Two firm, unhasty strokes up on the south side of the tree left a clean nick across and two inches deep in the middle.  The chopper then stepped forward one pace and on the north-northwesterly side, eighteen inches lower down than the first cut, after reversing his hands—­which is what few can do—­he rapidly chopped a butt-kerf.  Not a stroke was hasty; not a blow went wrong.  The first chips that flew were ten inches long, but they quickly dwindled as the kerf sank in.  The butt-kerf was two-thirds through the tree when Yan called “One minute up.”  Sam stopped work, apparently without cause, leaned one hand against the south side of the tree and gazed unconcernedly up at its top.

“Hurry up, Sam.  You’re losing time!” called his friend.  Sam made no reply.  He was watching the wind pushes and waiting for a strong one.  It came—­it struck the tree-top.  There was an ominous crack, but Sam had left enough and pushed hard to make sure; as soon as the recoil began he struck in very rapid succession three heavy strokes, cutting away all the remaining wood on the west side and leaving only a three-inch triangle of uncut fibre.  All the weight was now northwest of this.  The tree toppled that way, but swung around on the uncut part; another puff of wind gave help, the swing was lost, the tree crashed down to the northwest and drove the stake right out of sight in the ground.

“Hooray!  Hooray!  Hooray!  One minute and forty-five seconds!” How Yan did cheer.  Sam was silent, but his eyes looked a little less dull and stupid than usual, and Guy said “Pooh?  That’s nothin’.”

Yan took out his pocket rule and went to the stump.  As soon as he laid it on, he exclaimed “Seven and one-half inches through where you cut,” and again he had to swing his hat and cheer.

“Well, old man, you surely did it that time.  That’s a grand coup if ever I saw one,” and so, notwithstanding Guy’s proposal to “leave it to Caleb,” Sam got his grand Eagle feather as Axeman A1 of the Sanger Indians.

XVIII

The Owls and The Night School

One night Sam was taking a last look at the stars before turning in.  A Horned Owl had been hooting not far away.

“Hoo—­hohoo-hoho—­hoooooo.”

And as he looked, what should silently sail to the top of the medicine pole stuck in the ground twenty yards away but the Owl.

“Yan!  Yan!  Give me my bow and arrow, quick.  Here’s a Cat-Owl—­a chicken stealer, he’s fair game.”

“He’s only codding you, Yan,” said Guy sleepily from his blanket.  “I wouldn’t go.”

But Yan rushed out with his own and Sam’s weapons.

Sam fired at the great feathery creature, but evidently missed, for the Owl spread its wings and sailed away.

“There goes my best arrow.  That was my ‘Sure-death.’”

“Pshaw!” growled Yan, as he noted the miss.  “You can’t shoot a little bit.”