Samson took hold of the middle of one of the logs and raised it from the ground.

“I guess we can carry ’em,” he said.

“Can ye shoulder it?” Abe asked.

“Easy,” said Samson as he raised an end of the log, stepped beneath it and, resting its weight on his back, soon got his shoulder near its center and swung it clear of the ground and walked with it to the knollside where he let it fall with a resounding thump that shook the ground.  Abe stopped eating and watched every move in this remarkable performance.  The ease with which the big Vermonter had so defied the law of gravitation with that unwieldly stick amazed him.

“That thing’ll weigh from seven to eight hundred pounds,” said he.  “I reckon you’re the stoutest man in this part o’ the state an’ I’m quite a man myself.  I’ve lifted a barrel o’ whisky and put my mouth to the bung hole.  I never drink it.”

“Say,” he added as he sat down and began eating a doughnut.  “If you ever hit anybody take a sledge hammer or a crowbar.  It wouldn’t be decent to use your fist.”

“Don’t talk when you’ve got food in your mouth,” said Joe who seemed to have acquired a sense of responsibility for the manners of Abe.

“I reckon you’re right,” Abe laughed.  “A man’s ideas ought not to be mingled with cheese and doughnuts.”

“Once in a while I like to try myself in a lift,” said Samson.  “It feels good.  I don’t do it to show off.  I know there’s a good many men stouter than I be.  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.  It halted the workers and set the woodland ringing.  The men stood silent like those hearing a benediction.  The singing ceased.  Still they listened for half a moment.  It was as if a spirit had passed and touched them.

“It’s Bim—­the little vixen!” said Abe tenderly.  “She’s hiding here in the woods somewheres.”

Abe straightened up and peered through the bushes.  The singing ceased.