It is curious amid the day’s duties and continual bustle of woodworker’s life to watch, note and compare the different degrees of skill manifested by the various hands engaged at their machines. I say “degrees of skill,” because no two men possess and are gifted with the same inborn ability.
Casually looking at the mortiser hand, I was led to observe that his work lacked smoothness of motion. He lifted the pieces up with a jerk, shoved them on the fence with a rush, and threw them down with an air of “d— this work, anyway.”
Stepping over to his elbow I asked him ”was anything the matter, or was he not feeling well?” Really he seemed to be venting some spite on the harmless material which was passing through his hands, and judging from the way it was getting bruised and broken, he was succeeding nicely. (more…)
Having served three years at my trade as a carpenter, five years as a floor mill millwright and machine wood-worker, I made up my mind that I could do business on my own hook. I first started by doing small repair jobs, reshingling roofs, building porches, and small house additions. On this kind of work (which I did at the regular price charged by the local contractor for my own wage, and furnished a man at a profit of 25¢ per day and a small per cent on some materials furnished) I worked along for a year, and then took a contract to build an ordinary eight-room house, furnishing all the materials and labor.
I had always kept track of the cost of the labor and materials for making frames and placing materials, noting the time that it took me to do all these things. I based my estimate for the house contract on this knowledge; and on this contract I made wages for myself and a small profit. By keeping careful account of the cost of labor and material, and comparing the cost of each item with my estimate of same, I was able to tell where some were high and some low. (more…)
In man there is what may be termed a “making instinct,” and our houses, garments, ships, machinery, and in fact, everything we use, are the practical results of this instinct. How important then that this faculty be cultivated, and that the idea be at once and forever abandoned that none but mechanics require this great element of usefulness and happiness.
Whatever a man’s occupation, whether he be a farmer, a merchant, an artist or a mechanic, there are hourly occasions for its practical application. Being thus general in its usefulness, the cultivation of this constructive faculty should be a primary consideration with parents. Skill in the use of tools is of incalculable advantage. It gives useful employment to many an otherwise idle hour. It prompts one to add a thousand little conveniences to the house, which but for this skill would never be made.
In a word, it is the carrying out, in a fuller sense, of the design of the Creator, when he implanted this faculty of constructiveness within us. Let it then be cultivated in children. Indulge the propensity to make waterwheels and miniature wagons, kites and toy boats, sleds and houses, anything in fact which will serve to develop it and render it practically useful.
Give the boys good pocket knives, and what is better, give them a good workshop. Employed in it, they will not only be kept out of mischief, but they will be strengthening their muscles, exercising their mental powers, and fitting themselves for greater usefulness, when they shall be called upon to take their place in the ranks of men.
Planing a board of any width and length by hand, so that it will be true, need not call for any special talent on the part of a patternmaker, yet tradition and bigotry are responsible for the survival of the belief that expert handling of “winding strips” furnishes the only correct means of planing a board surface out of wind.
As this apparently hard-and-fast shibboleth has still many adherents, an attempt to shatter the long established belief and practice is at best but a thankless task. The use of “winding strips” is so manifestly unnecessary that the chief wonder to any thinking man is, that the use of them didn’t “die abornin’.” (more…)
The first campaign chest I built I used sledge feet – simple square blocks that raised the lower case off the ground.
Soon after, I received a pleasant note stating that I had made an amateur mistake. Campaign chests with sledge feet were merely missing their turned feet.
I felt like a fool at first. It was like sculpting a female torso and leaving off the naughty bits. After recovering from my shame, I started looking around at original source material.
First I checked my copies of the Army & Navy Co-Operative Society catalogs. Sure enough, all the chests shown in my copies had turned feet that screwed into blocks in the bottom of the lower chest unit.
But something else nagged at me.
As you know, we love old paintings and drawings here at Lost Art Press. Thanks to Jeff Burks, Suzanne Ellison and our own efforts, we have amassed many hundreds of images relating to woodworking from Roman times to the present. These are important, if sometimes flawed, documents that are as important as written, if sometimes flawed, accounts.
An Officer’s Quarters at Newry, Northern Ireland, C. 1870
So I began scanning my library of paintings and drawings relating to campaign furniture. Sure enough, I immediately found several that showed campaign chests in use on their sledge feet – no turned feet.
There are several explanations: The turned feet were still in the lower drawer or had been destroyed by bugs or water. Or perhaps the owner of the chest was lazy or didn’t care for the feet. Or perhaps that chest was made without the turned feet.
No matter what the explanation, don’t feel like you are wrong if you don’t include them on your chest. Personally, I really like the feet, but some people are turned off by turning.
