Stone and Steel

Stumbled upon a slab of dark slate resting on the low pine table. Rough edge. Coarse grain. Real quarry stone. I brought the haft of my axe down against the face, tapping firm. A dull, honest thud. No crumble, no give. Set my boots wide on the pine, squared my shoulders, and dragged the bearded edge across the gritty slate surface. Sparks did not fly, but a clean pale scratch bit into the stone. Tested the edge with my thumb. Sharpened, even slightly. A good grindstone for the march.