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In many a mill town the rising whine of the headsaw biting into a log dies away; the absence of the pulsing rhythm of a sawmill�compounded of the piercing wing-wing of the trimmer, of the throb of the conveyors, of the thud of lumber falling on transfer chains�makes every day seem like Sunday.
Deep in the oak and pine timberlands of the Southwest, a headsaw whined through the soft June night.
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