16 It Happened in Iona woodsman, especially good with the axe and used to take much pride in being able to chop in a right-handed or left-handed manner with equal ease. My older brothers also seemed to enjoy the woods in winter. But this work was not for me. Although I had to spend relatively little time in this particular activity, it was without question the one task on the farm that I certainly hated. It was not the forest itself that was the problem. It was rather the cold, the deep snow, the wetness of the work, the slow process and, above all, having to use that terrible cross-cut saw which was awkward to handle, seemed forever dull and habitu¬ ally jammed while sawing either into a tree or log. Fortunately a change for the better occurred after the war with the arrival of the bucksaw which revolutionized the wood-cutting chore on our farm. This simple light tool was fast and efficient in felling trees, cutting them in lengths and even in limbing. Back at the house as the new woodpile began to grow, the task of sawing was next in line. One stick at a time was thrown onto a wooden, home-made saw horse where two people using that horrible cross-cut saw would carve it up into stove-length blocks. In later years, of course, the bucksaw made the task of blocking easier and faster. Even I used to relish using it and marvelled at how much work one person could do with it. All this was a routine evening chore with the youngsters having an active role. Often it was a supply-demand affair like the Israelites and the manna: no more than a day's supply at a time with a double supply on Sabbath eve. Splitting the blocks was a more manly job, but young people could also wield the axe, awkwardly and tenderly. In winter the wood was easy to split since the frost gave it a brittle character. Carrying in the wood was the last leg of the journey from forest to stove. The woodbox beside the stove had to be filled and heaped round each evening, long stakes in front serving to support its bulging load. Though the wood was green and often had ice still attached, the kitchen range gobbled it up without murmur, pouring out its cosy warmth into the only heated room in the house. Kindling for lighting the morning fire was routinely cut each evening from the occasional softwood stick in the pile and brought directly to the oven for drying. Often the oven's heat would ignite the inner ends of the kindling, a signal that the drying process was now complete. Of course there were times when we had the wood blocked by circular saw, powered by either stationary engine or tractor