...is falling apart. There is some ancient storm damage where the top spreads, so those big limbs are not anchored to the center. There is a hollow that squirrels will chew into for denning, then bees move in and run the squirrels out, then it grows shut again. Sort of amusing, and you have to observe for years to see it happen. It is a swamp white oak and is perfect for this upper glacial lakebed site.
I don't know how you do it Merle. You keep finding new old things that I have never even heard of! Thank You!
Thanks, Merle! Surprise Burrell is always a good channel to look at.
I wandered over to a hollow hickory that is used as a den tree. Don't reach in and feel around in hollow trees. You might shake hands with a wampus cat. It looks like a young raccoon, and it did not wish to be bothered.
We always examine our tree stumps and evaluate them for any mistakes, and to improve our tree cutting skills. This is the stump of the sweetgum we cut at the Carmi Rifle Club recently. I was asked a question about cutting trees and that stump is a good one for labeling and instruction. We do a five step plan for every tree. 1: Assess hazards 2: Assess forward/backward weight and lean, and side lean 3: Design front cut and hinge 4: Design your back cuts 5: Escape from the stump, preferably at 135 degrees to direction of fall.
The stump shows how steps 2, 3, and 4 go together. Click the photo to enlarge it.
These were rare from the beginning, now there are only about five, and not all of them are running. Thank You, Merle, for spotting!
Performed by Country Joe McDonald.
Plus, a bonus Robert W. Service poem for you to read.
Me and Ed and a stretcher Out on the nootral ground. (If there's one dead corpse, I'll betcher There's a 'undred smellin' around.) Me and Eddie O'Brian, Both of the R. A. M. C. "It's a 'ell of a night For a soul to take flight," As Eddie remarks to me. Me and Ed crawlin' 'omeward, Thinkin' our job is done, When sudden and clear, Wot do we 'ear: 'Owl of a wounded 'Un. "Got to take 'im," snaps Eddy; "Got to take all we can. 'E may be a Germ Wiv the 'eart of a worm, But, blarst 'im! ain't 'e a man?" So 'e sloshes out fixin' a dressin' ('E'd always a medical knack), When that wounded 'Un 'E rolls to 'is gun, And 'e plugs me pal in the back. Now what would you do? I arst you. There was me slaughtered mate. There was that 'Un (I'd collered 'is gun), A-snarlin' 'is 'ymn of 'ate. Wot did I do? 'Ere, whisper . . . 'E'd a shiny bald top to 'is 'ead, But when I got through, Between me and you, It was 'orrid and jaggy and red. "'Ang on like a limpet, Eddy. Thank Gord! you ain't dead after all." It's slow and it's sure and it's steady (Which is 'ard, for 'e's big and I'm small). The rockets are shootin' and shinin', It's rainin' a perishin' flood, The bullets are buzzin' and whinin', And I'm up to me stern in the mud. There's all kinds of 'owlin' and 'ootin'; It's black as a bucket of tar; Oh, I'm doin' my bit, But I'm 'avin' a fit, And I wish I was 'ome wiv Mar. "Stick on like a plaster, Eddy. Old sport, you're a-slackin' your grip." Gord! But I'm crocky already; My feet, 'ow they slither and slip! There goes the biff of a bullet. The Boches have got us for fair. Another one—WHUT! The son of a slut! 'E managed to miss by a 'air. 'Ow! Wot was it jabbed at me shoulder? Gave it a dooce of a wrench. Is it Eddy or me Wot's a-bleedin' so free? Crust! but it's long to the trench. I ain't just as strong as a Sandow, And Ed ain't a flapper by far; I'm blamed if I understand 'ow We've managed to get where we are. But 'ere's for a bit of a breather. "Steady there, Ed, 'arf a mo'. Old pal, it's all right; It's a 'ell of a fight, But are we down-'earted? No-o-o." Now war is a funny thing, ain't it? It's the rummiest sort of a go. For when it's most real, It's then that you feel You're a-watchin' a cinema show. 'Ere's me wot's a barber's assistant. Hey, presto! It's somewheres in France, And I'm 'ere in a pit Where a coal-box 'as 'it, And it's all like a giddy romance. The ruddy quick-firers are spittin', The 'eavies are bellowin' 'ate, And 'ere I am cashooly sittin', And 'oldin' the 'ead of me mate. Them gharstly green star-shells is beamin', 'Ot shrapnel is poppin' like rain, And I'm sayin': "Bert 'Iggins, you're dreamin', And you'll wake up in 'Ampstead again. You'll wake up and 'ear yourself sayin': 'Would you like, sir, to 'ave a shampoo?' 'Stead of sheddin' yer blood In the rain and the mud, Which is some'ow the right thing to do; Which is some'ow yer 'oary-eyed dooty, Wot you're doin' the best wot you can, For 'Ampstead and 'ome and beauty, And you've been and you've slaughtered a man. A feller wot punctured your partner; Oh, you 'ammered 'im 'ard on the 'ead, And you still see 'is eyes Starin' bang at the skies, And you ain't even sorry 'e's dead. But you wish you was back in your diggin's Asleep on your mouldy old stror. Oh, you're doin' yer bit, 'Erbert 'Iggins, But you ain't just enjoyin' the war." "'Ang on like a hoctopus, Eddy. It's us for the bomb-belt again. Except for the shrap Which 'as 'it me a tap, I'm feelin' as right as the rain. It's my silly old feet wot are slippin', It's as dark as a 'ogs'ead o' sin, But don't be oneasy, my pippin, I'm goin' to pilot you in. It's my silly old 'ead wot is reelin'. The bullets is buzzin' like bees. Me shoulder's red-'ot, And I'm bleedin' a lot, And me legs is on'inged at the knees. But we're staggerin' nearer and nearer. Just stick it, old sport, play the game. I make 'em out clearer and clearer, Our trenches a-snappin' with flame. Oh, we're stumblin' closer and closer. 'Ang on there, lad! Just one more try. Did you say: Put you down? Damn it, no, sir! I'll carry you in if I die. By cracky! old feller, they've seen us. They're sendin' out stretchers for two. Let's give 'em the hoorah between us ('Anged lucky we aren't booked through). My flipper is mashed to a jelly. A bullet 'as tickled your spleen. We've shed lots of gore And we're leakin' some more, But—wot a hoccasion it's been! Ho! 'Ere comes the rescuin' party. They're crawlin' out cautious and slow. Come! Buck up and greet 'em, my 'earty, Shoulder to shoulder—so. They mustn't think we was down-'earted. Old pal, we was never down-'earted. If they arsts us if we was down-'earted We'll 'owl in their fyces: 'No-o-o!'"
