They soon joined the children on the hillside, whither Abram had already
carried a capacious iron pot as black as himself. On a little terrace
that was warm and bare of snow, Webb set up cross-sticks in gypsy
fashion, and then with a chain supended the pot, the children dancing
like witches around it. Mr. Clifford and little Ned now appeared, the
latter joining in the eager quest for dry sticks. Not far away was a
large tree that for several years had been slowly dying, its few living
branches having flushed early in September, in their last glow, which had
been premature and hectic. Dry sticks would make little impression on the
sap that now in the warmer light dropped faster from the wounded maples,
and therefore to supply the intense heat that should give them at least a
rich syrup before night, Webb threw off his coat and attacked the defunct
veteran of the grove. Amy watched his vigorous strokes with growing zest;
and he, conscious of her eyes, struck strong and true. Leonard, not far
away, was removing impediments from the courses, thus securing a more
rapid flow of the water and promoting the drainage of the land. He had
sent up his cheery voice from time to time, but now joined the group, to
witness the fall of a tree that had been old when he had played near it
like his own children to-day. The echoes of the ringing axe came back to
them from an adjacent hillside; a squirrel barked and "snickered," as if
he too were a party to the fun; crows overhead cawed a protest at the
destruction of their ancient perch; but with steady and remorseless
stroke the axe was driven through the concentric rings on either side
into the tree's dead heart. At last, as fibre after fibre was cut away,
it began to tremble. The children stood breathless and almost pitying as
they saw the shiver, apparently conscious, which followed each blow.
Something of the same callousness of custom with which the fall of a man
is witnessed must blunt one's nature before he can look unmoved upon the
destruction of a familiar tree.