DOI Page / Citation link:
https://doi.org/10.11588/diglit.62134#0211
SPRING PICTURES.
203
But gradually the waters fall and fall—dry-land appears,
and the thousands of stranded pieces of wood are carefully
piled up into the innumerable large stacks which adorn for
the greater portion of the year this Royal Wood-yard.
Or again, I see a singular operation going on—the
waters have vanished from the mill-stream. Its course
over moss-grown piles is laid bare ; instead of clear rushing
waters through which, looking down in autumn, you had
watched with delight the brilliant leaves fallen from the
over-hanging trees lying there like gorgeous gems of scarlet,
and gold, and amethyst, imbedded in richest green velvet,
you only now see slimy ugly brown tresses of water
mosses and weeds. Men are busily at work in the water-
course ; the old moss-grown piles gradually disappear, and
fresh ones are being driven in. And what an extraordinary
process this is of driving in the piles ! In early morning,
late in the afternoon, and all day long, you hear the mono-
tonous and peculiar cry of the workmen, as they, standing
together in a ring, each holding a cord in his hand attached
to a rough machine within the circle, tall poles acting as
a fulcrum, they raise by their united power a tremendous
weight, letting it fall again upon the head of the pile; then
by repeated blows driving it in. There is the short mono-
tonous cry of the men—then the dull heavy fall of the huge
weight upon the pile—then again a pause—once more the
monotonous cry, the dull blow, and the pause—and this
with a strange uniformity all the long day through, con-
tinuing even often for weeks at a time.
It is as monotonous to watch the driving in of these
piles as it is to listen to it. The men move as if portions
of some marvellously quaint machine—not as if they were
men j their pink and chocolate and dark blue cotton
jackets and blouses, with here and there a scarlet cap or
green Tyrolese hat, in the distance, forming a motley mosaic,
203
But gradually the waters fall and fall—dry-land appears,
and the thousands of stranded pieces of wood are carefully
piled up into the innumerable large stacks which adorn for
the greater portion of the year this Royal Wood-yard.
Or again, I see a singular operation going on—the
waters have vanished from the mill-stream. Its course
over moss-grown piles is laid bare ; instead of clear rushing
waters through which, looking down in autumn, you had
watched with delight the brilliant leaves fallen from the
over-hanging trees lying there like gorgeous gems of scarlet,
and gold, and amethyst, imbedded in richest green velvet,
you only now see slimy ugly brown tresses of water
mosses and weeds. Men are busily at work in the water-
course ; the old moss-grown piles gradually disappear, and
fresh ones are being driven in. And what an extraordinary
process this is of driving in the piles ! In early morning,
late in the afternoon, and all day long, you hear the mono-
tonous and peculiar cry of the workmen, as they, standing
together in a ring, each holding a cord in his hand attached
to a rough machine within the circle, tall poles acting as
a fulcrum, they raise by their united power a tremendous
weight, letting it fall again upon the head of the pile; then
by repeated blows driving it in. There is the short mono-
tonous cry of the men—then the dull heavy fall of the huge
weight upon the pile—then again a pause—once more the
monotonous cry, the dull blow, and the pause—and this
with a strange uniformity all the long day through, con-
tinuing even often for weeks at a time.
It is as monotonous to watch the driving in of these
piles as it is to listen to it. The men move as if portions
of some marvellously quaint machine—not as if they were
men j their pink and chocolate and dark blue cotton
jackets and blouses, with here and there a scarlet cap or
green Tyrolese hat, in the distance, forming a motley mosaic,