The Accumulation of Centuries of Winters
Shingled them in Elliot's Eddy, Bud says, the water swirling in the chute, and changed my mind as to running being a lark. When the horse started across the trestle I hollered and the bend fine as silk. It was a hard winter and there was very heavy ice. Please pass the chipped beef. You mean the shit on a shingle, Catch says. Bud keeps on, we were crowded and crowding all day and pulling almost continuously and say didn't the water fly and I swung a boat on Licking Point without springing a leak and someone said I was the champion oakum spinner of Gravel Lick. Work of cutting gunwale logs done in the winter to haul on snow, some sixty to seventy feet. Drop dynamite into the water – get a chop sack full of suckers; might as well tried to stop old bull by grabbing by the tail. Naw, hardly classed as an old timer. Nine timber rafts ready for fall flood to be delivered to Pittsburgh. And the dreaded Grass Flat Shoals we would almost if not quite perish. Scaffolds on the river bank and a very good rubber raincoat for which, I says, I paid fifteen dollars. Thought it safe to hang on a gate, and a hog had it torn to ribbons. Counfound I never like hogs, anyways ice went out about the middle February. A winch was used to draw the grubs tight, a wedge to make solid and white oak bows over the lashpoles. Crick, with a large crew hewed out, hauled and rafted in. And all went catty-wompus.