The best crop of ice is an early crop. Late in
the season or after January, the ice is apt to get 'sun-struck,' when
it becomes 'shaky,' like a piece of poor timber. The sun, when he
sets about destroying the ice, does not simply melt it from the
surface--that were a slow process; but he sends his shafts into it and
separates it into spikes and needles--in short, makes kindling-wood of
it, so as to consume it the quicker. One of the prettiest sights about
the ice harvesting is the elevator in operation. When all works well,
there is an unbroken procession of the great crystal blocks slowly
ascending this incline. They go up in couples, arm in arm, as it were,
like friends up a stairway, glowing and changing in the sun, and
recalling the precious stones that adorned the walls of the celestial
city. When they reach the platform where they leave the elevator, they
seem to step off like things of life and volition; they are still in
pairs and separate only as they enter upon the 'runs.' But here they
have an ordeal to pass through, for they are subjected to a rapid
inspection and the black sheep are separated from the flock; every
square with a trace of sediment or earth-stain in it, whose texture
is not perfect and unclouded crystal, is rejected and sent hurling
down into the abyss; a man with a sharp eye in his head and a sharp
ice-hook in his hand picks out the impure and fragmentary ones as they
come along and sends them quickly overboard.
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