Load after load was driven up to the high backyard fence and its sticks heaved into the yard and piled in perfect order — and it made a goodly and formidable showing when Old Pete, the wood-sawyer, finally arrived on the scene.  The time of wood-buying was determined partly by Pete’s engagements — he went first to the Perkinses and next to the Williamses and so on in rotation as he had done for years, his entire winter being “engaged” far ahead.  It did not seem possible, to boyish mind, that one man could ever get all that wood sawed and split, even if he was a great giant Norseman with the finest buck-saw in the country.

But each year Old Pete’s prowess seemed to increase — and day after day the ceaseless music of his saw sounded across the crisp air — and the measured strokes of his axe struck a clarion note — until finally the yard showed only chips and saw-dust where that vast wood-pile had been — and the big barn was piled full to the rafters — the kitchen wood and chunks on one side, the big wood on the other.

Then Pete would come in and announce that the job was done — and grandfather would bundle-up and go out for a final inspection.  Pete removed the pad from his leg (you remember the carpet he wore on his left knee — the one that held the stick in place in the buck when he was sawing) and together they went into the barn — and talked it all over — and Pete said it was harder wood than last year’s and more knots in it and ought to be worth two shillings more than contract price — and grandfather finally allowed the excess — and Old Pete came in and got his money (in gold and silver) and a bowl of coffee and some bread — and went his way to the Jonesses or some other folks.

And you, young man — you surely hated to see that great Viking go — for he had told you many a wonderful tale at the noon hour as he munched his thick sandwiches — and no one could look at his massive head and huge shoulders and great beard and hair and doubt that his forebears had done all that he credited to them.

Somehow, Old Pete seemed more real than most men you knew — except grandfather, of course.  There was something unexplainable in the man and his work that rang true — something that was so wholesome and sound.  He wasn’t like old Hawkins, the grocer — he’d as lief give you a rotten apple as not if he could smuggle it into the bag without you seeing him; and Kline the candy-man sometimes sold you old hard stuff mixed with the fresh.  But Old Pete here — he just worked honest and steady — out in the open — at a fixed wage — and he did an honest job and was proud of it even if it was only sawing wood.  He worked faithfully until it was done, and then he got a good word and a bowl of coffee and his wages in gold and silver — and went his way rejoicing, leaving behind him the glory of labor well performed blending with the refreshing fragrance of new-cut logs that sifted through the cracks of the old barn.