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 see them die.
Now where they stood, there is only rotting wood,
Of stumps and limbs decaying.
But they furnish food, as nature meant they should,
For seeds that are dormant laying.
Now every year there’s a new crop,
Of seedlings slowly spreading.
They furnish cover, food and shade,
Where deer and elk are treading.
For years and years, with wedges, axe and ‘fiddle’
I could put those trees where I wanted them,
Exactly down the ‘middle’.
Then I bought a power saw, oh my! Oh law!
How quickly I could slay them.
One hundred a day, was nothing but play.
I sure committed mayhem.
Many narrow escapes I had, if the wind was bad,
Or when my partner was new and green,
When the snow was deep, or the hill was steep,
It sure was tough and mean.
Sometimes they would crack and split,
But I never quite got hit
When they came down with a crash and clatter.
We would let out a yell,
And run like hell,
We knew enough to scatter,
When lunchtime came, we would build a fire,
And sit around in bunches,
With smoke in our eyes,
Telling clean stories, or lies,
While toasting our frozen lunches.
Those were good old days, in many ways,
Despite our trials and privations.
We were satisfied with what we had,
And “to hell” with other nations.
KB, 1968, Scribblings from a Hermits Pen
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