streaming pore. Straining
and tearing, the muscles, at every slightest wish, seemed to exude
energy and health, glowing strength and power.

It was all so natural and apparently easy--an epic in moleskin and human
flesh, with only the little glimmer of oil-lamps, which darted from side
to side in a mad mazurka of toil, crossing and recrossing, swinging and
halting, the flames flattening out with every heave of their owners'
bodies, then abruptly being brought to the steady again. Looked at from
the road-foot, it was like a carnival of fireflies engaged in trying how
quickly they could dart from side to side, and cross each other's path,
without coming into collision.

Who shall sing in lyrical language the exhilaration of such splendid
men's work? Who shall catch that glow of strength and health, and work
it into deathless song? The ring of the hammers on the stone, the dull
regular thud upon the timber, the crash of breaking rock, and the
strong, warm-blooded, generous-hearted men; the passionate glowing
bodies, and above all, the great big heroic souls, fighting, working,
striving in a hell of hunger and death, toiling till one felt they were
gods instead of humans--gods of succor and power, gods of helpfulness
and strength.

So the work went on hour after hour, and now their