Above us, but nearly hidden, hums themachine shed, but we see a corner of the tank into which, with amighty splash, the pine trees are delivered. Every now and then,bringing with him a gust of resinous smell, a white-clad machinistwill come in with a basketful of crude, unwrought little images, andwill turn them out upon the table from which we carvers selectthem.
A second rose stillnearer us, a third, and a fourth, and then a great uprush of dust,a whirling cloud, leapt out of the headland whence... read more
