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I guess you're one of 'em."
"No, I'm too stretched out--my neck is too far from the ground," Abe
answered. "I'm like a crowbar. If I can get my big toe or my fingers
under anything I can pry some."
After luncheon he took off his shoes and socks.
"When I'm working hard I always try to give my feet a rest and my brain
a little work at noon time," he remarked. "My brain is so far behind the
procession I have to keep putting the gad on it. Give me twenty minutes
of Kirkham and I'll be with you again."
He lay down on his back under a tree with his book in hand and his feet
resting on the tree trunk well above him. Soon he was up and at work
again.
They hewed a flat surface on opposite sides of the log which Samson had
carried and peeled it and raised its lower end on a cross timber. Then
they marked it with a chalk line and sliced it into inch boards with a
whip saw, Abe standing on top of the log and Samson beneath it. Suddenly
the saw stopped. A clear, beautiful voice flung the music of _Sweet
Nightingale_ into the timbered hollow.


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