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Updated: June 8, 2025
Whipple walked softly into the hospital room. After a short talk with the old woodchopper, Mr. Daniel Whipple cried: "It is true! I am your brother! Oh, John, I have found you at last!" There was no doubt of it. After further talking it over between them, Mr. Daniel Whipple and Mr. John Whipple made sure they were brothers.
Bobbsey, while the others breathlessly waited for an answer. "What is his real name?" "John Whipple," was the answer. "That's what this telegram is about. Though everybody called the woodchopper Uncle Jack, his real name is John Whipple!" The Bobbsey twins were not as much surprised at what their father said, after reading the telegram, as was Mr. Whipple.
When the sun comes out after a flurry of new snow in April, the light is many times greater than in midsummer. We reached Circle in a day and a half from Woodchopper Creek, in time to spend Sunday there. Circle had not changed much in the five years that had elapsed since the first visit to it mentioned in these pages.
"Yes, it was a seeming misfortune," agreed the Tin Man, "for a one-legged woodchopper is of little use in his trade. But I would not allow the Witch to conquer me so easily. I knew a very skillful mechanic at the other side of the forest, who was my friend, so I hopped on one leg to him and asked him to help me. He soon made me a new leg out of tin and fastened it cleverly to my meat body.
Whipple has given me some money to spend on Uncle Jack, so I think the poor old woodchopper will be all right, if he can only get well." "Then you're going to see him?" asked Mrs. Bobbsey. "Yes, I think I had better," answered Mr. Bobbsey. "He did me a great favor, caring for Flossie and Freddie, and I must do what I can for him.
She suspected some amorous mystery in all these events, commented somewhat uncharitably on every minor detail, and took care to carry her comments all over the village. Very soon the entire parish, from the most insignificant woodchopper to the Abbe Pernot himself, were made aware that there was something going on between M. de Buxieres and the daughter of old M. Vincart.
"And it's just like the place where Uncle Jack has his camp!" cried Freddie. "Have the children an uncle who is a camper?" asked Mr. Whipple. "No," answered Mr. Bobbsey, "but there is an old woodchopper, who lives in a log cabin near our town of Lakeport. He makes a living by chopping firewood. He lives all alone, and really sort of camps out. Every one calls him Uncle Jack.
He usually stands above the target at which he aims, so that he can deliver his blows with more force, just as the human woodchopper prefers to take his position above and not below the stick or log upon which he expects to operate. There the bird clings to his shaggy wall, pounding away with might and main, until you fear he will shatter his beak or strew his brains on the bark.
"I'm at the bottom of the heap, and likely to stay there for some time to come." The time dragged slowly, and to occupy himself he began to cut more wood for the fire. The task made him grit his teeth. "Got to work like a common woodchopper," he muttered. "It's a shame!" He was just dragging the last of the wood up to the fire when a sudden yelping broke upon his ears.
He was to learn later that this north country raised all kinds of garden and field products during the short but hot and perpetually daylight summer. Between villages the forest was broken only by the hunter or the woodchopper or the haymaker's trails. The barge might pass along beside towering bluffs or pass by long sandy flats. Never a lone peasant's house on the trail was seen.
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