"Air ye bereft o' reason, Birt Dicey! Ye set thar nosin' a handful
o' rocks ez ef they war fitten ter eat! An' now look at the boy--a
stuffin' 'em in his pockets ter sag 'em down and tear 'em out fur me
ter sew in ag'in. Waal, waal! Sol'mon say ef ye spare the rod ye
spile the child--mos' ennybody could hev fund that out from thar own
'sperience; but the wisest man that ever lived lef' no receipt how
ter keep a boy's pockets whole in his breeches."
CHAPTER II.
Birt Dicey lay awake deep into the night, pondering and planning.
But despite this unwonted vigil the old bark-mill was early astir,
and he went alertly about his work. He felt eager, strong, capable.
The spirit of progress was upon him.
The tanyard lay in the midst of a forest so dense that, except at
the verge of the clearing, it showed hardly a trace of its gradual
despoliation by the industry that nestled in its heart like a worm
in the bud. There were many stumps about the margin of the woods,
the felled trees, stripped of their bark, often lying among them
still, for the supply of timber exceeded the need. In penetrating
the wilderness you might mark, too, here and there, a vacant space,
where the chestnut-oak, prized for its tannin, had once grown on the
slope.
A little log house was in the midst of the clearing. It had,
properly speaking, only one room, but there was a shed-room
attached, for the purpose of storage, and also a large open shed at
one side.
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