Tim-mber-r-r! Down the Hill!

I have cut a million trees, On a thousand hills My tools have left their traces. The mighty pine and tamarack Have fallen in all sorts of places. The fir, and larch, and towering spruce Have bowed beneath my axe and saw. They ‘bit the dust’, as I knew they must, In weather both mild and raw. From tiny seeds those trees had grown, And reached toward the sky. I got a mighty thrill, when I sent them down the hill But I hated to...