---
title: Improvement Era
description: Monthly periodical of the Mormon church, 1897 onward. This library holds the issues of November 1897 to December 1930.
authors:
  - Merrill, Harrison R.
collections:
  - periodicals
tags:
  - magazine
  - improvement-era
periodical: Improvement Era
volume: 16
number: 1
published: 1912-11
publisher: Young Men’s Mutual Improvement Associations
publisher_place: Salt Lake City
language: en
type: magazine
reference: 'Harrison R. Merrill, "Song of the Chopper. Illustrated Poem," *Improvement Era* 16, no. 1 (November 1912): 33.'
source:
  url: https://archive.org/details/improvementera1601unse
  transcription: Transcribed from the Internet Archive scan of each issue (the item for each issue is named in the issue's own source); unnumbered advertising leaves are omitted, printed page numbers are kept as page markers.
  identifier: improvementera1601unse
start_page: 33
end_page: 33
rights:
  status: public-domain
  basis: US publication 1930 or earlier (published 1912-11)
  source: https://archive.org/details/improvementera1601unse
  publication_year: 1912
  note: The Internet Archive item metadata carries a blanket "© Copyright by Intellectual Reserve, Inc." notice. The library owner judged it inapplicable because this issue was published in 1912, before 1931; a scan-level notice does not restore copyright.
---

# Song of the Chopper. Illustrated Poem

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Song of the Chopper [Note: These verses are respectfully dedicated to my father, Orrin J. Merrill who, in his younger days, was a first-class chopper, and who by his wonderful tales of the woods implanted in my heart a love for these our mountains. — H. R. M.] Chip, chop, chip, chop — The echoes fly along, The chips fly thick about my head, My blows are true and strong; My ax is keen, my helve is tough, I swing it wide and free. Chip, chop, chip, chop, Rings forth the symphony. Chip, chop, chip, chop — The kerf is smooth and white. The gum drops glisten in the sun Like lobes of purest light; The heart is reached, the proud tree quakes, The chips are moist and brown. Chip, chop, chip, choo. The monarch crashes down. Chip, chop, chip, chop, From dawn till shadows fall, And owls from crag < r wooded height Send forth their mournful call; I swing my ax with heart as light As mortal man's could be, — Chip, chop, chip, chop, Beats out the melody. Chip, choo, chip, chop — When night her robes has spread, And fairy dreams or visions bright Crowd round my mountain bed. I hear the sound, the echoes, too, The woodland glance along. — ■ Chip, chop, chip, chop, The hills return the song. • . ' Harrison R. Merrill. PRESTON, IDAHO. T