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It was there that the Carpenter was a prisoner. And Buster could only hope that he might find some way of setting the woodworker free. Luckily Buster Bumblebee did not have to look long for what he was seeking. On the porch of the farmhouse he soon discovered a honey box, with glass sides.
"I don't understand," he said. The Carpenter kindly made matters clear to him. "I rest only when I'm working," he explained. THE Carpenter Bee, who lived in the big poplar by the brook, wasn't building a house for Mrs. Ladybug. That skillful woodworker hadn't been able to agree with her so he told Buster Bumblebee. Furthermore, he knew nothing of Mrs.
They were the product of the local maker, the smith and the village woodworker being frequently called upon to supply new kitchen utensils, and it would appear that they did their best to make their work successful in that the vessels they fashioned were lasting, and during their use contributed in no small degree towards the ornamentation of the home.
"Why don't you come out?" Buster asked. "How can I?" said the Carpenter. "Don't you see that I'm a prisoner?" "Yes! But why don't you cut your way out?" Buster Bumblebee asked him. "Well, I've tried," the Carpenter confessed. "But this glass is so hard that I can't even dent it." "But you're a woodworker not a glass-worker!" exclaimed Buster Bumblebee.
He first roughed out the general shape with his knife, and was trying to bore the bowl out with the same tool, when he remembered that in one of the school-readers was an account of the Indian method of drilling into stone with a bow-drill and wet sand. One of his schoolmates, the son of a woodworker, had seen his father use a bow-drill. This knowledge gave him new importance in Yan's eyes.
The pioneer woodworker had a lively appreciation of the new woods of the new country, and made free use of the abundant wild cherry for the furniture called for by the growing prosperity of the settlements, its close grain and warm color giving it the preference over other native woods, excepting always the curly and bird's-eye maple, which were novelties to the imported artisan.
She, from the time she could walk alone, was actively abroad, a bright splash of color in the small oblong of shabby front yard. The father, Felix Millsap, was an odd-jobs woodworker. He made his living by undertakings too trivial for a contracting carpenter and joiner to bid on and too complicated for an amateur to attempt. The mother, Martha by name, took in plain sewing to help out.
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