The pine logs, bleeding red at both ends, are rolled from the cars into the mill slough. A man on a raft with a long pike leads a leviathan to the bottom of an inclined plane at the door way of the mill. An endless chain set with sharp teeth drags it to the elevated skidway on a level with the saw. In its turn it rolls down, and is clamped solidly to the carrier on the side of a car that runs back and forward past the saw, and lays the whole log, a slice at a time, on a table beyond. The saw itself is a slender, flexible ribbon of steel with one toothed edge, thirty feet long, its ends joined, and hung between two cylinders of steel, one above, the other below the floor level, that keep it in a state of high tension and tremendous speed, about these two revolving axes. This saw slices a log as easily as if it were a potato. The eye can hardly follow the car as it races forward and the saw takes off a board. It fairly leaps back to position, and then as swiftly forward, as if eager for the game.
They had shut down the mill activities for two minutes— the exact time required to replace a dull saw with a sharp one. Everybody relaxed, except the five men who hung the saw. The machinery was all out of gear. But at a signal everyone was alert again. The car springs forward, the saw takes a slab from the long log and lays it on the table beyond. Next a two-inch plank comes off, and follows the slab. Then the log is flopped over and the opposite side loses a slab and a plank. The two remaining sides are similarly treated, the carrier lets go its burden, and a vast squared timber, 20 by 20 inches by 70 feet, rides forward on the moving table, and trucks carry it on to the freight car.
It is the pale, thin man whom I took for an onlooker who cut this timber to order. The peg under his foot and the lever in his hand controlled that powerful machinery. A short log is next. It is sawed into two-inch planks, but a punky spot is revealed, and the balance is cut into inch lumber. All planks and boards go through the edger, which removes the bark and all unevenness, making the edges true and parallel. Rip saws set by foot cut the wide boards into the desired widths. These boards are later sorted as to length and width in the yards. The inferior qualities are piled to season outdoors. The best stock
goes to the kiln, where it is dried by artificial heat in forty-eight hours. This process checks decay, and seasons the wood without the warping and checking which the slow and variable open-air process involves.
The course of the slabs is interesting. To the slab pile to 46$ burn? Not yet, and not all. They are cut into six-foot lengths on the table, by saws that jump up in response to foot pressure. Then they are ripped into 2 by 2 inch sticks and descend to the lath mill on the lower floor. The fragments left behind follow two paths. The bark and rotten stuff go by a shute to the bonfire. The good wood fragments are dropped into a hopper—the cavern ous maw of "the hawg." An awful roar issues from this beast's throat whenever it is fed. It is the noise of grinding wood into sawdust. A stream of it flows to the furnace room, where it accumulates above two doors that open into the fire boxes. Tilting the lid lets this light fuel slide into the fire. A man lies on the hot sawdust here operating the two circular lids and so regulating the heating of the engines. His is the vision of Dante all day long.
In summer hemlock logs cut near the main stream are piled into it. The freshets bring them down in spring to the mills. The streams are but brooks up where the pine stands, and the railroad, which follows the camp of the "fallers," carries logs to mill without delay and without the inevitable deterioration that water transportation involves.
There is no atmosphere of hurry in the woods nor about the mills. The hum of industry is heard from seven o'clock until six. Then the night watchmen go on duty, and the day men enjoy the library and reading room above the main office, or talk things over in the store or barber shop, or go home to rest for the next day's work. No liquor is sold in the place, and a case of drunkenness means a workman's discharge. Each day's work is the quiet filling of orders from the mill or the yards. Supply and demand are at proper tension and prices keep strong. Big timbers for bridge work are a paying specialty. Fair treat men and good wages keep a good class of workers in permanent employ, and it is the boast of the company that it has never had a strike.