Bending, standing, astride the beams, driving in pins, holding on by posts and braces, The hook’d arm over the plate, the other arm wielding the axe, The floor-men forcing the planks close to be nail’d, Their postures bringing their weapons downward on the bearers, The echoes resounding through the vacant building; The huge storehouse carried up in the city well under way, The six framing-men, two in the middle and two at each end, carefully bearing on their shoulders a heavy stick for a cross-beam, The crowded line of masons with trowels in their right hands rapidly laying the long side-wall, two hundred feet from front to rear, The flexible rise and fall of backs, the continual click of the trowels striking the bricks, The bricks one after another each laid so workmanlike in its place, and set with a knock of the trowel-handle, The piles of materials, the mortar on the mortar-boards, and the steady replenishing by the hod-men; Spar-makers in the spar-yard, the swarming row of well-grown apprentices,