Along in the middle of the afternoon I felt a stinging in one of my hands.
When I saw it was a blister I almost cried. At first there was only one. Then two.
One after another they rose up on my hands like small white marbles.
They filled up and turned a pale pinkish color. When one would burst, it was all I could do to keep from screaming.
I tore my handkerchief in half and wrapped my hands.
This helped for a while, but when the cloth began to stick to the raw flesh I knew it was the end.
Crying my heart out, I called my dogs to me and showed them my hands.
“I can’t do it,” I said. “I’ve tried, but I just can’t cut it down. I can’t hold the ax any longer.”
Little Ann whined and started licking my sore hands.
Old Dan seemed to understand. He showed his sympathy by nuzzling me with his head.
Brokenhearted, I started for home. As I turned, from the corner of my eye I saw Grandpa’s scarecrow.
It seemed to be laughing at me. I looked over to the big sycamore. It lacked so little being cut down.
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