CORNELL 
 
 UNIVERSITY 
 
 LIBRARY 
 
Cornell University Library 
 PS 1679.F55SS 1889a 
 
 The shanty boy." or, Life in a lumber c 
 
 3 1924 021 982 818 
 
Cornell University 
 Library 
 
 The original of this book is in 
 the Cornell University Library. 
 
 There are no known copyright restrictions in 
 the United States on the use of the text. 
 
 http://www.archive.org/details/cu31924021982818 
 
a 
 
 THE SHANTY BOY," 
 
 OR 
 
 LIFE IN A LUMBER CAMP. 
 
 BEING PICTURES OE THE PINE WOODS 
 
 In Discriptions, Tales, Songs and Adventures in the 
 Lumbering Shanties of Michigan and Wisconsin. 
 
 BY 
 
 JOHN W. FITZMAUR1CE. 
 
 CHEBOYGAN, MICH., 
 
 DEMOCRAT STEAM PRINT. 
 
 1889. 
 
 t,U\ 
 
Entered according to Act of Congress 
 
 By J. W. FITZMAUBICM, 
 
 With the State Librarian, Washington,!). C, 
 
 November IS, 1888. 
 
 FACSIMILE REPRINT 
 
 Published at Central Michigan University by the University 
 Press from the original in the Clarke Historical Library, 
 Mount Pleasant. 
 
 ONE THOUSAND COPIES PRINTED. 
 
PREFACE. 
 
 I have prepared this little work with two specific purposes 
 in view, viz.: to tell the story of the lumber woods where it is 
 least known, and to instruct and amuse the class of men I 
 have measurably striven to represent on these pages. Nearly 
 every phase of labor has been written, sung and told, save the 
 labor of the pine woods. Here I have found a field totally 
 unpreempted, and have endeavored to so present this life, as 
 to show how much could be done by a more versatile writer. 
 Much of the matter in these pages has formed my editorial con- 
 tributions to the columns of the Timberman, of Chicago, and all 
 is taken directly from shanty life as I beheld it. I gratefully 
 dedicate the work to the men I have received so much kindness 
 
 from — the Shanty Boys. 
 
 The Authob. 
 
THE SHANTY BOY 
 
 OR 
 
 LIFE IN A LUMBER CAMP. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 Tells how I Found my way to the Woods — The General Outlines of 
 the Shanty Boy — Lumbering in Michigan — How the Battle of the 
 Saw-Log is Fought—Miscellaneous Descriptive Matter. 
 
 "Throw physic to the dogs, I'll none of it." 
 
 "Yes, you are rather run down for a fact." 
 
 "You are right Doctor, but what is the reason?" 
 
 "Simply too much office work, sir." 
 
 "Well, what am I to do?" 
 
 "Try something else or you are a dead man inside of a 
 year." 
 
 "What else can I do Doc? I have to work for a living and 
 my work is in a newspaper office." 
 
 "Do? Why, there's any quantity of things you can do be- 
 sides dying. How heavy are you?" 
 
 "About 140 pounds I think." 
 
 "Well, try a winter in the woods and you will come out 
 forty pounds heavier in the spring." 
 
6 THE SHANTY BO T, 
 
 "But what can I do there? I never was in the woods in my 
 life, and know nothing about the work there." 
 
 "I'll tell you what I'll do with you. You know I am running 
 a hospital for the men in the woods? I'll pay you sixty dol- 
 lars per month and expenses, to visit the lumber camps and 
 sell tickets for me. What do you say Fitz?" 
 
 "I'll try it for a while Doc, but I fear you have made a rash 
 bargain." 
 
 "I'll risk it old boy, when can you start?" 
 
 "Well, if I am going, the sooner the better." 
 
 "That's the idea, but you'll want a woods rig. Come with 
 me and we'll soon make a "shanty boy" of you, and you can 
 take the train north to-morrow morning." 
 
 "All right Doctor, I'm your man." 
 
 The above conversation took place on the steps of the B 
 
 house, in a certain Michigan town, in the fall of 1880. The 
 
 parties in the dialogue were Dr. H , a man of considerable 
 
 professional skill, brim full of business, and myself. Of the 
 latter individual, who will accompany the reader through these 
 pages, it need only be said that a long term of rather close 
 confinement. in an office, as a portion of the editorial staff of a 
 daily paper, had resulted in the general prostration of a hith- 
 erto healthy system, for the treatment of which I had con- 
 sulted Dr. H , with the above result. Having intelligence 
 
 enough to believe what the physician advised, I at once con- 
 sented to take up what was to be to me an entirely new line of 
 living and acting, by becoming his representative among the men 
 working in the lumber camps, in the capacity of what is known 
 as an "Hospital Agent." As I shall have occasion to more 
 fully delineate and describe the origin and value of lumber- 
 men's hospitals further on, I will but state that the morning 
 following the above conversation beheld me boarding a train 
 on the Michigan Central Bailway, bound north, as one in a 
 crowded train of cars filled with men for the lumber woods. 
 Everything was new to me, and while my literary work on a 
 newspaper, located in a leading lumber town, had long pre- 
 viously taught me the theory of life in the woods, and even a 
 
OB, LIFE IN A LUMBER CAMP. 7 
 
 little of the practical, through frequent association with woods- 
 men when in the discharge of my reportorial duties, still I had 
 never before felt called upon to term myself one of the "red 
 sashed brigade." But such was now the case with me, to all 
 outward appearances at least. I was dressed for the part, and 
 my "make up" consisted of good, warm woolen pants, known 
 as "Canadian gray," blue woolen shirt, German socks, walking 
 rubbers strapped about the ancle, French head covering of the 
 variegated night cap persuasion, and a heavy overcoat. Added 
 to this was the inevitable "red sash," emblem of the woods, 
 and badge of the "shanty boy." As the war upon king pine 
 would be fearfully void, without the accessories of the great 
 American god, I was plentifully supplied with Nimrod plug 
 tobacco, and a brier root pipe. 
 
 The simple statement that the car was full would but faintly 
 convey a complete sense of the responsibility resting upon 
 Conductor John Sugars. It was "full" in every form of the 
 word. The seats intended for two held three and four. The 
 aisles were jammed with heaving, surging, roaring, swearing, 
 laughing humanity, out of nearly every kindred, nation, people 
 and tongue. All were "full," and every man had a bottle. It 
 was the last "drunk" of the season and it was a bouncer. The 
 men were bound for the woods and a long season of hard labor 
 was before them. This was simply a good bye to civilization, 
 and considerable excuse could be had for. a condition of exhil- 
 eration which was the cut-off for long days to come. The 
 "shanty boy" has been seen at his worst by those who have 
 endeavored to describe him. Usually he is made the hero of 
 some town or city escapade, in which he is caused to figure as 
 the drunken, fighting bum. Such, however, is a very wrong 
 estimate of a character abounding with indications of the best 
 phases in our human nature, although frequently exhibited in 
 a crude form. And right here I want to record the fact — 
 gathered from the experience of years of personal association 
 with this class of our population — that if I wanted a truly sin- 
 cere friend, one who would stand by me with money and per- 
 sonal assistance through thick and thin, when in trouble, I 
 
8 THE SHANTY BOY, 
 
 would turn to the "shanty boy," clothed in his "Mackinaws," 
 in preference to the sleek, smooth-speaking scion of the city, 
 clad in broadcloth, occupying a place in refined society 
 and a cushioned pew in some fashionable church. I have 
 tried both, and proved which is the true gold. 
 
 Accordingly, were I to here labor in striving to enumerate 
 my first impressions of the "shanty boy," as received from the 
 observation of that crowded car filled with drunken, swearing, 
 sweltering humanity, I could easily place myself in the list of 
 those who only know the woodsman — as they know the "cow- 
 boy" or the army scout — simply as a low, depraved drunken 
 blackguard. Be it my labor in these pages to strive to show 
 the better side of the men forming the great pioneer army in 
 the march of civilization. 
 
 But to resume. The picture presented in that train load of 
 men going to the woods, was a laughably strange combination 
 of the drunkenly sublime and ridiculous. The combination 
 was made up of Americans, French, Germans, Swedes, Irish, 
 English, Poles and Indians. All were more or less filled with 
 "budge," and all were hilariously noisy. Every man was using 
 his mother tongue in snatches of song, joke and wild argument. 
 Every one was gloriously happy, and the bottle passed from 
 hand to hand and mouth to mouth with wonderous rapidity. 
 As fast as one bottle was emptied, through the window it went, 
 and another took its place. I since learned that the gathering 
 of bottles along the railroad track is no small means of a 
 livelihood for the lumbering towns small boy. The reek of 
 tobacco smoke filled the car, and the roar of lewd song and 
 vile words in almost every known language, formed an invisible 
 atmosphere, in full keeping with the surroundings, amid which 
 John Sugars, the conductor, calmly made his way, in the col- 
 lection of fares, a work of no little magnitude amid such a 
 pandemonium. 
 
 It is needless for me to waste time in describing a drunken 
 carousal. The intention of this book is to present the true 
 aspects of life in the woods, which certainly does not consist 
 in the expenditure of labor as above expressed. I quickly found 
 
OB, LIFE IN A LUMBER CAMP. 
 
 myself fully recognized as a member of the guild, and was soon 
 hail fellow well met, with the most of the sober men at least, who 
 were there, as foremen or scalers, bound for camp. I had one 
 great failing, however, I could not drink. As a compromise, I 
 had to accept a "chaw" from over twenty proffered plugs of 
 tobacco. When it was learned that I was an "hospital agent," 
 I was made welcome on all sides, for the woodsmen know the 
 value of these institutions and afford them every consideration, 
 in the persons of the numerous agents that visit the camps. 
 Of this more anon. 
 
 The trip was a long and tedious one. At every station, 
 however, Our human freight became less. With "turkeys" 
 (clothes bags) slung across the shoulder, the men could be seen 
 making for the several taverns, where the "tote" team the next 
 morning would take their luggage, and they would tramp the 
 ten or twenty miles intervening between town and camp. This 
 was another feature in my experience that I had not taken 
 into consideration' — namely, the tramp to camp. But I was 
 now a "shanty boy," and proposed to face the music with the 
 rest. 
 
 The hotel at Roscommon where I put up, was under ordi- 
 nary circumstances a good one, but I struck it under extraor- 
 dinary conditions. It was swarming with recruits for the great 
 "army of the pine," and I might add, from subsequent evidence, 
 was swarming with what the delicate phrased "shanty boy" 
 designates "Michigan crumbs." The night was made hideous 
 by drunken men, but at last tired nature sank into oblivion, 
 and I became unconscious of the row in the bar room, 
 and the snoring of the "chum" in bed with me, 
 assisted by the other four robust woodsmen occupying the two 
 beds beside my own in the room. I had left word to be called 
 early, and certainly I was. It did not seem to be ten minutes 
 from the time I had closed my eyes, before a loud pounding 
 on the bed room door aroused me. It was yet dark, but I 
 tumbled into my clothes and hurried down stairs to have a 
 wash and breakfast. The latter was served by a cross looking 
 maiden, not over comely or tidy, who "jerked" the "hash" at 
 
10 THE SHANTY BOY, 
 
 the table full of men, as though every dish served was under 
 protest and as a special compromise and concession on her 
 part. However, the muddy coffee and tough beef collops, 
 called by courtesy beefsteak, being disposed of, we settled our 
 bill at the rate of $2.50 per day, lighted our pipes and prepared 
 to take the "tote road." It was a cold, chilly morning in 
 November. A slight flurry of snow had fallen, and the roads 
 were very bad. Lord, how those shanty boys did walk, when 
 they got started ! Talk about pedestrianism, there are lots of 
 men in the woods to-day who could double discount some of 
 the leading professionals. However, I did my best to keep it 
 up, while some four or five "tote" teams, heavily loaded with 
 camp supplies, lumbered slowly after us. The stars were 
 still shining and a keen north wind, direct from Mackinaw, was 
 blowing. After the first five miles I began to fall behind, and 
 finally was glad to accept a seat beside the driver, on a load of 
 oats. But the road was terrible, and such riding I had never 
 before endured, till at last, I was glad to again "hoof it," if 
 only for relief from the intolerable jolting. I already began 
 to regret — like the tailor's three day apprentice — that I had 
 ever learned the trade. But I was in for it, and all the Irish 
 in my composition came to the surface, in a determination to 
 keep up appearances before these toil hardened woodsmen, 
 who would occasionally wait for the "tote" wagons to catch 
 ud to them and then chaff me as a "tenderfoot." 
 
 Soon we struck the woods, through which the "tote" road 
 meandered, over stump and through swamp, on its slow course 
 to camp. The woods were a relief to me. I had ever been a 
 lover of nature, and the beautiful Michigan forest came to me 
 as though extending a welcome to a wandering child returning 
 home to find a kindly shelter within its leafy enclosure. To the 
 surprise of the men I unconsciously burst into song : 
 
 '•Some love to roam o'er the 'dark sea foam, 
 
 Where the wild winds whistle free; 
 But a chosen band in a forest land 
 
 And a life in the woods for me." 
 
 "Well done, chummy," shouted a big Bay City spiked booted 
 aristocrat of the camp. 
 
OB, LIVE IN A LUMBER CAMP. 11 
 
 "By chimeny. he hash a goot woioe for bork undt peans," 
 remarked a fat Dutch boor. 
 
 "Cough it up again dear, an' we'll give it to the cow," yelled 
 another. 
 
 "Howly Moses, but the owld man's got a good chanther," was 
 the criticism of an Italian from Cork. 
 
 "Hold on pard till we get you in camp and we'll have some 
 more of that," sounded a little better from the teamster, but 
 this small encouragement was drowned in the sneering state- 
 ment : 
 
 "Pshaw ! Yer ort ter hear 'Kollway Dick' sing Young Char- 
 lie Monroe, if ye want ter hear a song. When I war up on the 
 Au Gres five winters ago, I- — " 
 
 "O cheese the racket till we get to camp, then ye can sling 
 it out o' yer. Peg out boys, peg out." 
 
 Thus my first operatic efforts were received, but before 
 winter was over I could hold my own with the best, when I 
 had learned the peculiar muse patronized by the shanty boy. 
 
 This reminds me of the reply made by Albert Higgins, agent 
 for the Detroit Sanitarium, to a big camp bully. Albert had 
 just arrived in camp one stormy evening and as soon as he 
 entered the bunk room he was accosted by a gigantic shanty 
 boywith : 
 
 "See here stranger, the rule of this camp is that every galoot 
 commin' in has ter sing a song or tell a story or we put him up." 
 
 ("Putting a man up" is to throw him, stomach downwards, 
 over one of the big girth beams extending across the shanty, 
 and while one holds his head and two others his feet, another 
 pounds him on the distended bosom of his pants with a boot- 
 jack. It's an extremely pleasant operation when you are 
 accustomed to the gentle recreation.) 
 
 Higgins was at first dumfounded at the request and replied 
 quietly : 
 
 "Well, chummy, I can't sing any more than a crow and I 
 never could remember a story longer than ten minutes, but I'll 
 tell you what I can do. I'll just fight you half a string for two 
 pounds of tobacco for the camp." 
 
12 THE SHANTY BOY, 
 
 This was a poser for the hustler and he paused as though 
 undecided. The boys got onto the situation in a moment and 
 began to yell : 
 
 "Go in pard and wax him !" 
 
 "Why don't you take him up?" 
 
 "There's a chance to get yer work in ol' man." 
 
 In the mean time Higgins had divested himself of his outer 
 garments and thrown himself into position number one in the 
 noble science, when the bully made up his mind that he had 
 bit off more than he could chew and in the parlance of the 
 camp "took water." 
 
 Higgins was permitted to transact his business without 
 further molestation, but the fun of it was that there is not a 
 more comical man or better story teller on the tote road than 
 Al. Higgins. 
 
 There is usually some "bully" in every camp, and he is 
 generally an arrant coward when it comes to the pinch. One 
 in a camp I was accustomed to visit was very cruel to a lad of 
 about sixteen, whose father — an old man badlj' used up with 
 rheumatism — was sitting by the boy one night in the bunk camp. 
 The bully came up and jerked the young fellow off the seat. In 
 a moment the old man struck the bully a telling blow between 
 the eyes, causing him to measure his length on the floor where 
 half a dozen solid kicks took all the fight out of him. The 
 old man was the hero of the camp from that hour, while the 
 cowardly ruffian was the butt and laughing stock of all hands 
 ever after. 
 
 But such characters are not the representatives of the true 
 shanty boy, who is usually generous, brave and a natural 
 gentleman. 
 
OB, LIFE IN A LUMBER CAMP. 18 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 The Silent Fokceb op Nature— The Feeding Place— Ned Madigan's 
 Story— A Game op Cards with Satan— How Ned Saved Himbelp. 
 
 The sun was now up in all its splendor, and the grateful 
 warmth came to us with a cheering welcome. Silence was 
 supreme ! The woods had taken on the variegated tints of 
 autumn, and shone in all the gorgeousness of a Michigan 
 forest, and the silent forces of nature Were at work on every 
 hand. What can be more sublime than a stroll through our 
 Michigan woods where these forces are at work? 
 
 They are recognized in every stage of action, from the infant 
 growth of the baby tree to the topmost tuft of green that 
 seems to brush the skies on the giant pine towering two hun- 
 dred feet above you. Mark the work of distillation going on 
 by which the life juices of the earth are extracted by the tiny 
 tendrils, and sent coursing the full length of that mighty trunk 
 till it reaches the topmost needle of the feathered crest. What 
 a force is here silently at work ! Or note the gigantic grasp 
 the roots of yonder maple have upon that boulder around 
 which they circle. The boulder requiring the force of fifty 
 stalwart men to move is lifted a hair's breadth at a time, till, 
 as the years roll by, it also is rolled from its original bed by a 
 silent force we can not comprehend the power of. Or behold 
 the long leaves of each tree as they seem to wave aimlessly to 
 and fro with every zephyr. They are drinking in atmospheric 
 life to mingle with the vital essence climbing the trunks and 
 branches. 
 
 Life, life — that strange mystery — is at work in voiceless 
 power alike upon the existence of the mighty pine as well 'as 
 
14 THE SHANTY BO Y, 
 
 that of the fragile little wild flower you carelessly tread to 
 death. Behold around you the silent battle in the forest 
 waged between life and death ! There you behold prostrate 
 some mighty monarch that was a fair green tree long years 
 ere the Genoese adventurer had found these shores. To-day 
 it lies prone and you stand upon its rapidly decaying corpse, 
 striving to find the "blaze" which lends you to some lumber- 
 man's camp. Beside the prostrate pine, smitten by death, 
 you see life and vigor busy in seeking to mend the inroads 
 made by the destroyer. With ceaseless battle the conflict is 
 waged betwixt life and death. The silent forces of nature are 
 busy with both the living and the dead. Back into its original 
 elements the dead is being fast resolved, while the life bestow- 
 ing force is laboring without a moment's cessation in express- 
 ing vitality from earth and air to sustain the living. All this 
 comes with startling force to the observer, and when the iso- 
 lated scope of his locality and vision is multiplied a hundred 
 million of millions all over this old earth of ours, the silent 
 forces of nature at work, comes to him with such magnitude 
 and power that he feels his own insignificance so thoroughly 
 that he is led to ask how much greater in construction or life 
 am I than yonder pine, whose destiny after a thousand years 
 of living would seem to be only to make a board fence around 
 a mossback's shanty! If then these silent forces are so sub- 
 limely great and grand in power, what must the power be that 
 controls the whole? 
 
 Now all that may sound very "highfaluting" to the practi- 
 cal reader, but such were my gathered impressions when for 
 the first time I tramped for twenty miles through a Michigan 
 woods. Surely, where these pages are sprinkled prodigally 
 with comedy and farce, a dash of the sublime may be permit- 
 ted. 
 
 At noon we reached the "feeding place," in the midst of the 
 forest, and the horses knew the stopping place as well as did 
 the drivers. Soon the tired animals were vigorously feeding 
 and a fire being kindled, coffee was made and with plenty of 
 bread, beef, pie, and cookies we made a hearty dinner, followed 
 
OR, LIFE IN A LUMBER CAMP. 15 
 
 by a rest of an hour for the horses, while we sat smoking and 
 yarning beneath the trees. 
 
 I had made the acquaintance of a fine specimen of the woods- 
 man, on this trip one Ned Madigan, who as his name implies, was 
 a native of the owld dart. Ned was engaged as "tinker" for the 
 camp we were going to, and he and I had struck up quite a neigh- 
 borly association on the cars. There were two things Ned 
 would not do, he would neither play at cards nor drink 
 whisky. 
 
 While we sat resting beneath the trees during the nooning 
 spell, the ever present bottle made its regular rounds, partaken 
 of freely by all save Ned and myself. Complying with the 
 
 inquiry as to why the d 1 he couldn't take a "snorter" like 
 
 the rest of the boys, he remarked in a rich Irish brogue: 
 
 "Is it why I do be keepin' away from the bla'gard cards an' 
 the divil's drink, the whisky, ye'd bewantin' till know? Faith, 
 thin boys, if ye care tel listen while the harses do he aitin' 
 their bit or corn, I don't moind tellin' ye." 
 
 "Fire away, Ned, we're all list'ning." 
 
 "Well, boys, this will be the forth winther since I tuck a 
 card in me hand, and its meself wor the lad cud play anythin' 
 widin the pas'boords, from 'draw' till 'fives an' forties, 
 
 "Bud its meself that got a lesson at last, that will sarve me 
 me loife in card playin', ay', that nobly, tuck the consate out 
 ov me, an' forever cured me ov the cards an' the whisky." 
 
 "How was that, Ned?" 
 
 "Shtop, boys, till I fill me bit ov a poip agin', I can always 
 talk bether whin I'm shmokin'. Have any ov yes a wee bit 
 ov tilbackey." 
 
 Ned selected my pouch from the number of papers of "Nig- 
 ger Head" presented, concluding it might be a trifle superior, 
 and after getting a good light began: 
 
 "I had jest finished workin' for Tom Nester, an' the Sugar 
 Eiver, when the camp bruk up four years ago nex' spring, an' 
 with Nester's time check for $190 in me pocket, i shouldered 
 me 'turkey,' an' made for Ogemaw Springs, bound for East 
 Saginaw till cash me check an' have a bit ov a toim wid the 
 boys. 
 
16 THE SHANTY BOY, 
 
 "The divil a sup or taste ov whisky did I have, till I got till 
 Ogemaw Springs, where I just had toime till get outside ov a 
 couple ov 'snorters' before I wor an the cars fur Bay City. 
 The cars wor filled wid the boys from camp, an' every mother's 
 son ov thim had a bottle, so that by the toim I reached East. 
 Saginaw I wor purty full. 
 
 "I put up at John Scanlon's an Wather street, sbure, ye all 
 know John. Troth, he's the broth ov a boy, an' a funny divil 
 to boot. Well, I went up to Tom Nester's office an' got me 
 'stake,' all in crisp, new foive dollar noats, an' thin I stharted 
 out wid Larry Hannon and Tim Melloy, till take it all in, as 
 the boys do be callin' it, an' begorra we got as full as twenty 
 fat ganders. Well, about twilve o'clock that same noight, I. 
 found meself elegantly connected wid a game ov 'owld sledge,' 
 in Barney Simond's saloon, an Genesee avenew. I had a long, 
 lank, black-mugged 'mossback' ov a lookin' fellow for a pard- 
 ner — faith, boys, an' I have reason till remember him all the 
 days ov me loif. Barney an' another chap were over fornenst 
 us, an' the game wor aginst us from the shtart, till we wor 
 stuck for all the dhrinks. Well, me pardner and me, we 
 play'd off, an' begorra, I landed the whole schore upon him." 
 
 " 'Ye play a shtiff han' ov sivin up,' siz he." 
 
 " 'I do that, siz I, an' divil a man in town can get away wid 
 me,' siz I, takin' down another dhrink." 
 
 " 'I wish I had ye in some quiet place by meself,' siz he. 'I'd 
 show ye what 'sivin up' sprung from, when it wor first 
 invinted.' " 
 
 " 'The divil ye wod,' siz I, 'then I'm yer huckleberry,' 
 'where cud we go an' enjoy a little quiet devarshion, for I'm 
 jest belly-achin' for a chap ov yer size tell teach ine the game?' " 
 
 " 'There's a big lamp burnin' an Genesee street bridge,' siz he. 
 'There's no wan crassin' now, an' I daur ye tell come down 
 there by yerself, an' thry me a whirl at a dollar a game.' " 
 
 "I thought ov me money, bud bad scran to him, wasn't I 
 playin' all noight Wid him, an' I knew I cud bate him. 'I'm 
 wid ye,' siz I. " 
 
 " 'That's right,' siz Barney, 'go an, for I do be havin' till 
 
OB, LIFE IN A LUMBER CAMP. 17 
 
 close up. Come up all hands an' take a good night dhrink 
 wid me,' siz Barney." 
 
 "We all tuck a dhrink, an' siz the shtranger, siz he, 'shlip 
 out quiet loik, an' I bring the cards.' " 
 
 "I did so, an' me bould lad cam afther me, unbeknownst 
 loik, an' down we both went till the bridge over the Saginaw 
 river. It wor a bright moonloight noight, tis well I remember. 
 The bridge wor disarted entoirely, so down we sat under the 
 big lamp, an' me bould hero pulled a new deck ov cards out 
 ov his pocket." 
 
 "Is it dhrunk I wor? O.ch, divil the bit ! I had got sobered 
 off by this toiin and knew roight well what I wor doin'." 
 
 " 'Will ye have a cigar, Mr. Madigan?' siz he, handing me 
 wan." 
 
 " 'I will,' siz I, 'but how the divil did ye know me name so 
 pat? Have ye a match?' " 
 
 " 'O, I knew yer name long ago, Ned,' siz he.. 'Here, loight 
 it wid this,' and he held up his hand wid a ring on the middle 
 finger wii a firey red shtone in it, and belave me or belave me 
 not, boys, he jest held the shtone agin' the end ov the cigar, 
 an' off she went jest for all the world as though it had been 
 touched wid a hot iron from out the forge." 
 
 "Begorra, siz I till meself, but that's a strange way to get a 
 loight, an' I felt a trifle frighted. But I may tell ye roight 
 here, that when I wor leavin' owld Ireland, me blessed mother 
 — the sints, rest her sowl — hung about me neck a little lether 
 bag, filled with holey earth an' dipped in the sacred will ov 
 Killrush. I had it hangin' an me brist, an' wud ye believe me, 
 wid every pull I gave the cigar, it was thump, thump, I did 
 feel where the little bag did rest upon me hart, nor wud it 
 shtop till I threw the cigar over the bridge intel the river." 
 
 " 'Yer not fond ov shmokin',' siz he." 
 
 " 'Its a divil ov a shtrong cigar,' siz I." 
 
 "He wor shuffelin the cards all the whoil tell he planked 
 thim down." 
 
 " 'Cut for dail,' siz he." 
 
 "I cut, an he had the dail an' I the beg." 
 
1 K THE SUA N TV BO V, 
 
 "I looked at me cards. The fower ov hearts wor turned up, 
 an' I had the jack, ten and tray. 'I'll stand,' siz I, ladin' a 
 small spade." 
 
 "He clapped the ten ov spades an it, an' leads back the 
 queen ov tlinnnps at mc, an' I put an me tray. 'How's that 
 for low?' siz I." 
 
 " 'I'll show ye,' siz he, playin the king ov thrumps at me." 
 
 "That tuck me ten spot. 'Begorra, ye have me,' siz I." 
 
 " 'Put yer jack an that,' siz he, shlappin' down the ace." 
 
 "I had tel, an' he led back at me wid the juce, an' med four 
 times an my sthand." 
 
 " 'Ye can't play cards a little bit,' siz he, handin' me the 
 cards." 
 
 "Me blood was up ! 'I'll lay ye fifty dollars I can,' siz I, 
 shlappin' down ten foive dollar bills." 
 
 " 'Done,' siz he, puttin' down foive tens." 
 
 "It wor my dail, an' I turned a jack, an' had a whole han' 
 full ov shniall thrumps." 
 
 " 'Give me wan,' siz he, an' I had til make him foive til me 
 wan." 
 
 "It wor the owld game ov sivin points we wor playin' an' 
 divil's cure till me, if ho didn't lead the ace at me the first 
 whirl, an' followed wid the king an' tray, which wor high an' 
 low, an' out he went wid me money." 
 
 "Och! bud ye aught till have seen the ugly grin on his mug, - 
 as he raked in me fifty-wan dollars, I'd earned so hard." 
 
 " 'Ye can't play cards worth a sent, Ned Madigan,' siz he, 
 shufliin' the cards." 
 
 " 'Be me sowl,' siz I, 'if ye say that agin' I'll be al'ther 
 thrunnin ye over the bridge, ye black sweep,' siz I." 
 
 " 'It wud shute ye better to be winnin' me money, Ned Mad- 
 igan,' siz he." 
 
 " 'Here's another fifty that I bate ye this toinie,' siz I, 
 plankin' down another ten foives." 
 
 "'Done,' siz lie, covering it." 
 
 "I may here say that all the toinie I wor playin' the little 
 bag an me breast kept bating loike mad, but I wor wild wid 
 
On, LIFE IN A LUMBER CAMP. 19 
 
 the dhrink an' the passion, an' if me dead mother were standin' 
 fornenst me, I'd have play'd the cards all the same." 
 
 "Begorra, but the second game wor worse than the first, for 
 divil a pint did he let me have atall atall, an' tuck me money 
 wid a grin." 
 
 "Tel make a long sthory short, boys, I needn't tell ye that I 
 sat fornenst that black destroyer ov men tell he had all me 
 money, me watch, me ring, worth ten dollars, an' when he had 
 all, he sat an' jist grinned at me, like an organ grinder's mon- 
 key." 
 
 "Siz he, 'I tell ye what I'll do, Ned Madigan, I'll ax ye tell 
 sign this conthract, agreeing till work for me for a year an' a 
 day from tonoight, an' I'll stake it agin all ye have losht.' " 
 
 " 'What kind ov work is it,' siz I, careful loike." 
 
 " 'O, not much to do, siz he, only til ate an' dhrink, an' have 
 all the devarsion ye want, so that ye don't go till church nor 
 bother wid the priest, for wan year an' a day.' " 
 
 " 'Where's the money til come from?' siz I." 
 
 " 'Ye'll have all the money ye'll want, if I win this game,' 
 siz he, 'but as we hav'n't pin, ink or pencil, ye'll have till sign 
 this agreement wid yer blood.' " 
 
 "At this I thought the howley relic on me brfet wud bate a 
 hole in me wid its thrumpin." 
 
 " 'How are we to get the blood?' siz I." 
 
 " 'I'll jest tie this bit ov string about yer thumb, and prick 
 it wid a pin, an' when there's a little dhrop ov blood, ye can 
 press yer thumb an this paper an say:. I, Ned Mangan agree 
 till this conthract.' " 
 
 "Well, boys, de ye know, what wid the dhrink an' the excite- 
 ment, I wor so bewildered loike, that I wor on the pint ov 
 agreein' when a thought sthruck me." 
 
 " 'Lay down yer paper an' the boords before me till I luck 
 at it,' siz I." 
 
 " 'There ye are,' siz he, layin' down the paper." 
 
 "I jist shlipped the string ov the little bag from around me 
 neck, and pulled out the relic, an' laid it an the paper, when 
 whiz ! it went off loike a blasht ov gun powdher." 
 
20 THE SHANTY BOY, 
 
 " 'What med ye do that?' the black wan roared." 
 
 " 'If ye be man or devil,' siz I, hittin' him a swoipe wid the 
 bag, in the name ov God an' all the blissed sints, I bid ye de- 
 clare yerself.' - " 
 
 "Well, boys, I'll never forget what happened thin. He med 
 a dash at me, wid a roar an' a yell like a tug whistle, an' I hit 
 him betlmne the two eyes wid me fisht, an' knocked him over 
 the bridge intell the river, where he fell wid a splash an' a 
 Irish, loike hot iron, an' I fell back widout sinse or motion, till 
 I woke up an' it wor broad daylight." 
 
 "Where wor I do ye ax? Well, begorra, I. wor in the 'coop,' 
 an' at 9 o'clock Tom Olivar tuck me before owld Fay, the po- 
 lace justice, an a charge of dhrunk an' dishorderly. By the 
 powers, if the owld Dutch bock beer goat didn't foine me ten 
 dollars, an' wouldn't listhen tell my sthory the divil a minnit. 
 The narra rap had I left, and if John Scanlon hadn't paid the , 
 foine, I'd have gon over the road for ninety days." 
 
 "Did I ever afther meet the black chap agin, do ye ask? I 
 didn't that nor did I want til. B.ufc from that day till this, I 
 have never handled a card, nor drank a sup ov whisky. Shure, 
 boys, an' if it hadn't bean for the howley relic; I lml, the owld 
 boy wud av had me body and bones, that awful noight. But 
 prase be til the sints, I eschaped, an' ever since I've tryeri till 
 attend to me duties an keep out ov bad company," 
 
 "But what the divil are yiz all grining about, as though all . 
 me conversation wor a pack ov balderdash? It wor better for 
 ye teamsthers to hitch up them harses, an' let us git til camp 
 before the dark." 
 
 We made camp that night in time for supper, and as it was 
 one of the best provided camps in Michigan, I will here pre- 
 sent it as a specimen of what life in a lumber camp implies. 
 Suffice it to say in closing this chapter, that I was welcomed 
 to the fellowship and cheer of as good a lot of woodsmen as I 
 ever had occasion to meet before that, at Charlie Field's head- 
 quarter camp. 
 
OR, LIFE IN A LUMBER CAMP. 21 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 Opening up a New Piece op Pine— How Camps abe Built— The Nec- 
 essary Articles fob a Set op Camps— Life in a Lumber Camp— 
 The Romance op the Pine Teee. 
 
 "Come, all ye sons of freedom throughout old Michigan. 
 Come, all ye gallant lumbermen, list to a shanty man. 
 On the banks of the Muskegon, where the rapid waters flow, 
 Oh! we'll range the wild woods over while a lumbering we go." 
 
 Before proceeding further with any personal recollections of 
 life in the woods, it would be well to give the general reader a 
 synoptical review of the opening up of a new lumbering terri- 
 tory, and a picture of life in camp. In this description ro- 
 mance will be left out and the sensational be relegated to 
 realms of the unreal, while the reader is invited to pass a brief 
 half hour in a visit to a Michigan lumber camp. In the recipe 
 for cooking a duck you are first directed to catch the duck, so 
 in order to see a lumber camp in all its pristine glory, you 
 must first be directed how to get there. Lumbering in the 
 abstract partakes of so much similarity that a description of 
 one camp will do for all, so please imagine John C. Brown, of 
 East Saginaw — a well-known Michigan lumberman — telling 
 one of his many foremen — John D. Eaton — to take a gang of 
 men and build a set of camps on the Ocqueoc river, Presque 
 isle county, Mich., and prepare to lumber ten millions. To 
 put in this amount of timber in what is called "the season," 
 extending from September 1 to April 1, requires a camp of 100 
 men and twelve teams. Of course, the length of the log road 
 or "haul" makes all the difference in the world, but a two mile 
 haul will serve our present purpose. 
 
22 THE SHANTY BOY, 
 
 To pierce the unbroken forest with the neccessary supplies 
 for a camp of the above dimensions, is a work of no small mag- 
 nitude. The growing scarcity of timber has driven the lumber- 
 men up on the head waters and tributary streams of the lum- 
 ber regions, and many are obliged to "tote" their supplies from 
 a distance of from thirty-five to fifty miles. So the reader will 
 kindly imagine the above gang of men to have found a location 
 in the pine woods on the opposite side of the county from 
 where they went in for the winter's operations. The first 
 thing necessary in the locating of a set of camps is water, 
 shelter and convenience to the "cutting ground," so that the 
 time of the men in going and coming to and from their work 
 may be economized. This being thus properly selected, the 
 first, thing is to start the cook and blacksmith to work. These 
 are placed under a temporary shelter of boughs while the 
 work of building the camps goes on. All the immediate sup- 
 plies for living, together with the tools required for building 
 camps have been brought along with the men. The "tote 
 road" to camp has been cut out and blazed from the front to 
 camp, and the "tote" teams are sent back for more, and from 
 the time the men go in till camps break up in the spring, not 
 less than three "tote" teams make the daily journey to the 
 "front" for supplies for the men and beasts in the woods. The 
 camp usually consists of four principal buildings, viz., cook 
 and eating camp, 65x35 feet; the bunk camp, 60x30 feet, with 
 sleeping room for 100 men; the barn and stable with stall 
 room for eighteen teams and room for hay and oats for the 
 same; a blacksmith and tinker shop where the massive sleighs 
 are made, and all the tools necessary for the woods are made 
 and kept in repair. The blacksmith and "tinker" (wood- 
 worker) are usually good workmen and must be capable of 
 doing any kind of job in their line. In addition to these 
 buildings there is what is known as the "van," or office where 
 the foreman and scaler bunk, and where the clothing, tobacco 
 and tools of the camp are kept. Sometimes the foreman has 
 his wife with him, when a little more effort at comfort and 
 seclusion is made in favor of the lady. 
 
OR, LIFE IN A LUMBER GAMP. 28 
 
 It takes from ten to twelve days to get the camps in condi- 
 tion to live in, during which time the men live a sort of Bobin 
 Hood life, under convass or hemlock boughs. But many hands 
 make light work and nothing in the way of lumbering is done 
 till the camps are all up and the men and horses are made 
 comfortable. The shanties are built in the most substantial 
 manner of the straightest logs neatly scarfed to fit into each 
 other, "chinked" and plastered in the interstises till all cold is 
 bade defiance to. Lumber is necessarily scarce and the roof 
 and floor is about all that shows the work of the mill saw, all 
 else is formed from the trees of various sizes, manipulated 
 with no other tool save the axe, cross-cut saw and two-inch 
 auger. Here for six months are congregated a heterogeneous 
 conglomerate of humanity of all ages and races, with hard work 
 in plenty and but little to amuse. A gigantic stove warms up 
 the bunk camp, and the "chore boy" has the bestowal of the 
 heat in the cords of dry Norway he fires up with. Plenty of 
 warm blankets spread on a bed of hay fill the bunks, which 
 are built one above the other, along both sides of the camp. 
 A couple of headless flour barrels let through the roof furnish 
 ventilation, and "nature's sweet restorer, balmy sleep" gives 
 back the" health and strength subtracted by the toil of daily 
 labor. The men are usually well fed. The secret of success 
 in the woods is well fed men comfortably housed. The follow- 
 ing rough estimates will show the quantity of provisions con- 
 sumed by a camp of 100 shanty boys, for men eat terribly in 
 the lumber woods: 
 
 Flour, per week, 6 barrels; beef, 2£ barrels; pork, 2£ barrels; 
 potatoes, 8 bushels; onions, 3 bushels; pickles, J barrel; sugar, 
 1 barrel; tea, 25 pounds; coffee, 16 pounds; butter, 50 pounds; 
 lard, 40 pounds. 
 
 These, together with prunes, dried fruit, salt, pepper, mus- 
 tard, spices, sausage, meat and fresh beef, all go to spread a 
 bounteous table. 
 
 Two great requisites go to make a lumbering job a success 
 in addition to those mentioned above, viz.: a good cook and a 
 good fiddler. All else may go wrong, but good grub and a 
 
24 THE SHANTY Bar, 
 
 good tune before turning in, smoothes over the rude excres- 
 ences, serving to make the toil of the woods a burden. There- 
 fore, the cook is autocrat per se of the camp, and the fiddler 
 first lieutenant. The cook camp is also the dining camp, where 
 at one end two immense cook stoves are placed and through 
 the remaining length of the room two tables, furnished with 
 brilliant tinware, are stationed where a dyspeptic would faint 
 with pure astonishment at the appetites, evolved from breath- 
 ing a piny atmosphere and rolling saw logs all day. 
 
 Yes ! It is a life of toil, but also one of health. It is vir- 
 tually kill or cure. The men are out of their bunks by four 
 o'clock every morning. Half an hour later the horn blows for 
 breakfast. By five o'clock the day's work begins, and the men 
 are at their several stations, all busy at work, long before the 
 morning stars have finished their song. The camp force is 
 divided into sawyers, choppers, swampers, skidders, teamsters 
 and loaders. The choppers go ahead and cut a "nick" into a 
 tree about four inches; the sawyers follow, and from the oppo- 
 site side saw the tree down; the swampers trim off the limbs; 
 after the sawyers have cut the trunk into log lengths, the skid- 
 ders "snake" the logs to the skids where they are piled up 
 twenty feet high ready for the loaders and teamsters, when 
 hauling begins, to be taken to the banking ground on the adja- 
 cent river, where the spring floods start them on their journey 
 to the mill. 
 
 This then, in brief, is the work from day to day, rain or 
 shine, till the job is done. The horn blows for noon and 
 another inroad is made upon the commissariat; when after 
 fifteen minutes' rest, the work for afternoon begins. With the 
 close of the day, the tired men return to camp, and after sup- 
 per the evening, till nine o'clock, is their's. Conversation, 
 cards, "stag" dancing, stories and reading fill in the time till 
 the chore boy turns down the light, and within ten minutes all 
 are asleep. This is the mere routine of camp life, however, 
 frequently varied by accident and death. The "Eomance of 
 the Forest" is daily acted out in the every-day life of these 
 men. They go into the battle of the saw-log with their lives 
 
OB, LIFM IN A LUMBER CAMP. 25 
 
 in their hands. Not a single camp but has its tragic story 
 of disaster from which much of the sublime could be sub- 
 tracted were it the purpose of this writing. "With the coming 
 of frost and snow the work of hauling begins. The log road 
 is a wonderful piece of civil engineering. It goes round hills, 
 over swamps, down and up ravines, a solid mass of snow and 
 ice, which frequently remains solidified when all about it is 
 free from the grasp of winter. The "sprinkler" is a great insti- 
 tution, being a tank holding some 100 barrels of water, placed 
 on a sled and through the long, bitter, frosty night, it goes 
 emptying its contents on the log road till the latter is as 
 smooth as a toboggan slide. This is why loads of logs meas- 
 uring 15,000 feet can be drawn by one team of horses. Once 
 started and the huge mass will move of its own impetus. 
 These roads are usually so laid out that they run down hill to 
 the banking ground and frequently it is all the horses can do 
 to keep out of the way of the mass of timber they ase supposed 
 to be hauling. 
 
 Some camps take more than extra pains to make their men 
 comfortable. Notably among those may be mentioned a set of 
 camps owned by Pack, Woods & Co., of Oscoda, operating on 
 north branch of Au Sable; Richard Phalan, foreman. This 
 bunk camp is furnished With every possible comfort and con- 
 venience for the men. The floor is scrubbed out every day, 
 curtains are on all the bunks, every available inch of space is 
 covered with pictures, cut paper ornaments the lamps, looking 
 glasses and combs and brushes are placed for every four men. 
 A bird in a cage hangs over a table covered with books and 
 papers. Cuspidors are placed conveniently for the men, and 
 bedding is kept clean. 
 
 Now, dear reader, you have been given in the foregoing the 
 plain, practical, unvarnished picture of a lumber camp. There 
 seems to be but little romance attached to it, and the man who, 
 either as employer or workman, seeks the woods, looks for any- 
 thing but sentiment. Its saw-logs he's after. 
 
 ''A primrose by the river's brim, 
 A yellow primrose is to him, 
 ' And it is nothing more." 
 
26 THE SHANTY BOY, 
 
 And still the woods are tilled with romance, but so closely 
 allied with the ridiculous as to be largely robbed of its senti- 
 ment and poetry. The woodsman stands and gazes upon the 
 massive pine, nor stops to think of the ages of time it repre- 
 sents. He only thinks how many saw logs it will make. And 
 yet what volumes of romance attaches to that massive pine ! 
 Let us try a little picturing by way of a change, which may be 
 termed the "Eomance of King Pine." 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 The Romance of King Pine — The Victory of the French Shanty Boy. 
 
 "This is the spot the center of the grove, 
 
 Here stands King Pine, the monarch of the woods." 
 
 TOTE LOAD FIRST — THE SUBLIME. 
 
 The glacier period had passed. The fructifying warmth of 
 the sun shone down upon the rich alluvial deposits, forming 
 what is now known as Michigan. The sea, retreating to its 
 destined place, smote with feeble force the shores of the newly 
 born western world. Upon its bosom were tossed the seed- 
 lings of the future mighty forests. From some far away clime 
 in the east, came drifting a lonely pine cone, holding in its 
 bosom the promise of an unborn life. 
 
 From the tempest tossed waters it was cast upon the strand, 
 and the winds lifted it up and bore it upon their wings, till it 
 at last found lodgment by the bank of a rapidly flowing river, 
 where it rested for many days. 
 
 And the strange and subtle germ of life, hidden within the 
 folds of the scaly cone, heard the voice of nature speaking, and 
 
OB, LIFE IN A LUMBER GAMP. 27 
 
 responsive to the whispered invitation, it reached down its 
 thread-like tendrils and found for them a home in the con- 
 genial bosom of Mother Earth. 
 
 And the years passed by till they had resolved themselves 
 into centuries, and the centuries faded away, till numbered by 
 ages. Still the lone pine by the swift flowing river grew and 
 grew, till his mighty arms stretched out in royal grandeur, and 
 his green, feathery plumed crown brushed the skies. 
 
 Sohe cast forth his seed in due season, while the ages 
 rolled into eternity, till the great valley was peopled by the 
 children of this mighty forest king, and his race multiplied 
 and spread to all the surrounding lands. But above them all 
 towered in sublime majesty the pioneer monarch who gave 
 them birth. 
 
 And he said: I am King Pine ! Nor did any gainsay him. 
 And he ruled supreme, nor did the other trees of the forest 
 dare to intrude upon the domain where King Pine reigned. 
 
 And lo ! this mighty monarch of the forest waxed proud, 
 and presumptuous, and exclaimed in the majesty of his 
 power: 
 
 "Who is like unto me, or who is mightier than I ?" 
 
 And the Storm King answered this lordly challenge, and 
 shouted forth: 
 
 "I am the ruler of the tempest, and am stronger than thou ! 
 I, who holdest in mine hand the lightning and the crashing 
 bolt, canst lay thee low!" 
 
 Then laughed the Pine King and defied the onset of the 
 Storm King. 
 
 And the tempest raged and smote upon the waving arms of 
 the pine, but he bowed not his feathered crest to the tempest. 
 And the lurid bolt shot its death dealing- blow in vain, for the 
 Pine King alike defied the tempest and the lightning. Still 
 on high he tossed his branches and continued to grow in 
 strength and stature. 
 
 Then the Storm King and the King of the Flood entered 
 into a- compact together, to bring down the pride of this au- 
 dacious monarch of the forest— King Pine. And the mighty 
 
2 8 THE SHANTY BOY, 
 
 river arose in its power, and assailed the roots of the monarch 
 — the little, tender rootlets of the long past ages, now grown 
 strong and stubborn in their grasp upon Mother Earth. And 
 the tempest howled ! The thunder roared ! The lightning shot 
 in its fury ! The floods beat upon the roots, and before the 
 combined forces of the Storm and the Flood, many of King 
 Pine's children fell prone, till the maw of the mighty river was 
 Ailed with the bodies of the slain, and very grevious was the 
 battle. Then the spirits of the Storm, and the spirits of the 
 Flood, clapped hands in glee and shouted: 
 
 "The victory is ours !" 
 
 But when all was over, the Kings of the Storm and the 
 Flood sadly shook their heads, and dolefully exclaimed: 
 
 "He can never be moved ! His life is as the stars, that glis- 
 ten through the plumes of his helmet." 
 
 And the ages passed away, till finally these western lands 
 were peopled by a race of men, before whom the storm fled 
 subdued, and the lightning became a dray horse. And yet 
 upon the banks of the mighty river, King Pine stood unscathed, 
 and laughed in the greatness of his might at all power, saying: 
 
 "Am I not still the mighty monarch of the forest? Who is 
 like unto me?" 
 
 I fancy I see a "shanty boy," on a Sunday afternoon, lying 
 in his bunk and reading the foregoing. He quietly swears to 
 himself, if he be profane, and if not, yells "rats !" But my 
 dear boy, this is the real romance of the forest, you have been 
 reading, and is what is termed the "sublime !" It is the history 
 of King Pine. Therefore do not become impatient, for there 
 is still another side to this romance, which we may term the 
 "ridiculous." 
 
 Listen chummy: 
 
 TOTE LOAD SECOND. 
 
 "Good boy, my modder, I go Micchigaun, dis com faul, to 
 woark in lombar vood. 1 com baac Cannada nex' spring. I 
 mak lots monie, an' bing you an' Josephine niece new dreas. 
 Good boy, modar; you watch your Baptiste mak som smoke 
 dis tiam. You kees Baptiste, modar, he kees you an' Joseph- 
 
OR, LIFE IN A LUMBER CAMP. 29 
 
 ine; den go lomber wood, swing axe, pull saw, eat greaat 
 plentee pea soop, get faat. Bon jour, mon mare, bon. jotir 
 Josephine, I go gaat twenty dollair mont." 
 
 And lo ! there came a day when Baptiste stood at the base 
 of King Pine and looking up said: 
 
 "I tink he mighty dam fin pin tree. He mak ten twenty, 
 dam beg saw-loog. I tak him doown by tiam horn blow 
 for pea soop. Noow, you watch mae maak som smoke. 
 Whoop la !" 
 
 And Baptiste laid his axe to the trunk of King Pine, and lo ! 
 he fell, and the spirits of the storm and flood gazed with 
 astonishment and exclaimed: 
 
 "What mighty power is this that overthroweth King Pine?" 
 
 And the laughing "chore boy" replying said: 
 
 "Ha, ha! it is a little Frenchman, hired at twenty dollars 
 per month, that slayeth King Pine." 
 
 However, we have had enough nonsense for the present, and 
 now for a chapter more serious. 
 
30 THE SHANTY BO T, 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 The Shanty Boy in His Home — The Story op a Christmas in Camp — 
 Charlie Porter and Daisy — Vicissitudes of Woods Life. 
 
 "And when upon the Jong hid soil the tall pines disappear, 
 We will cut the forest trees, and sow where'er we clear, 
 Our grain shall wave o'er valleys rich, our herds bedot the hills, 
 When our feet no more are hurried to tend the driving mills. 
 
 It did not take me very long to become accustomed to the 
 rough and tumble character of camp life, in all its phases. I 
 succeeded in making friends in every camp I visited, so that 
 to-day the name of the author of this book, is tolerably well 
 known throughout Michigan and Wisconsin. Still, I might 
 make two exceptions to the above statement, and even then 
 the rudeness I received was more for fun than to insult or abuse 
 me. 
 
 I remember the big snow storm, in February, 1882, when a 
 general blockade of Michigan took place. I had arrived at a 
 camp of sixty men, in the neighborhood of Piper, Ogemaw 
 county, about 8 o'clock at night. I was totally exhausted, and 
 had with me two heavy satchels. The cook kindly gave me 
 some supper, and afterward I repaired to the "bunk camp." 
 It looked as though hades had let out for noon. Every man 
 seemed "on it," and a perfect fusilade of revolvers was going 
 on. Fortunately no one was hurt, but the "horse play" was a 
 trifle too much for me, and so shouldering my satchels, about 
 9 o'clock, I started for Piper. In order to shorten the two 
 and a half miles by the traveled road, I determined to make a 
 short cut through the woods to the mill boarding house at 
 Piper, distant about a mile. The snow was thirty inches deep, 
 
OR, LIFE IN A LUMBER QAMP. 31 
 
 and had I not been scared out of my senses, I would never 
 have attempted to wade through it without snow shoes. But 
 do it I would, and did, reaching at last the "banking ground," 
 on the edge of the little lake, across which I could see the 
 lights of the boarding house. There was about a million of 
 logs "decked up" fourteen tier high, and I clambered over 
 them and down the "face," bringing with me a perfect ava- 
 lanche of snow. How I escaped bringing down the logs on 
 top of me is to me an enigma, but I managed to get down to 
 the lake. 
 
 Previous to the great fall of snow, the frost had been com- 
 paratively light and there was not much more than six inches 
 of ice on the lake, bearing up that tremendous body of snow. 
 The woodsman will at once see the danger I was subjected to, 
 although I never stopped to consider it, but started across the 
 lake. The weight of the snow had bent the ice down in the 
 middle, so that fully a foot of water was between it and the 
 snow on top. How it was that my additional weight did not 
 break the whole thing through, is another puzzle. If it had, 
 no one would have known of my fate till next spring, and this 
 incident would never have been written. As it was, every step 
 I took left my track in the snow full of, water, so that when I 
 finally arrived at the boarding house, I was soaking wet. A 
 kind landlord, a goo.l fire and bed. soon made me forget my 
 trouble, but I shall always deem that the nearest call to death 
 I ever had, and to a merciful God I alone ascribe my preser- 
 vation. 
 
 Again, in the winter of 1883.' I had a rather singular exper- 
 ience, more laughable than serious. I had . walkei 14 miles 
 over a "tote" road, leading to a camp about ten miles south- 
 west of Hubbard Lake, which had not been traveled since a 
 previous fall of about eighteen inches of snow. On that trip, 
 for the first and last time, I had taken with me about $600 
 worth of watches and jewelry to sell to the men in camp. 
 About 7 o'clock that evening Breached the camp of about 
 thirty men, and saw at once it was a hard nest. It was one 
 of tho3e camp3 where all the supplies are taken in in the fall, 
 
32 THE SHANTY BO T, 
 
 and no "toting" is done through the winter. After supper I 
 exhibited my stock of jewelry and watches, opening up the 
 whole "lay out." Then the fun began. A big fellow, who 
 was the "camp hustler" — frequently a man in camp bigger'n 
 the "push" — took full possession of all my stock in trade, and 
 proceeded to apportion it into thirty little heaps, on the bench 
 that ran around the camp. The men grouped themselves 
 about the stove, while he was carefully sorting out the goods, 
 and I — well I sat in a corner of a bunk and philosophically 
 smoked. When the work of sorting was completed, he began 
 the distribution: 
 
 "Phill Martin, turn yer back." 
 
 "Who shall have this pile, Phill ?" 
 
 "Josh Greer!" 
 
 "Who shall have this pile, Phill ?" 
 
 "Bob Spangles !" 
 
 "Who shall have this pile, Phill?" 
 
 "Sandy Johnson!" 
 
 "Who shall have this ?" 
 
 "Ben, the chore boy !" 
 
 And so on till all had received his allottment. As each 
 name was called, the party designated, coolly stepped up and 
 took his portion of the goods, and at once proceeded to exam- 
 ine it piece by piece, with a childish curiosity. The foreman 
 sat there and said not a word. I felt for sure I had seen the 
 last of my goods, and to cap the climax I was told I could 
 bunk in with the big land pirate, who had "looted" my plun- 
 der. It was all "shanty boy's" horse play, however, and before 
 I was up the next morning, everything was gathered and placed 
 in my grip, without loss or injury. That day at dinner time I 
 sold the same crew $75 worth of hospital tickets and over $200 
 in watches. 
 
 I shall never forget the Christmas of 1883, spent in a lumber 
 camp. By some fatality my business had so shaped itself 
 that in place of being comfortably at home with my family, 
 during the holiday season, I was far in the interior of Northern 
 Michigan. 
 
OR, LIFE IN A LUMBER CAMP. 33 
 
 A weary tramp of some sixteen miles over a bleak, burned 
 over waste of desert, brought me to a large lumber camp, in 
 proximity to the Muskegon river. Some seventy-five men con- 
 stituted as fine a crew of "shanty boys" as I had ever met. 
 
 It was Christmas Day, and the men were having a "lay off" 
 in honor of the festive anniversary of peace and good will to 
 men. The cook and his helpers had made an extra effort, in 
 the preparation of a dinner fit for a prince, and for which I 
 had just arrived in time, bringing with me an appetite suited 
 for the occasion. Dear reader, did you ever dine a la "shanty 
 boy" in camp when the cook had just turned himself loose ? 
 If not let me give you the menu constituting the big dinner, on 
 that Christmas day. 
 
 There was venison, cooked in three different forms; wild 
 turkey; wild duck ; partridge pie, big as a bushel basket ; cold 
 and hot corn beef ; pork and beans ; corn beef hash ; cod fish, 
 with drawn butter ; pigs feet ; potatoes ; saur kraut ; boiled 
 cabbage ; beets ; onions ; pickles ; apple, mince, lemon pie ; 
 apple and currant pudding ; tea, with milk and glocuse sugar ; 
 bread and cookies. Two long tables fairly groaned beneath 
 the weight of the bounties provided, and it was simply refresh- 
 ing to witness the avidity with which that big crew of hungry 
 men "got away" with the luxuries, and to which final result 
 the writer contributed his best endeavor. 
 
 The afternoon was spent in the various methods of amuse- 
 ment, incident to camp. Some reading, others letter writing, 
 one mending his socks, another putting a fore and aft deck in 
 a pair of pants, with a dissected grain bag. Cards and music 
 were in vogue, the latter represented by a violin and two 
 mouth organs, furnishing entertainment for a number engaged 
 in the exhilerating excitement of a "stag dance." 
 
 in the far corner the everlasting creaking of the grindstone, 
 kept up an accompaniment to the general hilarity, thus form- 
 ing the necessary connection between work and play. 
 
 I soon became quite intimate with most of the men, from the 
 chore boy to the "push" — the foreman of a camp is usually 
 termed the "push" — but among them all, I, in some measure, 
 
34 THE SHANTY BOY, 
 
 felt myself drawn toward one, whom we will term Charlie 
 Porter, who in my estimation, was the very ideal of a "shanty 
 boy." Porter was justly considered one of the best men in the 
 camp, with either team, axe, saw or hook. He was a young 
 Hercules in strength, and an Apollo in physical beauty. About 
 twenty-six years of age, and standing fully six feet in his stock- 
 ings, clustering brown hair, with two great dark blue laughing 
 eyes, brimming full of life and vivacity, presents the picture of 
 this young woodsman. Indian like, we had smoked a pipe of 
 peace together, in the shape of strong "nigger head," and were 
 thus prepared to swear eternal friendship for each other, for 
 in peace as well as war, the "shanty boy" is usually impulsive, 
 and very much depends on how a stranger "strikes" a camp, 
 for either comfort or annoyance. 
 
 I passed most of the afternoon and evening in conversation 
 with Porter, a brief relation of which, as my memory retains it, 
 will exhibit one feature of the vicissitudes of camp life, serving 
 to tell the story of the battle of the saw log. 
 
 From Charlie's talk I soon learned that the greater portion 
 of Lis life had been spent in the woods. He was now on his 
 last winter in camp, to make his "last stake," and gather 
 enough money to pay on his little farm in Sanilac county, 
 where — with his father and mother — his' young wife of less 
 than a year was living. 
 
 The loving adoration with which Porter spoke about his • 
 wife, was a something refreshing, in the midst of folly and 
 vulgarity, especially when remembering that the female asso- 
 ciates of the "shanty boy" are not always of the "gilt edged" 
 variety. 
 
 Beaching back in his bunk, Charlie produced the photo- 
 graph of a very pretty girl, on which he gazed with fond looks 
 of admiration, telling me it was "Daisy," his wife. 
 
 "She's a waitin' fer me over yonder, pard, she is! Only one 
 month in the woods an' my name's Dennis ! Then good by 
 'liza Jane to camp, an' 'rah fer home with a good 'stake' in my 
 turkey." 
 
 He certainly was a noble specimen of masculine humanity, 
 
OB, LIFE IN A LUMBER CAMP. 35 
 
 and I thought that though, like Othello, rude in speech, any 
 mother or wife could be justly proud of such a son or husband. 
 
 His face was fairly radiant with joy, as he told of his court- 
 ship and marriage with "the little woman a waitin' over yon- 
 der," and the pure vision of his wife seemed to pervade the 
 smoky surroundings of the rude bunk camp, as he dwelt in 
 earnest though homely language upon the beauty and good- 
 ness of his Daisy. It was to me simply reflex happiness to 
 sit and listen to him. 
 
 "See here, chummy," he feelingly whispered, "I jes' think 
 I'm 'bout the happiest galoot alive. I don't mind showin' you, 
 but I don't want to give it away to the boys, here's a bible 
 Daisy give me, when I left home las' fall. She's hefty on reli- 
 gion, Daisy is ! See where she's writ my name on this yer leaf : 
 'To my dear husband, Charles Porter, from his loving wife 
 Daisy.' She's a scollard, too, used ter teach school, and jes' 
 for Daisy's sake, I kinder like out here in the woods, to read 
 this book. I wor a lying in my bunk after breakfast this 
 Christmas mornin' a readin' about the birth of Jesus, an' the 
 angels a singin' ter the shepherds, an' sort o' thinkin' how 
 Daisy an' the old folks would be a holdin' Christmas over yon- 
 der in Sanilac, an' whether she's sort o' lonesome arter her 
 great rough shanty boy." 
 
 "No doubt Charlie she has thought about you a hundred 
 times to-day." 
 
 "You bet she has, an' readin' this dear old book, kinder 
 brings us closter to one another, seems like." 
 
 "It certainly does, and I only wish I were with my own dear 
 ones to-day Charlie. It is a day like this that makes one feel 
 there's no place like home." 
 
 "Eight ye are, pard — have anothet pipe of terbacker — jes' 
 get onto this 'turkey' (clothes bag) an' see all the socks, an' 
 shirts, an' towels Daisy put in for me, an' — ha ha ha — she put 
 in a feather piller, too," he roaringly added. "The idear of a 
 feather piller in a bunk camp ! But I like ter look af it, pard, 
 tho' I don't use it. My sweet Daisy's head rested on that 
 there piller, an' as yer ter sleep with me to-night, I'll let ye 
 
36 THE SHANTY BO Y, 
 
 have Daisy's piller ter sleep on, an' if yer dreams are as inner- 
 cent as my little woman's ye'll sleep well. 
 
 "Thank you, Charlie ! I am rather bald headed, and an 
 overcoat makes rather a hard pillow, so when you write to 
 Mrs Porter, thank her from me for the use of her pillow." 
 
 "I'll do it chummy! I've got a letter most finished up, an' 
 will send it in by the tote team day arter to-morror. I hav' 
 writ to tell Daisy I'll soon be home. How in thunder she ever 
 fancied a rough hemlock knot like me, I can't for the life of 
 me diskiver. It busts my bindin' chain every time I think 
 about it." 
 
 "I guess she could tell why, if she wanted to, Charlie," I 
 said, looking at this uncut diamond, with a face and form fitted 
 for an Apollo. 
 
 "Well, I dun' know, maby. But one thing I do know, an' 
 that is that that there little wife of mine will never know what 
 want is or lack a comfortable home, while Charlie Porter's on 
 deck, I give ye a straight tip on that, partner." 
 
 And so the evening passed away, till the "chore boy" turned 
 the lights down and all tumbled in, and soon were in the 
 dreamless repose engendered by honest toil. 
 
 The next morning long before daylight the camp was astir. 
 Teamsters in the stable ; the foreman, Archie McGinnley, going 
 about with his lantern, giving directions about the day's labor; 
 men getting on their warm clothing ; cooks busy with the * 
 morning meal, while the loaders having already eaten, stood 
 ready for the word to "get" to the "rollway," where the teams 
 would soon be waiting for them. It was a wierd picture by 
 smoky lamp light, in black and white, and I lazily lay in my 
 bunk, thanking my stars that I was only an amateur "shanty 
 boy," and didn't have to. 
 
 "Good bye, pard, good by! When we meet again 'twill be 
 over yonder in Sanilac county, when the spring time comes 
 gentle Annie," said Porter, warmly shaking my hand, as 
 he stood with a double bitted axe on his shoulder, ready to 
 start for the cutting ground. 
 
 "Remember yer promise to come an' see me an' the little 
 
OB, LIFE IN A LUMBER GAMP. 37 
 
 woman nex' summer. We'll be thar a lookin' for ye, an' — an' — 
 p'r'aps some one else, ha, ha, ha ! So long, chummey." 
 
 After breakfast, eaten in the gray of the morning, I lighted 
 my pipe and sat down to wait for sunrise before proceeding 
 on my journey to the next camp. 
 
 The morning broke clear and beautiful. Not a zephyr 
 stirred the stillness of the keen frosty air. The rising sun just 
 began to shoot its rays athwart the tops of the frost silvered 
 pines. The silence was unbroken save for the measured echo 
 of the distant axe, as it fell upon the trunk of the doomed pine 
 or the melodious song of a teamster on the ice road, with his 
 load to the "banking ground," coming mellowed by the dis- 
 tance. 
 
 "There is a girl in Saginaw, 
 She lives with her mother; 
 I defy ali the world 
 To find such another, 
 Bung yer eye, bung yer eye." 
 
 Through the long avenues of pine the filigree work of the 
 Frost King had silvered every tree and twig with a net-work 
 of lace, through which the new-born sunbeams flashed with 
 ten thousand scintillations of prismatic beauty. The camp 
 was deserted, save for the sleepy "chore boy," lazily sweeping 
 out the bunk camp, or the clatter of the tin dishes in the 
 kitchen. The rythmic "thud" of the blacksmith, "upsetting" a 
 pevey hook, kept time to the stroke of the camp tinker, labor- 
 iously hewing out a sled runner from a maple root. The pic- 
 ture in light and shade, touched here and there with brilliant 
 coloring, was one of enchantment worthy the brush of a Turner 
 or a Church. I stood drinking in the varied beauties of this 
 lumber woods winter landscape, and felt keenly and warmly 
 the elevating inspiration it afforded. 
 
 My reverie was however rudely intruded upon by the ap- 
 proach from the distant cutting ground of an ox sled, accom- 
 panied by a number of men of the camp, and bearing something 
 resting upon a bed of hemlock boughs. Instinctively I felt 
 that some terrible accident had occurred, and my worst fears 
 were fully established, when on approaching the coming caval- 
 
38 THE SHANTY DO Y, 
 
 cade, I met a sight I shall ever remember while life shall 
 last. 
 
 Upon the bed of boughs, saturated with his fast ebbing life 
 blood, lay the form of Charlie Porter, marred and disfigured 
 beyond recognition. 
 
 "Good God ! men, what has happened?" 
 
 "Rather bad accident, sir." 
 
 "Is it— is it Porter ?" 
 
 "Yes, all that is left of him. He has passed in his checks," 
 replied the foreman, brushing the moisture from his eyes with 
 the sleeve of his Mackinaw. 
 
 "How in the name of heaven did it happen ?" 
 
 "0, the old story, caught by a falling tree, almost the first 
 down this morning, Get him to camp as fast as possible, boys, 
 while I hurry to start the chore boy for the doctor,' 
 and the foreman ran on ahead. 
 
 "Is he beyond all help, boys," I asked. 
 
 "Help? I should say so. Why he's smashed to a pancake." 
 
 "Get him into the cook camp, boys, and lay him on the table. 
 I have some knowledge of surgery and will do all I can for 
 him." 
 
 We soon had his clothing gently removed, and the blood 
 washed from his face, but I saw that there was no hope. Nearly 
 every bone in his body was broken, and his labored breathing 
 showed where the breast bone was smashed in. His moments* 
 were numbered. 
 
 A horse and cutter was at the door to drive thirty miles for 
 the nearest doctor. 
 
 "It is useless, Archie," I said. "In a few moments he will 
 be beyond all human help." 
 
 The men stood around their dying comrade, weeping like 
 children, for Porter was a universal favorite. 
 
 A little stimulant administered caused the departing spirit 
 to stay its flight. Porter slowly opened his eyes, fast glazing 
 with the film of death, and recognizing me, made a faint motion 
 as though to speak. 
 
 "What is it, Charlie?" 
 
OR, LIFE IN A LUMBER CAMP. H9 
 
 "Write to— Dais— y— tell— her— " 
 
 "I will, Charlie, what will I say?" 
 
 "Tell her — I died — hop — in — to — meet my darl — in' — in 
 he — aven. They — wont — be— very — hard — on — a — poor shan- 
 ty — boy — Daisy — loved — " 
 
 And with the trembling accents of human love and trust 
 on his lips, the rude shanty boy went home to God ! 
 
 It was a sorrowful day in that camp. I wrote the letter to 
 the loving, waiting wife that afternoon, enclosing the unfin- 
 ished letter of the devoted husband, blotted and misspelled, 
 but breathing the love of his manly heart, forever stilled. I 
 labored to make the blow fall as lightly as possible, upon the 
 afflicted one. But all was in vain, for the young wife and her 
 prematurely born babe were laid to rest in the same grave 
 with him she loved so well. They were loving'in life and 
 united in death ! 
 
 This is no fancy sketch, but absolute truth, save in names 
 and location. Men become rich, and the wealth of our coun- 
 try grows year by year, till its expenditure causes a political 
 strife, but the noise of the real fight seldom reaches the "front," 
 • and the sigh and cry of the wounded rarely rest upon the ear, 
 and every lumber camp has its tragic story of disaster and 
 death as above described. But it is in the lumberman's hos- 
 pitals, where the Wounded, gathered from the. great battlefield 
 of the pine, can best be beheld in their multifarious conditions 
 of suffering, telling the battle of the saw log. 
 
40 THE SHANTY BOY, 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 Another Phase of Woods Work— Breaking out a "Jam" — How Timber 
 Lodged m the River is Removed — A Scene of Activity, Bravery 
 and Danger Depicted. 
 
 "The music of our burnished ax shall make the woods resound, 
 And many a lofty ancient pine will tumble to the ground; 
 At night round our shanty fire we'll sing while rude winds blow 
 O! we'll range the wild woods o'er while a lumbering we go. 
 
 "Did ye ever go up on the jam, chummy ?" 
 
 "No, I did not." 
 
 "Nor come down on the drive?" 
 
 "Not any." 
 
 Well ye have half of yer woods life to live yet, an' don't ye 
 forget it." 
 
 This was part of a conversation I once had with a noted 
 river man in the spring of 1883, on the north branch of the 
 Au Sable. I accepted his above advice and subsequent 
 guidance to the driving camp, of which he was the foreman, 
 from the experience of which trip the following description of 
 breaking out a "jam" of logs, has been gathered. 
 
 Among the various branches of lumbering, all more or less 
 interspersed with danger, perhaps no one feature possesses 
 more excitement, dangerous situations, or opportunities for the 
 exhibition of dare-devil disregard of death or accident, on the 
 part of the "river-driver," than does the "breaking out" of a 
 "rollway" of logs in -response to the spring floods, which sweep 
 down the various inland rivers and their countless tributaries, 
 toward our inland seas. 
 
 To properly understand what a "rollway" technically means, 
 
OR, LIFE IN A LUMBER CAMP. 41 
 
 it is necessary to first realize the fact of a deep, narrow inland 
 lumbering river, filled to the level of its banks with logs thirty 
 or forty tiers deep and reaching up stream about a mile in 
 length, representing a mass of timber of say 75,000,000 feet. 
 These logs have all been banked through the winter, when the 
 river represented but a little streamlet, so that as the timber 
 was rolled in it laid as solid from the bottom as though banked 
 upon land. The rapid thawing of the snow in the lumber 
 woods will swell these inland lumbering streams to a wild, 
 tumultuous river within ten hours, and frequently the "drive" 
 is forced by the rapidly accumulating waters before the "river 
 drivers" are ready. What is known as the "breast" is where 
 the "breaking out" process must first begin. This is the end of 
 the mass of logs farthest down the river, and where, in inextri- 
 cable confusion, the timber for fifty feet down is piled in every 
 conceivable form and shape, proving an impassive hinderance 
 to the movement of the mass of timber above it. The reader, 
 who may have studied the movement of some historic glacier 
 along its bed, can apply the same action to the pine glacier, 
 firmly imbedded in the bosom of a lumbering river. 
 
 The increasing impulse of the water serves but to solidify 
 the mass of timber together, impacting it more firmly upon 
 the "jam" at its front, if only -the twelve or sixteen feet of 
 a saw-log length be gained in the downward movement of the 
 mighty mass, the binding and fastening process is complete. 
 The logs on the front or "breast" act as spurs, with their ends 
 in the mud beneath and standing at all inclines and angles, 
 the more pressure received from the compact mass above them, 
 the firmer becomes the resistance. This is the "jam" which 
 has to be removed before the logs can float down stream, and 
 in the "breaking out" of which, danger sublimely grim looks 
 the daring "river driver" square in the face, and death cruelly 
 awful, frequently swoops down upon the fated one. Mean- 
 while, the gathering waters are hourly increasing in volume 
 and violence. Over the surrounding country the flood breaks 
 in angry vindictiveness on being driven from its legitimate 
 course. A miniature Niagara rolls over the "breast,'' making 
 
42 THE SHANTY BO T, 
 
 the work of removing the "jam" logs the more difficult and ar- 
 duous. But the work has to be done, and that quickly. If 
 advantage be not taken of the flood water, while at its height, 
 the mass of logs may remain "hung up" for a whole year. 
 Consequently, in response to the welcome rush of the flood, 
 the "driving crew" are on deck, armed and uniformed for the 
 fray. The latter equipment consists of close-fitting clothing, 
 knee-boots heavily spiked on the soles, to hold the man on the 
 logs, and pike-lever with hook attached for handling the logs. 
 
 It is simply wonderful to witness the feats of agility a "river- 
 driver" can accomplish upon a floating saw-log, on the back of 
 which he is as much at home as an ordinary mortal would be 
 in a boat. In short, the "driver" on a lumber river is a sort of 
 amphibian, and can live all day in water filled with floating 
 ice; yes, and sleep sound in the same wet clothes the portion 
 of the night given him to rest. It is simply an awful life filled 
 in with accident, danger, disease aud death. But to the "break- 
 ing of the jam." 
 
 All is now hurry and confusion. The rapidly increasing vol- 
 ume of water is rushing on with resistless force. Through the 
 interstices of the massed timber and over the surface of the 
 upper logs, the flood sweeps, to pour over and through the 
 "jammed breast" with the sullen roar of a mad'ning deluge. 
 The active crew are at their several stations, wielding axe and 
 pike-lever, on the face of the "breast." The pouring waters 
 have for these men no terrors, and with the agility of squirrels 
 they jump from log to log, where a false step would be instant, 
 hopeless death. Across the river over the "breast" a strong 
 hawser is stretched. Attached to this is a heavy double block 
 and tackle, to which a large hook or skidding tongs is fastened 
 by which the jam logs are seized The fall is passed through a 
 snatch block on shore, and two, four or even six teams haul 
 xipon it till something gives way — generally a rope, hook, 
 chain or sheave, and the work has again to all be done over. 
 Finally, one by one, the jam logs are pulled out, and sent float- 
 ing down the river as the avant couriers of the mighty mass 
 so soon to follow. But still the "jam" remains immovable. 
 
OR, LIFE IN A LUMBER CAMP. 43 
 
 The waters increase in volume and force ; the roar of the flood 
 drowns out the hoarse voice of the foreman, and the wild adjec- 
 tives in English, French, German or Swedish that are howled 
 on every hand ; creaking, bounding, pounding timber beats a 
 terrible bass to the roar of the waters ; it is a Noachian deluge 
 in miniature ; it is chaos come again! 
 
 At the foot of the "breast," waist deep in the surging, chil- 
 ling water hemmed in on every side by the dancing, rolling 
 logs, and the pulverized masses of snow and ice, are seen the 
 bravest of the crew seeking to separate the "jam logs" from 
 the impacted mass towering high above them. If they suc- 
 ceed they will bring the whole "breast" down upon them with 
 certain death as the result. But reckless and careless they 
 labor on. On yonder log, settiug out two-thirds of its length 
 from the "breast," and two feet in diameter, see that man 
 wielding the axe with skillful hand and rapid stroke to chop it 
 in twain. For him death has no apparent terrors. The sev- 
 ering of that log is certain death, if he fails to jump when it 
 succumbs to the last stroke. It bends and goes down, while 
 he lightly springs to another and is safe, It was touch and go, 
 but elicits no cheer, for on every hand are beheld equal 
 instances of brave daring. But there is method in this mad- 
 ness. These men know at a glance where the wedging "key- 
 stone" of this mighty arch of overhanging timber has its posi- 
 tion. It must be removed, for every moment the mass behind 
 it intensifies its impact. Logs are squeezed into pulp by the 
 awful strain. Into the banks on either side of the river, the 
 ends of the timbers are driven, down deeper into the bottom 
 of. the stream the spurs sink, giving inch by inch, but only 
 becoming more firmly wedged. The surface water increases 
 in power. The top tier of logs are afloat, and come tumbling 
 down over the "breast," end on, to still further strengthen and 
 render impregnable the impacted mass. The danger from the 
 hurtling logs to the men working below is fast be- 
 coming more awfully real. Ten hours of constant 
 labor have passed and so far have failed to "break the 
 jam." Men and beasts are alike exhausted! More 
 
44 THE SHANTY SOT, 
 
 than one serious casualty bas already taken place. A 
 more powerful force than any yet tried will have to be called 
 into action ere the jam gives way ! The "breast" must be mined ! 
 Who will dare to place the gigantic cartridge of dynamite be- 
 neath the imprisoned mass ? Logs are rolling over the face of 
 the "breast" in awful rapidity, and the chances are fearfully 
 small for the man ever returning alive from such a forlorn 
 hope attack. But it is not a question of orders, but of volun- 
 teering. No foreman would take the responsibility of 
 ordering a man to such a task. Who will place the car- 
 tridge? Half a dozen of volunteers at once respond. One is 
 selected. He removes his superflous clothing, whispers a 
 quiet word or two to his "chum" of good-bye, or the possible 
 disposal of his "turkey," takes a fresh chew of tobacco and 
 prepares for what may prove his last task on earth as coolly 
 as though about to fall a tree. The dynamite cartridge (or 
 Hercules powder) has a three-minute water-proof fuse attached. 
 With this in one hand and a piece of lighted "punk" in the 
 other, he wades out to where the "jam logs" are firmest set. 
 The cartridge is on a pole ten or twelve feet long. The obscure 
 hero examines coolly where to place it, and having selected 
 the spot beneath the archway, he lights the fuse, and calmly 
 inserts the destructive engine where it will do the most good, 
 and as calmly seeks the shore. Every one fli_cs from the ex- 
 pected upheaval. It comes with a force that belittles for a 
 moment the mighty element it contends with. The air is 
 filled with logs, ice, splinters and smoke. When it clears away 
 a large chasm js beheld. The jam is broken and every log is 
 released! Down they go into the abyss till the river is filled 
 with floating timber for miles. 
 
 Such, hurried outlined, is the breaking-out of a "rollway" or 
 "jam in spring. Only a few of the features of this dangerous 
 and exciting task can here be given, but the reader is assured 
 that the sight is well worthy of seeing, and whenever possible 
 should be witnessed. "Bringing down the drive" follows the 
 "breaking up of the jam." In this the most of the timber im- 
 prisoned floats down, but the flood washes a great quantity on 
 
OR, LIFE IN A LUMBER CAMP. 45 
 
 the shore all the length of the lumbering rivers. To gather 
 this and float it out is termed "bringing up the rear,'' which 
 is a work in itself worthy of a special chapter on lumbering 
 in this present volume. 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 Bringing Down the "Rear" — Life on a Lumbering River — The Har- 
 vesting op the Winter's Labors — Gleaning the Last op the "Log 
 Crop" — Timber Thieves. 
 
 "Let capital shake bands with labor. 
 Let the poor have the bread that they earn — 
 
 For surely they need every penny, 
 Is a lesson quite easy to learn." 
 
 After the "drive" has been started, as described in the pre- 
 ceding chapter, the work of "bringing up the rear" closes the 
 season's operations upon the lumbering rivers, and is simply 
 the gathering of the scattered timber which has drifted for pos- 
 sibly sixty miles along the shores of the river, through which, 
 in response to the spring flood, the "drive" has passed. Dur- 
 ing the continuance of high water the lumbering river boun- 
 daries are not very clearly defined, and for miles inland the 
 water covers the lowlands and marshes, upon which the erratic 
 timber is drifted, to remain high and dry upon the subsidence 
 of the flood. It will therefore be seen that the work of "bring- 
 ing up the rear," or in other words getting the stranded logs 
 afloat, is a work of no small proportions. Thousands of dollars 
 worth of timber is frequently thus left, from having drifted 
 beyond the reach of the "rear men," whose work of setting 
 derelict logs afloat, will constitute the subject matter for this 
 article. On a lumbering river fifty different firms may be bank- 
 
46 THE SHANTY BOY, 
 
 ing their logs. All these have a brand or mark by which to 
 distinguish their timber from that of their neighbors, just as 
 on the plains, the various brands of cattle owners tell to what 
 ranche the animal belongs. 
 
 When the "drive" takes place these logs mingle pell mell with 
 each other, at least to such an extent that no effort at separa- 
 tion is made, till the logs reach the booming grounds at the 
 mouth of the river. Hence, one man is generally given the 
 "driving" of all the timber there may be in the whole length 
 of the river. When the "jam is broken and the drive begins, 
 it may have from forty or fifty to a hundred miles to come 
 before reaching the "booming grounds," very much of that dis- 
 tance being over water of all degrees of breadth, totally ob- 
 scuring the normal channel of the river. As the flood does 
 not last very long, a full third of the drive is frequently left 
 stranded, as above related, while the "driving crew" attend to 
 the main body of the timber, leaving behind what constitutes 
 the "rear." When the river has receded to its natural dimen- 
 sions, the summer is often passed in the work of floating 
 the stranded timber, and very frequently, from the lack of 
 water, large portions of the timber is "hung up" till another 
 season's flood will start them sailing. 
 
 We have to be thus prolix in order to convey to the mental 
 vision of the general reader what "bringing up the rear" really 
 means. The term simply implies bringing the rear guard up 
 with the body of the timber which formed the spring "drive." 
 The "rear" crew consists of about eighteen river men, under 
 the captaincy of an experienced man, who thoroughly under- 
 stands river driving in all its various phases. The crew sleep 
 on board a flat boat, while another of the same size is used 
 for cooking and eating, These two scows follow the crew day 
 after day, as they clean both sides of the river of the stranded 
 logs and the whole season is frequently spent in this work on 
 such rivers as the Au Sable of Michigan and the Menominee 
 of Wisconsin. The work is very laborious that these men 
 have to perform. The timber will be found scattered far from 
 the river and the logs half buried in sand and driftwood. It 
 
OR, LIFE IN A LUMBER CAMP. 47 
 
 is no infrequent sight to see eight or ten men carrying a saw- 
 log on their pevey hooks for twenty rods to get it to the river. 
 They have to often work waist deep in liquid mud to be washed 
 off, within the next ten minutes, by a plunge head over heels 
 in the river. Then again, the timber will be found stranded 
 in immense piles in every form and confusisn that driftwood 
 might assume, and the work of bringing order out of such 
 a chaos may be surmised to some extent. Thus for instance, 
 the breaking of the dam at Fremont, Wis., this spring of 1888, 
 let loose 10,000,000 of logs, which were scattered all over the 
 marshes and lake, and their recovery was attended with 
 great trouble and expense. 
 
 But not only has the lumberman to suffer the loss of much 
 of his winter's work by the "rear" being "hung up," but "tim- 
 ber pirates" get their work in most effectually upon stranded 
 timber. As stated, each lumbering firm has its own mark, 
 made with the marking hammer in the end of the log. Some 
 firms have several marks to designate the quality of the tim- 
 ber. The timber thieves cut about two inches off of the end 
 of the log with a fine cross-cut saw, and either break the thin 
 piece bearing the mark into fragments, or throw it into the 
 river. This leaves the log free to be marked over again and 
 so stolen. This is generally the work of some unscrupulous 
 "jobber," who boldly comes to the booming grounds, and claims 
 the logs as his own, and gets them at simply the cost of "driv- 
 ing." This trick is more generally done, however, when the 
 logs are near to mills, and thus much timber is lost in this way 
 to the true owners. In addition to this, every booming ground 
 has yearly large quantities of logs for which no owner can be 
 found, generally accumulated from neglect of marking at the 
 banking ground. "Bringing up the rear" is therefore far dif- 
 ferent from "coming down on the drive." The logs set afloat 
 are usually water soaked as well as green, and float very slug- 
 gishly in the weak current. The log may float a mile and 
 again strand or sink, and soon another jam is. formed which re- 
 quires the "drivers" to release it. This will engage a crew travel- 
 ing back and forward all day, to keep the logs moving. The men 
 
48 THE SHANTY BO Y, 
 
 are perfectly at home on a saw-log, and the writer has fre- 
 quently seen a "river boy'' stick his pike lever, with his hat 
 on it, into a log and lie down on the broad of his back on the 
 same, and comfortably float a mile or two down the river. To 
 "birl" a log is a favorite amusement of the "river driver." Two 
 of them will stand on a log, out in deep water, and by tread- 
 ing it violently with their spiked boots, set it rolling with the 
 greatest rapidity. The game is won by the one who succeeds 
 in "birling" the other into the river. 
 
 In the upper portions and branches of lumbering rivers, a 
 succession of dams are built by which the water is retained 
 sufficient for a "flood," which generally takes place twice a 
 day simultaneously with all the dams. These dams are so 
 placed as to wash down stranded logs to deep water, where 
 they can be regularly "driven" to their destination, Very 
 many thousands of dollars are invested by lumbermen in these 
 dams, without which it would be impossible to secure the full 
 "log crop." This improvement in river driving is one of com- 
 paratively recent date. It is not so long ago that the spring 
 freshets were the sole dependence for bringing down the logs. 
 Frequently this failed, and the "rear" was "hung up" for lack 
 of water. Now the whole summer can be passed in "washing 
 out" timber by the medium of these methods, which — how- 
 ever costly in construction — have served their purpose 
 fully, and it is only in comparatively small creeks and streams 
 that logs are now "hung up." 
 
 And so the long summer passes till, the "rear" is brought up 
 with the "drive," usually getting through in time to furnish a 
 fresh supply to the mills. The weather beaten "bunk and 
 cook boats" with their canvass covers have arrived at the 
 booming ground. The men are paid off, and after a week's 
 carouse are away again to the winter's work in the woods. And 
 so the labor in all its forms goes on from year to year, and the 
 insatiable monster ,mills are fed with the product of the forests, 
 till the day to come shall come, when the pevey hook, the pike 
 lever and the saw, shall alike cease labor, and cities and towns 
 — filled with happy homes and glad hearts — shall take the 
 
OR, LIFE IN A LUMBER CAMP. 49 
 
 place of the green pine stumps of to-day, while the latter, 
 together with the hands that laid the monarchs of the 
 woods low, shall be the dust and ashes of the long distant 
 past. 
 
 Stealing saw-logs is one of the "line arts" of the lumber 
 trade, and "log pirates" are plentiful on every lumbering river 
 in the northwest. The tricks of these gentry are numberless 
 and usually they manage their work so well that detection is 
 next to impossible. In another page some of these meth- 
 ods are alluded to, but lately a trick has come to the writer's 
 notice well worth recording. The case referred to shows a 
 new "wrinkle" in this line of brigandism to which we would 
 direct the special atttention of lumbermen. Suppose the let- 
 ter used by the legitimate owner is a double XX, the "log 
 pirate" has a stamping iron made something like this (XX), 
 only that the lines form a complete circle. He then goes to 
 work with another stamping iron, having only a ring on the 
 face. He places the ring on the double XX and hits it a blow 
 with another hammer, when the double XX becomes encircled 
 with the ring, and shows up as his registered mark. This may 
 look at first sight as being highly improbable, but if a little 
 thought is given to the simplicity of the act, it will soon be- 
 come divested of its improbability. In fact, a similar case has 
 has just come to light in Michigan showing it to be altogether 
 too probable that it has been and can be done with impunity. 
 
 While on this point, a page or two could here be given rela- 
 tive to the work of boom companies. Every woodsman will 
 feel an interest in learning how the logs he has been cutting 
 all winter are handled when they reach the several booms. 
 The sorting and rafting of logs is in itself a work of no little 
 importance, in fact so much so that the log booming of 
 Michigan and Wisconsin is but little inferior to any other ab- 
 stract feature of lumbering. All great lumbering rivers at 
 their estuaries must have places where the timber belonging 
 to fifty or a hundred owners can be sorted and separated prior 
 to its being delivered. Thus the great boom companies of 
 Michigan have grown within the last twenty years to enormous 
 
50 THE SHANTY BOY, 
 
 proportions and without exception merit all the confidence 
 reposed in them by the owners of timber through their having 
 fully and faithfully discharged the onerous duties devolving upon 
 them. This fact is here alluded to simply because any neg- 
 lect of the work of sorting out and rafting timber can easily 
 lead to vexatious complications and litigation, in order to 
 make this fact fully apparent the business of booming and 
 rafting timber will here be presented in detail as serving to 
 show in some degree the patient labor required from the boom 
 company men from the president down to the humblest rafts- 
 man. 
 
 The reader will, therefore, please imagine the "drive" of 
 25,000,000 to be down at the booming grounds of the Menominee, 
 Tittabawassee, Thunder Bay, Muskegon, Alpena, 
 or Oscoda Boom Company's booms. Of course, there 
 are no booming grounds capable of holding such 
 an amount of timber at once, and the "drive" will be 
 strung for miles above the limits of the company's 
 scene of operations. This latter is usually some land 
 locked bay close to the mouth Jof the river, or, where wide 
 enough, on one side of the river itself. Here by means of 
 long boom sticks well chained together the timber is enclosed 
 and subjected to the sorting and rafting crew. These men 
 are generally selected for their intelligence and sobriety, as 
 well as for their ability to ride a saw-log down the river. It is 
 not every river driver, however good, that will make a rafts- 
 man for a boom company, hence only the choicest men are 
 employed, as very much depends upon their honesty indus- 
 try and sagacity. The latter instinct serving to make a good 
 raftsman is an intuitive ability to discern the marks on a log 
 designating its ownership, and also the various qualities of 
 the timber, whether for lumber or shingles. Of course the 
 crew have a foreman to oversee the work, but unless the men 
 understand their business thoroughly, inextricable confusion 
 would be sure to ensue. This will be fully appreciated when 
 remembering that each boom company has to supervise the 
 sorting and safe delivery of many millions of timber during 
 
OB, LIFE IN A LUMBER CAMP. 51 
 
 the season to hundreds of customers. The work of the boom- 
 ing crew being thus generally understood, it will only be nec- 
 essary to tell a little about the work done in detail. 
 
 When it is remembered that fully two-thirds of the timber 
 cut in Michigan goes through the several booming grounds of 
 that state, some idea can be had of the magnitude of the 
 pieces handled. To get at this clearly the following table 
 shows the amount sorted out, rafted and delivered, by the va- 
 rious boom companies of Michigan, during 1887: 
 
 River. Feet rafted 1887. 
 
 Tittabawassee 356,354,630 
 
 Cass 3,346,480 
 
 Bad 3,000,000 
 
 Kawkawlin. 1,100,000 
 
 Au Gres 29,000,000 
 
 Rifle 60,193,018 
 
 Au Sable 249,072,865 
 
 Thunder Bay 138,571,650 
 
 Cheboygan 76,000,000 
 
 Manistee 208,754,567 
 
 Pere Marquette 89,000.000 
 
 Muskegon 582.254,192 
 
 White 63,916,887 
 
 Grand 48,360.753 
 
 Total 1,908,925,042 
 
 But of course this was nothing like the amount of lumber 
 cut for Michigan, which, independent of shingles, amounted to 
 4,162„317,778 feet for 1887. The crew of a large booming ground 
 like the Tittabawassee will usually consist of from sixty to one 
 hundred men. The season for delivering logs extends from 
 the coming down of the "drive" to late in the fall, or through 
 the summer and fall months. The rafts are fastened together 
 by long ropes running the whole length of the raft, and each 
 separate log secured by a wedge shaped rafting pin of hard- 
 wood, with a fork cut out of its center, by which it straddles 
 the rope and is then drawn down into the soft pine log. Where 
 logs have to be delivered at a distance, the towing is done by 
 tugs, but usually a crew of four men is sufficient to take a raft 
 down a river to the mill it belongs to without much trouble. 
 
52 THE SHANTY BOY, 
 
 Of course these dry platitudes are of no great interest to the 
 experienced lumberman, but there are hundreds of men to-day- 
 handling lumber who know but little about how it is manipu- 
 lated in its various movements between the stump and the mill. 
 While on the subject of "rafting" and "booming" a word or 
 two may be said about what is known to boom men as "dead 
 heads," or logs ownerless. "Dead head" logs are the derelicts 
 of the lumber woods. Usually they are among the best timber 
 in the "drive," but they got in there surreptiously. They are 
 the property of no one, and in the boom limits they drift, about 
 laden with curses from the boom men, who roll them over and 
 over, looking in vain for a mark. That is the trouble with the 
 "dead head," he has no mark. He may be a good log, clear 
 stuff at that, but he belongs to no one. He causes more trou- 
 ble than twenty inferior sticks. The boom men get more wet- 
 tings through the season hunting for a "mark" on a "dead 
 head," than from all the rest put together. And he keeps it 
 up interminably. It is not once or twice but a dozen of times 
 that the "dead head" puts in an appearance, to again fool the 
 unhappy boom man. He may be shoved off into a corner, but 
 he wont stay shoved, and he comes up again and impudently 
 mingles with the legitimates till at last when the season is over 
 and all the logs properly marked are delivered, then comes the 
 day of reckoning for the "dead head." He has multiplied 
 hugely, and now there is from twenty to fifty thousand of him 
 in every boom limit in Michigan and Wisconsin. He is ac- 
 cordingly put up at auction, and like an impounded steer, sold to 
 pay the expense of his keeping. Seriously, the care in mark- 
 ing logs at the banking ground can not be too great. The 
 shortage in a winter's lumbering is largely due to carelessness 
 in the use of the marking iron, and the dead head log is the 
 result. 
 
OB, LIFE IN A LUMBER GAMP. 53 
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 Saturday Night in Camp— A Chapter of Shanty Boy Fun — Songs- 
 Dances — Stories and Relaxation Generally. 
 
 For the old love is the best love 
 
 You'll find it so in truth; 
 There's no love like the old love, 
 
 The first love of our youth. 
 Though many ties may bind you boys 
 
 You can't forget the pnst; 
 For the old love is the best love, 
 
 'Tis the only love will last. 
 
 Saturday night in camp, like its namesake at sea, is gener- 
 ally one of relaxation. The work of the week is done, and the 
 working man's day of rest, the blessed Sunday, comes sand- 
 wiched in between the hours of toil. It is true that a crowd of 
 men, left to themselves for long months of isolation, and with- 
 out the purifying influences of woman to soften the asperities 
 of rude nature, will soon become in a great measure vulgarized, 
 and frequently even brutalized. There is no better place to 
 study the various phases of human nature than in a large lum- 
 ber camp. There may be beheld the coward, the bully, the 
 sneak, the generous, the virtuous, and the depraved. All are 
 mixed together, and dependent upon each other for not only 
 assistance in labor, but also in mutually helping to wile away 
 the few hours allotted to recreation and rest. The visit of a 
 stranger, and more particularly an hospital agent, to a camp, 
 especially if it be on a Saturday night, is usually looked upon 
 as a special providence. Possibly the most successful hospital 
 agent in Michigan, is Mr. George Starrs, agent for the North- 
 
54 THE SHANTY BO T, 
 
 western Hospital Co., of Cheboygan. Starrs is a born mimic, 
 a good comic singer and dancer, and as a story teller is simply 
 inimitable. These are the social requisites for a Saturday 
 night in camp, and frequently the fun grows so "fast and fu- 
 rious," that all restraint is cast aside, and free license given to 
 every description of monkey-shine and rough "horse play." 
 
 As this chapter is intended to give a picture of a Saturday 
 night in camp, as I have repeatedly witnessed it, the liberty I 
 have taken in the presentation of several songs not my own, 
 will be condoned by the authors, knowing their efforts 
 are so well appreciated by the "shanty boys." As I have writ- 
 ten a number of songs myself, for the boys in camp, I have 
 taken the present opportunity of here presenting them, not 
 becavise of any special worth, but as showing camp life. Those 
 marked with an asterisk being mine own. 
 
 January 17th, 1883, I find by reference to my note book, 
 was an occasion in which I was made partaker in a camp "Sat- 
 urday night" that I will long remember. It was in B. B. Mills' 
 Rifle river camp, Mich., which like a singed cat, 
 was much better than it looked. It was built upon 
 the old-fashioned style, with what is known as a 
 "cabbose," in place of a stove. The "bunk camp" was 
 cosy, and with but little room, one would imagine, in 
 which to give a variety theatre exhibition. Still, in that 
 same camp was congregated more diversified talent, than I 
 have met at one time before or since in the woods. I sincerely 
 regret that I have forgotten the foreman's name, but he gave 
 me a right royal welcome, which same was well supported by 
 every man in camp. 
 
 Among these latter were several good musicians, song and 
 dance men, and general utility actors, all from St. Clair, Mich. 
 A few of these names still remain in my memory as follows: 
 James and John Adamson, James Beatie, Joseph Edmunds, 
 Thomas Marrion, William McCollum and Marion Batsford. 
 
 After supper the fun began, and a regular Vaudeville pro- 
 gram was presented, which lasted well on to twelve o'clock, 
 and I have frequently paid a dollar for far less enjoyment than 
 
OR, LIFE IN A LUMBER CAMP. 55 
 
 I had that evening. There were songs, serious and comic, and 
 dances from all nations. The "Mulligan Guards" was given, 
 represented by twenty-four men, armed with pevey stocks, who 
 went through the manual of arms with perfect precision and 
 burlesque speeches, on leading topics. One bright "shanty 
 boy" gave several excellent representations of prominent actors, 
 and all concluding with a grand plantation finale. I don't 
 believe I ever laughed so in my life, and more particularly at 
 the ingenuousness manifested in adapting any and everything 
 in the way of costuming to fit the part. 
 
 Let me therefore give the reader an idea of a Saturday night 
 in camp — not especially the one above mentioned, but simply 
 an ideal picture, which will be instantly recognized by any one 
 who has ever lived in the woods. 
 
 Supper, is over and the spirit of lazy abandonment and to- 
 bacco takes possession of the "bunk room," till the teamsters 
 have returned from the work of attending to their horses and 
 oxen. Then the fun begins, usually with a game of "hot 
 back," in which one man bends over with his face hidden in a 
 cap, and the rest all gather about him and strike, one at a time 
 with all the possible force of the open hand upon the bosom 
 of the victim's pants. If he can guess who struck the blow, 
 the party thus caught has to bend over and take his place. 
 The game is a rough one, but seldom or never creates any 
 trouble, while affording lots of fun. "Shuffle the brogue" is an 
 old Irish game, well known as "hunt the slipper," and is very 
 popular in camp. But the camp fiddler begins to tune up, 
 which is a signal for a "stag dance." The "ladies," represented 
 by robust shanty boys, tie a handkerchief about their arm and 
 off they all go in a well danced set of cotillions, with a zest 
 and gusto indicative of the power music can put into lively 
 heels. It is a bitter cold night outside, with a howling storm 
 beating upon the bunk camp. But within all is warmth, com- 
 fort and merriment. Imagine a log building 60x40 feet in size. 
 Around three sides are tiers of bunks for eighty men. A gigan- 
 tic five foot stove is filled with Norway pine, and the whole 
 building is perspiringly hot. On poles, strung around the 
 
56 THE SHANTY BOY, 
 
 stove pipe, is hung the wet clothing of the past day. Bunches of 
 socks, strings of boots and shoe-pacs hang pendant in all direc- 
 tions. Up on the rafters are pevey stocks and axe handles 
 seasoning. Two smoky lamps cast a sickly glare upon the 
 scene. Around the room, close to the bunks, runs one contin- 
 uous log bench, filled with men of nearly all nationalities. 
 Almost every man is smoking malodorous nigger head tobacco, 
 which mingles with a thousand other odors. At one end is 
 placed the "orchestra," usually a violin and possibly a mouth 
 organ. The playing is meritorious more for zeal than skill, 
 but is cheerfully given, till all who want to dance have had 
 full satisfaction. Finally, order arises slowly from chaos, and 
 some one shouts : 
 
 "Silence for a song !" 
 
 The physical action now gives place to the mental, and 
 Terpsichore subsides and Calliope reigns. The camp usually 
 has a number of good singers, and to-night there is to be a 
 "singing match" of one side of the "bunk camp" against the 
 other. This is preceded by a few solos by the favorites rendering 
 special songs called for. 
 
 "I move Dan McGinnis gives us the Flower of Kildare !" 
 The motion is vociferously applauded, and good naturedly 
 
 complying a fine young Irishman steps out on the floor and in 
 
 a sweet tenor voice sings : 
 
 I'm thinking of Erin, to-night, 
 
 And the little white cot by the sea, 
 Where Jennie, my darling, now dwells, 
 
 The fairest and dearest to me. 
 I know that she waits for me day after day, 
 
 My heart ever longs to be there, 
 To meet her, my darling, my own, 
 
 Sweet Jennie, the flower of Kildare. 
 
 I know that she's waiting for me, 
 My heart ever longs to be there, 
 
 To meet her, my darling, my own, 
 Sweet Jennie, the flower of Kildare. 
 
OB, LIFE IN A LUMBER CAMP. 57 
 
 I'm waiting her sweet face to see, 
 
 While we're parted, I linger in pain, 
 But soon will my heart beat with joy, 
 
 O'er the sea I'll be sailing again, 
 Again her sweet kisses I hope to receive, 
 
 For her the sea's storms I will dare, 
 To meet her, my darling, my own, 
 
 Sweet Jennie, the flower of Kildare. 
 
 . The song is received with cries of "good boy," "bravo!" and 
 
 a hearty hand clap. Having sung, Mr. McGinnis has the call: 
 
 "Come, Archie McTavish, give us 'Jamie Dear.' " The 
 
 response is the following, mellowed by a clear Scotch accent: 
 
 Such a lad you are for wooing, 
 
 Jamie, Jamie dear, 
 That I'm weary with your sueing, 
 
 Jamie, Jamie dear, 
 Take me darling if you love me. 
 Take me, and may heaven above me 
 Hold me faithful while I'm here, 
 
 Jamie, Jamie dear. 
 Do I love you, ah, you know it, 
 
 Jamie, Jamie dear. 
 For your saucy manners show it, 
 
 Jamie, Jamie dear. 
 You are much too sure you've got me, 
 And its now I've just bethought me, 
 I'll not marry for a year, 
 
 Jamie, Jamie dear. 
 
 Ah ! in fact I've been thinking, 
 
 Jamie, Jamie dear; 
 While I've watched the bright stars winking, 
 
 Jamie, Jamie dear. 
 Mother could not do without me, 
 Father anxious seems about me, 
 I must single stay I fear, 
 
 Jamie, Jamie dear. 
 
 Would you die if I'd forsake you, 
 
 Jamie, Jamie dear; 
 No such fate shall e'er o'ertakc yon, 
 
 Jamie, Jamie dear. 
 For my place is ever nigh you, 
 And I said it but to try you ; 
 Take me, make me thine forever, 
 
 Jamie, Jamie dear. 
 
!58 THE SHANTY BO Y, 
 
 The applause is liberal, and in the interim the violin strikes 
 up unbidden, in that classic known as the "Devil's Dream." 
 For the next half hour the best dancers in the shanty, two 
 and two, exhibit their proficiency in jig and reel steps. Then 
 there is another call for a song, and the foreman being present 
 is warmly solicited for his favorite ; "Biddy siz I'm Daddy of 
 them all." 
 
 * A little song I'll sing to-night, 
 
 If you will lend an ear — 
 As encouragement to shanty boys — 
 
 Their lonely hearts to cheer; 
 Its all about my joys I'll sing, 
 
 With Biddy, my dear wife; 
 The childer that we both have got, 
 
 In the years of married life. 
 
 Chorus — For there's Martin, Tim and Dan — 
 Barnpy, Pat and Sam — 
 Mathew, Mark, Luke, John and Paul; 
 Susanna and Rosanna — 
 Who pound the big piano — 
 And Biddy siz I'm daddy to them all. 
 
 When I first struck a lumber camp, 
 
 Lord boys but I was green, 
 They put me in as "chore boy," 
 
 The shanty to keep clean; 
 To trim the lamps and cut the wood ; 
 
 The stable to attend, 
 Full eighteen hours of solid work, 
 
 Each day I had to spend. 
 
 Chorus — But I've Martin, Tim and Dan, etc. 
 
 Now all you hustling shanty boys, 
 
 A lesson take from me; 
 Work steady in the lumber woods, 
 
 And don't go on a spree. 
 Save up your stake and buy a farm. 
 
 And bring a Biddy in, 
 Then boys like me you soon will see, 
 
 The comfort you will win. 
 
 Chorus— With Martin, Tim and Dan, etc; 
 
 * The chorus to this song I heard in the woods. The rest is original. 
 
OR, LIFE IN A LUMBER CAMP. 59 
 
 The song was received with shouts of approval. 
 
 "Good haul for the push !" 
 
 "More power to ye boss !" 
 
 "Cough it out o' ye ol' man !" 
 
 The self constituted master of ceremonies again made his 
 voice heard, in dividing the camp into two singing sections, 
 ranged opposite each other, and each with a captain. The 
 contention of the woods troubadores consisted of song and 
 dance or solo, as the artist might feel disposed, and was both 
 spirited and rapid. There were no tedious "waits," and as 
 fast as one song was finished another began. The songs were 
 largely of the sentimental character, such as "White Wings," 
 "The Ship that Never Returned," "Call me Back Again," inter- 
 spersed with the serio-comic, such as the following spetimen 
 by Tom Barnet — a fine singer and dancer — entitled the "Hat 
 my Father Wore." 
 
 I'm Paddy Miles, an Irish boy, just come across the sea 
 For singing or for dancing, boys, I think that I'll please ye; 
 I can sing and dance with any man, as I did in the days of yore 
 And on Patrick's day I love to wear the hat me father wore. 
 
 It's old, but it's beautiful — the best you ever seen; 
 'Twas worn for more than ninety years in that little Isle so green, 
 From my father's great ancestors it descended with galore- 
 It's a relic of old dacency, is the hat me father wore. (Dance.) 
 
 I bid you all good evening— good luck to you I say; 
 And when I cross the ocean. I hope for me you'll pray; 
 I'm going to my happy land, in a place called Ballymore, 
 To be welcomed back to Paddy's with the hat me father wore. 
 
 It's old, but it's beautiful, etc. (Dance.) 
 
 And when I do return again, the boys and girls to see, 
 I hope that with old Erin's style, you'll kindly welcome, me 
 With the songs of dear old Ireland, to cheer me more and more, 
 And make me Irish heart feel glad, with the hat me father wore. 
 
 It's old, but it's beautiful, etc. (Dance.) 
 
 The mirth and fun grew fast and furious in which young and 
 old took equal part. Old Dan— the father of the camp — in a 
 
60 THE SHANTY BO T, 
 
 cracked baritone voice, expressed his sentiments as follows, 
 which if not sweetly sung, was certainly good advice in telling 
 the boys their duty : 
 
 Pleasant memory brings to mind 
 
 Many years ago, 
 Mother's voice so very kind, 
 
 Gentle, soft and low. 
 Nothing evermore can be 
 
 Dearer than her words to me, 
 As I sat upon her knee 
 
 Many years ago. 
 
 Always do your duty, boy, never go astray, 
 Life is one great battle, boy, fight it as you may, 
 Keep the right on your side wherever you may be. 
 Always do your duty, boy, were mother's words to me. * 
 
 As I struggle on through life, 
 
 All the skies seem clear, 
 Pushing forward in the strife, 
 
 Nothing can I fear; 
 Though I sail the boundless main 
 Nothing seems to me in vain; 
 Comes to me the old refrain, 
 
 Mother's voice I hear. 
 
 Chorus — Always do your duty, boy, etc. 
 
 Earthly treasures all are naught 
 
 If you go astray, 
 Better lesson ne'er was taught, 
 
 Heed it as you may; 
 Though the words are very few, 
 They will profit bring to you, 
 Test them all your journey through. 
 
 Evermore I pray. 
 
 "Boys," cried the camp filer, "is anything original allowed 
 here to-night ?" 
 
 •Thwat the divil's that?" 
 
 "Why a song I made myself." 
 
 "Well, dot must be von goot one,- if he make him like he 
 file saw," remarked a Swede, sotto voice. 
 
 ■'Fire away, chummy," cries the musical director. 
 
OB, LIFE IN A LUMBER CAMP. 61 
 
 "Its a little song about the saw, and that's the name I've 
 given it." After clearing his throat the filer sung the follow- 
 ing "Song of the Saw," to the tune of the "Brave old Oak :" 
 
 * A song a song for the shanty boy's saw, 
 That pulls with a noisy vim ; 
 Bringing work and wealth to the sons of toil, 
 
 With its busy whir and spin; 
 Though others may sing of the loom or the plow, 
 
 We value them not a straw, 
 For our daily strife in the battle of life, 
 Is fought with the woodsman's saw; 
 
 Is fought with the woodsman's saw. 
 
 It offers no theme for poet's dream, 
 
 Nor love sick tale does it mean; 
 But the shanty boy's saw in the foremost rank 
 
 Of the world's grand march is seen. 
 The forests so brown at its stroke go down, 
 
 And cities spring up where they fell; 
 While work well done and wealth well won, 
 
 Is the story it loves to tell. 
 
 Is the story it loves to tell. 
 
 So a song for the saw the shanty boy's boast — 
 
 Our emblem honest and good — 
 We sing to the din of its crashing spin, 
 
 Our lay as workers in wood; 
 The slave of the lamp, the forge or the mine, 
 
 Must follow where ever we draw; 
 For ours the place to be first in the race, 
 
 That is won by the pull of the saw; 
 
 That; is won by the whirl of the saw. 
 
 "Bully song and well sung," was shouted, while the stamp- 
 ing and clapping would have done honor to a political meeting.. 
 
 But the song par excellence that caught the boys was a 
 highly colored love ditty, by one of the teamsters, entitled 
 "Bung yer eye!" The whole camp, with a yell, joined in the 
 expressive chorus, forming the caption to the song. 
 
 * I am a jolly shanty boy, 
 
 As you will soon discover: 
 To all the dodges I am fly; 
 
 A hustling pine woods rover. 
 A pevey hook it is my pride; 
 
62 THE SHANTY BOY, 
 
 An axe I well can handle; 
 To fell a tree or punch a bull, 
 Get rattling Danny Randall. 
 
 Chobus— Bung yer eye, bung yer eye! 
 
 1 love a girl in Saginaw, 
 
 She lives with her mother; 
 I defy all Michigan 
 
 To find such another, 
 She's tall and fat her hair is red; 
 
 Her face is plump and pretty; 
 She's my daisy, Sunday best day girl, 
 
 Her front name stands for Kittey, 
 Bung yer eye bung yer eye. 
 
 I took her to a dance one night — 
 
 A "moss back" gave the bidding — 
 "Silver Jack" bossed the shebang, 
 
 And Big Dan played the fiddle. 
 We danced and drank the livelong night — 
 
 With fights between the dancing — 
 Till "Silver Jack" cleaned out the ranch, 
 
 And sent the mossbacks prancing, 
 Bung yer eye, bung yer eye! 
 
 This winter in the woods, my boys. 
 
 Will be the last for Danny, 
 I'll build a log house with my "stake," 
 
 And buy a grand piano. 
 My Kit will sing and play all day, 
 
 And I'll rock the baby; 
 I'll always be a shanty boy, 
 
 But Kit will be a lady. 
 
 Bung yer eye, bung yer eye. 
 
 The song brought great applause, and gave several points in 
 favor of the sicL the teamster was upon. But the opposition 
 also trotted, out something original, from the big fat black- 
 smith, who after considerable solicitation consented to sing his 
 song : "The Darling Old Stags" — stags let me say are the camp 
 name for old shoes, made from worn out driving boots, and 
 used as slippers in the bunk camp. As genius is proverbially 
 modest, I give the elegant production as sung by the camp 
 "Tubal Cain," in its entirety. 
 
OR, LIFE ffl A LUMBER CAMP. 68 
 
 * You may sing of your rose covered bowers; 
 
 You may rave of your hills and yourvales; 
 You may talk about sweet scented flowers, 
 
 Or tempt with Arabian night tales; 
 All are feeble and weak to my song; 
 
 All are only tatters and rags; 
 I've a theme that clings to me strong, 
 
 Tis this dear pair of old leather "stags." 
 
 When my day of hard labor is done, 
 
 And my supper is stowed 'neath my belt; 
 When the ''bunk camp" is brimming with fun, 
 
 And the fire in the stove would you melt; 
 
 its then with my pipe smoking free, 
 I list to the shanty boys' gags; 
 
 1 join in the frolic and glee, 
 
 With my hoofs in my darling old "stags." 
 
 These "stags" they were once long top boots — 
 
 The tops I cut off long ago — 
 There's nothing now left but the roots, 
 
 Still they're handy to wear or to throw, 
 At some shanty boy snoring in bed, 
 
 Or a watch peddling son of a — vag; 
 I can shy them so neat at a head 
 
 For convenient at times is a "stag." 
 
 This brought down the house and made the honors even. 
 The immense size of the "bunk camp," enabled little groups 
 to congregate here send there by themselves. Especially did 
 the non-English spaaking part gather to talk of home and 
 friends far away. One young Swede, whose English consisted 
 wholly in the simple affirmative, "yes, O yes," and which he 
 used to every interrogation, is beheld seated between two mis- 
 chevious young lads, who are plying him with questions, such 
 as the following : 
 
 "Wasn't your father hung in the old country for sheep 
 stealing, Ole?" 
 
 "Yes, O yes !" with a lamb like smile. 
 
 "And your mother was burned for a witch?" 
 
 "Yes, O yes !" 
 
 "You're a poor, lousey, miserable cuss, ain't you?" 
 
 "Yes, O yes !" with a courteous bow. 
 
U THE SHANTY BO Y, 
 
 "Steal socks, don't you?" 
 
 "Yes, yes !" emphatically nodding his head. 
 
 "Your father refused to marry your mother?" 
 
 "Yes, O yes!" very earnestly emphasized. 
 
 And so this interesting dialogue keeps on interminably, the 
 fun being in the poor Swede's reply in the affirmative to the 
 most horrible charges, in the questioning. 
 
 But the night is fast wearing away. Numbers of the tired 
 men have turned in, but still enough remain to keep the fun 
 going, and a series of story telling is introduced, which serves 
 to vary the monotony, or rather sameness of the program. 
 Still, we would rather be excused from reproducing the narra- 
 tions as told, although from the shouts of laughter with which 
 they are received, evidently in full harmony with the spirit of 
 Saturday night in camp, being of the very "low necked" 
 variety. But a favorite camp song has yet to be sung, and the 
 scaler is called upon to wind up the evening's performance. 
 Every camp crew loves the songs of home. Few of them but 
 who have the lonesome hour, in thinking of the friends far 
 away, and "The Old Log Cabin," "Home, Sweet Home," "My 
 Mother's Grave," "The Ship that Never Eeturned," "White 
 Wings," and all that class of sentiment, find ready hearers with 
 the shanty boys. 
 
 The rich voices of a full quartette are now heard joining in 
 the following well known song, which as sung brings the sigh 
 and the tear from more than one heart or eye. As this is pre- 
 sumed to wind up the evening's performance, so with it we will 
 finish this chapter, as a fitting conclusion to Saturday night in 
 camp. 
 
 Some day I'll wander back again, 
 
 To where the old home stands, 
 Beneath the old tree down the lane, 
 
 Afar in other lands. 
 Its humble cot will shelter me 
 
 From every care and pain, 
 And life be sweet as sweet can be, 
 
 "When I am home again. 
 
OR, LIFE IN A LUMBER CAMP. 65 
 
 CnoRua — I'll wander back, yes back again, 
 
 Where childhood's home may be; 
 For memory in sweet refrain, 
 Still sings its praise to me 
 
 Some day I'll wander back again, 
 
 To scenes so dear to me, 
 Where life's sweet infancie's refrain. 
 
 Beside a mother's knee; 
 To live once more the golden hour 
 
 Of joyous, merry play, 
 No thorns, but only sweetest flowers, 
 
 There in life's merry way. 
 
 Some day I'll wander back again, 
 
 To hearts so kind and true, 
 Whose gentle faces still remain, 
 
 In mem'rie's cherished view. 
 No more my wayward feet shall roam, 
 
 Life's troubled pathway o'er, 
 But in the life and love of home, 
 
 I'll rest me evermore. 
 
THE SHANTY BO T, 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 Some Improvements in Lumbering Methods — The Outcome op Exper- 
 ience — How the War on Kino Pine is Fought — Clearing Lumber- 
 ing Rivers— A Chapter Devoted Exclusively to Work. 
 
 The forests so brown at our stroke go down, 
 
 And cities spring up where they fell; 
 While work well done and wealth well won, 
 
 Is the story the shanty boys tell. 
 
 The last chapter closed with a Saturday night in camp, and 
 the presumption now is that Sunday has passed and the work 
 day week has begun. It will therefore be in order to show 
 some of the methods used in lumbering, together with the 
 great improvements in instrumentalities used in the past ten 
 or twenty years, in the pine woods of Michigan and "Wisconsin. 
 This chapter is written from personal observation of the author, 
 during ten years close association with lumbering interests, 
 both as a writer on a lumber journal and through actual* 
 experience in the woods. 
 
 For thousands of years man has fought the battle of "king 
 log," with but trifling variations in methods, from the time of 
 Solomon, Hiram & Co., who lumbered extensively in the cedar 
 forests of Lebanon, and rafted their timber along the Med- 
 iterranean coast to Joppa — till within the past twenty-five 
 years. The only method was to hack down the tree as best 
 they might, and drag the trunk to the nearest water to float it to 
 its destination. These methods were as rude as was the labor 
 of the men engaged therein. The axe, from time immemorial 
 in various forms, was the primary tool, the inclined plane, the 
 lever and the rude shaped two-wheeled truck, the only mechan- 
 
OB, LIFE IN A LUMBER CAMP. 67 
 
 ical forces known among the ancients, as we gather from mon- 
 umental delineations. The patient ox, goaded on to continu- 
 ance of toil, was the only assistance man had in the removal 
 of the timber from its native forests. And still these ancients 
 have left us, in the imperishable relics of their architectural 
 skill, lessons in stone of what man's persistency and industry 
 could do. But little improvement in the work of getting lum- 
 ber from the native tree can be traced in all the centuries of 
 the past, apart from those above stated, and it has fallen to 
 the lot of the American woodsman in innumerable instances 
 to make of necessity the mother of so many improved tools, 
 methods and means for simplifying and facilitating the success 
 of woodcraft, that to-day, when compared with the past, the 
 work of the woodsman has been totally revolutionized and 
 reduced to a system, indicating the full union of enterprise and 
 intelligence. It would be beyond the scope of this article to 
 dwell upon the details of these improvements. They may be 
 all summed up, in brief, by saying that the axe, the saw, pike- 
 lever, pevey-hook, skidding tongs, binding, skidding and load- 
 ing chain, truck, sled, dray, etc., have all in severalty been sub- 
 ject to the "evolution theory" and have come down to us to-day 
 in their humble uses, as perfect as is the human embodiment 
 of nineteenth century intelligence, who uses each and all, in 
 the primary production of lumber. 
 
 But improvement in lumbering facilitaties had taken a radi- 
 cal change when the steam logging road was first introduced. 
 Lumbering methods of the past disappeared with as rapid an 
 exit as did the stylus and tablets when Faust gave the world 
 the printing press, and to-day it is safe to conclude that im- 
 provements in methods for rapid lumbering have reached the 
 acme, and can go no farther. It must be fully thirty years 
 since the first tram road was used in Michigan. How long 
 previous to that it was in use in the New England lumbering 
 states, the writer ddes not know. Its use was the hauling for 
 comparatively short distances of logs from the skids to the 
 banking ground, but as at that date "summer lumbering" was 
 an unheard of thing, the "tram road" was but a hint of what 
 
68 THE SHANTY nOY, 
 
 was to come in a near subsequently. But weak and feeble as 
 was the hint thus conveyed, it served to raise the question 
 more fully to the surface, "Why cannot lumbering be done as 
 well in summer as winter ?" Then came the "pole road" and 
 the revolution rolled still nearer to its goal. Lumbermen at 
 once saw the possibilities in the case, and twenty years ago 
 every foundry in Michigan and Wisconsin was run to its utmost 
 capacity to furnish "sheave wheels" for the "pole roads." For 
 a season they served the purpose well, till the long, slim Nor- 
 ways, forming the track, began to wear out, and soon the woods 
 were filled with broken trucks and wheels. Something better 
 must be had. The idea that logs could be banked by rail was 
 now fully established, and all that was wanted was a better 
 substitute for a track and horse power. This thought, demand- 
 ing a reply, evolved from its immediate want the present sys- 
 tem of iron track and steam locomotion. It is a pity that the 
 name of the man who first introduced the steam road in the 
 lumber woods, is fast being lost in obscurity. The writer does 
 not know him, and can only state that about 1874 Scott Ger- 
 rish, an enterprising Michigan lumberman, first introduced a 
 steam railway system in Clare county. The success attendant 
 upon Mr. Gerrish's work that season, started others in 
 the same direction, and within the '70's the shriek of the loco- 
 motive was heard in several Michigan lumbering centers. In 
 this connection must be mentioned the name of Thomas Nea- 
 ter, formerly of East Saginaw, now of Baraga, Mich., who had 
 a large tract of pine in Gladstone, Roscommon and Ogemaw 
 counties, Mich., and who equipped his road thoroughly, and 
 "toted" a large locomotive twenty miles to work upon it. Then 
 followed Thomas Lyous, R. G. Peters, Canfield <fe Company, 
 Blodgett & Byrne, Alger, Smith & Company, and since then 
 the man lumbering a large tract of pine, cuts the railroad 
 track before he cuts the tree. 
 
 Of course, in all the above there is material enough to form 
 the basis for twenty chapters such as this. It is very easy to 
 jump from inception to conclusion, but the reader may rest 
 assured that such satisfactory conclusions were not reached 
 
OR, LIFE IJSTA LUMBER CAMP. 69 
 
 without many disheartening failures. Days of toil were fol- 
 lowed by sleepless nights of intense thought. Hard-gathered 
 wealth was lavishly expended, with but a problematical promise 
 of return. More than one man went down in this revolution 
 in which "king pine" was assailed by "king steam," and sick- 
 ened hearts grew faint, over hopes deferred. But the conclu- 
 sion is to-day, in the full flush of its triumph, and as the self- 
 binding reaper lays low the vast field of grain, so the locomo- 
 tive is sweeping through our pineries as the representative for 
 a new system of lumbering, before which all previous methods 
 are as relics of the forever past. With the introduction of the 
 locomotive came its cojoiner, the steam "skidder" and "loader." 
 It would be difficult to describe to the general reader these 
 machines — or rather compound machines — without drawings. 
 Their utility is still largely questioned by experienced lumber- 
 men, and they have not yet come into universal use. The first 
 one the writer saw was in 1883, on the Lyons Lumber Com- 
 pany road, Michigan. It was loading cars, and placed the 
 double pile of logs on the regulation platform car in ten min- 
 utes. It was fed by twelve "big wheeled" trucks, hauling half- 
 mile distance, and they certainly had all they could do to keep 
 it supplied. Over a high derrick ran a wire rope, wound on a 
 barrel by steam power. To the other end of the rope was at- 
 tached large skidding tongs by which the log was grasped in 
 the center and like a flash was hoisted and swung to its place 
 on the car. As a "skidder" its work extended in a radius of 
 about sixty rods, and simply dragged the log to the "roll-way" 
 by the tongs. E. G. Peters, of Manistee, has his skidder 
 attached to trees left standing for that purpose, and the log 
 is picked bodily up and carried by a traveling sheave along 
 the stationary rope. The J. E. Potts Co., of Oscoda, has still an 
 entirely different one, very massive and strong, which does excel- 
 lent work in both "skidding" and loading. This is made in 
 the form of a vast locomotive and is on wheels, by which it is 
 self-transporting. 
 
 To conclude: By even the above cursory glance the improve- 
 ments in the lumbering of the present day far transcend those 
 
70 THE SHANTY HOT, 
 
 of the past. With less horse or human power greater results 
 are attained. Think of the J. E. Potts Salt and Lumber Com- 
 pany, on Au Sable river, Michigan, putting in 100,000,000 of 
 feet this present 1887-8 ! Their force was about 450 men, eighty 
 teams, seven locomotives and thirty-two miles of road. They 
 have still 500,000,000 to lumber in Michigan, and a large tract 
 of pine in Wisconsin. Alger, Smith & Company have put in 
 eighty millions, and with still less animated help than that of 
 J. E. Potts. The writer might mention very many others who 
 have fully revolutionized the old systems, and are now pres- 
 sing rapidly to a final conclusion, but space forbids. It must 
 not be imagined, however, that all the former methods have 
 passed away. The old style camp still continues, and the 
 "dray haul" and "log road" will never go out of place or pur- 
 pose. These latter are the infantry while the steam is the 
 artillery in the great battle of the saw-log. Still, the improve- 
 ment in tools, etc., as used in the regular old-fashioned lumber 
 camp, is very perceptible. As the shanty boy says: "We are 
 getting thar with both feet," and it is but a question of limited 
 time before the battle will have concluded, and "king pine" in 
 Michigan and Wisconsin will sleep the sleep that knows no 
 waking. 
 
 But although the revolution, as above presented, has wrought 
 wonders and become largely universal, where strong companies 
 are operating, it must not be supposed that the old methods 
 for lumbering have passed away. On the contrary, we have 
 still the man of six millions and the "jobber" of two. We can 
 still find the "dray haul" and "ice road" camps in profusion, 
 scattered along the branches and tributary streams, where the 
 iron horse could never come, and the good, old-fashioned 
 methods, in vogue thirty years ago. are to-day fighting the 
 "battle of the saw-log" just as assiduously and successfully as 
 they ever did. But even with the old-fashioned methods, ex- 
 perience and inventive genius have succeeded in arresting at- 
 tention, and substituting improvements in many ways, the dis- 
 tinctive features of which will be the purpose of this second 
 paper to point out and describe. Among the improvements 
 
OB, LIFE IN A LUMBER CAMP. 71 
 
 which may be mentioned generally, as characterizing the con- 
 dition of the present lumber camps, in contradistinction to 
 those of twenty years ago, is more comfort, better food and 
 bedding, warmer and more appropriate clothing for the men 
 and better accommodations and food for horses. Of the latter 
 it may be stated that the best horses obtainable are now used. 
 Twenty years ago any old "plug" was considered good enough 
 for the woods, but now the team called for is usually valued at 
 $500 without the harness. The author was visiting some camps 
 recently on the Tehquamenon river, Lake Superior, and the 
 evening he was in Hall & Buell's camp a team fell through the 
 ice and was drowned within ten minutes, valued at $650. This 
 is the kind of horse in value now used to haul saw-logs. 
 
 The first great mechanical improvement noticeable is the 
 "sprinkler," used for making the "log road." This is simply a 
 square strongly-built tank, holding as high as one hundred 
 barrels of water, placed upon a pair of sleds, with a tongue at 
 both ends, to save turning it around. It is generally built as 
 wide as the log road, or rather the width of the log sled, which 
 has from eleven to fourteen feet "bunks." From two holes, 
 the water escapes, striking directly upon the runner track, and 
 with the mercury 20 degrees below the water freezes almost 
 instantaneously on reaching the road. The work of the 
 "sprinkler" is always at night, so as not to interfere with the 
 teams hauling by day. It is filled by a barrel having a trap 
 door on the inside of the bottom. This is slid down diagon- 
 ally on a pair of skids into the water hole (usually by the side 
 of the road) and the water presses the trap open, tilling the 
 barrel. This is drawn up by a winch on top of the sprinkler, 
 the weight of the water closing the trap inside the barrel. With 
 this apparatus a ridge of ice can be built up during the season 
 which remains the last thing to thaw out in the spring. These 
 log roads are scraped level, and where the sled runners rest 
 gutters are cut for them to run in, which keeps the immense 
 lbad of logs from swaying, and being generally graded with a 
 slight declivity to the banking ground, the horses have little 
 more to do than to keep a gentle pull on the traces. The 
 
72 THE SHANTY BOY, 
 
 great snows of the lumber regions are a great hindrance to the 
 lumberman. At this writing over three feet of snow on the 
 level rests on the lumber country of the upper peninsula, and, 
 strange to say,, the ground is not frozen an inch deep beneath 
 it, which will be easily understood. * 
 
 Next, therefore, to the sprinkler comes the snow plow, with- 
 out which hauling would be at times impossible. The old 
 triangular machine, with four teams of horses or oxen wallow- 
 ing before it through the drifts, has largely passed away, and 
 intelligently built snow plows have taken its place. These 
 are constructed on the same principle as the railroad snow 
 plow, only, of course, drawn instead of being pushed. There 
 are several of these snow plows manufactured, but among the 
 best is one made at Duncan City, Mich., known as the "Brazel," 
 of which over 800 are now in use, giving the best of satisfac- 
 tion. By the means of large mould-boards, the snow is thrown 
 over the outside of the road, while a scraper in the center of 
 the machine — gauged by screws — levels the road from side to 
 side. This machine may be considered far in advance of any- 
 thing of the kind ever before used for the same purpose, and 
 has added greatly to the possibility of lumbering advanta- 
 geously. 
 
 Perhaps in the small but essential matter of the pevey hook, 
 no one lumbering tool has undergone more frequent metamor- 
 phoses to finally result in the handsome, article U3ed to-day. 
 The old style of a hook attached to a ring on the stock, or the 
 hook with three holes in it, passed through a square mortise 
 in the stock, through which a bolt was passed, have all been 
 relegated to the ship yards from whence they were brought. 
 The pevey hook of to-day is a thing of beauty, and to handle 
 a hook properly in the woods is a highly important branch of 
 the shanty boy's business. The stock is made of the best sea- 
 soned rock maple, artistically shaped. The hook is of the 
 finest bar steel, with a keen barb-shaped point, and held by a 
 clip binding the stock, in a square socket of which the hook 
 
 ♦January 1888. 
 
OS, LIFE IN, A LUMBER CAMP. 78 
 
 plays freely. All are made of the best material, as a man's 
 life frequently depends upon the goodness and strength of his 
 pevey hook. 
 
 Next comes the "tongs." The "skidding tongs" has almost 
 altogether superseded the old "swamphook." Twenty years 
 ago the "swamper" drove a heavy hook into the top of a log, 
 and to this was attached the chain. With much pulling, 
 swearing and unnecessary labor of man and team, the log was 
 "snaked" to the "dray" or "skid." The tongs of to-day (shaped 
 like a gigantic ice tongs) catches hold on either side of the log 
 and off it goes. These tongs have also undergone vast im- 
 provements, and are to-day a costly instrument, being made of 
 the best Swede iron or steel. Usually where the haul to the 
 skidway is long, the log is what is termed "rossed," that is, its 
 under side is for half its length denuded of the bark to make 
 it slip easy ; the lower edge of the front end is chamfered so 
 as to gather as few obstacles as possible in dragging it to the 
 skidways. From the time the log is cut till it floats in the 
 stream it is handled four times, viz.: by the "swamper" to the 
 rollway; by the men "decking up ;" by the "loaders," and 
 lastly, by the "bankers" at the banking ground. 
 
 The binding of a load on the sleds has also undergone vast 
 improvements in the past twenty years, although the old 
 "binding pole" is still used. Patent "binders" have largely 
 superseded the old fashioned style, but meet with but moderate 
 favor with the lumbermen, although evidently a vast improve- 
 ment. The saw has within the past decade also jumped into 
 greater prominence than ever, and to-day every camp has its 
 "filer" who is presumed to "fit a saw," on the latest and best 
 improved principle. New style of teeth and cross-cut grinding 
 of blade, makes the cross-cut saw of to-day at least one-half 
 superior in work to the old-time man-killer. 
 
 Taken all together the improvements in lumbering, through 
 every phase of method and tool, have materially changed for 
 the better. This is shown in the cut for the season of 1887, 
 which shows a total for Michigan of 4,162,317,778 feet, an in- 
 crease of 170,200,603 feet over the output of 1886. And still 
 
74 THE SHANTY BOY, 
 
 people say the lumbering of Wisconsin and Michigan will last 
 interminably. The more the surgeon's cutting instruments 
 are improved the quicker comes the leg off; and the more we 
 improve the cutting instruments in the woods the quicker the 
 pine will come down. 
 
 Another feature of lumbering in which laborious toil is de 
 manded, is that of clearing out a forest stream by which thj 
 logs can be got out to the main stream. These branches are 
 of interminable length and tortuous windings, usually running 
 through an almost impenetrable cedar swamp much of the way, 
 and filled with every possible impediment. Usually these 
 branches have to be made navigable by one interested individ- 
 ual. They may be accessible for the driving of the pine for a 
 dozen lumber firms, and it would be naturally considered a 
 mere matter of expediency for all to chip in and help to make 
 the streams equally valuable for all interested. But experience 
 has shown that such is seldom the case, and usually the man 
 who wants his logs out the first, has to set his crew at work to 
 clear the streams. It is a proverbial fact that lumbermen out 
 in the woods are not overly accommodating to each other. 
 When they meet in town, social, yes, and financially cour- 
 tesies, are freely extended to each other, but in the woods 
 there will not be the slightest objection made, on the part of 
 Messrs A., B. or C, to Mr. D. doing work and expending money 
 to prepare a water way, in which all should be equally inter- 
 ested. Consequently the man who wishes to lumber a new 
 piece of pine has usually to do the pioneer work of cleaning 
 the driving streams. This is a work of no little magnitude 
 and must be done in the summer when the water is low. Pos- 
 sibly the creek or branch to be cleaned is six or eight miles 
 long, and rests in all its hidden ugliness where the foot of man 
 has never before trod. The accumulations of centuries, in the 
 form of drift wood and prostrated timber will frequently be 
 found covering the bed of the stream for miles, under which 
 the water, in every erratic form, makes its way to the main 
 stream. All this has to be cleaned away. The swampy 
 grounds through which it runs will not permit the work of 
 
OR, LIFE IN A LUMBER CAMP. 75 
 
 horses and all has to be done by the hand of man. Tree by 
 tree, stick by stick, the obstructions have to be lifted out and 
 so placed or burned that the water will not float them 
 back again. The water must be confined to its natural bed. 
 The shoals in the way must be dug down, so that the stream 
 will cut a channel. Stumps, bedded deep in the mud, have to 
 be grubbed out. Old corduroy bridges must be removed and 
 others substituted under which the logs will float. Dykes and 
 embankments have to be made where the stream seeks to wan- 
 der off into the interminable swamp. Boulders must be rolled 
 out of the stream bed and arching trees have to be cut and 
 dragged inland. 
 
 It is difficult to comprehend the work demanded from these 
 brief outlinings, nor is it possible to form any just estimate of 
 the outlay required, frequently a whole summer is consumed 
 in the work of cleaning out a stream, with a crew of twenty 
 men. This is all "dead horse" to the man who has the work 
 forced upon him, but it must be done or his timber will not 
 come out. Of course this work of rendering navigable the 
 tributary streams and creeks that lie contiguous to the princi- 
 ple lumbering rivers of Wisconsin or Michigan, have been 
 cleaned out long ago, but still the work in new localities has to 
 done to save "long hauls" in the banking season. Hence, 
 every summer clearing water ways is a work constantly de- 
 manded. The profit to the lumbermen is in the "short haul." 
 This has nothing to do with the inter-state law, but has much 
 to do with the law of getting in pine with rapidity. The cry of 
 the ignorant, in regard to the wealth of the lumberman, is the 
 cry of those who have never estimated the cost of lumbering. 
 It is the easiest thing in the world to captiously hurl appro- 
 brium against the "pine kings," and the "lumber barons," but 
 comparatively little is known about the expensive details, rep- 
 resented in a lumber yard representing 30,000,000 in Chicago. 
 It looks awfully simple to get rich in lumbering, but such is 
 not always the case, and the profit margin on a million feet of 
 lumber is so small, that it can easily be absorbed in 
 the unknown labor, distributed in a thousand nameless forms, 
 
76 THE SHANTY BOY, 
 
 out in the pine woods. That of getting timber to the mill is 
 none of the least, and the work above rudely outlined is fre- 
 quently the occasion for a balance on the wrong side of the 
 ledger when the "lumber baron" foots up his season's opera- 
 tions. 
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 The "Battle of the Saw-Log" Viewed prom the Operator's Stand 
 Point— What it Means to Lumber a Piece op Pine— The Logic op 
 the Lumber Camp. 
 
 A song I'll sing to labor's king — 
 
 The hero with the toil grimed brow — 
 Who day by day wins his honest pay, 
 
 By the axe, the saw or the plow. 
 
 In the definition of a logician, "Webster, in the last clause 
 says that "logic is the science of classification, judgment rea- 
 soning and systematic arrangement !" Hence, the logician 
 must be a practical man. "Facts sir, give us facts !" exclaims 
 Mr. Gradgrind, and of all logic requiring thorough basing upon 
 facts, it is the logic of the lumberman. At the first glance it 
 seems easy to get out a lot of saw logs. Argument to show 
 the simplicity of the action is used, much the same as the Irish- 
 man's method for casting a cannon: "Faix sor, it's the aisiest 
 thing in the world sor, to make the cannon. All ye have til do 
 is til make a hole in the ground, and thin pour the meltid 
 oiron 'round it." 
 
OR, LIFE m A LUMBER CAMP. HI 
 
 And so it's a very easy thing to lumber a piece of pine, 
 "going three million to the forty?" Let us see how this is. In 
 the first place, the intended buyer comes in contact with the 
 pine owner. Here his logical powers of persuasion are brought 
 into play, to hold down the price of the "stumpage." The pine 
 being at last purchased, he has to plunge head first into the 
 details of his winter's work. There are horses, harnesses, tin 
 cups and tote wagons, pevey hooks and prunes, chains and 
 chopping axes, beef, biscuit and beans, "van," cook room, and 
 bunk camp supplies, a foreman to get, a crew to hire, and 
 a hundred items more. All these are cold, cast iron facts, 
 without as much sentiment mixed up in them as would wad a 
 gun. He looks with dismay at the "stubs" in his check book 
 and begins to wonder whether "that piece of pine is going to 
 pay." He goes to church, but the preacher fails to interest 
 him. He takes in the theatre or concert, and finds himself 
 wandering through "that piece of pine," and wondering how 
 things are going. Even "the bosom of his family" seems to 
 have lost her grip, and her sweet little attentions are slighted 
 much as were those of "Mrs. Harry Hotspur." 
 
 He's thinking of his timber, and all else is to him vainity and 
 vexation of spirit, till "that piece of pine is lumbered." He 
 robes himself from head to foot in German socks, shoe pacs, 
 Mackinaws and Buffalo coat, and starts for camp. The win- 
 ter's snow, or frost, has for him no terror. The beauty of the 
 woods, clothed in boreal garments, has no effect. The goal 
 of his ambition is to "make camp" that night, and see for him- 
 self how much timber the boys have cut, and what amount will 
 run to uppers, and what to "culls." At last he arrives, cold and 
 hungry, shakes hands with the foreman, gets warm, has his 
 supper, and then sits down in the "van," with his pipe and his 
 foreman, to talk matters over. Yes, they have got considerable 
 timber in, but the extras show up fearfully. There are five 
 sick horses in the stable. The men are kicking like blazes 
 because the cook is "n. g." Stayback & Grunt refused to help 
 make a dam. The blacksmith "went out," and got on a "toot" 
 and hasn't got back yet. The pine on the "s. e. 40" will not 
 
78 THE SHANTY BO T, 
 
 cut within three hundred thousand of the estimate. The sup- 
 plies, ordered two weeks ago, are still on the road. That last 
 box of axes ought to be sent back, not worth a darn. And so 
 the story runs till turning in time, filled with trifles in the way 
 of petty annoyances which aggregate in the whole enough to 
 strain his logical philosophy. And he sits and smokes pipe 
 after pipe of "nigger head" tobacco, almost persuaded that life 
 is not worth living. But such thoughts he knows are mere, 
 sentiment, and his logic is brought to bear on every detail. 
 He looks facts squarely in the face, and as each comes under 
 review, it is disposed of logically, and after a day in camp, he 
 is better satisfied with things in general, and returns home 
 convinced that, unless he has a "streak of bad luck," he will 
 come out all right in the spring. 
 
 But from October to April he has it rough. Every cord is 
 stretched to its utmost tension. The last great strain is in "driv- 
 ing out" his winter's cut, and the pull never lets up, till his 
 bookkeeper hands him the trial balance, showing a good foot- 
 ing on the right side of the ledger. Then, and not till then, 
 does he cease to be a "saw log," and returns to the condition 
 of a man at ease. The church is appreciated; the amusement 
 is enjoyed; the "bosom of the family" is once more his haven 
 of sweet repose, and his children can freely ask him for a 
 "nickle," for "pa's logs are not hung up." Yes, the "logician 
 of the woods" has to evolve from out his logic a special philos- 
 ophy, suitable for any and every occasion calling for it. He 
 has to endure anxious days, followed by sleepless nights. And 
 when he sleeps, visions of countless acres of "tally books" 
 engage his distracted mind in a wild endeavor to "foot" them 
 up, and ascertain how he will come out in the spring. Logician, 
 my masters? I grant ye the fact, for if there be any one life 
 filled with facts and void of fancy, it is the life of a lumber- 
 man. How few realize the character of such a life ! Is it not 
 wonderful that more do not become insane, or sink as slaves to 
 stimulants? The successful lumberman would prove a success 
 in any walk of life, demanding cool calculation and ability to 
 determine and execute. All hail, therefore, to the general 
 
OR. LIFE IN A LUMBER CAMP. 79 
 
 who fights to a successful conclusion the battle of the saw log. 
 He the true logician of the woods. 
 
 But there is still another phase of the above, and that is the 
 unnecessary rivalry found among lumbermen, whose interests 
 are practically the same, but who nevertheless allow a bad 
 spirit of jealousy to come in between them, to the financia. 
 injury of both. It is a little singular that experience will not 
 -teach lumbermen a modicum of common sense in the work 
 of "driving" logs. A man will lay out $10,000 in the work of 
 a winter, and when driving time comes will get into a tangle 
 with his neighbor over some technicality as to "rights" on the 
 "driving" stream, with the result that before the snarl is 
 straightened out the water is down and the season's output is 
 "hung up." The author may be deemed impertinent in allud- 
 ing to this, but as he is "in the swim" with the lumbermen of 
 the country, so far as mutual interests are concerned, it is fully 
 his place to say, that all such foolishness is a very expensive 
 method in procuring knowledge and experience, to be forgot- 
 ten when another season comes around. We are prompted to 
 speak of this silly mode of action by the result attained in a 
 late quarrel between a Saginaw and a Detroit lumberman, by 
 which 20,000,000 logs were hung up for the season on the 
 Chippewa river, Mich. The author has jiothing to say as to 
 who was right or who was wrong, but the results are wide 
 spread in the loss sustained, and it is too bad that the private 
 differences of two otherwise estimable gentlemen should entail 
 such dire consequences upon the lumber world at large. It is 
 not with the intention of criticising that this chapter appears, 
 but to simply show 1 that the policy must be reversed. First 
 get the logs out and let the quarrel come — if come it must — 
 afterwards. 
 
 There is one person in a lumber camp that seldom or ever 
 receives any public recognition, and one who has as much, if 
 not more, responsibility resting upon him than any other man 
 in camp. We refer to the scaler. You see him on a frosty, 
 stormy morning standing at the banking ground, and again at 
 "dusky" eve, he faithfully puts in an appearance. Sometimes 
 
80 THE SHANTY BOY, 
 
 he is on duty at the midnight hour, "when churchyards yawn 
 and good men sleep," before him spread a tally book bristling 
 with figures, over which he bends and strives to add correctly. 
 I have seen him on the holy Sabbath, toting up the "van" book 
 and seeking to serve his earthly master far better than his 
 heavenly. No hack or dray horse is more knocked about than 
 the scaler. Usually he is an educated gentleman, but the life 
 in the woods has knocked the last remnant of the gilding from 
 off him, and he has grown morose and cranky, but yet no one 
 man has more depending upon him. The result of the season's 
 work may all be on the left hand side of the ledger if he neg- 
 lects his duty. He is his own boss and there is no one to 
 challenge his figures. Did you ever think of this, sir, when 
 you were engaging a scaler ? Possibly not, and yet let me 
 whisper to you : The scaler holds your purse strings. 
 
OR, LIFE IN A LUMBER GAMP. 81 
 
 CHAPTER XI. 
 
 The Story of Jack Smith — How a Shanty Boy went to East Saginaw 
 and Got on a Roaking Toot — The Long Sleep He Had and What 
 He Saw when He Awoke — East Saginaw in the Yeab A. D. 1988 — 
 The Great Prize Lie of Michigan Here Given for the First 
 Time. 
 
 "Some books are lies from end to end, 
 And some great lies are never penned; 
 Even ministers they have been ken'icd, 
 
 In holy rapture — 
 A thumping lie to from them send, 
 
 And nail't with scripture.'' 
 But the story that I'm going to tell — 
 Which on a certain night befel — 
 Is just as true as the dee'ls in h — 11, 
 
 Or Dublin city. 
 
 Jack Smith was a genuine shanty boy. That is, he whacked 
 down the pine trees all winter, and then all summer he rafted 
 them on the raging Saginaw — provided he didn't lay off for an 
 occasional "toot," which to tell the absolute, bald-headed 
 truth, he occasionally did. 
 
 This we say was Jack's occupation, from year to year. He 
 earned his money by hard knocks, and when he reached town, 
 he let it run like water from a hydrant, when the plug is out. 
 
 Some time ago — how long we care not to tell — Jack drew 
 his "stake," and made for East Saginaw, where, with over a 
 hundred dollars in his inside pocket, he went on a "loose." 
 Days went and came again, but brought no let up for Jack. 
 He was thoroughly impartial in his saloon patronage, and went 
 the rounds, with the regularity of Little Jake's clock, or an hos- 
 
82 THE SHANTY- BOY, 
 
 pital agent. This he kept up on an average of about forty 
 drinks per day, with but very little eating or sleeping. And so 
 the "toot" lasted for fully ten days, during which time Jack 
 had licked seven men and two women, and got licked himself 
 three times, till he found his money was gone, and so was his 
 credit. His board bill was also run up to such a figure, that 
 one night, about ten o'clock, the boarding housekeeper "fired" 
 Jack out into the street, minus his coat and "turkey," and very 
 full of Saginaw "red eye." 
 
 Jack leaned up against a lamp post, on Washington avenue, 
 and ruminated. The world had gone back on him bad ! 
 Whisky and cigars had lost their luscious taste to him. Put- 
 ting a "head" on a man had become monotonous, and in short 
 Jack was played out body and soul, and was far on the way to 
 a place where he had a generous habit of repeatedly inviting 
 every one else to go. 
 
 About twelve o'clock that same night, Jack was seated upon 
 a dry goods box. It could not be inferred that Jack was think- 
 ing, he seldom or ever thought, but he was silently musing 
 upon the fact that he was sleepy and had no place to sleep. 
 If he took a snooze where he was, he would wake up in the 
 "coop," and that he didn't want. Finally he strayed down to 
 a vacant lot, south of Hoyt street, and crawling into an old 
 sugar barrel, Jack fell fast asleep. 
 
 The last drink Jack Smith had taken, must have been from 
 Rip Van Winkle's bottle, as his sleep was both long and dream- 
 less. Days, months and years passed away and still Jack 
 slept. Winter laid his frosts and snows over that old barrel, 
 containing Jack, and still he slept. Summer beheld the growth 
 of the luxurious sunflower, and the fragrant "dog tansy," be- 
 side that old barrel, containing Jack. Soil accumulated, and 
 rose many feet above Jack, and his barrel, and still he slept. 
 Blocks of buildings arose, elevators and store houses were 
 erected, and Hoyt street was one solid mass of business houses. 
 East Saginaw had increased its influence, wealth and popula- 
 tion ten thousand fold, since the night that Jack crawled into 
 the empty barrel. Changes both national and local had taken 
 
OR, LIFE IN A LUMBER CAMP. 83 
 
 place. Politics and creeds had lived and died, and the several 
 generations using them had with them lived, flourished and 
 died, and still Jack slept. The busy feet of countless thou- 
 sands had passed and repassed over his resting place, but he 
 heard them not. The old world had emptied its surplus pop- 
 ulation into the new, and still in dreamless slumber Jack 
 rested. 
 
 "The lightnings might flash and the loud thunders rattle; 
 
 He heard not he cared not, unconscious of pain; 
 He had lain down to sleep after emptying his bottle, 
 
 No sound seemed to wake him to fill it again.'-' 
 
 Yes, all unconscious in his barrel, the shanty boy slept. 
 
 Ten times ten New Years days had passed over Jack's rest- 
 ing place, when one morning a wealthy Hoyt street merchant 
 decided to cut a ship canal from the Saginaw river to his rail- 
 road wheat elevators — covering the square bounded by Hay- 
 den and William streets. This gentleman was a descendant 
 of a long line of ancestors, who a century previous had settled 
 in the wilds of Saginaw and was well conversant with the tra- 
 ditional history of the town, famous for salt, saw-dust, "Little 
 Jake," and several other kindred institutions. Accordingly, 
 five hundred men and twenty dredges were set to work to cut 
 this canal, by which free navigation to and from the magnificent 
 Saginaw might be reached. The work proceeded with aston- 
 ishing rapidity, and one day about noon the workmen 
 unearthed a wonderful discovery. The merchant was person- 
 ally supervising the work of an enormous dredge, which had 
 already cut a channel thirty feet below the street surface, when 
 what was the gentleman's astonishment to see, seated on top 
 of a great scoop full of muck, a strange looking creature, 
 dressed in a red woolen shirt, pants vamped fore and aft with 
 canvass, spike soled boots, strapped at the knee, and a red 
 sash around his waist. It was Jack Smith and the balance of 
 the old barrel, that had thus been so unceremoniously scooped 
 up, and again given to the light of day. 
 
 As may be presumed Jack, after scraping the mud out of his 
 
84 THE SHANTY BOY, 
 
 eyes, looked about him very much astonished. 
 
 So were the laborers. All work was stopped, and the news 
 of the finding of this wonderful antique, spread through the 
 city with lightning like rapidity. All business was suspended. 
 The alarm bells rang, the whistles blew, the Rifles were ordered 
 out, and the police grasped their batons. The hose carts took 
 suction, as also did every old bum in town, within reach of a 
 bottle. It was a fearful time, filled with measureless anxiety, 
 for no one knew exactly what the matter was. 
 
 Meanwhile Jack sat on the bank stupidly staring at the fast 
 gathering multitude, till the astonished merchant, approaching 
 him with awe and timidity, inquired: 
 
 "Strange visitant of these earthly scenes, whence art thou, 
 and by what name shall mortals know thee ?" 
 
 "I'm Jack Smith, ye can betcher sweet life, ol' pard." 
 
 "But how came you buried thirty feet underground and still 
 you live ?" 
 
 "O, come off! Underground nothin'. I only laid down las' 
 night to have a bit ov a snooze. Whatcher givin' us?" 
 
 "Last night ? Why my friend, we have just dredged you up 
 thirty feet below my warehouse, where you must have been 
 deposited nearly a hundred years ago. You are certainly a 
 rare relic of our ancient and mighty city of Saginaw." 
 
 "0 that's all guff! No more 'n relic 'n you are, chummy I've 
 ben up on the Au Gres all summer workin' for Johnnie Brown 
 a gettin' in six millions o' pine, an' I jes' got on a little 
 "toot" las' week. Ye hear the snort ov my bazoo, don't yer, 
 pard?" 
 
 "There must be certainly something strange about all this," 
 replied the merchant, "ther~ has been no lumbering done in 
 Michigan for over fifty years, and who Johnnie Brown is I 
 cannot tell." 
 
 At this Jack dug a little more of the mud out of his eyes, 
 and began to look around him. Being seated upon the high 
 bank of the canal, he could see that he was in a strange place. 
 On every side of him were immense blocks of buildings, com- 
 prising warehouses and manufactories of all kinds. As far as 
 
OR, LIFE IN A LUMBER CAMP. 85 
 
 his gaze could reach, an unbroken vista of streets met his 
 view. On the side nearest to him rose a forest of masts be- 
 tokening an endless array of shipping, of every description. 
 Spires in all directions showed where innumerable churches 
 pointed skyward, while in the extreme distance the perspective 
 was filled with palatial residences, all giving evidence of Jack's 
 being in some mighty city, very different from the one he had 
 been whooping it up in for the past two weeks. 
 
 "Stranger," asked Jack, "am I in 'East-town,' or drifted 
 down ter Bay City, or — or — or where in h — 11 am I anyhow?" 
 
 "I do not know the names of the places you mention, sir," 
 replied the merchant, "you are in the mighty city of Saginaw, 
 which extends on both sides of its magnificent river, from the 
 source of the same, where the Tittabawassee unites with it, 
 to its mouth, formerly occupied by the city of the Bay, which 
 now forms part of our great municipality." 
 
 "O give us a rest ! Let's go over to 'Gene Draper's an' take 
 a drink." 
 
 "I do not know any person of that name in the city, sir." 
 
 "The h — 11 ye say ! Wal, I'm orful hungry, let's go over to 
 Billie Dobson's an' have a dish of raw." 
 
 "Neither do I know of any such person. Poor fellow, you 
 are terribly astray. But come with me to my office where I 
 can learn further about you. Can you walk a couple of 
 blocks ?" 
 
 "Can I what ? "Walk ? Well pard, I should perpendicu- 
 larize to ejaculate !" 
 
 "Sir?" 
 
 "What?" 
 
 "I hardly comprehend you ?" 
 
 Certain, pard, certain ! Easy ter see ye never war eddicated 
 in the lumber camps. That's the kind of 'chin churnin' we use 
 — high up, toney. Ter sabe ?" 
 
 "Yes — sir ! But please follow me." 
 
 "Get on the tote road pard, an' I'm with yer, 'turkey' an' all, 
 ol' man. Ye can bet I'll find some of them are dives, or my 
 name isn't Jack Smith." 
 
86 TIIPJ SHANTY BOY, 
 
 Jack was rather confounded at the generally mixed up char- 
 acter of things about him, but he straightened himself up with 
 a whoop and a swear, and accompanied by the kind merchant, 
 he made his way through the masses of the people, who gazed 
 at him in speechless, open mouthed astonishment. 
 
 Stepping down from the canal embankment, Jack found 
 himself upon a broad and magnificent street, extending as far 
 as the eye could see in either direction. On each side of the 
 street the buildings were composed of the most elegant cut 
 stone and marble. Plate glass windows reached in massive 
 grandeur the entire hight, from the pavement to the cornice. 
 All along the fronts of the buildings were ranged groups of 
 statuary, representing the most prominent citizens celebrated 
 in the history of Saginaw. These formed a gorgeous show, as 
 they stood, each in the specially dignified attitude he held 
 when formerly leaning overa bar taking a "stand off" drink with 
 a brother official. Jack gazed at these stone effigies of 
 goodness and greatness, in mute admiration. 
 
 The streets were all smoothly paved with white asbestos, 
 upon which thousands of vehicles of all forms and sizes seemed 
 to be rushing hither and thither, but strange to say, without 
 any visible means of propulsion, and all filled with a multitude 
 of busy citizens. Pedestrians filled the pave, where the glass 
 fronted stores showed every variety of rich stuffs and wares, 
 in gold, silver and polished metals, while the sparkle of precious 
 stones lighted up the wondrous sheen of the silks, velvets and 
 costly laces, till the street seemed to be but a succession of 
 palaces, with the price of a kingdom in every window. 
 
 Truly it was a wondrous sight that met Jack's gaze and the 
 impression it created upon him was but faintly expressed in 
 his continuous ejaculation : 
 
 "Well, I'll be d-d!" 
 
 The multitude which followed Jack and the merchant con- 
 tinually increased, till at last the streets were completely 
 blocked, and further progress was impossible. The innumerable 
 vehicles with difficulty made their way, but where a stoppage 
 was forced by the mob of people, the conveyances arose majes- 
 
OR, LIFE IN A LUMBER GAMP. 87 
 
 tically into the air, and floated calmly over Jack's head, till the 
 sky above him was as thickly impacted with aerial carriages of 
 every kind as was the street with pedestrians. 
 
 "I say, mister man, whar's all the hosses in this yer town of 
 yourn ?" asked Jack of the merchant. 
 
 Horses ? O yes, I remember reading in our old histories 
 that equine labor was formerly in use in the propulsion of con- 
 veyances and drawing of what were in ancient days called 
 carts, drays, wagons and carriages, for carrying loads of freight 
 and passengers on these rude things, rolling on wheels. But 
 all this was done away with over sixty years ago, when the 
 great scientist Edison perfected his electric motor, which has 
 entirely superseded steam and animal power." 
 
 Don't use hoss power any more de ye say, pard?" 
 
 "No sir, not for long years. When Professor Keeley per- 
 fected his great secret of lifting ten thousand tons by applying 
 fifteen drops of water to his motor, everything was revolution- 
 ized and all forces now in use are confined to electricity or 
 hydraulic pressure." 
 
 "What ! No st ^am power any more ?" 
 
 "No sir, no more steam for locomotion. It was too slow. 
 Time and space have both been annihilated by our present 
 system, and we rival the swiftest birds with our electropedes 
 and ario-ships." 
 
 "Well by the last year's stump of a pevey stock ! But I 
 can't do this subject justice. I wonder if this is Jack Smith 
 or am I s'm'other feller?" 
 
 "I do not wonder at your amazement, sir, although-tdo pot 
 understand your strange ignorance of very common every day 
 things here with us. But please step into my electropede, and 
 I will take you to my down town office, only fifteen miles from 
 here, just one minute's ride. Step right in and sit down." 
 
 "What, inter that ther' thing like a church organ?" 
 
 "Yes sir, you will find it all right. Sit down on that seat 
 and insert your arms and legs through those straps. I will 
 buckle them tight so you connot slip — So, that's all right." 
 
 Jack did as he was ordered, and found himself in a beautiful 
 
88 THE SHANTY BOY, 
 
 and luxurious machine, formed somewhat like an elevator, 
 elegantly upholstered and finished in rosewood and ebony, and 
 capable of holding four. Putting his legs and arms through 
 the straps as directed, the merchant fastened Jack in. 
 
 "Now sir are you ready ?" 
 
 ■'Well no, pard, let's go out and take a drink. I'm orful 
 dry!" 
 
 "Too late now sir, as we must be at the end of the river in a 
 minute. Hold fast now." 
 
 "Lat'er go Gallagher ! Let'er roll !" 
 
 Touching a little gold knob in the side of the conveyance, a 
 slight hissing sound was heard, and an upward motion felt by 
 Jack, quickly changed to an onward one, and before he could 
 move or catch his breath the motion ceased. 
 
 "Hollo pard, what in thunder's up? Anythin' broke ?" 
 
 "O no sir, we have just arrived at my office at the mouth of 
 the great Saginaw river." 
 
 "O my eye ! We'r at Bay City, are we ? Le's go down to 
 the catacombs at Third street bridge, to Charlie Strassburg's, 
 an' get a drink. Hurrah !" 
 
 "There is no such place as Bay City, Mr. Smith. That was 
 consolidated with the up river cities forty-four years ago. And 
 we have no bridges over our river, we cross through tunnels at 
 the intersection of every street with the river." 
 
 "The h— 11 you say !" 
 
 "There is no h — 11, either, Mr. Smith. That matter was 
 fully abrogated at the world's great convention, some seventy-one 
 years ago, when the religion of science was adopted by the 
 convention, which met in the great city of Mackinaw in 1942." 
 
 "What, Mackinaw up ter the straits ?" 
 
 "Yes sir." 
 
 "Is that a great city ?" 
 
 "Not so large as this, sir. They only claim seven millions. 
 We have thirty-two millions of inhabitants in Saginaw. But 
 Mackinaw is growing, and will soon be a place of great impor- 
 tance when they get their eighth railroad tunnel under the 
 straits completed." 
 
OR, LIFE IN A LUMBER CAMP. 89 
 
 "Holy St. Mackinaw ! Say pard, what year's this ?" 
 
 This, sir, is the year 1988, and the fiftieth year of the Uni- 
 versal American Commonwealth." 
 
 "1988 ? Say, mister, are ye a trying to get tangled up with 
 me in a slight unpleasan'ness as boss liar ?" 
 
 "O not at all, Mr. Smith, but do not stand upon the street 
 talking. This is my office. Please step out of the electropede." 
 
 "All right pard, but here's what gits over me, that since las' 
 night 'bout twelve o'clock, when I went ter sleep in that vacant 
 lot on Hoyt street, which war September 24th, 1888, that its 
 now 1988 — a hundred years ! Sich guff as that makes me 
 tired." 
 
 "it does seem sir, as though the reckoning was astray some- 
 where, but we will try to have an explanation later.,' 
 
 The street on which Jack stood was the conclusion of the 
 one from which he had started with the merchant, and terminated 
 on the beautiful piece of water formerly known in ancient 
 times as Saginaw Bay. A lovely espanade led down to the 
 wharves, in a gentle declivity of about ninety degrees, and all 
 neatly paved with cobble stone, edged with marble curbing. 
 As far as the eye could see the river was closely built up with 
 gigantic warehouses and elevators, while commodious docks, 
 extending on either hand thickly lined with shipping of every 
 conceivable description, from the ponderous hull of the mas- 
 sive ship to the busy little tug. But stranger still, there were 
 but few masts, sails or smoke pipes discernable, although innum- 
 erable flags, pendant from little flag staffs, decorated gaily each 
 vessel. 
 
 "How in all creation does them darned crafts move ?" asked 
 Jack. 
 
 "O, all our lake craft have long ago discarded steam and 
 sails, and are propelled by the same motor that works our 
 hydropedes and electropedes, sir." 
 
 " Well, I'll be eternally flabergasted ! But whar do they all 
 come from?" 
 
 "From all parts of the earth, Mr. Smith. Every nation is 
 here represented in its commerce, even as our great American 
 
90 THE SHANTY BOY, 
 
 nation is formed from a human hash. These vessels come 
 from the ocean direct, as all our inland lakes are now united 
 by canals and deep rivers, thus easily reaching the ancient 
 ocean ports of York and Quebec. These, howevar, that you 
 see here to-day, are grain vessels from the great American 
 capital Chicago. We send our grain from here direct to York 
 and Quebec, by a large pneumatic pipe. The pipe 
 extends under the lakes and over the lands, and is 
 fifteen feet in diameter. The grain is poured in here and by air 
 pressure goes flying through the pipe at the rate of a thousand 
 bushels, a mile per second, till it reaches its destination. We 
 are now having a strong fight with the Chicago shippers to 
 keep them from extending the pipe over the country formerly 
 called Michigan and across Lake Michigan to the capital." 
 "Formerly called Michigan ? Why isn't this Michigan ?" 
 "No sir, nor hasn't been since 1932. The old system of 
 states government was found to be too conflicting and cumber- 
 some, and at the time when Canada and Mexico petitioned to 
 come into what was formerly the United States, the Grand 
 Congress of America, held at Cheboygan in 1931, decided to 
 reorganize the country, and form a new constitution, and so 
 the present Republic of America was created, embracing all 
 lands on the western hemisphere, with the capital at Chicago, 
 a city twice the size of ancient Babylon, sir, and with 137,000,- 
 000 inhabitants." 
 
 "Well, would'ent that ross a man." 
 "Sir ?" 
 
 "I'm saying, wouldn't that jest knock a lung out o' yer !" 
 "I hardly understand your allusion, Mr. Smith." 
 "Well, with all I've seed and hearn, I'm hungry enough to 
 eat a pair o' river boots, spikes an' all, and so dry that I don't 
 know whar I'm goin' ter sleep ter-night. Ken ye understand 
 that, pard?" 
 
 "I beg your pardon, sir, I had forgotten you were a stranger 
 in our city, and both cold and hungry. Step into the elevator, 
 and we'll soon refresh the inner man." 
 
 "Good haul, ol' man ! I'll do it if it pukes me." 
 
OB, LIFE IN A LUMBER CAMP. 91 
 
 Jack and the merchant were in a moment lifted to the thir- 
 teenth story of the magnificent building they had been convers- 
 ing in front of, and entered into the private office of the mer- 
 chant. 
 
 "Excuse me for a moment, Mr. Smith, while I see who has 
 been talking to me since I have been away." 
 
 "Why, how in Sam Hill can ye tell, when ye warn't here, 
 chummy?" 
 
 "Ha, ha ! That's easy. Our phonographs are all connected 
 with our telephones, and whether a person be present or not, 
 the phonograph takes down all conversations, as you will see." 
 The merchant then detached some wires from a small box, 
 having a crank affixed to it. This he proceeded to slowly turn 
 when at once, the voice of a lady was heard, ordering up a 
 roast of pork for dinner. 
 
 "That's my wife, sir." 
 
 Another voice, in gruff tones wanted two thousand bales of 
 sole leather at once. 
 
 "That's my shoe factory foreman, sir." 
 
 "Sounded a good deal like the gentle cherup of a camp "push" 
 in the morning getting the loaders out of camp." 
 
 "So I presume, sir, he's generally "loaded." 
 
 "O come off! Is that the best ye can do in 198 — what did 
 did you say it was?" 
 
 "1988, Mr. Smith. September 15th, but if you will step 
 into that room to your left, sir, you will find a bath, which you 
 really require, and you are welcome to use any of the suits of 
 clothes you find there. Then lunch will be ready, and I will 
 have gone over a little business I find here to transact." 
 
 "Thanks, pard, I believe I will take about a quarter section 
 of Saginaw county of'en me." 
 
 Jack found every thing fitted for a prince in the bath room, 
 and after clothing himself in an elegant suit of the merchant's 
 best, he re-entering the room, where the good gentleman was 
 awaiting him. 
 
 "Ah, Mr. Smith, you are now very much more presentable, 
 I assure you. Permit me to compliment you on the improved 
 
92 THE SHANTY BOY. 
 
 change in your personal appearance. Pray be seated." 
 
 "Wal yes, I do feel as though I'd had my Sunday change, 
 pardner, and am jes' feeling like's tho' I'd got a big winter's 
 stake an' was off to spend it." 
 
 "I follow your singular figures of speech with some difficulty, 
 sir, but still think I understand you. What will you have for 
 lunch, sir?" 
 
 "0, none of yer slice of bread an' sassage fer me. I want a 
 square meal, I give yer a tip on that." 
 
 "Whatever you demand, sir, will be served." 
 
 "Well, if its the same to all the rest of the camp, I'll take 
 'bout two pounds of beef steak briled, fried pertaters and 
 ingins, a hunk of bread, an' 'bout a quert of coffee with 
 trimmins." 
 
 "Yes sir, in a moment." And touching a knob in the floor 
 a table arose covered with just what Jack had ordered, and 
 fifty other niceties besides. 
 
 The merchant kept Jack company while he was eating, after 
 which he remarked : 
 
 "Mr. Smith, while I am extremely curious to hear your story, 
 I shall restrain my impatience till you have sufficiently recov- 
 ered, after which I shall haye very much pleasure in listening 
 to the recital of your wonderful experience. There is a bed 
 room, sir, and you can occupy it. I shall not disturb you, as 
 I shall be away a couple of hours." 
 
 "Much obleged, pard. Don't keer if I do take forty winks, 
 arter which I'm yourn truly." 
 
 "Very good, sir. I have just had a call to London, England, 
 and will have to step across, but I shall not be longer than 
 four hours at the utmost," 
 
 "Whar did ye say ?" 
 
 "London, sir." 
 
 "What, in England ?" 
 
 "Yes, Mr. Smith, our aerial navigation has become so per- 
 fect that we make thirty miles per second, so that a little trip 
 of three thousand miles is but a mere trifle." 
 
 "Well, I'll be . But its no use talking, only all this 
 
OB, LIFE IN A LUMBER CAMP. 93 
 
 kind of talk makes me want to go somewhars an' break a few 
 winders or get licked." 
 
 "Good bye, Mr. Smith," said the merchant turning away and 
 muttering to himself : 
 
 " What a strange man he is. But I have found in him a 
 most wonderful and rare relic of by-gone days. I wonder 
 what preserved him. I must ask Prof. Knoitall when I 
 return." 
 
 The merchant rushed across the ocean, and Jack tumbled 
 into a grandly luxurious bed. The chronicler of this veracious 
 biography will therefore turn a page, and begin a new chapter, 
 in continuation of the strange experience of Jack Smith. If 
 any one has the least doubt about the truthful facts here pre- 
 sented, in regard to this narrative, the writer can only point 
 to the indisputable evidence of East Saginaw being still 
 where all this took place, and that he has seen and talked 
 with Jack Smith himself, in the woods. What more could any 
 reasonable man want than that ? 
 
94 THE SHANTY BOY, 
 
 CHAPTER XII. 
 
 The Strange Adventures of Jack Smith Continued — How Saw Logs 
 were Obtained for Saginaw Mills and How Lumber was Shipped 
 to Buffalo — The Morning Paper"— Jack Asked to Lecture on the 
 Antiquitdjss of the Saginaw Valley — Disappointing Conclusion, 
 
 He addressed the king by the title of mister, 
 And asked him the price of the throne he sat on. 
 
 He kissed the queen till he raised a blister, 
 And did it all with his old felt hat on. 
 
 Jack had a fine refreshing sleep of fully six hours duration, 
 from which he was finally aroused by the hand of the mer- 
 chant, giving him a gentle shake. 
 
 "It is fully time for dinner, Mr. Smith." 
 
 "What time is it, pard ?" said Jack, rubbing his eyes and 
 sleepily yawning. 
 
 "Almost midnight, sir, and I thought you would like a 'low 
 twelve' dinner." 
 
 "Midnight ? "Why its bright as noon !" 
 
 "Yes, we find electric lamps cheaper than daylight, and now 
 only use the sun, to grow our grain and cabbages." 
 
 "Seems to me things in this country are darned badly mixed, 
 pardner," said Jack, as he rolled out of bed and began to 
 dress. 
 
 "O, not more so than in other countries, sir, the world is 
 improving every day. I have been detained, I regret to say, 
 a couple of hours longer than I expected to be. When I 
 arrived in London I found I had to rush across to Paris, and 
 returned by way of York, so that I have been fully six hours 
 absent in London, Paris and York." 
 
OB, LIFE IN A LUMBER GAMP. 95 
 
 "Say, mister, what mout be yer name ?" 
 
 Hon. Lyre Toughtale, comptroller of Saginaw, at your ser- 
 vice, sir." 
 
 "Jes' so! I thort I'd kinder like ter know what ye called 
 yerself, so as to interduse ye till the boys in camp. Ye have 
 been to London, yer say ?" 
 
 "Yes Mr. Smith." 
 
 "And ter Paris?" 
 
 "Yes, Mr. Smith." 
 
 "And ter New York?" 
 
 "Yes, Mr. Smith, though we only call it York now." 
 
 "All since I lay down here ?" 
 
 "Yes sir." 
 
 "Mr. Toughtale, der yer know why yer like a harp struck by 
 lightnin'?" 
 
 "No sir, I do not." 
 
 "Well, It's because the harp struck by lightnin' is a blasted 
 lyre." 
 
 "O yes, I see. That's the first part of my name, verv 
 good." 
 
 "Well, I should reckon it war, an' the heftiest part, too." 
 
 "Dinner will be ready in fifteen minutes, Mr. Smith." 
 
 "All right, pard, I'm ahead on't, I'm ready now." 
 
 Jack dressed himself and ruminated at the same time. A 
 dinner of magnificent proportions was served up, including the 
 rarest wines, viands and fruits, to which he did ample justice. 
 
 After the merchant and Jack had dined, cigars were lighted 
 and the conversation continued. 
 
 "While I was in London a few hours ago, Mr. Smith, I con- 
 sulted with an eminent scientist there, relative to yovir case. 
 He convinced me that it was the salt in the Saginaw salt bed 
 that had preserved you. In short, that you have been in pickle all 
 these many years, and upon being returned to the atmos- 
 pheric air, you were restored to consciousness as well as when 
 you laid down to sleep." 
 
 "I shouldn't wonder if it war the case, pard. I war filled up 
 
96 THE SHANTY BOY, 
 
 with Saginaw 'red eye' inside, an' Saginaw salt outside an' so, 
 I kep'." 
 
 "But I would like to know something about your early his- 
 tory, Mr. Smith." 
 
 "O, dun know that I've got much hist'ry. Born in East 
 Saginaw ; took early till the river like a rat ; growed up some 
 way ; never went to school ; piked for the woods when I war 
 big enough ; worked fer Charlie Turner, Jerry Hunt, Jack 
 Mellon, Johnnie Brown an' a lot of them fellers. I came inter 
 Saginaw two weeks ago an' got on a 'toot ;' felt sleepy an' laid 
 down ter sleep, an' woke up, when that darned diggin' thing 
 emptied me in the mud." 
 
 "Singular what a halucinatien has come over this 'strange 
 being !" mused worthy Mr. Toughtale. 
 
 "How old are you, Mr. Smith ?" 
 
 "Dun'no, pard, but they used to say Doc. Kitchen's big 
 bull dog an' me war pups together." 
 
 "Ah yes ! Well, you don't look more than thirty, and how 
 to reconcile these contradictions is entirely beyond my com- 
 prehension." 
 
 At this point the clicking of an electric bell was heard. 
 
 "Ah, here comes the morning paper," remarked the mer- 
 chant. 
 
 Jack glanced through a window behind him, and beheld a 
 most singular sight. It was as bright as noon-day outside, 
 and as far as the eye could reach, the sky was literally covered 
 with long strips of ribbon like paper, running down through 
 the roofs of the houses. Where they were coming from Jaok 
 could not discern, but the white clouds seemed to enter every 
 house with lightning like rapidity. 
 
 Turning with increased curiosity, Jack beheld the merchant 
 seated at a wheel, around which was revolving a long strip of 
 paper, about eight — no I'm lying, seven and seven-eighths — 
 inches wide, and coming down through the ceiling. Upon this 
 strip of paper was the news of the whole world for the past six 
 hours, condensed into short paragraphs among which Jack dis- 
 covered a series of pictures representing the finding of him in 
 
OB, LIFE IN A LUMBER CAMP. 97 
 
 Mr. Toughtale's canal. In fact, most of the news consisted of 
 pictures, with a few lines explanatory of the matter illustrated. 
 
 "An' so that's yer way of gettin' a newspaper, is it ?" 
 
 "Yes sir, this is the midnight edition. We have an edition 
 every six hours, and each issue runs for an hour, and comes 
 from the central office, which is under the control of the 
 general government in all our cities." 
 
 "Gov'ment must have its hands full, pard ?" 
 
 "O, that isn't one-hundreth part of what our government 
 does. Yiiu see the people are the government here, and we 
 pay men to fill the offices. If the several duties are not faith- 
 fully performed, off comes the defaulter's head." 
 
 "His head? Whew!" 
 
 "Yes, that is the law in regard to office holders, and is a very 
 good one, only we have some difficulty in getting men to accept 
 office." 
 
 "Well, I should rise to remark !" 
 
 "Certainly, sir. So all telegraphs, mail, telephone, lighting, 
 and general public business is done by the government." 
 
 "Don't things git mixed up some, pard ?" 
 
 "O no, we have no difficulty. Our laws have only one pun- 
 ishment for every crime, from murder down to wife or husband 
 beating. We kill 'em all by electricity. 
 
 "Great Scott !" 
 
 "But there, I have about all the news I care to read, and we 
 will go down and see the logs come in for our mills." 
 
 "Ah there ! I'm with yer, pard. Whar do they raft from ?" 
 
 "We do not raft our logs, they come under the lake from the 
 great city of Cheboygan, where the log factory and timber 
 depot is located. Our system is very complete, Mr. Smith. 
 We have one line of pipe for receiving the logs, and another, 
 with terminating branches at Buffalo, Cleveland, Chicago and 
 Milwaukee, through which the manufactured lumber passes. 
 The pipe lines deliver a log a second, and it's fun to see them 
 popping out of the pipe in the receiving basin below here, like 
 a boy blowing peas out of his mouth. The boards leave the 
 mills the same way, and all pass through a planer and meas- 
 
08 THE SHANTY BOY, 
 
 urer in the delivery pipe. In fact, our people do not work 
 much, as they use labor-saving machinery for every description 
 of manual labor." 
 
 "How in thunder does the people get a livin'?" 
 
 "O, everyone is now rich in America," and a million of dol- 
 lars is a common fortune. Science, eighty years ago, banished 
 poverty, and all our people are in a happy condition of ele- 
 gant leisure." 
 
 "How many people is thar in the country anyhow ?" 
 
 "We have now in America 1,900,000,000." 
 
 "Great Scott !" 
 
 "Yes, all Ireland, Germany, Holland, Italy, Scotland, Eng- 
 land, France and several other countries came over here in a 
 body, and we have had to repopulate these old countries over 
 again." 
 
 "I jest feel like cryin'! Don't the boys go to the woods 
 every fall any more, pard ?" 
 
 "No sir, there are no woods nearer than the Georgian Bay 
 and Alaska, and we are largely manufacturing timber out of 
 old tan bark and all vegetable substances. That has caused 
 Cheboygan — where the log factory is established — to have 
 3,700,000 of a population. The method of manufacturing is 
 very interesting. The vegetable matter is thrown into a large 
 hopper, and a standard saw log comes out, ready for the mill, 
 at the rate of three every minute — no I am wrong — it is three 
 every minute and ten seconds." 
 
 "Must have lots of 'stuff' in this country ?" 
 
 "Stuff, sir ?" 
 
 "Yes, 'boodle.' " 
 
 "Boodle, sir?" 
 
 "Yes, darn it, don't ye un'erstand American ? I mean lots 
 o' money." 
 
 "O, ah, yes, wealth, certainly! Yes, we* are all rich now 
 since we discovered the secret of extracting the yellow 
 coloring from saw dust, and transmuting it into gold." 
 
 "Inter gold?" 
 
 "Yes, the great discovery was made by Capt. Jackpine, an 
 
OR, LIFE IN A LUMBER GAMP. 99 
 
 able scientist and chemist at Cheboygan, who experimented 
 upon a pile of sawdust accumulated there, till the great secret 
 was discovered. Since then the work of mining old long buried 
 saw dust has superseded all other industries, and people be- 
 came rich by the use of the once valueless material." 
 
 "Well, I'll be — no I won't swar, its useless. But I say, Mr. 
 Toughtale, I see now why you fellers done away with hell. 
 It had got to be useless, hadn't it ?" 
 
 "Yes, Mr. Smith, the world's improving, and we just kill off 
 all our bad people, and preserve the good." 
 
 "O, you do, do you ? I 'spose lying is no sin now days." 
 
 "Why sir, lying is punishable by death with us. I hav'n't 
 told you one word but what is absolute truth. The most diffi- 
 cult feature, believe, me, is to comprehend and entertain the 
 story you tell me. But excuse me there is a gentleman in Con- 
 stantinople ringing me up. He is waiting to ask me a ques- 
 tion." 
 
 The merchant went to the telephone and came back in a 
 moment remarking: 
 
 "That party wants a colony sent over to occupy and popu- 
 late old Caro. I will have to send fifty men and women to-day 
 so they will get in in time for supper. Its part of my duties 
 as comptroller to attend to the equalization of the earth's pop- 
 ulation. America is now the distributing center of the globe. 
 But really I'm tired repeatedly colonizing these old played out 
 lands." 
 
 "How will ye git the folks thar?" 
 
 "We use aerial ships entirely for passengers now, as they 
 make fully thirty miles per second. All we use the ocean 
 marine for now is to carry freight, and that will be virtually 
 obviated as a means of transport, when we get our great trans- 
 portation pipe placed across under the ocean." 
 
 "Say, mister, have ye a handy nigger about here that I 
 could hire to take me out somewhar and kill me?" 
 
 "Why, Mr. Smith, what makes you talk so ?" 
 
 "Talk so ? I thought Dan Patterson in Blodgett & Byrnes' 
 headquarters camp could tell some hefty ones, but Lord ! — 
 
tOO THE SHANTY BOY, 
 
 Well, 1 am stuffed so full I can touch it with my finger. 
 holy Moses !" 
 
 "Yes, I thought you were eating very heartily at dinner, Mr. 
 Smith, but you'll recover from that." 
 
 "If I ever do, I swar I'll never put foot in Saginaw, an' if I 
 once more strike Big Dan's camp on the Sable, I'll stay thar ! 
 You hear me yelp !" 
 
 "I fully appreciate the force of your remarks, Mr. Smith, 
 although I can hardly understand the figurative localities or 
 language you use. But what you say leads me to believe you 
 have not much money, possibly not more than fifty or maybe 
 seventy-five thousand dollars about you. If this be so, my 
 friend, be free with me, and inform me of the fact." 
 
 "Seventy-five thousand what ?" 
 
 "Dollars, sir." 
 
 "Judas Priest ! Pard, I hav'n't a nickle." 
 
 "Is such a condition of poverty possible ?" 
 
 "Well, I should jist gently expostulate that it war." 
 
 "My dear sir, I have it !" 
 
 "Is it catching, chummy ?" 
 
 "I mean, I can put you in the way to coin any amount of 
 money. We will start you lecturing." 
 
 "What, me?" 
 
 "Yes sir, you ! A talk such as you have delighted me with 
 this past hour delivered publicly, is worth $20,000." 
 
 "Why— why— Do you know, pard, I thought 'twar you war 
 a doin' all the talkin'." 
 
 "0 no, not at all sir. I've been both entertained and de- 
 lighted. I will advance you $10,000 and take all chances. 
 Can you be ready by to-morrow night to deliver a lecture on 
 the Antiquities of Saginaw." 
 
 "I jest want to ax yer a question, pard." 
 
 "Yes sir!" 
 
 "Did yer ever go up on the jam ?" 
 
 "No, Mr. Smith." 
 
 "Did yer ever come down on the drive?" 
 
 "No, Mr. Smith." 
 
OR, LIFE IN A LUMBER CAMP. 101 
 
 "Can you birl a saw log down the ragin' Saginaw ?" 
 
 "No, Mr. Smith." 
 
 "Can yer clean out a saloon full of galoots, quicker'n ye'd 
 take a chaw terbacker?" 
 
 "No, Mr. Smith." 
 
 "Well, pard, I kin do all them are things, but when it comes 
 ter 'chin churnin' I want to be counted out." 
 
 "Bravo ! That last burst of eloquence, Mr. Smith, shows you 
 to be a perfect prodigy, and I advise you to retire to your 
 room and think over the Antiquities of Saginaw as a subject 
 for your lecture, and I'll warrant you to be a wealthy man 
 inside of a week." 
 
 "O now you quit!" said Jack with a sheepish grin, "jes' let 
 right up on that talk." 
 
 "All correct, sir, I'll let right up and get things started ; you 
 go to bed and rest right up." 
 
 "Pard, I'll do it ! Put it right thar ! I'll do it." 
 
 * ***** * 
 
 That indefatigable officer, Timothy McCoy, of the East Sag- 
 inaw police force, was going his rounds one morning, when on 
 passing by the vacant lot on Hoyt street, he noticed a long 
 pair of spiked boots protruding from an old barrel, and a line 
 lump of a shanty boy stuck in the upper end of them. 
 
 "Hello here, old fellow! Eouse up and take a walk," 
 remarked the energetic officer, at the same time gently fanning 
 with his No. 17 French kid gaiters, that portion of the recum- 
 bent sleeper usually concealed by a coat tail. 
 
 It was Jack Smith, who still slept. 
 
 "Go way from me. I'm a thinkin' up my lecture," he mur- 
 mured. 
 
 "Get up and come with me," gently insinuated the officer. 
 
 "I'll tell the big merchant if yer disturb me." 
 
 The silence was profound, you could have heard a boiler 
 burst! At length Jack arose and gazed about him in surprisa, 
 for the old place looked just as it always did. 
 
 "Whar's the merchant an' the flyin' ships, an' the big stor's, 
 an' the log machine, an' — an' — whar in h — 11 am I anyway ?" 
 
102 THE SHANTY BOY, 
 
 "There, come along ! You'll find them all up before Squire 
 Fey," said Officer McCoy, and out they went into the glorious 
 Saginaw morning, while the officer gently warbled : 
 "1 gather them in, I gather them in." 
 
 CHAPTER XIII. 
 
 The Battle of the Saw Log — The Killed Wounded and Missing — 
 Some of the Vicissitudes of Woods Life Presented — The Origin 
 and Growth of Woodsmen's Hospitals — Incidents and Accident. 
 
 We now come to review some of the special features of dan- 
 ger and death associated with life in the woods. In the story 
 told of Charles Porter, it can be seen how easily the bfe of the 
 shanty boy may be snuffed out, and in that tragic sketch 
 may be found the story of very many who have fallen before 
 the stroke of King Pine. In the season of 1884-5, it was es- 
 timated that in Michigan alone, sixty fatal accidents had taken 
 place in the lumber woods. Over three thousand persons were 
 more or less injured, and fully that many were sick, for a 
 greater or less length of time. Several harrowing instances of 
 fatal accident, came under my own immediate observation, 
 to which I here can but make a very brief reference. In the 
 season above indicated, there were fully 40,000 men engaged 
 in the lumbering work of Michigan. The lumber cut for that 
 year — 1885 — was 3,578,138,443 feet. It is therefore not very 
 surprising that such a percentage should be given of killed and 
 wounded, in that season. 
 
 I was in conversation with a young Swede in a camp on the 
 Au Gres river one evening that winter, and, as in the story of 
 Porter, he too was expecting great results in the woods. He 
 
OR, LIFE IN A LUMBER GAMP. 103 
 
 was a well built, bright, intelligent fellow, and I passed a pleas- 
 ant evening with him. I remember he showed me his watch, 
 of which he was very proud. It was a silver, eight ounce case, 
 American watch, the heaviest made, but not satisfied with the 
 regular weight, he had had two silver dollars fastened on 
 each side of the case, making it nearly a pound in weight. 
 This he carried in his hip pocket, and on the very day suc- 
 ceeding my meeting him, the poor fellow was jammed bet ween 
 a stump and the end of a log, catching him on the hip, and 
 smashing the lower portion of his spinal column and his thigh 
 bone into fragments. He was carried to West Branch, prepar- 
 atory to taking him to the Bay City hospital, on which insti- 
 tution he had purchased a certificate from me, only the even- 
 ing previous. But he got no farther than the West Branch 
 station, where he breathed his last. The watch, on being 
 removed from his pocket, was found to have been completely 
 flattened, so that all the works were smashed to small frag- 
 ments. This shows the awful violence of the blow he had re- 
 ceived. Truly the kisses of a saw log are cruel ! 
 
 I might relate very many such incidents, but having reserved 
 space for one or two tragic incidents in regular narrative form, 
 I will here briefly present some of the leading features of 
 relief provided for the wounded woodsmen. 
 
 But before doing so I must insist that it is largely owing to 
 carelessness on the part of the men, that so many serious ac- 
 cidents take place. Talking with Jerry D. Hunt, superinten- 
 dent of the J. E. Potts Salt and Lumber Company, of Michi- 
 gan, operating on the Au Sable river, he made the following 
 terse remark : "It's saw-logs we're after out here," and he 
 meant it, as the same company have just finished putting in 
 100,000,000 feet within the season of 1887-8. It is saw logs 
 men are after in the woods, and in the rush, push and crush to 
 get them, God help the sick or wounded ! 
 
 This thought would induce a slight digression on the sub- 
 ject of the emulation or contention exhibited in every phase 
 of woods life. Lumbering has been a staple industry with 
 mankind since the earliest ages. King Solomon ran quite a 
 
104 THE SHANTY BOY, 
 
 number of "lumber camps" on Mount Lebanon, and was cer- 
 tainly the first "lumber king" on record. The word even then 
 was "Its saw logs we're after," and the beams and other "bill 
 stuff" for that big temple on Mount Moriah had to be got out 
 under greater difficulties than are experienced in Wisconsin or 
 Michigan. Even in King Solomon's lumber camps the spirit 
 of emulation among his "shanty boys" seemed to prevail, as the 
 following text would indicate : 
 "A man was famous according as he had lifted up axes on 
 
 thick trees." — Psalms lxxiv-5. 
 
 As it was then, in the days of the Psalmist, so it is to-day. 
 The men in our "shanty camps" are ever on the strive. Gangs 
 of sawyers come to the foreman at night, each man with his 
 little wooden tally-book, and calls off the number of logs he 
 and his partner have cut that day. As each speaks the others 
 listen nervously, and with ill-concealed jealousy, to the men 
 with the big figures. Two or three men in every camp, known 
 as hustlers, lead in the various departments of work. Some 
 as sawyers, top-loaders, swampers, choppers or teamsters, 
 "push" the rest of the boys for all they are worth. It is not 
 in the way of "driving" that this is done, but as leaders, and 
 the spirit of emulation, found in every man, says : "I'm as 
 good a man as he, and I'll do as much." This is where the 
 "rush" comes in and the "battle of the saw log" is fought on 
 the same principle as that for kingdom or crown. 
 
 This, while it is faultless in the character of the rivalry it 
 exhibits, at the same time leaves no time nor help to nurse the 
 sick and wounded men, and their name is legion, in camp. 
 Consequently, the lumberman's hospital system comes in and 
 picks up the wounded, while the battle against "King Pine" 
 goes bravely on. The hospital systems of Michigan and Wis- 
 consin would be much more complete could horse hospitals be 
 established on the same principle, although all large camps 
 have their veterinary surgeons permanently employed. But it 
 is largely owing to the above noticed demand for "saw logs," 
 that so many are hurt or made sick. Rivalry crowds the men 
 and not the efforts of the "push" (foreman) to drive them. 
 
OB, LIFE IN A LUMBER CAMP. 105 
 
 They take unasked a "stint" and feel as much chagrined as 
 though they owned the timber, if they fail in filling the same. 
 That is, provided their employers use them well, and the writer 
 is proud to record the fact that Wisconsin and Michigan lum- 
 ber camps are in a large majority of instances well built, clean, 
 warm and well provisioned. These are the leading factors in 
 the success of lumbering a tract of pine, and lumbermen fully 
 realize the truth of it, and act accordingly. 
 
 Still, this hurry and rush brings to the surface the "survival 
 of the fittest," and the weakling or debauched fall out by the 
 way. Consequently, the hospital business never fags, and as 
 one goes out cured, another takes his place, with his broken 
 fragments of humanity tied up in a dirty rag, just as he left 
 the battle field. When he arrives at the haven of safety, on 
 which he fortunately holds a ticket, he is in good hands. Men 
 who have risked their professional reputation as being both 
 kind-hearted and skillful, take charge of him. If at all possi- 
 ble, the first thing is a bath, then clean clothes, then into a 
 soft, clean, comfortable bed, and under the watchful care of an 
 experienced nurse, acting by the strict directions of a skillful 
 surgeon, the man gets a fair start back to the realms of health 
 again, and all for the tax of nine cents per week, for a year, 
 which he assumes when he buys his ticket — not the price per 
 week of a good cigar. 
 
 The writer can take the credit of being among the first to 
 inaugurate the establishing of a woodsman's hospital. In 1872, 
 he was associate editor of the East Saginaw Courier. The 
 picture of destitution presented by the sick and wounded 
 shanty boys, when brought in from the woods, was simply 
 distressing in the extreme. There was no place for them to 
 go, save the rough boarding house, where — if they had money 
 — they were taken some kind of care of, but when their means 
 were gone, they were "toted" off to the county house. With 
 this picture of distress for a subject, he began to write and 
 agitate in this interest, and after the publication of a few arti- 
 cles, showing the necessity for an hospital, the business men 
 of East Saginaw took the matter up, and the result was the 
 
106 THE SHANTY BO Y, 
 
 establishment of what is known as St. Mary's hospital, in that 
 city, under the care of the Sisters of Charity, and where hun- 
 dreds of "shanty boys" have since found a good home and 
 kindly care from these charitable women. 
 
 The success of this enterprise induced a like action of a sec- 
 ular character in Bay City, in 1878, which was also highly 
 meritorious. Big Rapids, Flint and Grand Bapids followed 
 fast after, till all important towns now have hospitals for sick 
 and injured woodsmen. At this writing there are woodsmen's 
 hospitals at all the above places, and also at Alpena, Cheboy- 
 gan, Oscoda, Marquette, Menominee, Manistique and several 
 other places, of which the Northwestern Hospital Co., of 
 Cheboygan, Bay City and Marquette, is the most important, 
 but all more or less valuable. Certificates are sold to the men 
 entitling the holder to care, board, lodging and medical treat- 
 ment, for one year, and whenever sick or hurt, these tickets 
 open for them a good home. The men fully appreciate this 
 great blessing, and buy readily from the agents visiting the 
 camps. 
 
 While on the subject of hospitals for woodsmen, it may here 
 be stated that, tempted by the possible gain accruing from the 
 sale of tickets to the shanty boys, unscrupulous men have 
 started hospitals, and for a short time labored to build up a 
 reputation, and then, after making a special effort to sell a 
 large quantity or these tickets, have absconded, leaving their 
 innocent agents to brave the brunt of the swindled victim's 
 indignation, the cause of which was entirely separated from the 
 agents. I have known two such instances as this to have 
 occurred in Michigan, where the woodsmen have been badly 
 swindled, and unless some preventative action is taken by the 
 state, the swindle will be repeated. I believe every hospital 
 company or proprietor should be placed under heavy bonds to 
 the Commissioner of Insurance for the fulfillment of the con- 
 tract entered into with the men in the woods. The hospital 
 system of issuing certificates to the men is nothing more or 
 less than insurance against sickness or accident, and should 
 be treated the same as any other policy of insurance. 
 
OR, LIFE IN A LUMBER CAMP. 107 
 
 CHAPTER XIV. 
 
 The Enemies of the Shanty Boy— The "Dens and Dives" op the 
 Lumber "Woods— Jim Cakk and Dan Dunn— How John McTavish 
 Started the "Bull Pen" at Black River — A Chapter of Vileness. 
 
 "The path of the strange woman leads down to hell." — Bible. 
 
 "The lumber dens of Michigan!" 
 
 How this beastly term has traveled in the past three years ! 
 What an exhaustless source for the talk of "cranks" and 
 falsely informed fanatics, it has proved ! How it has served to 
 besmirch the honor of the state through both press and pulpit, 
 in the description of suppostitious crime ! 
 
 There is a large class in this world continually on the hunt 
 for vileness, at which to lift up holy hands in horror. Such 
 has been the unearthing of the so-called dens of infamy in the 
 Michigan and Wisconsin lumber woods. They have been 
 exaggerated to such unconscionable size, that even sensible 
 people were led to believe the monstrous stories told. As in 
 every place where men and women dwell, from the earliest 
 ages of time till to-day, there have ever been the vile and 
 polluted of both sexes, and ever will be, long as human weak- 
 nesses and human passions run wild, will be found to fur- 
 nish grist to the mills of the devils. The writer has had every 
 opportunity to verify this statement in regard to houses of 
 prostitution in the lumber woods, and while admitting the 
 existence of such and that they are bad enough, they are not 
 within a thousand fathoms in depth of vileness, as low as that 
 of "Dutch Lenie," of Detroit. The principle houses of this 
 character were those kept by James Carr, at Harrison, Clare 
 
108 THE SHANTY BOY. 
 
 county, Mich., and later at Meredith, and that of Dan Dunn, 
 formerly of Eoscommon and now of Seney, Mich. I will just 
 touch upon the character of these two places, they being 
 representatives of what are known as the "dens" of Michigan 
 and Wisconsin. The notorious Jim Carr came to Harrison, 
 Clare county, in 1878, and started a "house" of ill fame in the 
 outskirts of town. He kept a bar, dance hall, and generally 
 four or six very hard looking females. To this he added the 
 business of buying time checks from the woodsmen, at about 
 twenty-five per cent discount, and in a few years made a large 
 amount of money, possibly $30,000. He was found guilty of 
 killing one of his women in 1886, but after being in states 
 prison a few months, he received a new trial and was acquitted. 
 He now carries on the same malodorous business at Meredith, 
 Clare county, Mich. 
 
 Dan Dunn was bar tender for the well-known John Mol- 
 loney, at Eoscommon, from 1876 to 1880, and started "busi- 
 ness" for himself, both at Eoscommon, Mich., Prudenville and 
 Houghton Lake. He also made money, and was and is still 
 located at Seney, U- P., where he is very popular with the 
 men in the woods, i never heard of any woman being detained 
 in any of these places against their will, although in proximity 
 to all large "lumbering plants" there are houses of this charac- 
 ter, where liquor, women and dancing are the stock in trade. 
 But these female inmates are invariably there of their own 
 will and accord, and are generally the low down sweepings of 
 larger cities, women who have lost all womanly shame and 
 comeliness. What thus applies to Michigan, applies with 
 equal force to Wisconsin. As nearly every one has heard of 
 these "outrages," perpetrated on young and innocent girls, I 
 will but give the language- of Gov. Eush, of Wisconsin, as 
 reported in a Chicago paper: 
 
 "The governor said he was convinced by the investigations 
 that the situation was not near as bad as has been pictured. 
 The two girls reported murdered in a den were still there lead- 
 ing lives of shame of their own free will. The young and inno- 
 cent virgin about whose abduction so much stir was made, is 
 twenty-nine years of age with a five years police court record 
 
OR, LIFE IN A LUMBER CAMP. 109 
 
 in Chicago. The girl who made such a miraculous escape 
 turns out to have been a virago who quarreled with everybody 
 and was driven away. The Governor said that undoubtedly 
 the life in these dens was of the lowest and most degraded 
 character and the state proposed to do all in its power to 
 break them up. The greater number of the girls in these dens 
 came from this city, Chicago, but were confirmed prostitutes 
 before going up there. 
 
 It has to be said in the favor of some of the large lumbering 
 companies, that the officials of the same, have done all in their 
 power to suppress intemperance and debauchery, among the 
 men they employ, by forbidding the sale of liquor within their 
 lumbering precincts. But the United States license law makes 
 the selling of liquor lawful, and frequently the work of repres- 
 sing intemperance is rendered nugatory, from this very cause. 
 D. A. Blodgett, now of Grand Rapids, but formerly of Hersey, 
 Mich., so platted that latter town that no liquor could be sold 
 by property holders or places rented for the same, but second 
 holders of deeds got away with this restriction. Alger, Smith 
 & Co., when platting the town of Black Biver, Alcona county, 
 Mich., made the same provision against the sale of liquor, but 
 it finally fell through in one ludicrous instance, related farther 
 on. Where men can be found to drink, there will be a way 
 found to sell, which, as the late lamented Lincoln used to say, 
 "reminds me of a little story," which is strictly true save in 
 names of interested parties : 
 
 THE BULL PEN. 
 
 When the Long Timber, Tamarack & Norway Co., of Michi- 
 gan, (limited) platted the village, which was to form their head- 
 quarters and basis of operations on river De Noire, one of the 
 strong features in the contemplated village charter was that no 
 intoxicants were to be sold or disposed, within its charter 
 bounds. As the company was presumed to own all the land, 
 together with the remainder of the township, and were rich 
 enough to build the town themselves, this wise provision for 
 the benefit of their employes and themselves cojointly, was not 
 in very great danger of being infringed upon. Accordingly, 
 
110 THE SHANTY BOY. 
 
 operations began. These latter embraced ,a steam logging 
 road with all its indispensable co-relatives, and the employ- 
 ment of some 600 men. For the first few years all went well. 
 The absence of the inebriating cup was followed by the insep- 
 arable sequences of health, wealth in degree, and satisfaction 
 to all connected with the L. T., T. & N. Co. 
 
 The nearest place where a "drink" could be had was forty 
 miles away, and men once weaned from the pernicious habit 
 did not care to undertake a "Sheridan's ride" on shank's mare 
 for the mere sake of getting drunk, and so for five years every 
 thing prospered, and the village of River De Noire grew to 
 large proportions, with church, schoolhouse, stores, hotel, hos- 
 pital and a contented population of working people. But an 
 envious serpent crept into this Michigan arcadia — the rela- 
 tion of which gives local habitation and name to this o'er true 
 tale. 
 
 One bright summer's evening the stage brought in among 
 its promiscuous burden of humanity and other truck, a young 
 Scotchman, lately from the Celtic confines of Glengarry, Cana- 
 da, who, for brevity sake, we will call John McTavish, simply 
 because that was not his name. John was looking for work, 
 and so informed the superintendent at the big store. He 
 could "talk the three talks," English, French and Gaelic and 
 being a young, strong, healthy specimen of humanity, he was 
 quickly engaged as brakesman on the logging road. John 
 was also shrewd and wise in his generation, and succeeded in 
 so ingratiating himself into the good graces of the powers that 
 be that he finally was intrusted with a large amount of author- 
 ity, in a subordinate relation. And now comes the climax. 
 One fatal day John being a trifle "previous," got caught under 
 the wheels of a log train, and came out minus a leg. Great 
 was the sorrow manifested over John's misfortune — a sorrow 
 which took practical form in his being removed to the com- 
 pany's hospital, and the best medical and surgical skill pro- 
 curable placed at his disposal, all free of expense to John, and 
 careful nursing and attention, in the course of time, brought 
 our hero back to health. But here the generosity of the L. 
 
OR, LIFE IN A LUMBER CAMP. Ill 
 
 T., T. & N. Co. did not stop, for a handsome artificial leg was 
 presented to John, while the question of what was going to be 
 done with him was finally decided by giving him the position 
 of town clerk, with his well fitted up office in the village, and 
 duties merely nominal, while a good salary helped him to for- 
 get that he was no longer able to dance the reel of Tulloch- 
 gorm. And so a year passed away. John was a fair scholar 
 and gave every satisfaction in his new position. One day, 
 comfortably ensconsed in his office easy chair, he was listlessly 
 looking over the plat of the village of River De Noire, when 
 bis attention was arrested by the fact that about four acres of 
 tamarack swamp just within the village boundary, had not 
 been platted, and was therefore still the property of the state 
 of Michigan. A brilliant idea smote John right upon the or- 
 gan of acquisitiveness and when the south bound stage started 
 the next morning, John was a passenger. He was back in 
 three days and apparently assiduously engaged in the onerous 
 duties of his office. Some two weeks later the company super- 
 intendent in driving by the insignificant piece of tamarack 
 swamp, was astonished at beholding a large frame structure 
 in the course of erection, and trusty John McTavish earnestly 
 engaged in directing a number of busy workers, who were 
 rushing the building right along. 
 
 "Mack, what is all this going on here ?" was the incredulous 
 inquiry of the manager. 
 
 "Oh, sir, it's just a wee bit housie I'm getting built." 
 
 "A wee bit housie, and on the company's land, what in hades 
 do you mean ?" 
 
 "It's no the company's land, sir, but my ain. Here is the 
 state grant for the land, bought an' paid for." 
 
 "The devil you say ! Don't our grant and plat cover this 
 ground, Mack ?" 
 
 "No sir, it disen't, which ye'll learn if ye'll examine the plat 
 carefully at the office. Ye see thje swamp being a' water, it 
 wasn't thought worth while to take it up, so I jest geed to 
 Lansing and got the bit swampy." 
 
 " Well, I'll be 1 What in thunder are you going to do 
 
112 THE SHANTY BOY. 
 
 with the house when finished ?" 
 
 "Weel, sir, I have a United States license, and I thought 
 I could make a few honest dollars selling a wee drap whusky 
 to the men, and giving a daunce Saturday nights." 
 
 "Well, my fine fellow, if that's your game we'll soon put a 
 stop to it and to you too, you miserable scoundrel. So don't 
 you dare to drive another nail." 
 
 "I don't think ye can, sir. This is my land and this lumber 
 is mine. The law will protect me, so gang ahead and try to 
 stop me." 
 
 And so the company did, but failed iu every move they made 
 to oust John. He built his dance house and whisky shop, and 
 had any amount of custom. To the writer's knowledge he was, 
 within three years after opening his "ranch" — known far and 
 wide as the "bull-pen"— offered $5,000 for the "plant" by the 
 notorious Jim Carr, of Harrison, Michigan. But he knew bet- 
 ter than to take such figures, and within a few years was worth 
 double that amount in cash. The company have had great 
 reason to ever regret the inadvertance which left such a foot- 
 hold for a common enemy, and the result has been drunken- 
 ness, followed by disaster ever since. The only hope is that 
 the tidal wave of "local option," now sweeping over Michigan 
 will wash away John McTavish and the "bull-pen." 
 
 In this connection a word to the good people who subscribe 
 money to send half crazy "cranks" under the name of camp 
 missionaries into the lumber woods to preach. What is wanted 
 is preliminary work in the interests of sobriety, the value of 
 the hard earned shanty boy's money, and the beauty of a home. 
 Establish these fundamentals first, and religion will surely 
 follow. But I say seriously, that every dollar expended in 
 sending "martyrs" into the woods to preach to the boys, is 
 simply nonsense in the eyes of God and intelligent, practical 
 men. 
 
 Let me lift one little corner of the veil and show you how 
 much respect these "camp missionaries" have bestowed upon 
 them. One well meaning man, with lots of zeal but not accord- 
 ing to knowledge, visited a certain Michigan jamp, which shall 
 
OB, LIFE IN A LUMBER GAMP. 113 
 
 in this telling, be nameless. He gave the men an after supper 
 address in the bunk camp, and told them how dirty they were, 
 and how foul and polluted their habits and language were, 
 and kept that strain up for half an hour, concluding by telling 
 them he was "engaged in the Lord's work," and if they liked 
 io take up a little collection and give it to him, the next morn- 
 ing before leaving camp, he would be much obliged. This was 
 done by one of the "toughs" of the camp, and the "collection" 
 was taken before the men went to bed. He gathered the "col- 
 lection" in a pill box, and all hands contributed liberally to 
 fill 'it with personal "live stock." The old gentleman was up 
 bright and early and was at the breakfast table, bent over, 
 busy eating with his neck very much exposed, when the "col- 
 lector" in passing him emptied the contents of the pill box 
 down the back of his neck, and quietly passed on to his seat 
 at the table, it was a beastly trick I admit, but such is life 
 in camp, and frequently very much lice-ence is permitted, when 
 you don't happen to strike it just right. The wonder is that 
 they didn't "put him up." 
 
 I have visited over 400 camps, and have yet to hear of or 
 see one man who has expressed any benefit from the visit of 
 the "camp missionary." No, what is wanted in the woods is 
 plain, sensible talk from the text, "Man, be good to yourself." 
 Added to this, books, papers, tracts, etc., will always do good. 
 Any lumberman will be glad to send all such literature to his 
 men in camp. 
 
114 THE SHANTY BOY, 
 
 CHAPTER XV. 
 
 How The Shanty Boy Earns His Money and How He Spends It — Savins 
 at the Spigot and Letting Run at the Bung. 
 
 "Good haul! Let'er roll!" 
 
 If there is a dollar in the world that calls for 100 cents, it is 
 the dollar earned by the shanty boy ! If there is a dollar in 
 this world that represents a man's life blood, it is the dollar 
 of the shanty boy ! If there is an honest dollar spent more 
 foolishly than another, it is frequently the dollar of the shanty 
 boy ! And if there is a dollar that should be placed where it 
 would do the earner more good than any other, it is the dollar 
 earned in the woods. I say this from a full knowledge of the 
 fact, for I have beheld this shanty boy's dollar when earned 
 and when spent. 
 
 "I have been twenty-eight years in the lumber woods, this 
 winter," said an old, gray haired man to me in camp one night, 
 "and I hav'n't five dollars to buy me an hospital ticket. 
 
 "In heaven's name man, what have you done with your 
 money ?" I asked. 
 
 "Gave it to build the brick blocks of Saginaw and Baj' City," 
 was the reply. 
 
 That's the way it goes all through the story, and the life of the 
 good-hearted shanty boy is spent in making other people rich, 
 while he comes out in the end a pauper. 
 
 I have seen men in camp so mean and penurious that they 
 would pull threads out of an old coffee sack to mend their 
 worn out socks. Half sole a sock with a mit, and a mit with a 
 
OB, LIFE IN A LUMBER CAMP. 115 
 
 sock. Go to their work poorly clad, and suffer the 
 worst pains and penalties the woods could inflict. Borrow, 
 beg and steal tobacco to keep their "van" bill down, and all to 
 have a big stake in the spring. And when camp breaks up, 
 they go in to town. First the lad rigs himself out in a new 
 suit of clothes and sports a cheap watch and ring, and possi- 
 bly a pair of patent leather shoes. He then meets a "chum," 
 and together they make for the low boarding house. Who so 
 kind as the landlord when he sees the boys. 
 
 "Why, pardner, when did you get in ? Throw your 'turkey' 
 back of the bar and take 'suthin'. What'l ye have ? D — m 
 me, but I'm glad to see you ! Shake !" 
 
 And all take a drink, two drinks, three drinks — drinks — 
 drinks — drinks. 
 
 About eleven o'clock that night see the two lads coming 
 down street, arm in arm, full'n'er a goose and happy as clams 
 at high tide : 
 
 "Let'er roU ! Let'er roll !" 
 
 And she rolls ! The hard earned dollars roll away, till in 
 ten days or two weeks at the farthest, all the boy's money is 
 gone. His watch and ring is gone. The side is out of his 
 new shoe. His new coat is tori) down the back, and sick in 
 body and soul, with a borrowed chew of tobacco in his mouth, 
 he leans up against the wall of the brick block, he helped to 
 build, watching for some acquaintance to pass, from whom he 
 may borrow enough money to take him back to camp. He has 
 no welcome now inside, and no free drinks. Other fresh 
 comers from camp have taken his place, and he is now 
 nobody. Its, 
 
 "Rise up Jack, and let John sit down, 
 For I know your outward bound." 
 
 And so it goes on, from year to year, till at last death calls 
 the turn on the poor foolish shanty boy, and he passes in his 
 checks. 
 
 And what a life of toil, accident and death is his ? 
 
 I have sometimes imagined that all the malicious little 
 demons, that were sent out in invisible form, to curse mankind, 
 
116 THE SHANTY BOY, 
 
 when Pandora opened her box, find lodgment in a lumber 
 camp. I have also imagined I was listening to the wicked con- 
 spiracies these evil agencies were concocting, to bruise, maim, 
 and kill the men, battling with the saw log. Listen to the 
 imps! 
 
 "Well, what are you going to do to-day ?" 
 
 "Do you see that shanty boy with the axe on his shoulder, 
 going to the cutting? I'm going to drive the bit of the axe 
 into his foot to-day. What are you going to do ?" 
 
 "0, I'm going to break the binding chain and crush the 
 teamsters. What are you going to do ?" 
 
 "I'm going to throw down a dead limb and kill a sawyer. 
 What will you do?" 
 
 "I'm going to let a log come back where the boys are 'deck- 
 ing up,' and break a leg. What will you do ?" 
 
 "I'm going to make that gray horse 'caulk' the blacksmith. 
 What will you do ?" 
 
 "I'll burst a hole in the boiler, and scald the cook. What 
 will you do ?" 
 
 "I'll break a pevey stock, and roll the log back over the 
 loaders. What will you do ?" 
 
 "I'll jam the saw in the tree, and cut the sawyer's hand badly. 
 What will you do ?" 
 
 And so the conversation may be supposed to be continued 
 by the invisible agencies of evil to injure the poor laborer. 
 
 It may all sound silly to the outside reader, but the woods- 
 man knows that when he goes out in the morning, well and 
 hearty, he may be brought in before night mutilated for life, 
 or a corpse ! 
 
 Such is the "battle of the saw log," and such is the way of 
 accident and death by which the money is earned. 
 
 It is good instruction in the avoidance of intemperance that 
 the men in the woods want. 
 
 Temperance advocacy in camp, is striking at the very foun- 
 tain head, in presenting a preventative for the evil. I have 
 made it a rule to give a lecture in every camp I have visited, 
 on the foregoing point, and long afterwards I have met men in 
 
OR. LIFE IN A LUMBER OAMP. 117 
 
 Bay City or East Saginaw, sober, who have taken me by the 
 hand and said with a happy laugh : 
 
 "Chummy, I hav'n't blown in a dollar yet, an' I'm in town a 
 week." 
 
 Said one to me last fall : "You talked in our camp two 
 years ago, and I have taken your advice, got me a wife, and 
 have a nice little home nearly paid for." 
 
 Boys, be good to yourselves, and the fact is as true as taxes, 
 that any honest, sober man can have a home in Michigan 
 within five years, if he is only good to himself. 
 
 As this book is intended more particularly for men in camp, 
 all the foregoing lecture is given them with the sincere wish 
 that by its means some of the crying evils attendant upon life 
 in the woods, may be happily avoided, and the dollar, earned 
 so hard, may be put to a better use than merely to gratify a 
 moment's desire for a passing enjoyment, in either intemper- 
 ance or debauchery. As the remainder of this work will be 
 principally devoted to tales of camp life, I cannot better close 
 this chapter, than by advising the shanty boy to make a per- 
 sonal application of the contents of the same. 
 
118 THE SHANTY BOY, 
 
 CHAPTER XVI. 
 
 The Romance of the Forest — My Tramp to the Au Gres River— Jack 
 Driscoll, Alias "Silver Jack" — History of a Noted Shanty Boy — 
 "The Lone Pine Tree" — Tragic History of Charlie Monroe — A 
 Chapter of Interest. 
 
 "They lived and loved, as this tale will tell 
 And in death were divided not." 
 
 Can any romance come out of a shanty camp ? 
 
 What sentiment can be contained in a saw log ? 
 
 Where can the "sensational" be found in the pine woods? 
 
 In reply to these interrogations, I will but say that volumes 
 could be written, and material enough gathered in the lumber 
 woods for fifty such books as this, and not touch one side of 
 the subject. So far as plot or incident may be concerned, my 
 greatest wonder is that this fruitful field for romance and liter- 
 ary venture has not long ago been preempted by the able 
 writers of the day, as the scope and exhaustless character of 
 the same is simply boundless in extent and variety. 
 
 I have eaten my dinner in camp, cooked by a German count, 
 who now is in his own country and on his own estate, with an 
 American wife. The incident is related in the sketch contained 
 in chapter twenty, entitled "She followed her heart." I have 
 slept in the same bed with the second best swordsman in the 
 British army, and one who was with Prince Napoleon in Zulu- 
 land when the latter was slain. I have sat in the "van," and 
 listened to the story of the camp book keeper, who had been 
 Lieutenant Colonel of the celebrated New York 7th regiment 
 through the late war. I have met with ex-preachers, ex-law- 
 
OR, LIFE IN A LUMBER GAMP. 119 
 
 yers, ex-artists, ex-business men of all descriptions in the 
 woods, who were the representatives of failure and ruin, but 
 still were clinging to the remnants of a hopeless life. In nine- 
 tenths of these cases I found that these men were the victims 
 of intemperance, and were striving to hide from their own 
 worst enemy. Still, the classification is really wonderful, and 
 every camp has its romantic singularities. Therefore, if there 
 is any one place more than another rich in variety of charac- 
 ter, it is found in the lumber woods. 
 
 From the material I have gleaned from actual shanty life, I 
 have in this work endeavored to weave a few specimen tales, 
 which in the hands of a better writer, would form the ground 
 work for highly interesting reading. The incidents from which 
 these woods sketches are created, are all founded on actual 
 fact, and if I have dressed them up in garments of rhetorical 
 or romantic language, it is but to make the underlying facts a 
 little more presentable. 
 
 Among the many acquaintances I made while in the woods, 
 I want to introduce one to the reader, whose name is well- 
 known throughout all the lumbering regions of Michigan and 
 Wisconsin. I refer to Jack Driscoll, better known as "Silver 
 Jack." This man was a strange mixture of good and bad. He 
 was physically a handsome woodsman. Tall, strongly built, 
 and hair, mustache and eyebrows the color of flax. As a 
 woodsman his record was first class, but when he got into 
 town and had a few drinks, he was simply hades let out for 
 noon, and his police record would mark him as a "tough" of 
 the first water. He came to Saginaw from Lindsay, Ontario, 
 in 1869, and went to work in the woods. In 1872 he was ar- 
 rested in East Saginaw charged with highway robbery, and 
 sentenced to five years in state prison. After serving his 
 time he returned to East Saginaw, and went into the saloon 
 business. In 1881, he was again arrested for highway robbery, 
 in "holding a man up" for three dollars on Lapeer street, East 
 Saginaw, His previous record of crime told against him heav- 
 ily on his trial, and on conviction he received the full extent 
 of the law, in a sentence of fifteen years in state prison, which 
 
120 THE SHANTY BOY, 
 
 he is now serving. I have made him the hero in the following 
 sketch of the "Lone Pine Tree," and speak of him as I found 
 him. He was certainly a hard customer to deal with, but 
 there are plenty much worse, who get off scott free. Silver 
 Jack certainly suffers severely for his last crime, five years for 
 each dollar he got. 
 
 It was in the fall of 1882, that I first made the acquaintance 
 of Silver Jack. I was about to make a trip from West Branch, 
 Ogemaw county, Mich., to the Au Gres river, and was not very 
 sure of my route after' I should leave what is known as the 
 "Eifle river bridge," about fifteen miles east of West 
 Branch. From there I had some forty miles of a tramp, be- 
 fore reaching my destination. While taking dinner at the 
 Bine river bridge, I noticed a fine built woodsman at the table, 
 with the peculiarity of lint-colored hair, eye-brows and mus- 
 tache. Inquiring who he was, I learned he was the notorious 
 "Silver Jack," the hero of more fights and startling escapades 
 than any other man in Michigan. The knowledge further im- 
 parted, that Jack was bound for the same camp as myself, did 
 not add to my sense of serene security. His reputation was 
 not of the best, so far as I had heard it spoken of, and the pos- 
 sibility of his "going through" me, had a strongly repressing 
 influence upon my proceeding farther that day. 
 
 However, some of the boys in the house had informed Jack 
 of my intended route, and without very much ceremony, he 
 made himself acquainted with me, by inviting me to take a 
 drink. This I good naturedly declined, but not to be behind 
 him in courtesy, I offered him a cigar, which he graciously 
 accepted. The ice being thus broken, we soon became inter- 
 ested in each other, and I found to my surprise that this terri- 
 ble "shanty camp bully," was a very pleasant and conversable 
 sort of a man, who had possibly been more sinned against than 
 sinning. 
 
 We accordingly took the "tote" road together for a fifteen 
 mile tramp, and I will freely confess that I never before found 
 time pass away so agreeably as on this memorable journey 
 with "Silver Jack." 
 
OB, LIFE IN A LUMBER CAMP. 121 
 
 The sun was fast declining in the west, when we reached 
 the last three miles separating us from our destined camp, 
 with a cold November wind whistling through the interminable 
 avenues of the Norway pines, as we came upon the Au Gres 
 river, many miles from its outlet into Saginaw Bay. The 
 steep banks were marked by the old "rollways," where the 
 past season's logs had been precipitated into the waters of the 
 snow fed river, now dwindled down to a modest stream. The 
 prospect about us was not extremely inviting. The axe of the 
 woodsman and the incendiary torch of the "fire fiend," had 
 left on either side but little else than death and destruction, 
 productive of the most sombre feelings, especially when con- 
 templated upon an empty stomach. A snow storm — the first 
 of the season — had covered the dreary landscape with a snowy 
 shroud, through which the frost bitten ferns, dead brambles, 
 and blackened stumps, pushed their shapeless forms, while a 
 lowering, leaden sky added to the ' gloom. The fire scorched 
 ruins of an old logging camp, stood near by, to, if possible, 
 make the general desolation still more desolate. If a picture 
 is ever wanted of perfect death and despair, in an earthly form, 
 it can be found in all its ghastly perfection, in a Michigan pine 
 woods, where the fire has gone through, and if there be added, 
 the charred and blackened remains of a lumber camp, partially 
 hidden in snow, the scene will present an aspect, fully equal 
 to any ever delineated by Dore, in his Dante. Such then was 
 the prospect which met our gaze, in the fast lengthening after- 
 noon shadows, as Jack and I halted by the banks of the An 
 Gres river, a view anything but cheering in character. And 
 yet, amid all the desolation and death, serving to form the 
 picture before me, stood one instance of vigorous life, in the 
 shape of a magnificent white pine tree, standing alone, like a 
 sentinel guarding the bivouac of the dead. 
 
 The fire fiend had spared it, and the axe of the woodsman 
 had passed it by ! 
 
 "Jack, how is it that this fine pine tree has not been lum- 
 bered ?" I asked. "Is it punky ?" 
 
 "No sir, that's one of the finest sticks on the river, and would 
 
122 THE SHANTY BOY, 
 
 scale a good 8,000 feet. But no man who knows its story, will 
 ever put an axe inter it, and you see that though the fire has 
 been through here lots of times, it still stands thar as fresh 
 and green as when I first saw it fourteen years ago, when I 
 fiust set foot in that are old camp you see yander. I tell yer 
 it would be a bad haul fer any man ter hurt that tree. He 
 would "go up" in a hurry, yes and by thunder he would stay 
 up, or my name isn't Jack Driscoll." 
 
 "Why, Jack, what is the secret of the tree's preservation ? 
 Is there a story connected with it ?" 
 
 "Story ? Well I should rise to remark ! That are tree is 
 knowd far and near as Lover's Rest, or the Lone Pine of the 
 AuGres, and if ye'd like ter fill yer pipe and take a bit of a sit 
 down here, before we strike the camp 'tote' road, I don't mind 
 tellin' ye the yarn, for it's a sorrowful one, and no one knows 
 it better than me." 
 
 We seated ourselves on a fire blackened log, and amid sur- 
 roundings which added a wierdness and glamour to the tale, 1 
 listened to the story of 
 
 THE LONE PINE OF THE AU GEES. 
 
 "It wos in the winter of '66," Jack began, "when I, a lump 
 of a boy of twenty, first struck the Au Gres river. I'm 
 no slouch yet pard, in the woods, but work tells on one who 
 has followed shanty life for twenty years, and will gen'ally 
 leave a man a good deal like that old Norway stump yonder, 
 kind o' dead and blackened, 'specially if he takes his share o' 
 'Saginaw angle foot.' Well, thar war a jolly camp full of us 
 that thar winter, counting about eighty men in all — thar's the 
 remains of the old bunk camp, over yander. We had a young 
 chap called Charlie Monroe, for camp 'push,' an' we were a 
 puttin' in for John McGraw, of Bay City, The pine war the 
 best 'cork' an' 'white,' you ever saw. Well, you jest can bet 
 that winter's work war a good one. We had a short haul, an' 
 on our log road the sleighing was fust rate, so that by the mid- 
 dle o' March, we had over fifteen millions banked, right along 
 whar we are now a sittin'. The river war brim full of logs for 
 
OR, LIFE IN A LUMBER GAMP. 123 
 
 half a mile, and we looked ahead to an early break up of 
 camp. 
 
 "It seems only like yes'erday as I sit here and think of that 
 are winter's work. 
 
 "We had a wild, rollickin' crew, all young men, full of life 
 and day's work. Two fiddlers kept things lively in camp, and 
 we had a boss cook, with good 'chuck,' considering them war 
 the times when a man war supposed to be satisfied with a piece 
 of frozen bread, and a chunk of cold fat pork, washed down 
 with a drink of river water. Our wages war wages in them 
 days, and it wos woth while a lookin' at a winter's 'stake' when 
 spring came. 
 
 "But our foreman war the daisey ov a boy! Poor Charley 
 Monroe ! Tourn wos a short life and a merry one while it 
 lasted. 
 
 "There wos a pretty considerable heavy snow fall that win- 
 ter, and the prospects war good for a early flood, so that the 
 'drive' would start in very soon in the spring. B'ar and deer 
 meat war plenty, and, though we had to 'tote' from the mouth 
 of the river, whar Alabaster is now, the winter flew so fast, 
 that early spring war upon us before we knowed it. 
 
 "But it's about Charlie Monroe, our foreman, I war goin' to 
 tell ye, chummy. He wos a lala from 'way back, you bet. Why, 
 thar wa'nt anythin' in woods work Charlie didn't know. About 
 twenty-six, five foot ten in his shoe pacs, straight as a young 
 Norway, and han'some as a full-blooded hoss, was Charlie. 
 
 "Thar wos somethin' about him that made every man in 
 camp love him, an' I tell ye we had some tough blisters among 
 us from Saginaw an' Bay City. Charlie war none of yer "bull 
 punchers," that stand an' yell an' swar, and drive, from morn- 
 in' till night, no siree ! Charlie wa'nt, but one of them chaps 
 who always said : 'Boys, I guess we'd better take hold right 
 here,' an' you bet the boys would jest 'hump' themselves, when 
 Charlie yelled, 'get thar !' " 
 
 "Say, Jack," I interrupted, "Is this yarn a long one ? If so 
 hadn't we better take the rest of it in camp ?" 
 
 "O, if yer don't care to hear it, pard, I can quit a tootin' my 
 
134 THE SHANTY BO 7, 
 
 horn right here, now !" 
 
 "All right, Jack, let her roll !" 
 
 Jack meditatively sucked his long expired pipe, for a few 
 moments, and having apparently refreshed his memory by the 
 exercise, he continued : 
 
 "There war wot them literare fellers would call a romance 
 about Charlie's past hist'ry, some pints of which I got from a 
 'tote' teamster, what knowed Charlie in Bay City. It seems 
 as how his ol' man war well to do in York state, an' had a large 
 lumber yard in Albany. Charlie war rather tough and kinder 
 broke the old man up, till at last things ended in a high old 
 row, an' the ol' man divided the house with Charlie, ginin' him 
 the outside for his share. 
 
 "Well, Charlie came to Michigan, and went right inter the 
 woods, whar in a few winters, he war able to take hold of any- 
 thin', an' he soon got a camp to run. He swore off whisky, 
 an' seemed to have a pride in lettin' folkses see he could be a 
 man once more. 
 
 "Old John McGraw — God bless him, for he war the poor 
 man's friend — got holt on Charlie, an' when I went to work for 
 him out yer, he had ran camp three winters. Of course thar 
 wos a woman mixed up in Charlie's story. He had fell in love 
 with a Bay City gal, named Allie Farnham, whose folks war 
 poor but 'spectable. I never seed her in my life but once, but 
 she wos a beauty, pard, an' jes' as good as she war pretty." 
 
 "Her folks war down on Charlie, an' wouldn't let her keep 
 company with him, but that same summer, afore Charlie came 
 to the woods, they had slipped off an' got married, so that 
 when little more than a month old bride, they had to sep- 
 arate. 
 
 "Camp wa'nt the nicest place in the world for a wife in them 
 days, though the wives of the foreman, cook and scaler, are 
 often in camp with their husbands now, so Charlie didn't 
 have his wife out with him. But the arrangement war that 
 she wos to come out to the Au Gres by stage, an' then ride in 
 ter camp on one of the 'tote' teams, when we began 'breakin' ' 
 out the jam in the spring, an' lookin' forward to this, Charlie 
 
OR, LIFE IX A LUMBER CAMP. 125 
 
 had coaxed the cook to bring his wife out to camp. No woman 
 but a wife dead in love with her husband, would have tried 
 such a thing, for the thirty odd miles 'twen this an' AuGres, war 
 over roads that war a terror, now I tell ye. 
 
 " Well, as I war a sayin' winter rolled away fast, an' our 
 crew war fat an' sassy. The spring thaw began to set in, an' 
 all the little creeks an' streams flowin' inter the Au Gres river 
 war a hustling down thar water fast, an' it was, hour by hour, 
 a raisin' in the river, so that the 'drive' war upon us long before 
 we war a lookin' for it. 
 
 "Charlie hung off as long as he could, for we had about two 
 millions more we wanted to put in, an' the logs war mostly all 
 skidded. Besides our log road war in prime order, an' with 
 twelve teams a haulin', we war more than snakin them in. 
 
 "Well pard, as I said, the water wos on us before we war 
 anythin' like ready, an' I tell ye, these here banks wos a brim- 
 min' full. It war some thin' grand to look at, you jes' bet ! 
 Did ye ever see the break up of a 'rollway' on one of these 
 rivers, guve'nor?" 
 
 "I have not yet, Jack, but I intend to see one this spring." 
 
 "Then you never saw a 'drive' come down ?" 
 
 "Never experienced that pleasure yet." 
 
 "Pleasure ? Pleasure be hanged ! All day up ter yer middle 
 in water, with the ice a floatin' 'round yer. Birling a log, with 
 the slush and water churning out through the holes in yer 
 drivin' boots. Wrappin' j'erself in yer blanket, an' tryin' to 
 get a little sleep on the bank in yer frozen clothes. Gettin' up 
 before day, all stiff an' frozen, to eat a piece of cold pork an' 
 bread, an' then grab yer pike lever, an' jump on a log. That's 
 the pleasure, for about sixty days, found in river drivin' in 
 spring." 
 
 "Well Jack, if that's the size of it, I would rather not have 
 any, but go on with your story." 
 
136 THE SHANTY BOY, 
 
 CHAPTER XVII. 
 
 The Stoiiy of the Lone Pine Tree Continued — Tragedy in the 
 Woods — Sad Ending of a Love Story. 
 
 "Friend after friend departs, 
 
 Who hath not lost a friend? 
 
 There is no union here of hearts, 
 
 That finds not here an end. 
 
 Were this frail world our final rest, 
 
 Living or dying none were bless'd." 
 
 "Lem'e see, whar was I ? O yes, when the water was a 
 risin'. Well, everythin' war at sixes an' sevens in camp. The 
 blacksmith hadn't the pike levers ready, an' the ropes and 
 snatch blocks, for breakin' out the jam, hadn't got in from the 
 front yet. 
 
 "Charlie Monroe war terrible worked up, not expectin' the 
 'drive' to be on him so soon. I tell ye, pard, it war a sight ter 
 see, an' enough to make a stout man weakin. If thar's lots of 
 snow this winter, yer don't want ter miss seein' a 'jam' break 
 up. Take yer chance on some big lumberin' river, an' ye'll see 
 a sight ye'll not forget for the balance of yer life time. Why 
 if ye havn't seed it, I can't give yer any idear of what it's like. 
 Jes' imagine that thar river a piled full of logs, sixteen or 
 eighteen tier deep, for a couple o' miles. The water a foamin', 
 and spurtin', an' rollin' like mad, over, under an' about the 
 solid mass o' timber. Logs tumblin' pell mell over each other, 
 poundin' a base drum solo to the deafenin' roar of the water ! 
 Men on either bank yellin' like mad ! The foreman, an' his 
 best hands, are out on the center, fast'nin' on the 'breaking 
 out' cable, stretched across the river, an' hooked on ter the 
 
OR, LIFE IN A LUMBER CAMP. 127 
 
 jam log. The teamsters a yellin' an' swarin' at thir hosses, till 
 at last she begins ter give, an' the foreman yells : 
 
 " 'Here she comes ! The jam is broke ! Watch ont !' 
 
 "Logs, in solid masses, five deep, go plunging an' a rollin' 
 down, end over end, sideways, lengthways, every way, snappin' 
 crashin', poundin' each other, with a roll an' a roar, that only 
 heavy timber can make in a river run mad. That's 'breakin' 
 out the jam,' pard, an' don't ye forget it ! Talk about a Sagi- 
 naw whisky drunk, why it's nothin' to a breakin' out drunk. 
 Thar's whar ye can get reelin' full, with wild excitement, an' 
 never have ter smell a cork !" 
 
 "Well done, Jack ! Your description is a picture in itself, 
 but forge ahead with your story." 
 
 "Right ye are, chummy, an' beg pardin for flyin' off the 
 handle that way, but I tell ye it warms up my heart when I 
 think of them days. Do ye know that's the reason why log 
 drivers go on ter the river year arter year ? It's the wild 
 excitement keeps them warm, and helps them to stay in the 
 water 'mong the floatin' ice all day. Thar's a wichery about 
 the cussed thing, we can't get away from. 
 
 "Well, it war a bright Sunday mornin', when what I'm a 
 goin' to tell ye took place. It had rained more or less durin' 
 the past week, all up north an' down our way, an' the water 
 war a commin' down with a vengeance. We didn't sleep much 
 that night, an' by break o' day, all hands wos down here on 
 the river bank. I tell ye it wor a sight to see ! The top logs 
 had begun to float, an' had already formed little jams, that 
 kinder served to back up the water. 
 
 " 'We must break that are jam some way, boys,' shouted 
 Charlie. 
 
 "We wan't obleged to work, it bein' Sunday, an' for the first 
 time in camp, the men paid no attention to the foreman's hint 
 to go to work. Besides it wos all a man's life war worth to 
 face the music of that thar roarin' river. 
 
 " 'Boys, them are logs must be started down ! Double pay 
 to the men who will toiler me !' an taken' hold of a pike lever, 
 Charlie wos in a minute out on top of the jam. 
 
12H THE SHANTY BOY. 
 
 "Well ye know, pard, it wouldn't do to see the boy out thar 
 all alone, an' whar one man goes, 'nother ort ter foller. I war 
 only a boy, but I had a man's pluck, so I grabbed a pike, and 
 yellin' 'foller yer leader!' wos soon outside with Char- 
 lie. Six more of the boys follored us, all good men. Poor 
 fellers, how well I remember them ! There war Pat Donoughue, 
 Steve Riddley, Josh Ballette, Sandy McPherson, Mike Eagan, 
 an' a Injin we called B'armeat. The 'face' of the rollway wos 
 jes' a little below here, an' the logs war all up stream, for 
 nearly three miles — for there wos several camps puttin' in, 
 along here besides we. Well, the eight on us chaps got down 
 on the 'face,' to start the jam logs, but as none on us had on 
 'spikes,' it war skittish work. I remember as well as though it 
 war yes'erday, how we stood, heavin' on the jam log, with a 
 young Niagara falls a pourin' over us, an' log arter log a 
 jumpin' down, almost on top o' us. It war a dare devil thing 
 to do, but we wos jes' crazy with excitement, an' would have 
 stormed the mouth o' hell, if we had been told ter. But 
 'break the jam !' wos the word, an' break it we war bound ter, 
 so we heaved on the jam log, which if we got her loose, would 
 let the whole darned pile down. Every man 'cept me war a 
 good river driver, so that it didn't take long to heave out that 
 jam log'. 
 
 " 'Here she comes boys, watch out !' shouted Charlie, an' in 
 a minute the whole darned solid mass began to move. Down 
 it came, kinder slow at fust, but fast enough to keep us a 
 jumpin' from log ter log, to get ashore. 
 
 But we war too late, an with a roar an' a rush, the whole 
 shootin' gallery wos upon us, an' the last I remembered was a 
 hearin' the boys on shore yellin': 
 
 " 'Watch out ! She's on yer !' 
 
 "When a man's under water, with a thousand saw logs a 
 rollin' over him, seconds are like ages. How long I war down 
 I don't rightly know, but I war fully conscious of the close 
 call I war havin'. Everything I ever did in my past life, good 
 or bad, seemed ter come right up afore me, with the swiftness 
 and clearness of a lightenin' flash. The fear of death seemed 
 
OR, LIFE IN A LUMBER CAMP. 129 
 
 to be lost sight of entirely, an' my only sorror war that I had 
 lost a good pike lever. I remember wonderin' how the boys 
 would divide up the truck in my 'turkey,' an' who would take 
 my bunk. All this time— how long or short I can't tell — I 
 war tumbled about in every direction, now striking my head 
 agin a log, now being bumped by one. Part of the time a 
 scrapin' agin the bottom ov the river, an' agin a comin' up to 
 the surface, in the boilin' mad waters. 
 
 "How I didn't drownd, I'll never tell ye, for I don't know, 
 but I finally found myself in a sort o' eddy, a floatin' quietly 
 among a lot o' logs, to one of which I war clinging frantically, 
 tell I fully recovered my presence o' mind and made for the 
 shore, 
 
 "In a few minutes I had got back my breath, an' on lookin' 
 down the river, I saw the camp boys among the whirlin' logs, 
 an- kinder thought they wer' a lookin' for us. I had landed 
 fully a harf mile below the camp, down by that thar clump of 
 cedar ye see yander, an' though the main jam had passed, the 
 river still roared with the flood, an' rushed along for all it was 
 worth, filled with logs. Probably not more than ten minutes 
 had passed since the jam had broke, an' in that thar time fully 
 twenty millions of logs had been swept down. 
 
 "Presently I heard a shout lower down, which rose above 
 the thunderin' row the river war a makin'. I wos yet too weak 
 to walk, or even stand, but raisin' myself on my elbow, I saw 
 six of the lads a comin' towards me, bearin' suthin' on a 
 litter made of cedar boughs. It wasn't long afore they reached 
 me, an' they halted long enough to let me see the dead body 
 ov poor Charlie Monroe. 
 
 " 'Is he dead, boys ?' 
 
 " 'I should say he was, Jack,' said Larry Cox, 'every bone 
 in him's broke !' 
 
 "Leanin' on an arm of a boy on each side of me, we made 
 our way to camp, whar we placed the man we all so dearly 
 loved, on a table in the cook camp. Why sir, when we exam- 
 ined him, I don't believe thar wor a whole bone in his body, 
 an' cuts an' wounds all over him enough to kill fifty men, only 
 
130 THE SHANTY BOY, 
 
 cur'us enough, his face wan't teched, an' he lay thar jes' as 
 tho' he'd fell asleep. We laid him out as decently as we 
 could, and then went into the bunk camp to smoke and 
 think. 
 
 "About noon the rest ov the boys got back, arter a useless 
 search for the other six, and I may here tell yer, neither hide 
 nor hair o' one ov 'em war ever seed, from that day ter this. 
 They had been ground ter powder ! I alone out of the eight 
 had escaped to tell the story, an' strange to say, only a trifle 
 hurt. 
 
 "But the worst was yet till come. It war Sunday in camp, 
 and the sorrerfullest Sunday I ever put in in my life. The 
 day lagged along, till the horn went for supper, but none ov us 
 had much appertite for 'chuck,' although the cook an' his kind 
 wife had tried to get up sum'thin' extra for the boys. But the 
 shock war a hard one on us all, for we had got through the 
 winter without any one bein' hurt in camp, an' now all to once 
 seven of our best men had passed in their checks ! Still, 
 'though we didn't then know it, the worst wos yet to come. 
 
 "Along about nine er'clock the 'tote' sleighs came in, bringin' 
 the ropes an' other truck for breakin' out the jam, which, if we 
 hqd had 'em in the mornin' would have saved seven lives. But 
 worse than all, there war a passenger aboard Bill Corbette's 
 sleigh — a woman — who wos none other than Charlie Monroe's 
 wife! 
 
 "When we found out from the tote teamster who she war, 
 we all made a break for the barn like a passel of cowards, but 
 I tell yer pard, I wouldn't have faced that thar woman, to tell 
 her the story of Charlie's death, for John McGraw's big mill. 
 Then it wos that the cook's wife came in handy, and a good, 
 kind woman she war. When the poor little wife inquired the 
 fust thing, whar her Charlie wor, that thar cook's wife jes' took 
 her in her arms an' led her past whar the dead war lyin', an' 
 brought her inter the little bed-room at the end of the cook 
 camp. 
 
 How that cook's wife told her the story, I dun know, but 
 presently the whole camp rang with her screams, the dread- 
 
Olt. LIFE IN A LUMBER CAMP. 131 
 
 fulest ye ever heard, so that us fellers buried our heads in the 
 hay, so's we wouldn't hear them orful cries. 
 
 " 'By Judas Priest, boys, I can't stan this,' siz Joe Dusen- 
 berry, a big feller from Maine, with the tears a streaming down 
 his face, 'I can't stan' this. Let's go over an' try an' do some- 
 thin'.' 
 
 "Off Joe started, an' we all follored in Injin file. But what 
 a sight did we see ! The poor young woman war a clinging to 
 the body of her dead husband, an' a screechin': 
 
 " 'O Charlie, Charlie come back to me !' 
 
 "It wor awful, pard ! 
 
 "We couldn't of course do anythin' but look on, but pard, 
 I never want to look on sich a sight again ! 
 
 "The young wife war close til her confinement, an' that night 
 in that thar old camp you see thar, ther' war a dead baby an' 
 a dead mother along of the dead father ! Her last words 
 war : 'bury me with Charlie.' 
 
 "We held a camp consultation that same night, with the 
 scaler for chairman, an' it war decided for the time to bury 
 the bodies all together, under this very pine tree, which cur'us 
 enough, Charlie had marked for cuttin' the very day before. 
 See here is the marks of his scorin' axe yet. But here it still 
 stands, and will stand, for all the camp boys on the Au Gres 
 knows the lone pine tree, an' no one will ever put an axe nor 
 a saw inter it. 
 
 "That summer, the ol' man, Charlie's father, sent up and had 
 the bodies removed to Albany, where he gave them a fine big 
 funeral, but I orfen use'ter think he might have been a little 
 kinder when Charlie war alive. Do you know Dan Cullighan, 
 of Roscommon, pard ?" 
 
 "I do not, Jack." 
 
 "Well, Dan made a purty song on the death of Charlie Mon- 
 roe. Almost every camp in Michigan has some chap what 
 
 knows it." 
 
 "Why, Jack, I've heard it a dozen of times, but never knew 
 
 the full story before." 
 
 "Well, that's all thar is of it, an' it has given me the horrors 
 
132 THE SHANTY BOY, 
 
 to tell it to-night. Howsomever, we are not far from Sandy 
 Mclntyre's camp, so le's peg out an' get through now we are 
 well rested." 
 
 I have striven to give the foregoing story as near in the 
 dialect and style, as told me by "Silver Jack." If the 
 endeavor to imitate the language of the woodsman has robbed 
 the tale of some of its pathetic features, for the reader, I will 
 regret it very mnch. As told to me in the phraseology of the 
 camp, it certainly affected me strongly. 
 
 CHAPTER XVIII. 
 
 A Shanty Boy's Love Story — How Fred Fcllgraft Nearly Lost his 
 Bride — The Treachery op the Tote Teamster — All is Well that 
 Ends Well — One for the Boys. 
 
 "Say darling, say, when I am far away, 
 
 Sometimes you may think of me, dear; 
 Bright sunny days will soon fade away, 
 
 Remember what I say to be true dear," 
 
 "1 cannot see Katie, how you could ever have taken a notion 
 to me ?" 
 
 "A notion, Fred? You certainly do not pay a very valuable 
 compliment to the highest gift a woman can give a man, in the 
 first love of her young heart, when you style that gift a 
 'notion.' " 
 
 "Well dear, don't be vexed. You know what I mean, and 
 that is that a sweet little girl like you, beautiful, educated, and 
 holding socially the position you do in society, could ever have 
 responded to the love of a rough shanty boy, save with the 
 contempt it would seem to merit." 
 
OB, LIFE IN A LUMBER CAMP. 133 
 
 "Now Fred dear, are you really mean enough to fish for 
 compliments, or have you forgotten that self disparagement is 
 the worst kind of flattery ? I cannot believe that of you, and 
 I know the heart of the true gentleman may be found oftener 
 beating beneath the suit of 'Mackinaws,' than under broad 
 cloth. I love you Fred dear, because you are my ideal of a 
 man, and you know as Burns says : 
 
 'The king may make a belted knight, 
 But a man's a man for all that.' " 
 
 "My own darling Kate." * * * 
 
 "Now Fred behave ! See how you have mussed my collar, 
 and I do declare you have broken one of my earings. See, it 
 is fastened in your whiskers. Why sir, you are as rough as a 
 bear. A pretty life you will lead me at this rate." 
 
 "My darling, I couldn't help it, but you shall have a new 
 pair of earrings, the best in town. Why Kate, I could just 
 eat you," 
 
 "You horrid monster ! There — there — now do be good." 
 
 "Well my pretty one I will, if you will only say when we can 
 tie up to each other. I can furnish a pleasant home here, and 
 have bought the Wix cottage you so much admired — bought 
 and paid for as a pretty cage for my Katie bird. Now when 
 will it be, love ?" 
 
 "Why, what an awful hurry you are in Fred. I have a good 
 notion not to say one word about it, if only to punish you for 
 being so impatient, but dear I love you too well for that, and 
 will willingly be yours by the expiration of say six weeks, to 
 give me time to get ready. Say the 25th of July. Will that 
 be too soon, Fred ?" 
 
 "Too soon Kate ? Why its an age to wait. You fill me 
 with joy, however by your sweet consent, and I only wish I 
 were a gentleman worthy of you." 
 
 "Hush Fred, and do not annoy me by insinuating, that 
 because you wear a red sash and spikes in your boots, and 
 work honestly on the river for your living, that you are less a 
 gentleman in my eyes." 
 
134 THE SHANTY BOY, 
 
 "Thank you for your good opinion, Kate, but the red sash 
 and spiked boots are not the usual rig of what is called a gen- 
 tleman, nor is going up on the jam and coming down on the 
 drive the usual occupation he follows." 
 
 "Stop Fred, stop !" — and a very pretty hand was placed over 
 his mouth — "stay till I give you my ideal of a gentleman. It 
 is not the sanctimonious, well fed, svell clad money getter, who 
 will not shave on Sunday morning because of the sinfulness of 
 the act, but who will pass the whole week shaving poor men's 
 notes at fifty per cent. Nor is the woman a lady who is so 
 good that she would not have a shoe blacked in her house on 
 the Sabbath, but who can pass a full week blacking her neigh- 
 bors' characters. The true gentleman is the one who can look 
 his fellow in the face and say, 'I never injured you.' Who can : 
 
 'Have a dollar to lend, another to spend, 
 And one for the rainy day.' " 
 
 "Whew, Kate, what a sermon ! Why you can beat a 'camp 
 missionary' all hollow. I see there will be no great necessity 
 for me to go to church when we are married. However, gen- 
 tleman or not, it is enough for me to know I have won the 
 heart of the sweetest girl in all Michigan, and to her— heaven 
 helping me — I shall always be a gentleman." 
 
 "I know it dear, and am willing to risk my life's happiness 
 upon what Fred Fullgraft says." * * * * 
 
 The rumpling and jewelry destroying process was again 
 repeated, mingled with all the little silly nothings found in the 
 language of love. But pshaw! dear reader, you have been 
 there yourself, and it is useless to scent the rose or paint the 
 rainbow, to simply recall to your memory love's young 
 dream. 
 
 "Kate dear, there is to be a grand picnic here on the fourth, 
 as you know, and I would like to have you go with me. We 
 have not appeared in public very often together, and I hardly 
 know yet how your people will take your engagement with the 
 poor river driver." 
 
 "Now Fred, how often have I to check this spirit of self dis- 
 
OB, LIFE IN A LUMBER CAMP. 135 
 
 paragement you seem to indulge in so much? I am my own 
 mistress and can follow the bent of my own inclinations. 
 Besides my sister and her husband both like ,you, and although 
 you work for him on the Au Sable river, he thinks there is no 
 one like Fred Fullgraft, I have heard him say that repeatedly. 
 But I shall be happy to go with you on the fourth dear, and 
 will be ready as early as you like." 
 
 "Good girl ; say eight o'clock that morning. I shall be on 
 deck without fail, rest assured." 
 
 "I know I can depend upon my own brave shanty boy, and 
 you will find me waiting and anticipating a day of blissful 
 enjoyment." 
 
 "Wouldn't break my word to you, Katie, for ten sections of 
 the best pine in Michigan." 
 
 "If you did, Fred, my confidence would be so badly shat- 
 tered that I much doubt whether it could again be restored. 
 But dear, I believe as firmly in you as I trust my own soul." 
 
 "Why, Kate dear, don't be so serious about such a trifling 
 thing. I have never yet deceived you in thought or word, and 
 wouldn't care to begin with a fourth of July picnic." 
 
 "I know it dear, but trifles are frequently the fine points on 
 which life's joys and sorrows rest, and ever since the subject 
 of this picnic has come up, a dark foreboding has come over 
 me, as though it were a premonition of coming evil." 
 
 "Pshaw ! darling, let me drive it away with a kiss." 
 * * * * * * 
 
 Just a word or two, dear reader, of introduction to the loving 
 couple upon whose privacy we have so unceremoniously 
 intruded : 
 
 The hero of this sketch — hero is the proper word, isn't it ? — 
 was to the careless observer nothing more than a mere shanty 
 boy. That is he was one of the pioneer army of civilization, 
 who in the great "battle of the saw log," find employment during 
 the winter months in separating said logs from the parent tree, 
 and in spring rafting them down some one of the many streams 
 tributary to Saginaw Bay. But Fred. Fullgraft was no rough, 
 swearing, drinking shanty man. He was physically— yes and 
 
136 THE SHANTY BOY, 
 
 morally — the peer of any man in Michigan, famed as she is for 
 stalwart sons and beautiful daughters. 
 
 Kate Merryville was a girl well fitted to become a mate for 
 the honest son of toil upon whom she had bestowed the wealth 
 of her heart's affections. Born, reared and educated upon the 
 northwestern shore of Lake Huron, its life imparting breezes 
 had, for twenty summers, played at hide and seek with the 
 luxuriant meshes of her nut brown curls, and left the bloom 
 of the peach upon cheeks as fair as beauty could desire, 
 denoting that life in its full flow, was coursing through her 
 veins in every pulsation of a heart free from guile. 
 
 And the bright summer days glided by joyously for the two 
 lovers, re-enacting upon the shores of Huron the old story of 
 Eden's garden. 
 
 By this time the fact of their betrothal and marriage day, 
 had spread throughout the confines of the little lake port vil- 
 lage. In public they had repeatedly appeared, and whether 
 at church or on some evening at the "bowejjy dance," they 
 were the observed of all observers. The rough lumbermen 
 congratulated Fred upon winning the belle of the lake shore, 
 and swore heartily that the coming wedding should be one 
 long to be remembered in Northern Michigan. 
 
 The girl friends of Kate — after the first flush of surprise had 
 passed — pressed about her to say what a fortunate girl she 
 was, in becoming the betrothed of the best behaved and 
 handsomest young man in five counties. To be sure, the 
 natural feminine essence of envy, mingled with all these good 
 wishes, but that was to be expected when remembering that 
 Fred Fullgraft was no common "river driver," but one of those 
 choice specimens of masculine humanity, designed by natitre 
 to attract the fancy of a woman. 
 
 With the men the same was in a great measure the case, and 
 more than one heart felt a keen pang of regret, as the voice of 
 common gossip fully confirmed the fact that Kate Merryville 
 and Fred Fullgraft were to be shortly wedded. 
 
 But this sketch weuld be very incera^lete, without the pres- 
 ence of the conventional villian being seen. This convenient 
 
OR, LIFE IN A LUMBEB CAMP. 137 
 
 "scape goat" for all the crosses and blunders lovers are sub- 
 jected to, was found in the person of one Eichard Baxter, who 
 had long professed a sneaking regard for the charming Miss 
 Merryville, although the gentleman labored under the disad- 
 vantage of being anything but a man that ladies die to look 
 upon. In fact, if it must be told, Dick Baxter was as homely 
 as a pine knot, besides being possessed of a soul so small that 
 it could travel about in a mosquitoe's eye for ten thousand 
 years, and never make the insect wink once. But Dick's 
 father was well fixed, having a large supply store, beside keep- 
 ing the postoffice, of which latter princely reward for Amer- 
 ican patriotism, Dick was the custodian, making him, in shanty 
 boy parlance, "no slouch on a saw log." 
 
 It wanted but one short week to usher in the anniversary of 
 the nation's birth. In the lake shore village of D — (the reader 
 may locate this town where the incident will best fit) the occa- 
 sion was to be observed by a grand procession, oration and 
 picnic, followed in the evening by an exhibition of "fireworks" 
 and a ball. Never before in the history of the village, had 
 such a gigantic celebration been attempted, and all the lads 
 and lasses were on tip toe of expectation. 
 
 Mr. Richard Baxter had earnestly pressed his services upon 
 Miss Merryville, as her escort upon the auspicious occasion, 
 but had been politely informed, that the lady was engaged, 
 an item of information which did not in the least operate like 
 oil on the troubled waters of Mr. Dick's solicitude, and he 
 departed, vowing general vengeance, 
 
 A damper however had fallen upon the anticipated pleasure, 
 in the form of copious torrents of ram, which without intermis- 
 sion had fallen for the previous ten days, flooding the hearts 
 of the pleasure seeking patriots with vexatious regrets, and 
 the tributary branches of the lumbering rivers with an abun- 
 dance of water, by which the "hung up" logs could be brought 
 down. 
 
 And right on this latter watery fact hangs the plot and pur- 
 pose of this narration. 
 
 Fred Fullgraft was a noted river driver, and had all that 
 
138 THE SHANTY BOY, 
 
 spring been at work on the north branch of the Au Sable, for 
 Pack, Woods & Co., of Oscoda. The indications were that the 
 "rear" would be brought down, through the unlooked for rise 
 in the river, and Fred, with a strong crew of river drivers, 
 was sent up, to get out the hung up logs. It was a great dis- 
 appointment to Fred to realize that it would be impossible for 
 him to be present at the picnic on the fourth at D — ., as he 
 would be many miles away on that date. Still, knowing Kate 
 to be a sensible girl, who would be better pleased to see her 
 intended attending to well paid work, in preference to pleas- 
 ure at the sacrifice of his employer's interest, he wrote her as 
 follows : 
 
 Au Sabije River Camp, June 28th, 188- 
 Mt Own D ablins Kate: 
 
 I find it impossible to be with you for the fun on the 
 "fourth," as I shall have to be on the drive. Neither of us, dear, 
 are rich enough to sacrifice my time just now, as wages are 
 large, and I want all I can get to make my sweet wife — soon 
 to be — comfortable and happy. Do me the favor to stay away 
 from the picnic that day, as I cannot be with you, and the 
 thought of your being there with some other person, would 
 make me very uncomfortable. I know this sounds very selfish 
 but dear, I am making a sacrifice for you, and I know you 
 will make this little one for me. 
 
 Your lonesome lover, 
 Fred. 
 
 This warm effusion Fred gave to the tote teamster, with 
 strict injunctions to see it put in the post office at D — , and 
 then returned fully satisfied to his work on the river. 
 
 The "drive" was a successful one, and the logs were boomed 
 at the mouth of the Au Sable in safety. Fred had finished 
 his job in good style and hurried to the postoffice to get at 
 least one letter from his absent Kate. Keen was his disap- 
 pointment, and great his surprise, to find but one letter await- 
 ing him, and that in a strange hand. Tearing it open, the 
 missive was as follows : 
 
 D , July 5th, 188- 
 
 Mk. Fred Fullgbaft: 
 
 Dear Sib — Your girl has gone back on you bad. She 
 
OB. LIFE IN A LUMBER GAMP. 139 
 
 was at the picnic yesterday with your old rival Dick Baxter, 
 and danced with him all afternoon at the National bowery. 
 She flirted awfully, and every one is talking about it. You 
 better wake up, old man, or your name is Dennis. 
 
 From your friend, X X. 
 
 Not even stopping to change his clothing, Fred rushed to a 
 livery stable, and ordered the fleetest team in the barn, and 
 within ten minutes was on the way to D — . With the horses 
 covered with foam he arrived, and throwing the lines to the 
 hostler, he hurried down the street to where Miss Merryville 
 resided, but he had not proceeded but a short distance before 
 he saw coming toward him, leaning on the arm of the hated 
 Dick Baxter, his betrothed. 
 
 "What does all this mean, Kate ?" 
 
 "To what 'this' do you allude, Mr. Fullgraft ?" 
 
 "O, its Mr. Fullgraft, now is it ? You false, miserable, lying 
 jade. I've got through with you, rest assured of that !" 
 
 "Mr. Fullgraft, how dare you address snch insulting lan- 
 guage to me ? None but a cowardly cur would speak to a 
 woman in that manner," and the indignant girl burst into 
 tears. 
 
 "I speak to you that way because you richly deserve it. I 
 heard of your cutting up with this miserable pup here, on the 
 "fourth," and I'm glad I met youjust to tell you what I think of 
 you." 
 
 "Come sir," interposed the redoubtable Dick, "this lady is 
 under my protection, and I won't let her be insulted with im- 
 punity. No — sir — re — sir !" 
 
 The words were hardly out of Dick's mouth, before he was 
 twentj feet from Fred, in which twenty feet he had turned six 
 somersaults and landed on his latter end, with his nose spout- 
 ing a sanguine stream, and he yelling "murder ! fire ! thieves ! 
 police !" as loud as his cracked voice would allow him. 
 
 "You can now go and console your very handsome beau, 
 Miss Merryville," said Fred, as he turned on his heel. "Good 
 by forever, Kate !" and pushing his way through the crowd 
 that had quickly collected, he sauntered down the street 
 singing : 
 
140 THE SHANTY BOY, 
 
 "Now all you bold shanty boys, wherever you be, 
 Beware of false women take warning by me; 
 If ever you meet one with a dark chestnut curl, 
 Just think of Jack Haggerty and his Flat River girl." 
 
 That night Fred Fullgraftgot blazing, fighting drunk. Licked 
 four men, and finally got a first class "banging" himself. It 
 was the first drunk of his life, and it was a royal old "toot," 
 rest assured. 
 
 And thus they parted ! 
 
 # * * * * * 
 
 Two years had passed away. The winter's snows of Decem- 
 ber were deep upon the ground. In the center of a heavy 
 tract of pine, Fred Fullgraft had built his camps to lumber 
 the same. There were several hundred miles between him and 
 the girl he at once loved and hated. 
 
 But Fullgraft was a sadly changed man. "Cross, cranky, 
 and hard to please," was the word among the men working for 
 him. Poor Fred ! He had sought surcease of sorrow in life's 
 great curse, intemperance, and was fast going to the devil, and 
 only that he was a first class woodsman, he could not have 
 held his situation over the large camp, where we find him, one 
 hour. 
 
 The men had eaten their supper and were seated around 
 the big stove in the "bunk camp," when a man entered with 
 a "turkey" over his shoulder, which he slung into a corner, 
 and approached the stove. 
 
 "Evenin' pards ! Whar's the foreman ?" 
 
 "In the 'van,' I guess," replied one of the men. 
 
 After warming himself, the stranger proceeded to the office. 
 When he saw who the foreman was, he started back and 
 exclaimed : 
 
 "Why sir, isn't yer name Fred Fullgraft ?" 
 
 "Yes, what do you want ?" 
 
 "I didn't knowyou war foreman here." 
 
 Why, what difference is that to you ? Haloo ! Ar'n't you 
 Tom Tallbut, who was toting for me two years ago on the 
 Au Sable?" 
 
OB, LIFE IN A LUMBER GAMP. 141 
 
 "Yes, Mr. Fullgraft, an' I'm mighty glad to have came acrost 
 yer, not so much becase you may give me a job, but becase 
 I've som'thin' heavy on my mind to tell yer," said the man, 
 sitting down on an empty nail keg. 
 
 "Well, Tom old boy, out with it !" 
 
 Tou remember a ginin' me a letter to post for yer that June 
 we war up on the north branch, Fred, for a lady in D — ?" 
 
 "Yes, what of that letter ? You posted it as I told you, of 
 course ?" 
 
 "Well Fred, I may as well own up fust as last, I didn't." 
 
 "What ?" 
 
 "I never posted it, Fred. Yer see I war a ridin' 'long with 
 Dick Baxter that ther' same day, who war out a shootin' 'bout 
 four miles from D — , when I war drivin' in, an' me an' him got 
 a talkin' 'bout Miss Merryville, an' I told him I had a letter 
 from you for her, au' he axed to see it. Well Fred, to make 
 a long story short, he offered me ten dollars ter keep the letter 
 tell arter the fourth, an' I didn't think a few days could make 
 much difference, so I took the money an' kept the letter ever 
 since. I got inter camp pretty full, you remember, an' you gin 
 me the 'bounce' an' that made me mad. But when I hearn 
 tell of the trouble 'tween you an' Miss Merryville, I kinder 
 suspicioned that ere letter war the reason for it, an' that darned 
 Dick Baxter had played me for a 'sucker.' So I made up my 
 mind ter tell yer all about it, the fust time I seed yer. Hope 
 you won't bear any spite, Fred, an' kinder look it over. 
 Here's the letter — Holy smoke ! Fred don't look so orful !" 
 
 Fred took his old letter mechanically, his face changing 
 from red to white and from white to red, while the glare in his 
 eyes was something frightful to behold. 
 
 The man shrunk cowed and terror stricken before him. 
 
 "Forgive you ? Forgive you ? Christ may forgive you, but 
 I never can. You have ruined two lives, you rotten hound, 
 and I'm going to kill you!" And grasping the trembling 
 wretch by the throat, Fred struck his fist into his face repeat- 
 edly, and dashed him on the floor, where he would have cer- 
 tainly trampled the life out of him, had not the yells of the 
 
142 THE SHANTY BOY, 
 
 half-strangled man brought the crew from the camp, who with 
 difficulty, separated the avenger from his victim. As it was, 
 two weeks passed before the teamster left his bunk. 
 # * # * * * 
 
 It was Christmas eve, in the little village of D — . The 
 Union church was dressed in evergreens, in memory of the 
 glad occasion. A large audience participated in the services, 
 among whom was Kate Merryville, and to all it was evident 
 that a great sorrow was eating away the girl's life. 
 
 In a quiet corner she sits, observing the exercises of the 
 Sunday school children, upon whom the eyes of the whole 
 congregation are fixed. A low, soft voice whispers in her ear 
 one word : 
 
 "Katie !" 
 
 Turning quickly she is face to face with the only man she 
 ever loved ! 
 
 "Katie, in the name of Him whose advent is commemorated 
 here to-night, let me tell you my story." 
 
 At first she hesitated, but the'icy incrustation about her 
 heart, melted into tenderness at that loved voice. She real- 
 ized in her inmost soul the spirit of awakened love and pity, 
 as she beheld the great tears coursing down his cheeks, and 
 she felt that the tears of a manly man are something awfully 
 sacred. 
 
 He spoke not a word farther, but silently handed her the 
 discolored letter, which with a trembling hand she opened 
 and read. As she read, the smile came to her lips and the 
 glad lovelight to her eyes. 
 
 "Katie, can you forgive me ?" 
 
 "Yes dear Fred, I can, even as I have to be forgiven, for I — 
 to indulge a petty spirit of revenge at your presumed slight — 
 accepted the escort of the villian Baxter that day to the picnic, 
 and took especial pains to show everyone present how little I 
 cared for you." 
 
 "Kate dear, the evening is pleasant outside, what say you to 
 a stroll?" 
 
OR. LIFE IN A LUMBER CAMP. 148 
 
 " Willingly Fred, for your coming has brought the only 
 peace to my heart this wide, wide world could give." 
 
 "Dearest, for us there is to-night peace and goodwill, and two 
 hearts, long sundered, are again united, never more to separ- 
 ate. I feel that good will so strong to all men, even to Dick 
 Baxter and Tom Tallbut, that as I have drank in of the spirit 
 of your sweet forgiveness, so can I forgive, Come dear !" and 
 they went out into the sweet, bright starlight of that Christ- 
 mas eve, 
 
 "Two souls with but a single thought, 
 Two hearts that beat as one." 
 
 CHAPTER XIX. 
 
 The Shanty Boy in the Wak — The Army of the "Saw Log" at the 
 Front — A Visit to a Lumber Camp op Old Vets — We Drop into 
 Poetry— "Dennis McCall"— "The Burial of Grant"— A Short 
 Chapter for old Soldiers. 
 
 "Hurrah! hurrah! We'll sound the jubilee! 
 Hurrah! hurrah! the flag that makes us free! 
 And so we sang the chorus from Atlanta to the sea, 
 When we w«sre marching through Georgia." 
 
 it is a well known fact that the shanty boys from the lumber- 
 ing regions of Michigan and Wisconsin were well represented 
 in the union army from the beginning to the close of the late 
 war. From swinging the axe and the saw, the swinging of the 
 sabre and the handling of the rifle was the work of the shanty 
 boys by thousands. The fact that the war opened up a new 
 condition of life, filled with danger and excitement, was in per- 
 fect harmony with the disposition of the dashing, rollicking 
 woodsman, and apart from his patriotic incentives, the induce- 
 
144 THE SHANTY BOY, 
 
 ments offered by the war as food for a strong spirit of daring 
 adventure, was all that was necessary to cause him to don the 
 blue. He fought well, and when the war was over, what was 
 left of him laid down the musket, and again assumed the axe 
 and pevey hook. 
 
 Very many of these "old vets" have I met in woods, again 
 enlisted in the battle of the saw log, and a night in camp, 
 where several of these old soldiers are located, is fully equal 
 to visiting the "camp fire" of some army post of the G. A. It. 
 
 One of these camps comes to my mind as I write, where the 
 foreman had been a captain and the scaler a lieutenant in the 
 army. In this camp were some half dozen old comrades, who 
 had served in the same corps with the foreman, and from bat- 
 tling at his side for human freedom and the perpetuity of our 
 national life, had again enlisted in the war against King Pine. 
 It was a real pleasure for me to make this camp in the course 
 of my perigrinations through the woods, and especially so 
 when I could pass a Sunday with the boys. Then would the 
 "book of memory" be opened, and tales of foughten field and 
 cheerful bivouac be given to the listeners. Not from the lips 
 of moribund and mutilated men, came these stories and des- 
 criptions of "dire adventure by flood and field," but from men 
 still in the prime of life who in the first proud blush of their 
 young manhood, had gone forth to do and dare for their coun- 
 try. I remember distinctly on one of my visits being snow 
 bound in this camp — which I may say was located in proxim- 
 ity to Hubbard Lake, Mich. The storm was of such wild 
 intensity that for two days no work could be done, save taking 
 care of the horses and what little choring was necessary about 
 camp. But time passed rapidly and pleasantly in that "bunk 
 camp," where gathered about a roaring fire we laughed at the 
 efforts of the Storm King, to discommode us. Song and story 
 followed fast upon the heels of each other, and a genuine 
 "camp fire" was kept burning, around which the "old vets" 
 
 "Fought their battles o'er again, 
 And thrice they slayed the slain.'' 
 
 Had I at that time any thought of ever putting into its 
 
OR, LIFE IN~A LUMBER CAMP. 145 
 
 present form my recollections of shanty life, I could have gath- 
 ered up a large amount of material at that "snow bound camp 
 fire," which if not as artistically woven together as that of 
 Longfellow, would at least have formed the most interesting 
 portions of these compilations. One little incident as related 
 by the cook — formerly a sargeant in the 21st Michigan infantry 
 — fastened itself so firmly upon my recollection, owing to its 
 being a blending of the sublime and the ridiculous, that I 
 have taken the liberty of here presenting it in rudely meas- 
 ured verse, as a little spice of variety, to a "camp fire" in the 
 woods. That was a camp fire long to be remembered. The 
 old soldiers only numbered eight in a camp of sixty men, but 
 they held the position against all comers, during that snow 
 bound siege, and so let their gallant song and story find here 
 perpetuation in this episode of Michigan's brave Twenty-first 
 regiment, with its gallant Colonel, W. B. McCreery, now of 
 Flint, Mich. 
 
 DENNIS MO CALL.* 
 
 Our woods "camp Are" bright bums to-night, 
 
 The laugh and the jest floats free; 
 Here gathered are heroes of many a fight — 
 Who inarched to the front in their youth's strong might — 
 And bravely battled for union and right — 
 
 Till traitors were forced to flee. 
 Here comrades of old meet face to face, 
 
 And tell of the days long gone; 
 When bivouac, march and battle had place, 
 Where the daring deeds still each other chase — 
 O'er memory's page — with rapid pace, 
 
 Each seeming the bravest one. 
 Here heroes awake — by fame unsung — 
 
 Who moulder 'neath southern sod — 
 They answer roll call these ranks among; 
 As their story is told by some veteran's tongue; 
 In some deed which has to their memory clung, 
 
 Though their souls have long dwelt with God. 
 But my tale to you of a hero to-night, 
 
 *This narrative poem was composed by me for the veterans' reunion held at 
 Flint, Mich., Oct. 5th, 1885. 
 
146 THE SHANTY BOY, 
 
 Is one which has never been told; 
 For he won not his fame in bloody fight; 
 Nor was ranked as a man of dauntless might; 
 And yet as a "brave" you will read him aright, 
 
 As his story I to you unfold. 
 
 All the world has heard of the Twenty-first, 
 
 Of Michigan's volunteers — 
 Perchance some old "vet" will this story get, 
 
 And read it 'mid laughter and tears. 
 And among all of Michigan's gallant sons, 
 
 For pure cussedness they were the worst, 
 But in battle they had no peer in the fray, 
 
 McCreery's old Twenty-first. 
 Now the reason of this it will not be amiss, 
 
 At this stage of our tale to tell; 
 It would make you laugh when the roll read of 
 
 All the Irish names that fell; 
 There was Pat and Mike and Barney and Ike, 
 
 And Larry and Dan and Ted, 
 With Dennis McCall the worst of them all, 
 
 In a Michigan shanty camp bred. 
 
 II. 
 
 Thus you clearly see that the Twenty-first, 
 
 Was well charged with Irish blood; 
 But this Dennis McCall was chief of them all, 
 
 For tricks that were laughably good. 
 I should also relate that this regiment great, 
 
 Was terribly fond of its "budge," 
 And to keep a full can each would scheme and plan. 
 
 Nor any effort begrudge. 
 Till with fighting fame they had also the name, 
 
 Of a drinking rollicking crowd; 
 And McCreery swore that "budge" no more, 
 
 Should be in the camp allowed. 
 So sad to say from that awful day, 
 
 The whole Twenty-first went dry; 
 With never a drop their longing to Stop, 
 
 For a snifter of Saginaw rye! 
 
 in. 
 
 In vain did each man devise and plan, 
 Not a drink could be brought into camp; 
 
 For the sentry's round covered every ground, 
 With a ceaseless, vigilant tramp. 
 
OR, LIFE IN A LUMBER GAMP. 147 
 
 'Twas in Fort Meggs they garrisoned were — 
 
 Qeneral Howard held chief command — 
 And the one armed hero did then and there. 
 
 Take the Twenty -first firm in hand; 
 The man who prayed and fought so well. 
 
 By the "Johnnie Rebs" bitterly cursed — 
 Had vowed a vow to stop the row, 
 
 In the drinking Twenty-first. 
 So for a whole week all faint and weak, 
 
 The boys went "spitting wool;" 
 Not a scheme could they work to pull out a cork, 
 
 For a "nipper" their thirst to cool. 
 
 And Pat and Mike and Dan and Ike, 
 
 Heaved many a weary sigh; 
 As they saw in their dreams the lakelets and streams, 
 
 They had punished of Saginaw rye; 
 And their sore distress it never grew less — 
 
 On the future they dared not think — 
 With barrels of rye in the village close by — 
 
 But never a drop to drink ! 
 But now comes forth my man of true worth, 
 
 In Dennis McCall the brave — 
 High engraved be his name on the shaft of fame — 
 
 As the man who a corps did save! 
 Not Curtius of old nor Wallace the bold : 
 
 Nor even immortal Bill Tell; 
 Nor Jim Bludso — whose ghost you all know, 
 
 Smoked up from the Prairie Belle; 
 Not all who have given their lives for men — 
 
 Von Winkleried like in their trust — 
 Could with private McCall be compared at all. 
 
 When he rescued the Twenty-first. 
 
 v. 
 
 And what was the task you here all would ask, 
 
 That in Dennis a htro we scan? 
 Have patience I pray and in singing this lay, 
 
 You'll admire this brave Michigan man. 
 It's well known no coward could fool Gen. Howard, 
 
 Still Dennis was bolder than he; 
 For he vanquished the thirst of the dry Twenty-first, 
 
 And gave them a grand jubilee. 
 Near a village close by to the fort standing nigh, 
 
 Was a fountain of spring water clear, 
 And at noon of that sun a detail of one, 
 
148 THE SHANTY BO Y, 
 
 To this fountain a straight course did steer; 
 But swift past the fountain the detail went; 
 
 Up the street of that lonely town; 
 Nor stayed he his tread as he rapidly sped, 
 
 Till the principle rum shop he found. 
 
 Behind its door post that detail was lost, 
 
 Soon emerging again he appears — 
 Nor blanched was his cheek nor limbs trembling weak-- 
 
 As its threshold triumphant he clears; 
 Nor followed his route with wild battle shout; 
 
 Neither cavalry charge, shot nor shell. 
 But a crimson nosed bar tender fiercely looked out, 
 
 And told him to go to h— 11! 
 Now this detail of one had his work well done — 
 
 For after assuaging his thirst — 
 He had finished the game by charging the same, 
 
 To the boys of the Twenty-first. 
 And again to the spring which did purlingly sing, 
 
 On the backward trail softly went he; 
 Nor blanched was his face as he slackened his pace, 
 
 And rapidly bent his knee. 
 
 VI. 
 
 Then he said as he iose from the bubbling brook; 
 
 "Watther's good in its place I know, 
 But whinever I'm dhry, let Dennis come nigh, 
 
 Where the beantiful whisky does flow." 
 Yes, 'twas Dennis so grand with a pail in each hand. 
 
 Who had boldly marched through the fort gate; 
 Both pails he had filled with "copper distilled," 
 
 When lo! Howard met him — sad fate! 
 "Halt soldier!" he cried, "what's that that you hide, 
 
 So suspiciously forming a lump? 
 Set down your two pails and lift your coat tails, 
 
 111 soon learn the uause of this hump; 
 What's this in this bottle I thus gently throttle?" 
 
 "Arrah sor, sure 'tis aisy to see 
 It's some leniment I'm takin' to Corporal Fagan 
 
 For he's got a bad sthrain an his knee. 
 
 Then Howard laughed loud as he poured the stuff out, 
 
 From the bottle upon tLe dry ground; 
 "That's whisky my man for smell it I can, 
 
 And such tricks to detect I am bound; 
 
OR, LIFE IN A LUMBER GAMP. 149 
 
 But still as you're green 'twould be rather mean, 
 To punish you for this offense; 
 
 Your buckets resume and return to your room, 
 Nor again attempt such a pretense; 
 
 The water I see in your pails— it is free- 
 But for liquor I make no excuses; 
 
 What this bottle full cost is now to you lost — 
 Though you're saved from vile whisky's abuses; 
 
 From whisky refrain — your pails they contain, 
 Nature's beverage for great and for small; 
 
 I advise you my man this to drink when you can" — 
 "I will sor!" said Dennis McCall. 
 
 IX. 
 
 Being thus fully empowered by General Howard, 
 
 Dennis picked up his pails and departed, 
 With countenance meek, his tongue in his cheek, 
 
 And general deportment light hearted; 
 For both pails were well filled with "Kentucky distilled" — 
 
 Which the general had taken for water — 
 While the sneaking black bottle that Howard did throttle, 
 
 Dennis filled at the spring for a starter. 
 So bold Dennis McCall outwitting them all — 
 
 From the general down the sentry — 
 Did the Twenty-first save from a thirst threatened grave; 
 
 In Fame's book let his deed have fair entry! 
 
 X. 
 
 Can we tell the delight that reigned that same night, 
 
 Or the honors to Dennis free granted? 
 Suffice it to say that from that same day, 
 
 He was favored with whate'er he wanted; 
 And that night in Fort Meggs as each man crossed his legs — 
 
 With a "tot" in the pail placed before him — 
 While song, story and jest followed hard on each toast — 
 
 As the Twenty-first emptied its jorum — 
 It was Dennis forever from twilight till "taps," 
 
 Till each man rolled to bed rather glorious; 
 But the meat in the nut for these Michigan chaps, 
 
 Was that Dennis o'er Howard was victorious. 
 
 Fancy Howard's surprise when he opened his eyes, 
 The next morning to learn from his orderly— 
 
 The Twenty-first Michigan last night to a man, 
 Had each one been "drunk and disorderly." 
 
150 THE SHANTY BO T, 
 
 How they got at the rum to his mind did not come, 
 
 Nor will it unless through this story — 
 Though Howard oft led the same regiment 'tis said — 
 
 To victories covered with glory. 
 And around each "camp fire" when the toast rises higher — 
 
 And the deeds of brave men are related — 
 Don't fail to recall bold Dennis McCall, 
 
 Or how he shrewd Howard checkmated. 
 Does this tale reach the ear of some veteran near, 
 
 Who followed the Twsnty-first's flag? 
 When Bill McCreery led them on bold and cheery, 
 
 Till their banner was shot to a rag; 
 Can that soldier forget brave Dennis the pet, 
 
 Of the regiment — from colonel to drummer — 
 Never warrior more true was clad in the blue, 
 
 Than Dennis who seems here a "bummer." 
 
 XII. 
 
 When in their line of blue the Twenty first true, 
 
 StonewBll Jackson's fierce riders resisted; 
 Their flag it was grasped from the dead hand it clasped, 
 
 And was taken ere any had missed it; 
 It was then that McCall in sight of them all — 
 
 Charged the cavalry man holding the standard ; 
 One quick bayonet thrust down he came in the dust, 
 
 And to hades the trooper's soul wandered. 
 All that terrible day did the Blue and the Gray, 
 
 Strive fiercely — nor either would weaken, 
 Till Dennis rushed out with a wild Irish shout, 
 
 Waving boldly the flag he had taken. 
 Ah! the charge they then made swept the rebel brigade, 
 
 And victory was ours clean and clever; 
 While the shout from our lines shook the shot shattered pines; 
 
 With "Dennis — bold Dennis forever!" 
 
 XIII. 
 
 He has passed from our gaze for in the three days, 
 
 Of Fredricksburg's terrible story; 
 Poor Dennis he fell — as his comrades tell — 
 
 In the "front" clothed in honor and glory. 
 They laid him to rest with the flag on his breast — 
 
 Where the brave heart had ceased its life beating — 
 But his memory will live in the tale we here give, 
 
 By each "camp fire" when veterans are meeting; 
 Nor yet at their worst class the brave Twenty-first, 
 
 Nay, rather remember their glory; 
 
OB, LIFE IN A LUMBER CAMP. Ml 
 
 For their deeds will live long in story and song, 
 When Columbia is aged and hoary! 
 
 But your patience I try I can see in your eye, 
 That to longer impose would be risky; 
 
 So this pledge let it pass— though in water filled glass- 
 Here's to Dennis McCall and his whisky! 
 
 By a singular coincidence, I found myself in this same camp 
 when General Giant was buried. Many of the men were sol- 
 diers under the departed hero, and I shall long remember the 
 night around the camp fire in that little shanty on Hubbard 
 lake, where the old vets, one after another, told some stirring 
 tale of the "silent man on horse back," who had so oft led 
 them to victory. With these recollections still impressed upon 
 me, I may be pardoned if I here present in verse, a slight 
 tribute to the grand soldier, dedicating the lines to the old 
 veterans he has left behind him. 
 
 THE BUKIAL OF GRANT.* 
 
 In sombre weeds a stricken nation weeps; 
 
 The minute guns sob forth with startling sound, 
 The muffled drum in mournful rythm beats; 
 
 The tolling bells take up the funereal round: 
 Joining in one united loud lament — 
 Heavenward in woe a people's grief is sent! 
 
 To-day this nation's heart — as but the heart, 
 
 Of one — sore smitten by a heavy grief — 
 Weeps tears of anguish bitter thus to part, 
 
 From him so long our soldier, statesman, chief; 
 Who wrote his name 'mid histories of men, 
 In Glory's alphabet, with Fame's celestial pen ! 
 
 Hail to the chief! — whose treasured dust to-day. 
 
 Entombed in every patriot's heart is found — 
 Followed by thousands — yonder borne away, 
 
 To rest in honor's consecrated ground; 
 Where ages yet unborn our sons shall gathered be, 
 To hail the name of Gkant as watchword of the free. 
 
 High on Fame's roll 'mid those — a nation's boast — 
 Who lived and died to honor Freedom's name; 
 
 *This poem first appeared in the Wolverine Citizen, of Flint, Mich., where I 
 had the privilege of publishing it August 8th, 1885. 
 
152 THE SHANTY BOY, 
 
 Stands his to-day supreme amid the host, 
 "Who grace the column ol eternal fame, 
 
 On which Columbia; — with a tear dimmed gaze, 
 Reads the fair record heralding their praise. 
 
 Another name is carved on column grand; 
 
 Another stone in Glory's temple fair; 
 Another brow flower wreathed by loving hand — 
 
 Of nation loyal — through her people there; 
 And o'er that dust to-day — hand grasping hand — 
 The Blue and Gray behold as brothers stand! 
 
 "Let us have peace!" — he spoke — at his behest, 
 The trembling angel poised her fluttering wings, 
 
 And waved them o'er a land in mourning dressed — 
 Where fratricidal war in wrath still clings — 
 
 Peace hovered o'er the blood stained fields again, 
 
 And vanquished War fled with his horrid train. 
 
 "Give them their horses from each troop or gun; 
 
 They'll want them for spring plowing" — spoke the chief- 
 The vanquished home he sent — from victory won — 
 
 Thus pouring balm on captive foemen's grief; 
 Is this forgotten? — note his bier to-day, 
 On either side marches the Blue and Gray I 
 
 In order thus to live eternal — men must die; 
 
 Forth from the tomb the fairest record shines; 
 The falling clods that on the coffin lie, 
 
 Give back a rhythm of celestial lines, 
 And story of the dead to living tell — 
 Where they the sum of life have measured well. 
 
 And thus of thee — hero of sword and pen — 
 Shall fame impartial loud thy triumphs sound — 
 
 Endorsed by one outspoken, grand Amen! 
 Still echoing through all ages shall be found; 
 
 Immortal thus thy name and fame shall be, 
 
 Till time be merged into eternity! 
 
 To-day around thy bier a nation weeps; 
 
 To-day are honors thine — which had no place, 
 Within thy modest brain — that tranquil sleeps, 
 
 Unmindful of the tributes which thee grace — 
 Columbia mourns her hero here laid low, 
 Whose first surrender was to- Death's last blow. 
 
OR, LIFE IN A LUMBER CAMP. 153 
 
 Nor is he dead! — such men as Grant ne'er die — 
 
 Death's triumph is o'er men -who fail to live — 
 Who nameless — fameless — pass away and fly — 
 
 Into oblivion's shades — nor record give; 
 Marking their lives with actions good or brave; 
 Leaving no name immortal o'er the grave. 
 
 Not 'mid combating hosts to grandly shine; 
 
 Not high in realms of thought to wield the pen; 
 Not great as statesmen — famed in poet's line — 
 
 Or sculptured story — men may live 'mid men, 
 But as a lover of his fellows — he 
 Lives first and best who sets the bondsman free! 
 
 And this was Grant! — the fairest wreath to day, 
 
 Of flower-wove honors resting on his bier — 
 Is — that this man of unassuming sway, 
 
 Loved well his fellow men while with us here; 
 To-day his soul in yonder bless'd abode, 
 Has learned this love for man was love for God ! 
 
 We bid thee no farewell our hero loved — 
 
 Ever with us thou art in memory still — 
 Thy sterling worth to all is fully proved. 
 
 Thy life — our lives cojoined — will ever fill! 
 Sleep sweetly hero! Affection guards thy tomb; 
 A nation's heart shall shall ever be thy home! 
 
134 THE SHANTY BOT. 
 
 CHAPTER XX. 
 
 Tins Romance of the Forest Continued — The Story of an Elope- 
 ment and What Came of It — The German Count and the Shanty 
 Cook — How a Brave Girl Followed her Heart — A Real Romance 
 of Three Lands. 
 
 "Misfortune nursed me aa her child, 
 
 And loved me fondly, too; 
 I would have had a broken heart, 
 
 Had it not been for you. 
 Kind words were whispered softly sweet, 
 
 But glad I could not be, 
 Until I found that you had been 
 
 A faithful friend to me. 
 
 I was fortunate enough in the winter of 1883, to come across 
 a rather startling incident in the Michigan lumber woods, 
 holding within it the true elements of romance. It was a veri- 
 table love story from beginning to end, and from the material 
 I gathered, I have produced the following little sketch, dressed 
 up in what may be termed the garments of fiction, founded 
 upon fact. I might however add that all the characters intro- 
 duced, are taken from life, and that the plot of the story is 
 real. Consequently all I have endeavored to do, is to present 
 it in story form, and have entitled it, 
 
 SHE FOLLOWED HEE HEART. 
 
 It was nine o'clock on New Years eve, 187- in the beautiful 
 city of Toronto, Ont. A sleety storm had left the streets compar- 
 atively deserted, and those who braved the blast, did so well 
 
OR, LIFE IN A LUMBER CAMP. 155 
 
 protected by the furs and heavy clothing indigenous to the 
 winter weather of the Dominion. 
 
 Gathering her garments around her more closely, as she 
 faced the biting blast, a female figure made its way along one 
 of the most aristocratic thoroughfares of the city, and finally 
 paused before a palatial residence, which was conspicuous for 
 its gloom, where all others, on either side of the street, were 
 ablaze with light, indicative of the holiday season. 
 
 After a few moments of hesitancy, she passed into the alley 
 leading to the rear of the mansion, and was lost to sight. 
 
 In a spacious apartment, in the same building, containing in 
 one, a library study and sitting room, sat a portly and digni- 
 fied gentleman of mature years. His surroundings betokened 
 wealth and refinement, but upon an otherwise noble face, 
 indicating strong force of character, rested a cloud of sadness 
 and anxiety. 
 
 The table before him was covered with a litter of books and 
 papers, upon which the reflection from the astral lamp, and 
 the smouldering fire in the antique grate, cast a dim light. 
 The old man reclined musingly in a high, leather backed 
 easy chair, bearing upon his countenance the shadow of a 
 great grief, strongly at variance with the festive season. 
 
 The door silently opened, and the wanderer of the street 
 entered. Her outer garments had been removed, and the face 
 and figure of the girl were strikingly beautiful. A glance at 
 the two occupants of the room, would suffice to show the 
 relationship existing between them to be that of father and 
 daughter. Her entrance had been so silent and unobtrusive 
 that the gentleman was not aware of her presence, till gliding 
 swiftly to his side, the girl knelt, and in a broken voice 
 murnrared: 
 
 "Father, I have come to beg for your forgiveness." 
 
 Starting back in amaze he turned his eyes upon the kneel- 
 ing suppliant, and the hard lines upon his still handsome face 
 grew harder. His lips were firmly compressed and a cold, 
 stony glare from his eyes rested upon her. 
 
 "What ! You here ? You have dared to — " 
 
156 THE SHANTY BO Y, 
 
 "Father forgive me, as you would hope to be yourself for- 
 given," and the delicate hands — where shone a plain circlet 
 of gold — were clasped in supplication, while the great round 
 tears chased each other down her cheeks. 
 
 The old man arose to his feet, and with hands repellingly 
 outstretched and averted face replied: 
 
 "No ! Emphatically no ! Tou have severed every tie bind- 
 ing you to me as a daughter, so begone from my sight !" 
 
 "But dear father—" 
 
 "No more ! You have chosen your path in life, and your 
 headstrong folly has marked out your future. You have 
 made a bed of thorns, therefore lie down upon it, you who 
 once were the idol of my heart." 
 
 "Spare me father ! See I kneel to you and plead the love 
 of a father for his child." 
 
 "Mention it not! You have desecrated the holy sentiment 
 of filial love, you ingrate ! Hence! ere I so far forget myself 
 as to spurn you with my foot!" 
 
 "O father have some mercy !" and the girl fell groveling at 
 his feet. 
 
 "You plead in vain Lillian. God knows the intensity of 
 fatherly love with which I once loved you, but you have tram- 
 pled the life out of that holy feeling, and like an adder you 
 have turned and stung me." 
 
 " 'Tis not so father, for I have never ceased to love you." 
 
 "Love me ? Do not profane the term ! Behold the fruit of 
 your love ! Your mother in yonder room, lies prostrated with 
 broken hearted grief. In me you see a dishonored father, 
 whose soul you have filled with bitter hatred toward his child — 
 once enshrined as his idol. May you yet drink deep of 
 the same cup of bitterness you have pressed to our lips !" 
 
 "O, father curse me not! My only crime is that I have but 
 followed the promptings of my heart, in marrying the man I 
 love." 
 
 "Love ? Do not again insult the name of an holy sentiment 
 by associating it with the impulse of a lewd passion. You, 
 the petted child of luxury, to willfully cast yourself away upon 
 
OR, LIFE IN A LUMBER CAMP. 157 
 
 a wretched German adventurer, and call it love ? Truly such 
 love were sublime, that found its affinity in a saloon waiter — 
 a scum — a refugee from some Dutch beer garden — a — " 
 
 "Hold sir !"— and the girl sprang to her feet, with the fire of 
 indignation shining through the misty veil of her tears, "you 
 may heap insult and degradation upon me, your child, but on 
 my husband, never !" 
 
 "Your impudent boldness, Lillian, is only on a par with the 
 fact of your brazen presence in this home you have destroyed. 
 Depart, before I call the servants to ignominiously thrust you 
 into the street — where you more properly belong than here. 
 Begone !" 
 
 "May I not see my mother, sir ?" 
 
 "No ! Tour presence would but add poignancy to the cruel 
 torture you have entailed upon her, by your unfilial disobe- 
 dience. She views your conduct, with me, as beyond all par- 
 don. Therefore begone to your beggar husband, if he indeed 
 be such in the eyes of the law, and starve with him, till I beg 
 you again to enter these doors. Go !" and the long, white 
 finger of the obdurate father pointed to the door. 
 
 "I leave you father, and God helping me, I shall never again 
 look upon your face, as a suppliant. May God in his reckon- 
 ing with you, show more mercy than you have bestowed upon 
 me, this bitter New Year's eve. Farewell !" And she turned 
 from her father and passed out into the storm and darkness. 
 
 The scene, as above briefly outlined, will serve to introduce 
 to the reader two of the principal actors in the sketch of life, 
 
 we are delineating. The Hon. George W , was one of the 
 
 retired merchant princes of the Dominion. He had also filled 
 high political positions of trust with honor. With social place 
 and financial prosperity, had grown those peculiar aristocratic 
 ideas of rank so prevalent in the land over the border, and 
 which is but a borrowed reflex of English station and caste, 
 which we over here are also fondly anxious to simulate and 
 adopt. 
 
 Lillian, his daughter and only child, was a beautiful girl, in 
 that rare and exquisite style of beauty which makes the Cana- 
 
158 THE SHANTY BOY, 
 
 dian girl of education and refinement, such a choice gem of fe- 
 male loveliness. Added to her personal charms of superlative 
 beauty of person, were the gifts and graces of education, serv- 
 ing to make her the petted idol, not only of a doting father 
 and mother, but also of a select coterie of exclusive people, 
 where wealth held the key to the golden portals. 
 
 And yet beneath that zone of costly silk and velvet, beat a 
 heart, a true woman heart, as susceptible to the dart of the 
 blind god Cupid, as was ever that of the humblest spinning 
 maiden who at her wheel cooed her love song. 
 
 The previous summer Lillian had met her fate ! It is not 
 the intention of this sketch to do aught to encourage disobe- 
 dience to parents, or to magnify foolish actions into romantic 
 virtues, but rather to show that true love is a great leveler, 
 and that its possessor will make any sacrifice, for the one 
 beloved. 
 
 Strange as it may sound, the fate that met Lillian W 
 
 came in the form of a young German employe, in a fashionable 
 restaurant. It was a case of mutual love at first sight, and 
 although all her pride of position and class distinction 
 within her arose in arms and fougKt fiercely against such a 
 humiliating surrender, still the woman's heart triumphed over 
 all social distinctions. How this condition of things was con- 
 veyed to the young man, who modestly waited upon her with 
 ices and sherbet, during the "heated season" — in which in 
 place of summering at Burlington or Niagara-on-the-Lake, 
 Lillian had remained at home — would be difficult to tell, but 
 such nevertheless was the case, and the fair haired and hum- 
 ble stranger from the Bhine, was a success, where many others 
 of "high degree" had failed. Despairing of the approbation 
 of her parents, Lillian, in an ill advised moment, permitted 
 her heart to overcome her head, and an elopement was the 
 result, accompanied of course with the usual consequences of 
 such unwise action, viz.: being forbidden entrance to her 
 parent's house, in short, in being entirely cast off and dis- 
 owned, at least by her father. Her mother, a warm, loving, 
 affectionate woman, was in this case helpless. Naturally of a 
 
OR. LIFE IN A LUMBER CAMP. 159 
 
 delicate constitution, the shock of Lillian's folly came with 
 such crushing force upon the mother, as to place her at death's 
 door, where she hung hovering, and would not be comforted 
 because her loved child was not. 
 
 The conclusion of a few weeks of passionate love, following 
 upon her ill advised marriage, served to bring Lillian to her 
 senses. Not because her affection for her husband, Emi'l 
 Bruske, was less, but on the contrary, she had realized the 
 fact, that in the humble waiter she had loved well enough to 
 sacrifice home and friends for, she found, not only her equal 
 socially, but in many things her superior. He was a man of 
 education, a fine linguist, a magnificent musician, and no des- 
 picable artist. His story told her — after the marriage and not 
 before — was indeed a surprise. He was the only heir to a 
 German Countship, representing one of the oldest families in 
 the rich Rhine valley. Upon the close of his last year in the 
 university at Bonn, he had become entangled in a foolish stu- 
 dents' conspiracy, which had forced him to leave the country, 
 with an attender and large reward attached to his person. 
 Fear of the British influence in Canada, had forced him to 
 assume a fictitious name, and want of funds, an occupation, 
 where he met with Lillian. His final purpose was to go to the 
 United States, where he thought to find friends, but as his 
 crime — that of slaying an official in the riot, which had fol- 
 lowed upon the discovery of the conspiracy — was an extradit- 
 able one, he still kept up his fictitious character. 
 
 When Lillian learned all this, and that she was in fact the 
 Countess von Bruske, she endeavored to convey the informa- 
 tion by letter to her parents, but her letters remained unan- 
 swered, or were returned to her unopened. Finally, she de- 
 termined upon a personal interview with her father as above 
 related, and with what result the reader knows. When she 
 went out into the darkness of that New Years eve, she went 
 out into the obscurity „of a new life, never before dreamed of, 
 and into the ranks of the toiling masses of the work world, 
 where she and the man of her choice had sought to hide them- 
 selves from the knowledge of the world. 
 
160 THE SHANTY BOY, 
 
 And so four years passed away, since that wild, stormy night, 
 when the discarded daughter was turned out into the darkness 
 and storm of the street. She was neither sought after, nor did 
 she seek. She simply was dropped out of the list of actors 
 upon the exclusive stage of life she had previously adorned. 
 
 In the palatial mansion of the Hon. George W , sorrow 
 
 had found a permanent abiding place. In a sumptuous bed 
 chamber, a dying woman lay. The lace edged pillows upon 
 which she rested, were not whiter than her face, and on which 
 her abundant hair floated, streaked deeply with gray. The 
 hour of her departure from the sorrows of this weary world 
 seemed to be fast approaching. 
 
 By her side sat her husband. 
 
 It was the father and mother of the discarded daughter, aged 
 and lonely. The loved child, the light of their heart was 
 gone. 
 
 "George dear, I shall soon leave you. I am dying hus- 
 band." 
 
 "Annie, my darling wife, do not say so ! You are all that is 
 left me in the world." 
 
 "I cannot stay my husband, my heart is broken for my child. 
 She was my all in the world save you! O Lillie, Lillie!" 
 And the dying woman turned her face to the wall and bitterly 
 wept. 
 
 With no outward indication of feeling, the man of iron nerve 
 and despotic will, sat with folded arms, and gazed upon his 
 dying wife. 
 
 The apartment exhibited every semblance of luxury, and 
 wealth presented itself in every feature of the surroundings. 
 But the skeleton of sorrow was there, and the vulture of 
 remorse was gnawing at his heartstrings. 
 
 Four years had passed since that father had said to a weep- 
 ing child, "Go!" With her going had gone out the lamp of 
 his joy and delight. Now he was brought face to face with 
 the consequences of his imperious pride. The last ray of his 
 sunshine was about to be quenched in the darkness of death, 
 and the loved wife of his youth was to leave him. 
 
OR. LIFE IN A LUMBER GAMP. 161 
 
 He knew full well the disease that was severing the cords 
 binding his heart to hers, and the cry of this weeping Rachel 
 for her absent child pierced his inmost soul. 
 
 Hitherto all pleading had been in vain. The very name of 
 the disobedient child was forbidden in the house, and at last 
 the mother, who yearned in hopeless silence, with a mother's 
 love, for her lost one had lain down to die. 
 
 "Annie, my wife, I yield ! Lillian shall be found and 
 restored to you, if money and skill can find her. I will join in 
 the search myself, and I but ask that you will try to live for 
 my sake, and God helping me she shall be restored to you." 
 
 The weeping woman, with a glad cry, turned and threw her- 
 self into her husband's arms, and in one moment two long sep- 
 arated souls were once more united. 
 
 "George, give me back my child and I shall bless you as 
 long as we both shall live." 
 
 "I will my wife. From this moment she is freely forgiven. 
 God grant it be not too late !" 
 
 And he kept his word. Every possible effort was put forth 
 to obtain a knowledge of the whereabouts of the fugitives. 
 The press of the states and Canada, was enlisted to its utmost. 
 Detectives of known ability, were placed upon the trail. The 
 past record of the young German was traced back, and fol- 
 lowed up, till it ended with a grand estate and a widowed 
 mother on the Rhine, who was also mourning the loss of her 
 beautiful boy. 
 
 And thus two more years passed away in fruitless search, 
 and still no knowledge was had of the wanderers, save that 
 they had been traced to the Saginaw valley and there lost 
 sight of. 
 
 Hope — that springs eternal in the human breast — had served 
 to strengthen and sustain two weeping mothers, strangers to 
 each other, but made one by the sisterhood of sorrow, in a 
 common bereavement. 
 
 * * * # * * 
 
 But bless me dear reader, when I started in to tell you this 
 little story, I fully intended to write a "camp sketch." In 
 
182 THE SHANTY BOY. 
 
 place of doing so, here have I been dragging you all over Can- 
 ada, over the sea and through America, hunting after a runa- 
 way couple. Let us quit all this nonsense right here, and get 
 back into the lumber woods of Michigan. 
 
 One of the best conducted camps is — or was — located upon 
 the Rifle river, about fourteen miles from where the Michigan 
 Central railroad junction, known as Alger, is placed. This 
 camp of 150 men, was at the time we write, operated by a 
 wealthy firm of Detroit business men, well known to a major- 
 ity of the readers of this sketch. The special features of this 
 camp were good food, good beds, cleanliness and order. The 
 large gang of men were not overly worked, and were well fed 
 and taken care of, so that it was simply wonderful the amount 
 of work Peter McDonald, the "push," managed to get out of 
 his crew, without any apparent effort. 
 
 The cook camp was the strong feature of the plant, being in 
 charge of a young man and his wife, who seemed to thoroughly 
 understand their profession. Business frequently brought the 
 writer to this locality, and always with a feeling of thankful- 
 ness, for he knew he would be well taken care of, while in 
 McDonald's camp. Especially was the attraction strong, in 
 the sweet little girl and boy; the children of the cook and his 
 wife — who were known in camp by the name of Godfrey. They 
 were a strange couple, and it was some time before I succeeded 
 in getting inside the little circle of exclusiveness surrounding 
 them. Finally, I did so, largely through my kindness to the 
 children, in bringing them books and candy, when I knew I 
 was to visit their camp. The man and woman were young 
 people, and while always plainly dressed, were invariably 
 neat and tidy in the persons of themselves and children. The 
 wife was a very handsome woman, and the man a good speci- 
 men of a woods cook, while the children — growing up like 
 wild flowers in the woods — were perfect pictures of beau- 
 tiful childhood, and were being well instructed by their 
 mother. 
 
 Their apartments in the cook camp, were partitioned off 
 from the rest of the building, and when I was finally permitted 
 
OR, LIFE IN A LUMBER CAMP. 103 
 
 to enter its sacred precincts, I was astonished to behold a 
 perfect little palace. Not such with luxurious furniture, but 
 with cut paper, common pictures, a little cabinet organ, a 
 guitar, violin, and chintz curtains neatly made, all so tastefully 
 arranged as to impart an air of actual luxury to the little room. 
 Having been over all Canada, and well acquainted with a num- 
 ber of people, I found myself made more than welcome, in my 
 being able to impart to Mr. and Mrs. Godfrey considerable 
 intelligence about Dominion affairs — for I had soon learned 
 the cook's wife was a Canadian, which accounted for the interest 
 she took in that country. They were a strange couple I again 
 repeat, having no association whatever with the men in camp, 
 save in the providing the best prepared meals I ever saw put 
 on a table in the woods. The woman never appeared at meal 
 times, and the tables were served by Godfrey, and the chore 
 boys. 
 
 It was in the November of 1883, when the approach of 
 "Thanksgiving" was universally hailed with pleasure by every 
 one. Even the men in the woods were expecting something 
 extra good on that special occasion. 
 
 I happened to be in McDonald's camp on the day previous 
 to this "Thanksgiving" in question. After the breakfast dishes 
 had been committed to the care of the chore boys, Godfrey 
 remarked to his wife: 
 
 "As to-morrow is Thanksgiving dear, I think I will try and 
 find some 'wild mutton' for the boys, and perhaps a turkey or 
 two. I will be back long before dinner, and the boys will at- 
 tend to all that is necessary." 
 
 "Very well love. Take care of yourself, and don't be 1 jng 
 away." 
 
 It was refreshing the affection these two people had for 
 each other, and which breathed in every word and action. 
 
 I was playing with the little boy and girl in front of the 
 cook camp, and trying to persuade myself that my business im- 
 peratively demanded that I should remain in this camp for at 
 least one day longer. 
 
 The sound of wheels approaching arrested my attention. 
 
164 THE SHANTY BOY, 
 
 The men were all at work in the woods, and the camp was 
 nearly deserted, save for the mechanics at work in the black- 
 smith and tinker shops. 
 
 The carriage — for such it proved to be — came rapidly driving 
 along the "tote road," and on closer inspection was found to 
 contain but the driver, and a portly old gentleman muffled in 
 furs, and whom I at first took to be the owner of the camp, in 
 from Detroit. 
 
 The sound of the approaching wheels had arrested the atten- 
 tion of the stragglers about camp, and among the rest the wife 
 of the cook, the mother of the two beautiful children I was 
 amusing myself with. 
 
 A loud shriek from the womran, fell upon my ear as the car- 
 riage drove up, and with an agile bound the old gentleman 
 alighted, and in a moment caught the fainting woman in his 
 arms, exclaiming: 
 
 "Lillian my darling child, I have at last found you. Thanks 
 be to the good God !" 
 
 "Father, O father ! Thank God !" And they were fast 
 clasped in each other's arms. Before my dazed surprise had 
 time to resolve itself into proper form, the cook, with a couple 
 of fat turkeys over his shoulder appeared upon the scene. 
 
 "Father my husband ! Emil dear, my father !" 
 
 "My son, give me your hand ! All is forgiven, and now 
 thank God I can return to the mourning one, and tell her the 
 dead is alive, the lost found. 
 
 "And these two dear little ones are yours, Lillian ? I need 
 not ask, for they are miniatures of yourself, and I shall have 
 four to take home with me. Truly I am rewarded for all the 
 hopeless search of these years." And the old man gathered 
 the little ones in his arms. 
 
 "But father, how did you ever find us out in these woods ?" 
 
 "No thanks to you, Lillian," he laughingly replied. "But I 
 remember how we parted dear, and so I beg my children to 
 return home with me, forgiving and being forgiven." 
 
 "Father, my mother still lives ?" 
 
 "Yes, my child, and will recover all her health and happiness 
 
OR, LIFE IN A LUMBER CAMP. 165 
 
 when you are restored to her. Now how many minutes will 
 it take you to pack ?" 
 
 "Not long father, but much as I am anxious to go, we must 
 wait till to-morrow, and close our woods life on Thanksgiving 
 day." 
 
 The following day was "Thanksgiving," in more senses than 
 one. The foreman gave the men a full holiday, and several of 
 them came into the cook camp, and helped to get up a dinner 
 the like of which had never before been seen in camp. The 
 evening concluded with a "stag dance," and general jollification, 
 while the guests of the camp were the cook, his wife, her 
 father and the writer. 
 
 It is useless here telling all the ways in which the lost ones 
 were traced, from place to place, by the earnest seeking father. 
 Suffice it to say it was his to at last find and take his daughter 
 to his arms, and shortly after to gather them all in the home 
 so long desolate. 
 
 The sequel to the above sketch may be briefly related as 
 follows: In an old German mansion on the shore of the Rhine, 
 might soon after have been seen two aged ladies, seated on 
 either side of a fair young matron, while beautiful children 
 gambol in joy through the flower filled garden. It is the 
 Countess von Bruske, her mother and mother-in-law. Arm in 
 arm, an elderly and a young gentleman are walking and talk- 
 ing, each in the other pleased and content. The government 
 attender upon Count von Bruske, had been removed, and 
 restored to his home, mother and position in society, where 
 he properly belongs, his American experience as cook in a 
 lumber camp does him much good. This he is telling the 
 father of his wife, and the result is found in the good he and 
 his beautiful American wife are enabled to accomplish among 
 the poor and needy dependent upon them. 
 
166 THE SHANTY BO T, 
 
 CHAPTER XXI. 
 
 Sunday in Camp — How the Day of Rest is Passed — The Shanty Boy 
 in his Observance of the Sabbath — A Word fob the Rich Lum- 
 berman — Boys be Good to Yourselves — A Camp Lecture. 
 
 "Of all the days within the week, 
 
 I dearly love but one day; 
 And that's the day that comes between, 
 
 Saturday and Monday." 
 
 Our various presentations of "shanty boy" life in these 
 pages, would lack some proper coloring were we to omit a 
 short description of "Sunday in camp." If the workingman's 
 day of rest is of special value anywhere, it is certainly so in a 
 lumber camp, both to man and beast. I know two solitary 
 jobbers in the woods, who hold in such strict observance the 
 sanctity of Sunday in their camp, that they will not allow a 
 stroke of work to be done that can possibly be avoided. Still, 
 such is the lonely exception, and so far as I know, Sunday is 
 generally a day of general camp fitting and repairing. The 
 blacksmith and "tinker" are usually busy most of the day. 
 The "hoss doctor" takes Sunday to look after the equine stock, 
 and see what horses are fit for use. The foreman usually finds 
 Sunday his busiest day, as he has a hundred and one things 
 to look after, and especially in the way of supplies for the 
 cook camp and barn, while on that day the scaler foots up the 
 tally and van books. Still, very much of the day is used for 
 rest. The horn for breakfast is an hour later in blowing, and 
 if the cook be a man who seeks to "stand in with the boys," 
 he will make some extra provision for Sunday's dinner. Id 
 
OB, LIFE IN A LUMBER CAMP. 167 
 
 the "bunk camp" a general cleaning up takes place. Where 
 there is no woman to do the men's washing, Sunday is "wash 
 day," and boilers, "cooking" the crop on the underclothing, 
 are seen in all directions, inside and out of camp. The men 
 not thus engaged are seen in dishabille, with the ever present 
 tobacco pipe. The trade in the "van" is very brisk, after 
 breakfast time especially, and as a general thing prices in the 
 woods, for things the men require, are but a trifle more than 
 the same can be bought for outside. The various national- 
 ities represented in the camp, gather into little groups, and 
 hold their gossip with each other in their mother tongues. 
 Those who can read are stretched in their bunks with a rather 
 ancient newspaper or a dime novel. Those who cannot read 
 are frequently at a loss for subjects for conversation, for there 
 is an awful sameness in the woods. 
 
 I listened to a short dialogue one Sunday between two old 
 chums from the "owld dart" who were sitting smoking. 
 
 "Oim sayin' Martin !" 
 
 "Phwat ?" 
 
 "There's foine petaties in New Yark." 
 
 "So oim towld." 
 
 They then sat and smoked in perfect silence full ten 
 minutes. 
 
 Take still another pair discussing the late war struggle in 
 Egypt, 
 
 "I'm axin' ye Tim, phwat the divil will they do at all at 
 all wid that black nagur, Arraby Pasha ? Shure them d — d 
 British can never conquer him, I dun know ?" 
 
 "Faix den, O'Farrell, I do be knowin' two lads in the place 
 Ikem from, cud soon get away wid him." 
 
 "Blud'anowns, an' who war they den ?" 
 
 "It war jest arrah Bejabers an' arrah Begob !" 
 
 "Oh, go til blazes wid ye ! Gim me a match." 
 
 If there is a place near camp where liquor can be had — and 
 there usually is, together with the other kindred vice— even if 
 it be a tramp of ten miles to it, a gang after breakfast will start 
 away to "take it in." Still, in thus slightly referring to the evil of 
 
168 THE SHANTY BOY, 
 
 intemperance and prostitution again, I must say that these 
 "dives" are kept at as great a distance from camp as possible, 
 and the "outrages" referred to in another chapter, are all the 
 outcome of foolish exaggeration. Just take the fact into con- 
 sideration that the pine woods are owned by decent, respecta- 
 ble citizens. The lumber is made under the supervision of 
 foremen and scalers who are decent and respectable. The 
 shanty boys are not brutes, and consequently such outrages 
 could not exist as stockades, blood-hounds, and female abuse 
 such as is charged. Such an institution could not live an 
 hour. God knows plenty of evil exists in both town and 
 country which needs suppression, but this magnifying an evil 
 into the distorted proportions it has been by people who have 
 a zeal, but not according to knpwledge, is a crying insult and 
 disgrace to state and people alike. Drunkenness and kindred 
 evils exist, and do exist in all lumbering localities, but it is 
 voluntary on the part of the men and women engaged therein. 
 The Sunday visit to a neighboring camp is another break in 
 the monotony of shanty life, and interchange of visits between 
 the men is a well established recreation. As a general thing, 
 the camps are well provisioned, for the owners have long ago 
 realized that the better they keep their men, the better 
 the work will be done. The men who are the kindest 
 and most considerate to their employes, are the men 
 who represent what are termed the "Lumber Barons." I am 
 personally acquainted with most of these gentlemen — at least 
 those in Michigan — and feel disposed right here to take a por- 
 tion of this Sunday chapter in speaking a good word for this 
 much abused class, and would ask, is it a crime to get rich ? 
 If a man happens to be gifted with brains, by which he can 
 aspire to the generalship of trade, and the combinations he 
 makes upon the commercial chess board, eventuate in a check- 
 mate to the king of "bad luck," is he of necessity a criminal '? 
 It is high time this red handed spirit of anarchial nonsense 
 was relegated to the chaos from which it emanated, and that 
 men rich in worldly wealth had fair play, and proper apprecia- 
 tion in the discussion of this great problem of riches vs. pov- 
 
OR, LIFE IN A LUMBER CAMP. 169 
 
 erty. It is a startling fact that few, if any, advocates are 
 found for the wealthy. The pulpit has its text of "how hardly 
 can a rich man," etc. The press either maintains a significant 
 silence, or damns the wealthy with faint praise. The "stump" 
 or rostrum resounds with invective and misconstruction regard- 
 ing the motives of the "rich man." If he does a good deed it 
 is attributed to a sinister motive. If the successful business 
 man seeks to gratify a natural and laudable ambition, by invok- 
 ing political preferment, he is at once robbed of all necessary 
 requisites for power and place save the "bar'l." In short, his 
 every action is misconstructed and maligned, simply because 
 he is a "rich man." It would seem to be impossible to con- 
 vince the world that ever since man began to make history, 
 two-thirds of the race have lived between the hand and the 
 mouth, and that it will always remain so is established by the 
 well-known words of one who left on record the fact, "the 
 poor ye have always with you." What would the world do 
 without the rich ? Even in the very idiosycrasies of their 
 boundless wealth, they are the alms-givers to the masses. 
 Their follies find work, food and clothing for the masses, and 
 their separation from the work-a-day world of toil, serves but 
 to make a place for another. The spirit of envy clothes 
 itself in the garments of reform, and blares its trumpet against 
 the "rich man," while, as an echo to every blast the world 
 shouts, amen ! 
 
 If there is a thing the "rich man" does, which can be twisted 
 and distorted into a matter of oppression or tyranny, it is 
 howled from Dan to Beersheba ; but his good deeds are men- 
 tioned no louder than the squeal of a mouse. We are fre- 
 quently led to forget that the age of feudalism has passed 
 away. If the "rich man" sins against law and order to-day, he 
 has to take the consequences the same as the poor man, with 
 but the possible difference that his lawyers are a little better 
 remunerated for trying to save him. I would not insist that 
 such is invariably the case, but a glance at Sing Sing, Joliet, 
 Jackson, or any of the great prisons of our land, will show the 
 "rich man" gone wrong tolerably well represented in the 
 "stripes." 
 
170 THE SHANTY BOY, 
 
 But this line of argument was not what this chapter started 
 in to discuss. It is not the evil, but rather the good, in the 
 character of such that should grace this page, as showing what 
 "rich men" have done or are doing for our land to-day. And, 
 in commenting upon this subject, no better class of "rich men" 
 can be selected, as exemplars in doing good, than the much- 
 abused "lumber barons" and "pine kings" of this country. Let 
 us see what some of this class have done in the several com- 
 munities where their riches were gathered. 
 
 Jesse Hoyt, late of New York, made one of the handsomest 
 cities in Michigan — East Saginaw — out of a miserable swamp, 
 the whole of which could have once been bought for fifty dol- 
 lars. He has bestowed upon it a fine park, a library, 
 and library building and site that will be the pride and 
 ornament of northern Michigan. This was entirely a spon- 
 taneous act on the part of the late Mr. Hoyt, and not the result 
 of political or business pressure. 
 
 Charles H. Hackley, a rich lumberman of Muskegon, , has 
 donated $100,000 for a free public library in that city, where 
 the firm of Hackley & Hume gathered their wealth. 
 
 Henry W. Sage — a New York state man — has presented 
 West Bay City with a handsome gift of a public library. 
 
 Russell A. Alger, ex-governor of Michigan, is noted far and 
 wide for his beautiful and appropriate gifts of charity. A 
 short time ago a widow in Alpena brought action against the 
 railroad company, of which Gen. Alger is president, for the 
 destruction of her little home by sparks from a locomotive, 
 laying damages at $150. Gen. Alger wrote to the widow a 
 letter, enclosing a check for $200, and expressing the hope 
 that she might win her suit against the company. His daily 
 life is filled in with glittering gems of such deeds, which will 
 serve to open up the "needle's eye" for the soul of Alger, just 
 exactly the width of the wide open pearly gates. 
 
 And thus we might dwell on features showing that hewing 
 fortunes out of pine does not necessitate the closing up of the 
 ducts through which pour the milk of human kindness in the 
 heart of the "lumber baron." Few, if any, of this class in 
 
OB, LIFE IN A LUMBER CAMP. 171 
 
 Michigan or Wisconsin, but who have built up a local reputa- 
 tion for unostentatious acts of kindness, which seem to say to 
 the critical angel who records the actions of the good ; 
 
 "Write me, I pray thee then, 
 
 As one who loves his fellow men." 
 
 Let justice prevail though the heavens fall, when the discus- 
 sion turns upon the character of the "rich man." 
 
 After dinner in camp on Sunday is usually the time when 
 the real rest of the day takes place. The "jobbing" and wash- 
 ing is over. The men, with clean clothes on, are resting in 
 their bunks. The teamster has finished repairing his harness, 
 and the "chore boy" has brought in the daily supply of wood. 
 The mending, darning, grinding, cobbling and whittling are 
 through with, and nothing now remains but to rest up until 
 the horn goes for supper. 
 
 But the shanty door opens and in walks an hospital agent. 
 Then all is life and activity. He is usually looked upon as a 
 "ministering angel," although sometimes a "fallen" one. If he 
 can "talk," he gives the men a "camp lecture" of a practical 
 character, and if he is newly in from the "front" he has all the 
 late gossip to impart. Usually the agent visits from three to 
 four camps on Sunday and it is his busiest day, and worth all 
 the rest of the week's business, as the men have more time to 
 be interviewed. Of late years, every description of peddling 
 has been transacted in camp. Jewelry, clothing, boots, med- 
 icines, books, etc., till at last it has grown to such proportions 
 that employers have instructed their foremen to refuse admis- 
 sion to all, save hospital agents. 
 
 The Sunday afternoon lecture in camp is a great institution, 
 and I believe I was among the first to introduce this feature 
 in camp life. As an illustration it may not be out of place 
 here to give the heads of one of these "camp talks," that I 
 found to be very popular with the men. The subject is: 
 
 BOYS BE GOOD TO YOURSELVES. 
 First The man is not good to himself who does not save his money! 
 
172 THE SHANTY BOY, 
 
 (a) You have come out here to make a stake. 
 
 (b) Your dollar is a hard earned one. 
 
 (c) There is a home for you if you save your money. 
 
 (d) Some sweet little woman is waiting for you. 
 
 (e) Some others — male and female — are also waiting. 
 
 (f) Who will get your "stake" in the spring? 
 
 (g) Will you give your hard earned money to those who toil not neither do 
 they spin, yet Solomon in all his glory was not arrayed like one of them? Or 
 will you save it until you can sing: 
 
 "A house well filled, 
 A wife well willed, 
 A farm well tilled, 
 Is mine I" 
 
 Second — A man is not good to himself who does not take care of his health. 
 
 (a) Health is strength, strength is work, work is money, money is a home for 
 the shanty boy. 
 
 (b) Days' work are the "dollars of the daddies." 
 
 (c) The healthy man is full of days work, and a winter's labor is a silver mine 
 inside the shanty boy. 
 
 (d) Take care of your health and the dollars will take care of themselves. 
 
 Finally brethren: 
 
 First — Don't blow in a dollar when you go out next spring. 
 
 Second — Stay right here in camp, and don't spend precious time hunting 
 round for a dollar more a month. A setting hen gathers no moss, and a rolling 
 stone never gets fat. Selah! 
 
 Third — Put your winter's "stake" in the bank, and then go to work again 
 earning more. 
 
 Six years of honest labor in Michigan will give the saving shanty boy a home. 
 
 No collection. 
 
 Responses from the audience : 
 
 "Good haul !" 
 
 "Your happy right, chummy!" 
 
 "Well ye said it, ol' man !" 
 
 "That's my lay out an' don't ye forget it !" 
 
 "Well done ol' boy, gim me a ticket." 
 
OB, LIFE IN A LUMBER CAMP. 173 
 
 CHAPTER XXII. 
 
 Lumbering Towns and Their Temptations — The Shanty Boy in Town 
 —Bay City in 1870— The "Catacombs"— The Moral Aspect op Same 
 Described — "Dives" — "Pretty "Waiter Girls" — Depraved Condi- 
 tion op Saginaw Valley Towns— The "Red Ribbon" Crusade 
 — Reformation by it Produced — The Contrast Between Then 
 and Now. 
 
 "We fought — we drank! 
 We danced and drank and fought and drank ! 
 We fought — and drank! 
 
 Bold shanty boys were we!" 
 
 These pages would be very incomplete were they to close 
 without some brief reference to the moral aspect of society in 
 the lumbering towns of the Saginaw valley during the period 
 included, from 1868 to 1875. It would only be foolishness to 
 strive to ignore the fact that this period was characterized by 
 a very sad condition of moral perception on the part of the 
 large majority of men engaged in the lumber business, either 
 as workingmen or employers. At the conclusion of '75 how- 
 ever, this same class of men, banded themselves together 
 against a common foe, and for the suppression of an evil, 
 which was fast converting the working world of Northwestern 
 Michigan, into a mass of frenzied inebriates, and harlots of 
 the vilest character. Previous to entering more fully upon 
 this portion of our task, it would be well to give a brief 
 description of one of the Saginaw river towns, taking Bay City 
 as a sample, presuming that all lumbering towns are of a like 
 character, and having to pass through a chaotic condition, in 
 
1 74 THE SHANTY BO T, 
 
 which laxity and looseness among nearly all classes is the 
 rule. 
 
 In the years prior to the panic of 1873, wages for men in the 
 woods, were high, being from $35 to $45 per month, where at 
 this writing— 1888— they are from $20 to $25. The conse- 
 quence of this invariably was, that when the camps broke up 
 in the spring, the men had each from two to four hundred 
 dollars of a "stake," the major part of which was usually spent 
 in the river towns, in profligacy and intemperance. The fact 
 of there being such a demand for the gratification of the baser 
 human passions, naturally created facilities for supplying the 
 same, to such an extent that whole blocks in both Bay City 
 and the Saginaws, were occupied alone by grog shops and 
 brothels. While at that time there was a tonstitutional law, 
 prohibiting the sale of intoxicants in Michigan, it had become 
 a dead letter upon the statute books, and any and every one 
 who wished could and did sell liquor. Of course, where public 
 opinion was morally strong enough to sustain the law, the 
 liquor traffic was carried on surreptitiously, but in lumbering 
 towns the repression of liquor selling was totally impracticable. 
 The res\ilt was, as might be supposed, a thorough disregard 
 for all law bearing upon the traffic, and drunkenness, each 
 spring and fall, took for a time, full possession of all places 
 where men gathered for or from the woods. Of necessity 
 these "brothels" and "dives" were located as far from the 
 respectable portions of the towns as possible, although grad- 
 ually encroaching upon the best business blocks. Bay City 
 had her Water street, and the well known "Catacombs" at 
 Third street bridge, but in East Saginaw the "social evil" had 
 "pitted" the whole city, as though with a moral small-pox, so 
 that hardly a street was free from representative houses 'of 
 either intemperance or licentiousness. The "Catacombs" at 
 Bay City will be well remembered by many who read this 
 chapter, although its glory has long since departed. This was 
 probably one of the hardest spots in the way of a crime center 
 in all Michigan, and had an unenviable reputation, rivaling 
 that of the worst portions of the "Five Points" of either New 
 
OB, LIFE IN A LUMBER CAMP. 175 
 
 York or Buffalo. The building known as the "Catacombs," 
 was three stories in hight, on the right hand side of Third 
 street bridge, located directly where the lake steamers landed. 
 It took its name from the basement of the building being com- 
 posed of a number of dark apartments, abutting upon the 
 street above. Here were found every facility for drunkenness, 
 debauchery and gambling, all or singly, associated with deeds 
 of robbery and even murder. Here, in the darkness made 
 visible by the flare and glare of dirty lamps, day and night 
 alike, were found congregated the lowest and most degraded 
 of both sexes. Here the most horrible and obscene orgies 
 were carried on with perfect impunity — for woe to the officer 
 who alone would attempt a "raid" upon the "Catacombs," it 
 was virtually as much as his life was worth. The second 
 story of the building was occupied by saloons, a trifle more 
 respectable than that in the pit beneath. It fronted upon 
 Water street, and carried an air of outside decency. But 
 within the vileness was simply unspeakable ! Here every con- 
 venience was afforded for fleecing the shanty boy, with liquors of 
 every description, from the best Hennessey brandy to the 
 fatal black bottle, drugged for the final drink, to be given the 
 poor fool who would then be thrown upon the street penniless. 
 "Pretty waiter girls" were in attendance, every one of whom 
 was a prostitute of the most depraved and unscrupulous class, 
 with her apartments in the same building, where her fascinated 
 dupe would soon unload his winter's "stake." In the third 
 story was a variety theatre, where the plays presented were of 
 the character suited to the vilest and most depraved taste, and 
 the "wine room" attached to it was the receptacle of rotten 
 moral corruption, impossible to even here hint at. Here the 
 men from the woods passed a few days of wild debauch. It 
 only required a part of a week to "clean out" the "biggest 
 stake" that struck the town, for these blood suckers, male and 
 female, made but short work with the shanty boy. I cannot 
 tell who first started the "Catacombs," but in '69 they were 
 in full blast. The several proprietors up to 75, were, as near 
 as I can remembsr, Bill Fuller, Joe Sutherland, Dan Brown, 
 
1 76 THE SHANTY BO Y, 
 
 and "Scotty." Of these Sutherland became rich, but finally 
 died in the poor house. The fate of the others I know nothing 
 about. One very pretty girl by the name of Polly Dickson, 
 was a great drawing card in this "den," as a "waiter girl." 
 She died a wreck lately, of typhoid fever. Accordingly, this 
 place was the head center of sin in Bay City, yes and sinners — 
 else than shanty boys — were nightly found there. Men, mov- 
 ing in what was termed the better classes of society, could be 
 found, night after night, in the "varieties" of the "catacombs." 
 Each kept the other's counsel, and laughed and winked and 
 drank together, over the memories of the previous night's 
 orgies. Nearly every one drank in those days, and the moral 
 tone of society in the cities of the Saginaw valley, was frozen 
 down low in the bulb. Within a radius of 300 feet from the 
 "Catacombs" could be counted forty saloons of the lowest 
 character, with from three to ten "pretty waiter girls" in each, 
 and of which the "den" we are describing, known as the "Cat- 
 acombs," constituted the "hub." The horrors and atrocities 
 nightly chronicled from this pit of iniquity, were of such an 
 astounding nature that the good men and women of Bay City, 
 were simply paralyzed, and rendered perfectly helpless to stem 
 the torrent of wickedness. Business men looked on and 
 laughed, where they did not take part in the "saturnalia" 
 nightly enacted. The police felt it to be the better part of 
 valor to wink at the crime perpetrated under their very noses. 
 The elections of the city were largely governed by this "Cata- 
 combs" influence, and the tools of vileness and unblushing 
 crime, were placed in positions of power and trust in city and 
 county. The chief of police was hand and glove with the 
 miscreants, and the poor victim of outrage and robbery, had 
 no redress whatever. It may be here stated that this same 
 official is now serving a long sentence in state prison for 
 robbery. 
 
 This then, briefly outlined, was the condition of things at 
 the time we mention, and the damning influence thus exerted, 
 was felt, more or less, in every shanty camp in Michigan. Even 
 the deluded victims of this terrible den of theives, could sit in 
 
OR, LIFE IN A LUMBER CAMP. 177 
 
 the "bunk camp" after a hard day's work, and wish for spring, 
 to come, so that they could renew the scenes from which they 
 had barely escaped with life. When the "break up" of camp 
 came, they with a thousand others, well stocked with money, 
 filled the cars with a drunken, crazy mass of newly liberated 
 humanity. In those days it was a serious thing to be a pas- 
 senger on a train north to Bay City. It was a common occur- 
 rence to stand a man on his head in the car, and shake all he 
 had in his pockets on the floor, or where he refused to drink, 
 to hold his mouth open and pour the liquor down his throat. 
 The conductor of such a train had to be a man of nerve, and 
 the brakeman one of watchful, courageous care, as these boys 
 would rather fight than eat, and "horse play" was the rule. By 
 the time Bay City would be reached, most of the crowd would 
 be helplessly drunk, and there were always "runners" waiting 
 for any such, and the "shanty boy" would be trundled off to 
 the low boarding house "groggery," where he was permitted to 
 sober up just enough to start in again. Usually a week would 
 use up a hundred dollars, and frequently in much less time, 
 the boy and his winter stake was parted. I do not wish to 
 imply that this state of affairs was usually the case, but any 
 one cognizant of the above facts will bear me out when I 
 say that I have not here exaggerated in the least. I repeat 
 the assertion that everybody seemed in those days to drink. 
 Saloons and "cribs" stood for blocks, side by side, on the prin- 
 ciple business streets, and Bay City and East Saginaw had 
 between them 1,400 prostitutes. 
 
 It was time that a reformatory wave should sweep over 
 these places, to wash away the accumulation of vileness, which 
 fattened upon the festering body of human life in every degree 
 and phase. And at last it came! The "red ribbon" crusade 
 was at home when it struck the Saginaw valley. Men of every 
 class of society, who had been bitten by intemperance, saw in 
 the "dare to do right" watchword, a direct appeal to their 
 slumbering manhood. When the awakening did come, it came 
 with a rush and a persistency that would take no denial. It 
 was a direct move of the masses, and had it been left alone 
 
1 78 TRE SHANTY BO T, 
 
 when it was in full bloom, the future fruit would have been 
 much better. Well meaning people claimed to see in the 
 movement a religious awakening, and strove to turn its reform- 
 atory character into the avenues of the church. In this a 
 great and fatal mistake was made. The movement was purely 
 of a mental and moral character, in the man himself rising 
 superior to a degrading habit. It was the power of manhood 
 fighting a personal foe, and resting content with the immediate 
 victory gained over appetite and desire. Had it been left at 
 this point to take care of itself, the country would still have 
 had its "red ribbon" clubs. But they have melted away before 
 the effort so persistently and indiscreetly made to turn them 
 into "revival meetings." But possibly this is an uncalled for 
 digression, and certainly is only the opinion of one, who had 
 some active part in that great reformation. Still the reasons 
 for the rapid declension and final demise of the "red ribbon" 
 movement can be easily understood. 
 
 But while this work continued, great good was accomplished. 
 The men who were gathered from the very jaws of death, 
 became instrumental in the saving of others, and the leaders 
 were those, long given up by their friends as forever lost. The 
 revolution — for such it was — in Bay City, swept over the place 
 with a force irresistable. Churches and their occupants stood as- 
 tonished and at first gave but little countenance to the movement. 
 Soon however, they too were swept into the rushing torrent, 
 and found a substantial reformation in all the strength of its 
 manhood, although but a few months old. No building could 
 contain the audiences that came to hear men unlearned and 
 illiterate, tell the awful story of their degradation and subse- 
 quent rescue, in language at once eloquent and convincing. 
 Thousands put on the "red ribbon." Clubs were formed, and 
 nightly meetings held in churches and theatres. Reformed 
 men went from place to place, telling their story, and urging 
 their hearers to "dare to do right." Saloons were deserted, and 
 the former frequenters of the same, were found in the club 
 rooms, "clothed and in their right minds." 
 
 Among the multitude brought to benefit by the movement, 
 
OB, LIFE IN A LUMBER CAMP. 179 
 
 were very many men from the woods. Hundreds of the shanty 
 boys donned the "red ribbon," a majority of whom have kept 
 their pledge inviolate. The "Catacombs" felt the spell, and 
 stood astonished to see the boys of the "red sashed brigade" 
 march soberly by the well known doors, and enter the club 
 room, only a half a block distant, to listen to and tell their 
 struggles to overcome their desire for rum. Never before was 
 there such a blending of the sublime and the 
 ridiculous, as was beheld in these club meetings. Laughter 
 and tears stood hand in hand together ! Tragedy and comedy 
 united to tell the story of this moral redemption ! Voices 
 joined in singing Moody and Sankey's songs — voices that had 
 never before been used, save in the profane and the lewd, so 
 far as song went. It was certainly a wonderful work, that 
 inaugurated by Dr. Reynolds and continued by his disciples. 
 The lawyer, doctor, merchant, judge, clerk, mechanic and 
 laborer, all joined hands together against a common foe. Press 
 and pulpit united in words of advice and encouragement 
 for the lately rescued. Good men and women, who had never 
 in their lives been habituated to liquor, put on the "red rib- 
 bon," and took the reformed man by the hand as a brother. 
 
 Of course, the whole revolution was filled with excitement 
 from beginning to end. So are all the movements of the 
 masses, for either good or evil. But there was also an enthu- 
 siasm about it, that was contagious, and served not only to 
 fire endeavor, but also to cement the masses of the people 
 more firmly together. The "Washingtonian" reformation of 
 1845, was in some features similar to that of the "red ribbon," 
 but the beneficial results of the latter have proven more last- 
 ing. It has died out, so far as public demonstration is con- 
 cerned, but tens of thousands are to-day in the blessed enjoy- 
 ment of the fruits of that great upheaval of the drinking men 
 of the land, against rum. 
 
 The inevitable consequences of this great agitation were 
 almost immediately perceptible, and by 1878, at least half of 
 the Bay City saloons had gone out of business, while all the 
 low "dives" had been forced to shut up shop. Law and order 
 
ISO THE SHANTY BOY, 
 
 again resumed legitimate rule. Bad men were hurled from 
 office and good substituted in their place. The beautiful cities 
 of the Saginaw valley — so long under the tyranny of intemper- 
 ance and harlotry — began to realize their high position 
 among the sister cities of the land. Improvements — private 
 and public — nourished. Business men, separated from the 
 "social drink," had more time to give to trade, and as a conse- 
 quence, made more money. Mechanics soon began to get for 
 themselves homes. Laborers were in greater demand, and the 
 sober man "called the turn" on the drinking one. Fully 6,000 
 drinking men in the two cities of Saginaw, and 2,900 in Bay 
 alone, had taken the "red ribbon" pledge, a large percentage 
 of whom were working men. The direct consequences of the 
 restoration of such a mass of labor to its legitimate belongings, 
 cannot be over estimated, nor can the amount of money — di- 
 verted from its proper use by intemperance and again 
 restored to its proper channel — be fully measured or calculated. 
 Suffice it to say, that in this great reaction of public sentiment 
 relative to the drinking usages of society, the days of all such 
 dens of infamy as the "Catacombs" of Bay City, and the 
 "White Row" of East Saginaw, were numbered and swept 
 away in the "cold water" inundation, never again to be 
 restored to their previous condition of unblushing vileness, and 
 unconscionable perpetration of hideous crime. 
 
 As I have previously stated elsewhere, such debauchery and 
 intemperance will always be found to prevail, just so long as 
 debased human passions continue. But public sentiment has 
 wonderfully changed in the direction of catering to these pas- 
 sions in a bold publicity, or the establishment of temples to 
 vice, where respectable trade congregates. 
 
 In conclusion I only wish to add to this chapter the state- 
 ment, that in taking the cities of the Saginaw river as speci- 
 mens of the evil of intemperance, I do not wish to make them 
 greater sinners in this respect than such places as Muskegon, 
 Big Rapids, Manistee, Ludington, Alpena, Port Huron, or any 
 other lumbering town. All were more or less alike in this par- 
 ticular, and all these places were alike conspicuous for the 
 
OB, LIFE IN A LUMBER CAMP. 181 
 
 startling results of the "red ribbon" reformation. The edges 
 of civilization ever show a wild unsettled character, which is 
 sure to subside when such localities obtain a final business 
 permanency. So has the experience of all the above men- 
 tioned places testified to, and what we have here related are 
 but the echoes of a past, never again to be re-enacted. 
 
 CHAPTER XXIII. 
 
 A Chapter on Temperance — The True Wat to Reform— Who is mt 
 Neighbor? — The Story of Henry Redmond — A Red Ribbon Sketch. 
 
 "Let the lower lights be burning, 
 
 Send a beam across the wave. 
 Some poor fainting struggling seaman, 
 
 Tou may rescue you may save." 
 
 The author is fully aware that to here introduce the question 
 of temperance, in a work presumed to be exclusively devoted 
 to lumber interests, may be termed an unwarrantable digres- 
 sion. But when we remember that the discussion of what we 
 shall eat or drink enters largely into every phase and feature 
 of our living, I may be pardoned if I ask to here make room 
 for a little sketch, the materials for which came under my own 
 personal observation, and all the features of which are true 
 save in the substitution of fictitious names and localities. The 
 underlying intention in the following story is therefore simply 
 to show, what a helping hand will do to lift up a fallen 
 fellow creature, and also to establish the principle that "moral 
 suasion" is the only true way to win men from the pernicious 
 
1 82 THE SHANTY BO Y, 
 
 habit of over indulgence in intoxicants. I may here also add 
 that I have never yet met a man engaged in the liquor trade, 
 who did not fully agree that drunkards should be redeemed, 
 if at all possible, nor have I ever found one who was opposed 
 to the saving of such. 
 
 Let me further add, that I have no intention whatever of 
 sweepingly consigning all who are engaged in the liquor busi- 
 ness, to the condition and position of the keeper of some low 
 "dive" where the unfortunate inebriate is robbed. I have met 
 with plenty of men kind hearted and honorable, engaged in 
 the liquor trade, and who could never be induced to become 
 the low down, unscrupulous runner of a "joint" where order 
 and decency are strangers. The garments in this chapter are 
 cut and fitted for another class entirely. Consequently, in 
 presenting the little sketch which forms this chapter, I have 
 no apology to offer to any class or condition in painting truth, 
 save in saying I wish I could have pictured the incident here 
 set forth much better than I have, and showed the man 
 wounded on the "Jericho road" and the "good Samaritan" who 
 met him there, under their true name and location. As it is, 
 many will recognize the leading characters in the story, as 
 both are at this writing prominent in one of Michigan's principal 
 cities. With this brief introduction, permit me to switch away 
 from logs and lumber, and, dressed in the form of a Christmas 
 sketch, present 
 
 BROUGHT UP FROM THE DEPTHS. 
 
 "Mamma, to-night is Christmas eve, do you think Santa 
 Claus will come and see Pet and me." 
 
 "I do not know, dear. We are very poor, and Santa Claus 
 does not often visit the homes of poor people." 
 
 "Well, I'm going to hang up Pet's stocking and mine any 
 way. Dear old Santa Claus may come and put something nice 
 in them, just as he used to when we lived up town, for we've 
 been real good children all this long, long year, hav'n't we 
 mamma ?" 
 
 The mother thus addressed turned her head from the coarse 
 
OR, LIFE IN A LUMBER CAMP. 188 
 
 sewing she was engaged upon, toward the little trundle bed 
 where reposed her baby girl, termed Pet, by the affectionate 
 child at her side. The tear unconsciously rolled down her 
 pale cheek, as she reflected upon the bitter struggle she had 
 to find for them the commonest necessaries of life, apart from 
 the luxuries incident to childhood's merry Christmas, and 
 which but a few short years previous had been hers to bestow 
 upon them, and drawing the little boy to her breast, she bit- 
 terly wept. 
 
 It was certainly anything but an inviting home to which the 
 reader is here introduced, consisting of but one room, in the 
 basement of a rough tenement house, filled from top to base 
 with the vile, the poverty smitten and the depraved. And yet 
 the apartment was scrupulously clean, while the few poor arti- 
 cles it contained were arranged with neatness. But gaunt 
 penury was perceptible in every feature. Even the handful of 
 coals smouldering in the grate were totally inadequate to 
 resist the vigor of the bitter cold without, which had festooned 
 the edges of the door and the solitary window with the frosty 
 velvet of winter's chilly weaving, totally obscuring the little 
 sign "Plain Sewing." 
 
 She was still a young woman, with the shadowy evidences 
 of a former beauty, seriously marred by a present sorrow and 
 suffering. In short, she was one of God's poor, committed to 
 the stewardship of some one, who had cruelly neglected the 
 trust. On the table lay the material for "rough" sewing, and 
 
 "A. woman sat there in unwomanly rags. 
 Plying her needle and thread." 
 
 At her side stood the little boy, keeping his mother com- 
 pany, with his childish prattle, as her deft fingers flew rapidly 
 in fastening the buttons on a number of slop made pantaloons, 
 piled upon the table before her. He was a frail, delicate little 
 fellow of possibly seven. Fair haired and beautiful of face, 
 marked however by the absence of that merry, light hearted 
 glee, characteristic of happy childhood. He stood holding a 
 stocking that would have matched the sleeve of "Joseph's 
 
184 THE SHANTY BO T, 
 
 coat," for variegated colors, darned as it was with various 
 shades, and still a rag. He was a study as he stood there 
 with the stocking drawn upon his arm, and his fingers thrust 
 through a gaping, hole in the toe. 
 
 "But mamma, you must mend this hole or if Santa Claus 
 did put anything in my stocking it would run out. See 
 there!" 
 
 "Yes dear, mamma will mend it for you, and perhaps you 
 will get something in it. But Georgie you must go to bed 
 now dear, for mamma must take her work to the store and she 
 will bring home some nice things for breakfast. 
 
 "Now go, that's a dear, and when you say your prayers ask 
 God to bless papa." 
 
 "I never do forget that mamma," and the little fellow knelt 
 down to ask the God of the poor and forsaken to bless the 
 man, who had proven a curse both to himself and the inno- 
 cent sufferers dependent upon him. 
 
 While the mother wraps about her a well worn shawl and 
 folds up her bundle of work, preparatory to taking it to her 
 employer's store, we will more fully introduce her to the 
 reader. 
 
 Eight years previous to the opening of our story, a happy 
 bridal party graced the sumptuous parlors of one of the prin- 
 cipal residences of — well, a leading Michigan city. The only 
 daughter of one of the wealthiest lumbermen of Michigan, was 
 being wedded to a young lawyer of the same city, and one who 
 had already made his mark, as a man with untold successful 
 possibilities in a near future within him. 
 
 The beautiful bride — Grace Contine — was in every way fitted 
 to become the companion of Henry Redmond, the man to 
 whom she had newly plighted her troth. Few, if any, in the 
 brilliant assembly gathered to witness the nuptials of these 
 two young and popular society people, could have surmised, 
 in the wildest flight of evil imagining, that with the passing 
 of eight short years, wealth, position, affluence and honor, 
 should have all taken to themselves wings and fled away, to 
 give place to poverty, shame and friendless isolation. 
 
on, life nr a lumber camp. isb 
 
 But such is life — at least such is life where we labor to make 
 it such. With all the rich dower of talent and opportunity,, 
 garnishing life's pathway, for Henry Redmond, all became 
 finally supplanted by the demon of appetite, which even in his 
 early college career, had grown with his physical growth, so 
 that when he would have cast off the incubus resting upon him, 
 he found he was no longer his own master. From bad to' 
 worse he quickly passed. The confidence of friends, oft 
 betrayed, was at last finally lost. The wealth he had received 
 with his beautiful bride was quickly squandered. His busi- 
 ness dwindled down from a lucrative practice, to pleading the 
 merits of a dog fight in a justice court. 
 
 Finally even this last resource was lost to him, as no one 
 was mean enough to employ the bloated and slovenly drunk- 
 ard, walking the streets of the city, where he once was honored 
 and respected. In this parody upon Henry Redmond, the 
 seeker would have looked in vain for the man of former days, 
 whose clarion voice, laden with persuasive eloquence, had once 
 thrilled bench, bar, jury and audience alike. 
 
 But the wife he had wedded was a true woman, and had 
 become his for better or for worse. It had proven all worse 
 for her, and no prospect of betterment. The bright hopes and 
 ambitious aspirations she had once cherished, were long pros- 
 trate and lifeless. Still, she bent her back to bear each addi- 
 tional burden of shame and pain, which had proven her heri- 
 tage, and for her children and wifely duty, had clung to the 
 man she still loved. 
 
 Yes, it is curious how some women will cleave to a worth- 
 less wretoh of a husband, when even a long suffering and mer- 
 ciful God seems to have cast him off. 
 
 Temperance lecturers and moralists have so many of such 
 instances to relate, that all the above sounds trite and thread- 
 bare. And still, captious reader, the world is full of just such 
 positive and negative folly, in mens ho throw life and its hopes 
 away, and women who stay by and suffer, with the moral 
 suicide. 
 
 And thus we find in Grace Redmond one of these women. 
 
186 THE SHANTY BOY. 
 
 Behold her in the hovel where we have met her, on the night 
 in question, with her world cold, dark and cheerless, hope 
 withering fled, God's face averted, lover and friend put far 
 from her. The father who had doted upon her had died and 
 left a business so involved by the criminal conduct of his son- 
 in-law, that it was worse than nothing, and to sustain her life, 
 for her children's sake, she had been finally forced to the hum- 
 ble employment we have found her engaged in. 
 
 Through the snow drifted streets she hurriedly passed, 
 carrying the package of coarse garments which constituted her 
 past week's labor. 
 
 The storm was incisively keen and cutting. Her thoughts — 
 like ghosts arising from hope's graveyard in her soul— wove a 
 mournful though silent requiem to the wail of the biting blast. 
 Her dead father — ruined by his spendthrift son-in-law — her 
 husband, last seen by her a week agone, in a condition of 
 maudlin inebriety, and her lonely, squalid home, filled with 
 but little else save poverty and despair. Truly the prospect 
 to this woman was a black and cheerless one ! 
 
 And yet dear reader, this woman was only one of the innum- 
 erable "sisterhood of pain," who from the foot of Christ's cross, 
 down the journey of time to the present hour, are sprinkling 
 with tears of soul wrung agony, the pathway of life, and still 
 maintaining their hold upon the promises of God ! Blessed 
 woman : 
 
 "Not she with traitorous kiss a Savior stung; 
 Not she blasphemed him with unholy tongue; 
 She — when apostles faltered — dared he brave, 
 Last at his cross and earliest at his grave." 
 
 But this chapter started in to tell a story and not to preach 
 a sermon. 
 
 She has at last arrived at one of these mammoth establish- 
 ments, where clothing is advertised "so cheap" that the infer- 
 ence is ever present, that the material must have been stolen, 
 as well as are the bodies and souls of the women slaves who 
 make the articles. 
 
 She timidly advances to the rear of the building, running 
 
OB, LIFE IN A LUMBER CAMP. 187 
 
 the gauntlet of the dozen of sneering, leering clerks on her 
 way. Placing her bundle on the counter before a thin, cadav- 
 erous looking man, with ferret eyes and a beak like a parrot, 
 she hesitatingly remarks: 
 
 "I have brought my week's work, Mr. Agate. I am a little 
 late, but I really could not help it. I hurried as fast as I 
 could, through the storm." 
 
 "Too late to settle with you to-night, Mrs. Eedmond. Can 
 only give you credit for the work if it passes," replied Mr. 
 Agate, carelessly tossing to and fro the garments representing 
 a week of weary toil. "You should have been here three hours 
 ago. Hand me your book.',' 
 
 "But sir, cannot I be paid to-night ?" exclaimed the woman, 
 her pale face turning if possible a shade whiter. 
 "No'm you can't! Cashier's gone home." 
 "But I really cannot do without it, Mr. Agate." 
 "Guess you'll have to this time ma'am. Should have been 
 on time. Sharp's the word in this institution." 
 
 "O sir, I do want the money so much to-night. I have 
 neither firing nor food in my house, and am dependent upon 
 receiving my pay, in order to obtain these absolute necessaries." 
 And the tears coursed each other down the wan cheeks as 
 she imploringly looked at the "thing" behind the counter. 
 
 "Well, you can't get a cent now till the 26th at 2 o'clock. I 
 can assure you of that. You women have to be made to under- 
 stant that business is business." 
 
 "But Mr. Agate, consider for a moment my helpless condi- 
 tion, and in God's name be merciful, you — " 
 
 "I won't hear anything more, madam, and I don't want you 
 working up a scene here. If this thing goes any farther, you 
 won't have another stitch of work from Velvetine & Co," 
 
 It is certainly difficult to here persuade the reader that the 
 above scene could be real in a land of blessed Christian char- 
 ity, and we are glad to believe it is rare. But the truth was, 
 that this Mr. Agate, was, in his peculiar way, getting even 
 with Grace Redmond, for a ten year old well deserved snub, 
 he had received from her, and he rejoiced in the opportunity 
 
188 THE SHANTY BOY. 
 
 of placing his malicious foot upon her neck. This she full 
 well knew, and that this man was her bitter enemy as much as 
 he dared be. 
 
 "Do you suppose sir, I could see Mr. Velvetine if I went to 
 his house ?" 
 
 "Guess not ; he's going to the Odd fellows' charity ball 
 to-night. Better call at the time I stated, and we will settle 
 with you in full. We won't have any more work for you after 
 that, Mrs. Eedmond." 
 
 "But sir, this is a matter of life and death, and I must have 
 money to-night or my children will perish." 
 
 "Now just look here ! I say you won't, and that's flat ! I 
 will not break in upon the rules, for all your whining, and I 
 have no more time to waste over yon. Hand me your book if 
 you want credit for these goods, if not I shall have to wish 
 you a good evening, and a very merry Christmas, Mrs. Eed- 
 mond." 
 
 "My God ! What shall I do, what shall I do !" 
 
 "O, I guess you won't starve for aday. Here's your book 
 with your work all credited correctly. Ife foots up $2.50 for 
 the week, and you have done extremely well, Mrs. Redmond," 
 sneered the wretch, as he carelessly tossed the work of those 
 cold blue fingers, interlaced in agony together, to one side. 
 "Remember 2 o'clock sharp, day after to-morrow, Mrs. Red- 
 mond. Good evening ma'am." 
 
 The broken hearted woman turned slowly away in a tumult 
 of soul torture, that threatened to leave her as hopeless in 
 God, as she was in man ! 
 
 It is such a moment of horror as this, that sees men rush to 
 suicide and women plunge into the yawning gulf of shame. 
 * * # * * # 
 
 On the afternoon of that same day, just as the city hall 
 clock chimed the hour of three, Henry Redmond, the drunken 
 lawyer, was slowly sauntering by the court house. Time evi- 
 dently hung heavily upon hands — for of all hard labor, that of 
 killing time is the hardest. As he slowly passed the building 
 which had oft resounded with his eloquence, he was met face 
 
OB. LIVE IN A LUMBEB CAMP. 180 
 
 to face by a gentleman, with whom in past years he had baen 
 on terms of equality and intimacy. But with the vanishing of 
 all that was good in Redmond, had also passed away this for- 
 mer friendship, and with a hurried nod the lawyer — for such 
 he was — was rapidly moving on without further recognition of 
 his former associate — for he too with all else, had been forced 
 to abandon the moral suicide. 
 
 But as Richard Fordyce passed Redmond by, a something 
 in the haggard face of the latter arrested his attention. What 
 that something was would be hard to define, possibly it may 
 have been the invisible beckoning of Redmond's better angel, 
 still clinging to the moral wreck. 
 
 Mr. Fordyce halted hesitatingly for a moment, and attracted 
 by the nameless influence spoken of, he returned to the liquor 
 logged wreck upon the sea of life, and gently touching him 
 upon the ragged shoulder said : 
 
 "Mr. Redmond !" 
 
 The man thus accosted quickly turned. Poor fellow, it had 
 been long since he had thus been designated. 
 
 "Mr. Redmond, I would have a word with you." 
 
 "I am at your service, Mr. Fordyce." 
 
 "Henry Redmond, are you fully determined to go to the 
 devil?" 
 
 "Not necessary in the least, sir. I have shaken hands with 
 that personage long ago !" 
 
 "But Redmond, cannot you make a final effort to escape, 
 and be a man once more? My heart bleeds for you, Harry." 
 
 The tears in Fordyce's eyes were witnesses to the fact 
 stated. 
 
 "It's but little use to try, I'm down in the depths too low, 
 Dick." 
 
 "It is of use to try, Harry," and unconsciously the two men 
 made use of the terms of their former intimacy. "I am glad to 
 see you sober now. Why not try to so continue ?" 
 
 "I have not tasted liquor of any kind for over a week, Dick, 
 and though I die, I shall not touch it again." 
 
 "Harry, how often have I heard you say the same thing, 
 
190 THE SHANTY BOT. 
 
 only to sink lower with each succeeding fall. I wish to God I 
 could believe you." 
 
 "O, I didn't expect you to do so, Dick, when I stated the 
 fact, which is a fact nevertheless. I am determined to die 
 sober, even if I have lived so long drunk." 
 
 "Why man, if you really mean this — and something seems to 
 tell me you do — why talk about dying ? You know that if 
 you are in earnest you can escape." 
 
 "I mean it, Fordyce !". 
 
 "Harry, give me your hand and look me square in the face. 
 In the great and holy name of God, are you in earnest this 
 time ?" 
 
 "In simple, awful earnest sir !" 
 
 "When did you make this resolve, Harry ?" 
 
 "A week ago to-night, I decided to end this life — if life it 
 can be called — and following that conclusion, i went down to 
 the river to throw this rubbish into its cleansing waters. But 
 a vision of my wife and children came to me, and I could not 
 do the cowardly deed while they seemed to be gazing upon me 
 with pleading eyes. So I turned away from death with a firm 
 resolve to never more" — and the sentence ended with a broken 
 sob, which gave birth to a tear, carried by pitying angels to 
 lay at the feet of a pleading Christ. 
 
 "O Fordyce," he continued, "if I could only find one friend 
 to believe a little in me, and help me in this last effort, I might 
 possibly escape. But that is useless." 
 
 "It is not useless, Harry, I believe in you, and God helping 
 me, I will help you. Why man, I would rather behold those 
 tears than receive a ten thousand dollar retainer. But come 
 with me to iny office. I want to talk business to you." 
 
 "Now Harry,'' he continued, after entering his office, "to 
 show you I can repose confidence in you, I am going to make 
 you a proposition. A highly important criminal case has been 
 placed in my hands. We think we can secure a verdict, but 
 it will require an earnest effort with the jury, such as I know 
 you to be capable of making. You can be of great service to 
 us in the case, and I tell you this freely, to make you clearly 
 
OR, LIFE IN A LUMBER CAMP. 101 
 
 realize your independence. It will be a grand opportunity for 
 your return to your profession. Will you take it ?" 
 
 "O Dick, you cannot mean it ?" 
 
 "Mean it? I certainly do. Will you take the case with 
 me?" 
 
 "How can I Richard, look at these rags ! And then I 
 haven't touched a law book in over two years." 
 
 "Pshaw, man, you didn't suppose I was asking you to do 
 this for the fun of the thing ?" 
 
 "N-o — I presume not." 
 
 "Well, Harry old boy, that's partially the way I propose to 
 show you that I have invested a large amount of confidence in 
 you within the past half hour. Here are two fifty dollar bills, 
 and I want you to go immediately and clothe yourself decently, 
 and in keeping with the place where — by the blessing of God 
 — I shall yet see you standing." 
 
 "0 Fordyce, do you really trust me like this ?" 
 
 "I do Harry my boy, on one simple condition, and that is, 
 that after you have passed the afternoon as you wish, you will 
 come with me to the "red ribbon" meeting this evening, and 
 sign the pledge." 
 
 "I will Dick !" and covering his face with his hands, Red- 
 mond sobbed forth his gratitude, as though the fountains of 
 the great deep within him were broken up. 
 
 "Harry, so as you are true to yourself, so will I stand by 
 you till you regain the height from which you have fallen. 
 Now, good bye for the present, and mejat me at seven o'clock 
 this evening here. God bless you, old fellow, you cannot tell 
 how happy I feel. Hope for better days, Harry. Good by !" 
 And with a hearty hand shake the good Samaritan parted 
 from the man he had found on the "Jericho road." 
 
 Dear reader, whom think ye was neighbor to him who fell 
 among thieves ? 
 
 # * * » * * 
 
 It was ten o'clock on Christmas eve, as Henry Redmond 
 opened the door of the basement that constituted the home of 
 his wife and children- The storm had passed, and through 
 
192 THE 8HANTT BO 7, 
 
 the clear night sky the stars shone as brightly as they did on 
 yonder eve when angels sang of peace and good will to man. 
 
 By the last smouldering embers of the decaying fire, sat his 
 wife, her head pillowed in her hands, and her body rocking 
 in the voiceless anguish of despair. The children, forgetful of 
 their sorrows, had long since been asleep, and she was alone 
 with her hopeless misery. 
 
 The entrance of her husband aroused her for a moment, and 
 she but glanced at him to but see him as he had last appeared 
 to her, with his delapidated old overcoat and faded slouched 
 hat. For the first time in her married life she received him in 
 silence. Her soul had found its Gethsemane, and the chalace 
 at her lips was very bitter ! 
 
 He seated himself, and after a moment of silence, remarked: 
 
 "Is that all the fire you have, Grace ?" 
 
 "It is all !" 
 
 "Have you no supper you could give me ?" 
 
 "None, the last crust went to feed the hungry children." 
 
 "Where is your bureau?" he asked, glancing around the 
 cheerless apartment. 
 
 "It furnished us with food and coal for the past three days." 
 
 Another silent pause ensued, broken finally by a loud knock 
 upon the door, to which the woman responded. 
 
 "Does Mrs. Eedmond live here ?" asked a big, burly dray- 
 man, standing whip in hand at the enorance. 
 
 "That's my name sir !" 
 
 "Well, I have some goods here for you, ma'am, where will I 
 put them ?" 
 
 "You must be mistaken in the place. I have not ordered any 
 goods." 
 
 "O, I guess its all right ma'am, if you're Mrs. Redmond, of 
 223 Hogan street east." 
 
 "That's my name, and this is the number, but there surely 
 must be some mistake." 
 
 "You're all right my man, bring them in," said Eedmond 
 quietly. 
 
 The drayman responded by bringing in basket after basket, 
 
OB. LIFE IN A L UMBER CAMP. 193 
 
 and depositing them on the floor, while poor Grace stood 
 petrified with astonishment. There was sugar, tea, coffee, a 
 luscious ham, eggs, butter, bread, cake, apples, potatoes, celery, 
 a roast of beef, a basket of coal, an abominably large turkey, 
 a pitcher of milk, a jar of syrup, a can of oil, nuts, raisins, 
 oysters, oranges, figs, and finally a whole barrel of flour. The 
 sight was glorious, as the kind drayman emptied a quantity of 
 coal on the fire. The children, aroused by the noise, tumbled 
 out of bed in their ragged night dresses, and stood looking at 
 the scene in open mouthed astonishment, till Georgie at last 
 mustered up courage to approach the drayman and whisper- 
 ingly ask: 
 
 "Please sir, are you Santa Claus ?" 
 
 "Only his coachman, my little fellow," replied the man. 
 
 "Now my good man," said Redmond, "seeing you have done 
 so well, please take the head oat of that barrel." 
 
 The kind hearted drayman, who had cordially entered into 
 the sphit of the whole proceedings, complied readily, and lit- 
 tle Georgie, filled with curiosity to know what was in the bar- 
 rel, at once climbed up, and bobbing his head over to look 
 down, was in a moment covered with a mask of flour. He 
 excitedly ran to his speechless mother and shouted : 
 
 "O mamma, its full to the top !" 
 
 The drayman departed as mysteriously as he came, and 
 before the astonished woman could ask a question, another 
 loud rap was heard. 
 
 "Does Mrs. Redmond live here ma'am ?" 
 
 "Ye-s— sir." 
 
 "Lot of goods for her." 
 
 "Are you sure you have the right place, sir?" 
 
 "Guess so ma'am, 223 Hogan street, east ?" 
 
 "Yes — this is the place." 
 
 "All right ma'am. I'll bring 'em in." 
 
 And so he did, bringing in bundle after bundle of dry goods. 
 A nice soft mattress, two pairs of warm woolen blankets, 
 sheets, pillows and comfortables. Then came dress goods, 
 suited for the weather, and all made up. Hoods, jackets, 
 
194 THE SHANTY BOY, 
 
 stockings, shoes, mittens and scarfs, ad infinitum. 
 
 The sight, when the man had completed his work was glo- 
 rious. The fire had caught the infection, and was now blaz- 
 ing cheerfully, while the wife and little ones stood gazing in 
 speechless astonishment. At last she found voice : 
 
 ■'Henry, what does all this mean ?" 
 
 "Only a sample of better things and days to come dear." 
 
 "O Henry, can it be possible that all this is your doing ?" 
 
 "I am only too heartily ashamed Grace, to acknowledge that 
 by my folly I have made such a scene as this necessary, and 
 once more Eedmond's hands hid his face. 
 
 "Harry — husband — I fear to ask — but can it be possible 
 that you — that you have — O Harry dear, keep me no longer in 
 suspense. What is the meaning of all I see ?" 
 
 For an answer Redmond opened his old ragged overcoat, 
 and beneath it, glistening upon a spank and span new suit of 
 broad cloth, shone a small "red ribbon." The enraptured wife 
 recognized the sign, which spoke freedom for the captive, and 
 redemption from suffering for the victims, and she, with a glad 
 cry, rushed into the outstretched arms of the husband she had 
 never ceased to love exclaiming : 
 
 "Henry darling ! My own again. O God pardon my 
 unbelief!" 
 
 * * * * # * 
 
 It is needless to relate that Santa Glaus that night visited 
 Georgie and little Pet, or that nice new stockings without any 
 holes in the toes, were filled with goodies. Or that the Christ- 
 child, in his mission of love and peace, visited that humble 
 domicile, or that the necessity for Mrs. Redmond calling "on 
 the 26th, at 2 o'clock sharp," to receive her money from the 
 courteous Mr. Agate, was at once and forever rendered unnec- 
 essary. 
 
 And O the big turkey ! cooked by the hands of Mrs. Grace 
 herself, of which Georgie and Pet, after eating all possible, 
 broke the wish bone and were lost in seeking what to wish for. 
 Or how, with her sighing and tears all turned to joy and 
 laughter, Grace Redmond spread her table that day with 
 
OR, LIFE IN A LUMBER CAMP. 195 
 
 thanksgiving, and with her heart filled with singing, beamed 
 her returned love upon her husband, so wondrously brought 
 up from the depths ! 
 
 For he had told her all. The confidence so long broken 
 between them was again united, and love restored cemented 
 the bond, never again to be severed. 
 
 It is needless to lengthen out this chapter, and we but add 
 that with the next returning Christmas, Grace Redmond was 
 the beautiful mistress of a charming home, filled with comfort 
 and content. The firm of Fordyce & Bedmond is well known 
 in Michigan, although these names are here but borrowed for 
 the sake of privacy. 
 
 It may be added however, that within two years, Mr. Agate 
 was convicted of heavy stealing from the house of Velvetine 
 & Co., and is to-day serving a long sentence in Jackson. 
 
 Henry Redmond kept his pledge inviolate, and has been the 
 means of saving hundreds of others from the fate he so nar- 
 rowly escaped. And so we leave him and his, with the simple 
 advice to others like circumstanced to 
 
 "DABE TO DO EIGHT." 
 
196 TOE SSA2TTT BOY, 
 
 CHAPTER XXIV. 
 
 A Chapter Bordering upon the Mysterious — How I Learned the 
 Strange Experience op Mr. Grover and What the Same Con- 
 sisted of — A Ghostly Yarn. 
 
 "There are things in earth and heaven 
 
 That are not dreamed of in your philosophy." 
 
 It was along in the summer of 1886, that I was a passenger 
 on board the steamer City of Mackinaw, of the D. & 0. S. N. 
 Co., bound from Detroit to the Fairy Isle of the straits. It 
 was the height of the "outing season," and the boat was liter- 
 ally crowded to the utmost, with tourists. Fortunately, I was 
 the possessor of a whole state room, and while not wishing to 
 play the role of the "railroad hog," I, so far had not found 
 what might prove a congenial occupant of the upper berth, 
 which when we arrived at Port Huron was still vacant. Here 
 however another influx of travelers came on board, among 
 whom was a gentleman, his wife, two very pretty children and 
 their nurse. The clerk and steward were at their wits end to 
 accommodate the large surplus of scolding, agitated humanity, 
 asking for berths, and alas asking in vain. Among the most 
 disappointed of these, was the gentleman, whose family I have 
 mentioned. They had just arrived at Port Huron in time to 
 catch the boat, and the lady was suffering from the fatigue 
 incident to a long journey from the interior of New York, as 
 were also the children. 
 
 "Best I can do, sir, is cots in the saloon. Plenty of them, 
 but no staterooms," was the rejoinder of the steward to the 
 final pleading of the gentleman. 
 
OR, LIFE IN A LUMBER CAMP. 197 
 
 "But my wife and the children what will they do ? I will 
 willingly pay ten times the price of a stateroom." 
 
 "Couldn't have one sir, if you bought the boat." 
 
 "Well, this is a sweet condition of things ! Edith, I fear you 
 will have to put up with a cot and make the children as com- 
 fortable as you can." 
 
 "But Fred dear, I cannot do without some place of privacy 
 after our long journey, if only for the children's sake; Jane, 
 take Freddie in your arms, poor child, Flossie, come here to 
 mamma love. O dear ! 
 
 I thought this a golden opportunity to play the "good 
 Samaritan," and touching the gentleman on the arm I intimated 
 that my stateroom was at the disposal of the lady and the 
 children, and I would cheerfully vacate in their favor. 
 
 The offer was accepted with the utmost gratitude, and I 
 had the satisfaction of seeing them all made comfortable in 
 my vacated dormatory, while the gentleman — who introduced 
 himself to me as Fred W. Grover, of Rochester, N. Y., now 
 extensively engaged in lumbering in Wisconsin, and to whom 
 I from the first seemed to be unconsciously attracted — and 
 myself, seated ourselves on the after deck, with our pipes, 
 while the majestic boat plowed her way through the blue placid 
 waters of Lake Huron. 
 
 I do not know exactly how the conversation assumed the 
 turn it did, but shortly after we had taken our seats, we found 
 ourselves in full discussion of the "Dr. Jekyl and Mr. Hyde" 
 case, a book at that time fully engrossing public attention. 
 From this we drifted along through what might be termed the 
 "ethics of murder," and suicide to the mere psychological rela- 
 tion of mind to matter, and the possibility of a dual existence 
 and independent votation of what is popularly known as the 
 "soul" or "spirit." It must not be supposed that the discus- 
 sion of such a gruesome subject as "dopple ganging," transmi- 
 gration, and kindred branches of the "Invisible in Man," be- 
 tween Mr. Grover and myself, indicated for a moment a mor- 
 bidly inclined disposition on the part of either. On the con- 
 trary, Mr. G. was a man in the very zenith of health and phy- 
 
198 THE SHANTY BOX, 
 
 sical perfection, while I — well, three square meals per day, and 
 eight hours' uninterrupted sleep, should necessarily indicate 
 an entire separation from either the nervous or the superstitious 1 
 And yet the conversation held that evening between Mr. 
 Grover and myself, on the after deck of the City of Mackinac, 
 has given me much subject matter for after thought, and 
 left behind an impression which time will never efface. 
 
 The branch of the subject absorbing our attention at the 
 moment, was the independent action of the soul and body, 
 and Mr. Grover startled me with the interrogation : "You 
 would not take me for a murderer sir, would you ?" 
 
 "Why, Mr. Grover, you shock me with the bare supposition, 
 certainly not!" 
 
 "Well sir, believe it or not as you please, still I was once an 
 actual participant in as brutal and cold blooded a murder of a 
 woman, I was devotedly attached to, and of a young man, my 
 warmest friend, whom I charged with supplanting me in the 
 affections of my affianced bride. But stop till I fill my pipe, 
 I can always converse better when under the spell of our 
 national idol, I will then constitute you my father confessor, 
 and relate one of the most atrocious crimes ever committed by 
 man." 
 
 Mr. Grover deliberately proceeded with the rilling of his 
 pipe, while I was plunged into a maze of cogitation as to 
 whether I was in company with a lunatic or not. 
 
 "Our acquaintance sir has been brief, so much so that it seems 
 like taking an unwarranted liberty with a stranger, to tell him 
 a story so utterly at variance with all received theories that his 
 clear reasoning powers will scout its reception and I will hardly 
 blame him for looking upon what I have to tell, as but the 
 ravings of a diseased imagination. In fact, I cannot fully 
 comprehend the thing myself, which to me forms one of the 
 strangest experiences of my life, and I compliment you sir by 
 admitting that you are the first human being to whom I have 
 confided the story in its entirety. I will have to call my story 
 a 'confession,' and place it, for the sake of continuity in the 
 form of a narrative. 
 
OR, LIFE IN A LUMBER CAMP. 199 
 
 "Ten years ago I was engaged as head book-keeper in a 
 large mercantile establishment, in one of the interior cities 
 of New York. For the previous seven years I had filled 
 various positions of confidential trust, under the firm, rising 
 from one to another, till reaching the very responsible place 
 mentioned. The firm consisted of two partners, John 
 Gilbraith, a shrewd, careful old Scotch gentleman, and Kobert 
 Southwick, with whom my story is more intimately connected. 
 With the family of Mr. Southwick — consisting of a wife and 
 two daughters— I had made my home for the preceding six 
 happy years — having been left an orphan at a tender age, and 
 indebted largely to strangers for early care and education. 
 
 "In this home, filled with every comfort and pleasing asso- 
 ciation the years glided imperceptibly and peacefully away. 
 I was looked upon as one of the family, and treated accord- 
 ingly. But toward the eldest daughter, Edith, did my heart's 
 affections go out, in all the force and fevor of love's young 
 dream, and I had every reason to believe that my affection 
 was fully reciprocated on her part, and tacitly consented to by 
 her parents — who looked upon me already in the light of a 
 son." 
 
 "I do not propose sir, to make this narrative a mere love 
 story, and I will therefore spare you the recital of the oft told 
 tale, first learned in Eden's bowers. Suffice it to say, that in 
 Edith Southwick was all that the most fastidious and captious 
 could desire in woman. By the death of my parents I had 
 been left a fair amount of wealth which on my reaching my 
 majority, was placed in my possession, and I was soon to 
 become a partner in the business. This business, I omitted 
 to say, consisted largely in the manufacturing of powder, and 
 the mills belonging to the firm were the largest in the country, 
 situated about three miles from our city office. 
 
 The charge of the mills was in the hands of a young man, a 
 few years my senior, named George Sinclair, a nephew of Mr. 
 Gilbraith. Poor George ! He was as fine a whole souled fel- 
 low as you would meet in a day's walk, and between him 
 and myself a warm attachment subsisted. He was a frequent 
 
300 TEE SHANTY BO T. 
 
 visitor at the residence of Mr. Southwick, ostensibly to see me, 
 but evidently drawn by the sweet, winning ways of Florence, 
 sister to my Edith." 
 
 "Part of my duties consisted in visiting once a month the 
 powder mills, to there receive a statement of work performed, 
 and pay the employes. 
 
 "I remember distinctly driving out as usual at the close of 
 the month of June, 1880, and meeting with George Sinclair, 
 when, after the usual routine of the monthly business had 
 been transacted, I threw myself down on a lounge in the office 
 to rest. It was about three o'clock in the afternoon, One of 
 those languid, sleepy afternoons which characterize our Amer- 
 ican June, and I fell fast asleep. That is the last I remember 
 sir, till I found myself wandering alone in a shadowy ravine, 
 below where the mills were situated. 
 
 "Night was fast approaching, and I distinctly call to mind, 
 ,that I thought it strange that I should be out there so late, 
 with no possible business to lead me to such an unfrequented 
 place, especially as I should be on my way home. Still, it 
 was the close of a lovely day, and the umbrageous foliage of 
 the evergreens in the dell where I was walking, gave a delight- 
 ful shade, inviting in itself. The footpath I was following led 
 along the margin of a brook, which flowed through the dell, 
 on either side of which the rugged banks covered with cedars, 
 rose high above. I could not remember ever before to have 
 traversed the same pathway, and though I should have been 
 on my way to the city, a curiosity to see whither it led, 
 caused me to continue my walk. 
 
 "I had not proceeded far before I heard voices in conversa- 
 tion, evidently a man and a woman, and on turning a corner, 
 embowered in shrubbery, I discovered the possessors of the 
 voices, to be none other than George Sinclair and Edith 
 Southwick. For a moment I was spell bound with astonish- 
 ment at this unlooked for reconnoitre, and could not under- 
 stand how Edith, whom I had left in the city, and George, busy 
 in the mill office, could be here. My first impulse was to 
 make myself known. They sat side by side on a flat rock, his 
 
OR, LIFE IN A LUMBER CAMP. 201 
 
 arm encircling her waist, and hers lovingly thrown about his 
 neck. I could distinctly see them and also hear every word 
 uttered. I could with difficulty credit the evidences of my 
 senses, and after the first shock 6f surprise had in a measure 
 subsided, I stealthily crept behind a convenient bush, imme- 
 diately behind where the pair were seated, where I listened to 
 the billing and cooing of this false friend and my perjured 
 lover. I had come upon them in the very concoction of a 
 plan, by which my attentions to Edith were in the future to 
 be dispensed with and my place filled by my unsuspected rival. 
 'My blood boiled to frenzy's heat as I listened. I was but 
 .the sport of a deep, designing woman, aided by a false, unscru- 
 pulous knave, I had ever considered in the light of a bosom 
 friend. 
 
 " 'But George, love,' continued the woman I had fondly 
 thought all my own, 'it will be quite a trial of nerve for me to 
 undergo, in telling Fred his hopes are futile. He has long 
 looked upon our union as a foregone conclusion, so much so 
 that i had come to receive the denouement as a settled fact, 
 till I saw you dear, and realized you had my heart in your 
 keeping. And what else' — 
 
 "The sentence was broken by a warm exchange of kisses 
 and embraces, at the sight of which I could with difficulty 
 maintain my incognito. 
 
 " 'Why Edith, my sweet pet,' replied my successful rival, 
 'you must be a woman of spirit, and let the fond fool know his 
 fate at once. We connot much longer keep up this clandes- 
 tine way of meeting, and I long to call you mine before the 
 eyes of the world.' 
 
 " 'Well, as you will love, but though I hate to part with you, 
 we must return to the office, where Fred will have had his nap 
 out, and will be awake — ' 
 
 " 'Fred is fully awake now, in more senses than one, you 
 infernal scoundrel!' I shouted, jumping from behind my con- 
 cealment, and confronting the surprised and guilty pair. 
 
 " 'I am fully awake to your black hearted falseness, Miss 
 Southwick, and will save you the trouble and pain of giving 
 
202 THE SHANTY BO T, 
 
 me my dismissal, as you promised this cur; I dismiss myself, 
 and thus anticipate your action.' 
 
 "Ha ha ha ! So you have been playing the eaves-dropper, 
 Mr. Grover, have you ? Well, you know the old proverb about 
 listeners. But please remember this lady is under my pro- 
 tection and you will be careful how you address her. She is 
 mine !' 
 
 "Scoundrel!' I roared, as with one bound I had him by the 
 throat, 'blackguard and villain, you shall never live to boast of 
 your cursed treachery !' 
 
 "The struggle between us was a desperate one. Sinclair 
 was a robust man, but I was armed with the strength born of 
 desperation. Murder was in my heart, and with a crushing 
 blow I felled him to the earth. What might have further 
 ensued is not difficult to tell, for my arm was lifted, poising a 
 large stone to crush his head, when my hand was suddenly 
 stayed, in the very act of hurling it upon my prostrate foe, 
 while a voice exclaimed : 
 
 " 'What is a' this ? De ye want to be hang'et for murder, 
 ye fool ye ?' 
 
 "It was old Mr. Gilbraith, who stood between us, and as he 
 spoke I had time to think. 
 
 " 'What for a' are ye twa lads bickering aboot that ye mun 
 strive til murder ether ?' 
 
 " 'Because of a false woman, Mr. Gilbraith ! There she 
 stands, let her gainsay the accusation if she can,' I replied. 
 
 " 'Because of a woman ye silly boy ? What laid Troy in 
 ashes ? What has ever ben' the cause o' ah' the sin an' misery 
 in this woarld if no' a woman ? By the time ye ha' reached the 
 years I ha', ye'll ken that til' yer heart's content. Away hame 
 we' ye both, an' I'll no' say- a word o' this til Master Sooth- 
 wick. So awa' we ye, an' let me hear o' na mare squabbling.' 
 
 " 'But Mr. Gilbraith, Miss Southwich has proven false to her 
 troth pledged to me, and has taken this traitor to the place 
 where I fondly trusted she had cherished my image." 
 
 " 'Weel, weel, lad ! Its a lady's preevelege to change her 
 mind, an' dootless Edith has geud an'- clear reasons for her 
 
OB, LIFE IN A LUMBER GAMP. 208 
 
 actions. Ye'U no' wun her love back by ony such ruffian play 
 as this. So awa' we ye !' 
 
 "Thanks Mr. Gilbraith, for this timely prevention of a brutal 
 murder,' said Edith, and without one look or word to me, she 
 took the path up the ravine. Pulling himself together, Sin- 
 clair rose from the ground, and with a scowl of defiance and 
 hatred to me, and a nod to Mr. Gilbraith, he followed after 
 Edith, leaving the old gentleman and myself alone.' 
 
 "Now, sir, all I am telling you was in the minutest 
 detail, as clearly before me in place, word and action, just as 
 much as is the fact that you and I are at this moment here 
 telling and listening to this singular experience. You will 
 therefore believe me when I say that no incident in my whole 
 life, either before or since, impressed me more clearly or in- 
 telligently than this I am now relating." 
 
 "I am thoroughly convinced of the fact, Mr. Grover, but 
 pray continue." 
 
 "Mr. Gilbraith stood facing me in the fast thickening gloom 
 of the evening. I could see all the details of his looks and 
 clothing, before he spoke again, even to his helping himself to 
 a pinch of snuff from a silver mounted ram's horn box, he 
 carried. 
 
 " 'Weel Fred my lad, I trow ye are noo satisfied we what I 
 tauld ye aboot weemen. Weel de I ken, by bitter experience, 
 what they are, an' ye hae but ane thing left ye lad !' 
 
 " 'What might that be sir ?' 
 
 " 'Revenge my lad, sweet revenge." 
 
 " 'But how sir ?' 
 
 " 'Weel there's mony ways beside braining a man we' a rock, 
 an' I'll aid ye to some ane, far better than that, an' far more 
 satisfying. I was stan'ing behind ye, ah' the time ye stood 
 list'ning till yon twa fools spooning, an' I kenned weel hoo it 
 sat on yer stomach lad, to see yer lady love leaving ye for 
 anither. ' 
 
 " 'To me sir, it is simply death, and I don't care much what 
 now becomes of me, Mr. Gilbraith.' 
 
 " 'It is hard Fred, an' yer no the man I think ye are if ye'll 
 no hae ample satisfaction.' 
 
204 THE SHANTY BOY, 
 
 " 'But again I ask how sir ?" 
 
 " 'Kill them baath lad, kill them baath !' 
 
 "I started back in horrified surprise, for my passion had 
 subsided into a hopeless grief by this time, and I could hardly 
 credit my senses, to hear this language from Mr. Gilbraith, 
 knowing him to be a most exemplary man, and a ruling elder 
 in the leading Presbyterian church. Nevertheless, there he 
 stood before me, calmly counseling a cruel murder. 
 
 " 'I certainly feel sir, as though such revenge would be grati- 
 fying, but I shrink from murder.' 
 
 " 'Of course ye wul at first Fred, bat when ye brood over 
 the extent o' yer injury ye'U feel more like it, and 'od lad, I 
 am willing to len' ye a hawnd, for whisper : I hate them baath 
 as bitterly as ye de.' 
 
 "It was fast becoming dark, and the old man's eyes fairly 
 flashed as he hissed out the last sentence : 'I bitterly hate 
 them baath !' 
 
 "I felt my own angei returning. The spirit breathed by the 
 old man seemed to awaken afresh the evil within me, and a 
 burning thirst for the blood of Sinclair and Edith fevered my 
 tongue and burned my very soul. 
 
 " 'Sit ye doon Fred, sit ye doon, an' we'll talk the matter ah' 
 ower,' said my tempter, and we seated ourselves side by side 
 on the very same moss covered rock, where I had beheld my 
 false friend and fickle love, exchanging vows. 
 
 "It is needless, sir, for me to give you in detail the 
 conversation I held with Mr. Gilbraith, but if ever a demon 
 was sent to tempt a man to the perpetration of one of the 
 most atrocious crimes ever contemplated, that demon was 
 clothed in the form and semblance of John Gilbraith ! His 
 plan for the destruction of Sinclair and Edith Southwick was 
 simply to blow up the powder mill, with them in it ! 
 
 " 'The powder mills !' I exclaimed, 'Great heavens ! sir, that 
 will involve the destruction of many other lives, besides thou- 
 sands of dollars in property ! You are surely not in earnest ?' 
 
 " 'Hoot hoot man ! what signifies a wheen useless bodies 
 aboot the mill, and oor firm is weel able to stan' the loss o' the 
 
OR, LIFE IN A LUMBER CAMP. 205 
 
 dollars.' Then with devilish ingenuity he proceeded to work 
 out all the details of the horrible scheme, to the most minute 
 particular. The destined victims were to be brought together 
 at the office of the mill, and when secure within its walls a 
 train, previously laid, was to be fired, and in a moment all 
 would be over. 
 
 "As the old man wrought out the fine points in the plot, I 
 seemed to joyfully drink in of his spirit. An all absorbing 
 desire for revenge, permeated every pulsation of my heart, and 
 I longed for the moment to come when by one fell swoop I 
 could have full surcease of the burning desire for revenge con- 
 suming me. 
 
 "The details of the devilish scheme were simple. Edith 
 Southwiek was to be brought over to the mill by Gilbraith, 
 who was to assume an interest in the success of her intrigue 
 with Sinclair. Having full liberty about the mill, I was to lay 
 a fuse to the principal magazine, leading to some safe and 
 secluded place, where I was to be stationed, and at a precon- 
 certed signal, I was to fire the fuse. 
 
 "We had 172,000 pounds of powder stored in the magazine ! 
 
 "It was nine o'clock that evening before we had fully com- 
 pleted our plans. It had also grown very dark, and having no 
 matches, I distinctly remember catching a fire fly and placing 
 it on the dial of my watch to learn the time. We parted with 
 a hearty hand shake, and the old man plunged into the thicket 
 leading to the mill, leaving me alone to think over my share of 
 the awful work. I was to lay the fuse that very night. The 
 mills were located in a secluded ravine, far from any habita- 
 tions. They consisted of several brick structures filled with 
 machinery, driven by water power ; over fifty men were em- 
 ployed, who lived in a row of cottages about a quarter of a 
 mile from the mill. The explosion would kill everything, and 
 not leave one brick upon another. Certainly my revenge 
 would be complete, 'and I had great satisfaction in the contem- 
 plation of the project. I also remember that it struck me as 
 strange that this could be John Gilbraith. What had he 
 against Edith or Sinclair ? This he would not tell me, but it 
 
206 THE SHANTY BOY. 
 
 certainly had begat within him a fearful seeking after ven- 
 geance. 
 
 "I returned to the mill boarding house, where I found Sin- 
 clair had accompanied Edith to the city, and had not yet 
 returned. I threw myself upon my bed without undressing 
 and sleepless. I will not seek to give you an analysis of my 
 feelings, as I lay waiting for the hour to come, when I was to 
 lay the fuse. They were simply unspeakable ! I had ceased 
 to recognize myself. No thoughts of the innocent victims to 
 be destroyed were mine ! No care or calculation as to the 
 amount of pecuniary loss entailed, troubled me. Nothing but 
 an all absorbing wish for revenge filled my soul, and I fairly 
 laughed to myself in hellish glee, as I in anticipation gloated 
 over the deed of blood before me, 
 
 "All was hushed in repose as I arose from my bed. The 
 time for the first act had come. Darkness lent security to my 
 evil mission, and I cautiously made my way to the rear of the 
 principal magazine, having with me a long coil of fuse. Enter- 
 ing the building I attached the fatal thread to one of the kegs, 
 and by removing the heads from several others, I succeeded 
 in piling up a large quantity of loose powder, where it would 
 prove effective, and then, retreating, I led the fuse to a place 
 where unobserved I could fire the spark of death. 
 
 "When all was completed, I returned to my room, entering 
 by the window I had made my exit from. I passed unobserved 
 by the watchman, flashing his safety lamp into every part of 
 the works. All was done, and I but awaited the final moment 
 of consummation ! 
 
 "During the day I kept myself concealed in my room, till the 
 hour set should arrive — which was four o'clock in the after- 
 noon. From my window I could observe the workmen, in 
 their list shoes, noiselessly moving about, without the least 
 compunction of conscience on my part, in fact, that element 
 in my moral composition seemed to have totally deserted me. 
 
 "About half an hour before the time appointed for the explo- 
 sion, I beheld John Gilbraith accompanied by Edith South- 
 wick, drive up to the office together. A new addition to my 
 
OB, LIFE IN A LUMBER CAMP. 307 
 
 contemplated crime struck me. Here was this old wretch, also 
 in the toils with the rest. He was the only witness against 
 me and I would fire the train ten minutes before the appointed 
 hour ! I looked at my watch. It only lacked fourteen min- 
 utes to four o'clock ! My window opened upon a veranda, 
 covered with heavily clustered vines, completely hiding all 
 vision from without. I quietly passed through, and made my 
 way to where the fuse lay extended. How innocent it looked, 
 like a fishing line, but how far into eternity it reached for 
 those whose moments were numbered ! I again looked at my 
 watch. 
 
 "It marked eleven minutes to four. 
 
 "Stooping down I struck a match. It fizzed, sputtered and 
 expired. Another and still another, did the same. I had only 
 brought six matches with me and four were already useless. 
 Again I tried, and the fifth match burned with a steady flame. 
 I applied it to the frayed end of the fuse, and watched its ser- 
 pent like movement, till it had penetrated six inches into the 
 fuse. All was well ! The silence was alone broken by the dis- 
 tant murmur of the machinery in the mill. From where I stood 
 was but a short distance to the office, and I could even hear 
 the sound of voices, and the stamping of Gilbraith's old yellow 
 pony, driving away the flies, as he stood hitched before the 
 office door. How quiet everything seemed ! I could distinctly 
 hear the beating of my heart, and my own labored breathing. 
 A bee came humming by and lighted on a dandelion right over 
 where the deadly fuse was burning, and a gaudy winged but- 
 terfly brushed my face. Not a cloud obscured the sky, and 
 the western sun, like a great golden globe, gazed down calmly 
 upon a deed that could cause hell itself to blush ! 
 
 "Turning, I rapidly made my way through a close thicket of 
 "oak grubs," in the direction of the dell, where the sanguinary 
 planning of this horrid deed had been concocted. I had five 
 minutes to reach a .place of safety, and fear lent rapidity to my 
 footsteps. But ere I had reached the destined place the explo- 
 sion followed. 
 
 "I heard an awful roar, and felt the ground move under me 
 
208 THE SHANTY BOY, 
 
 as though I were in a boat. The clear sky above me turned 
 black as night, and then all was over and I knew no more. 
 
 "When I recovered consciousness, I found myself lying 
 unhurt at the bottom of the ravine. All around were scattered 
 the debris of the explosion. The trees were limbless, as 
 though swept by a fiery blast, and the air was heavy with the 
 smell of sulphurous exhalations. When I had fully recovered, 
 I began to look about me, to, if possible learn the extent of 
 my work. From a mass of ruin near me, heavy groans issued, 
 as though of mortal agony, and on further investigation I 
 found two blackened and mutilated forms, clasped in each 
 other's arms, and burned beyond the semblance of recognition. 
 Bnt I knew them and gathering some water in my hat from 
 the brook, I dashed it in their faces and saw Edith and 
 Sinclair. 
 
 "They were dying but still conscious. All the glorious 
 beauty gone ! All the manly strength vanished ! 
 
 "With their sightless orbs turned in agony toward me, they 
 lived long enough to hear me hiss in their ears the story of my 
 work, and I turned away when I had drank in their expiring 
 sigh, to mingle with the gathering crowds who had begun to 
 arrive on the scene of destruction. 
 
 "Examination showed tha,t the disaster had been complete. 
 Not a fragment of the mills had remained, and of all living I 
 alone seemed to have escaped. The cries of agony, from the 
 friends of the murdered employes, fell upon my ear, as I hur- 
 ried away to hide myself from the horrible sights and sounds , 
 which now began to awaken within me poignant emotions of 
 remorse. 
 
 "But all was now too late ! I leaned against a convenient 
 rock, and meditated upon my crime. Regret and contrition 
 were at work, and conscience had again resumed sway within 
 me. Alas, too late ! and I wrung my hands in anguish una- 
 vailing. 
 
 "A touch on my arm aroused me from my mental lethargy, 
 and to my astonishment I beheld the form of John Gilbraith. 
 He then escaped the slaughter ? How could this be ? 
 
OB, LIFE IN A LUMBER CAMP. 209 
 
 " 'Weel, Fredie my mon, ye did it ah' weel, an' though ye 
 tried to send me fleeing we' the rest, I'll forg'e ye. Are ye 
 satisfied noo lad ?' 
 
 "The face and form were certainly those of John Gilbraith, 
 but the voice had a mockery in its tone I had never before 
 heard, and in wonder I silently gazed at him. 
 
 " 'Ah ha my boy, you are mine now, for all eternity!' he 
 shrieked in my ear at the same time grasping me by the throat. 
 His form seemed to dilate to the size of a giant. His eyes 
 blazed, and in hissing tones his voice came burning hot, as he 
 still exclaimed : 'You are mine, body and soul, forever !' 
 
 "I felt that i was lost and realized that I was in the grasp 
 of the enemy of God and man. 
 
 "My last remembrance was that of a wrench of untold mor- 
 tal agony, and then I lost all consciousness. 
 
 * * * * # * 
 
 "How long I remained in this oblivious condition I cannot 
 say, but my first intimation of returning sense, was, that I was 
 lying in bed listening to a confused murmur of voices, seeming 
 to hold a dialogue in subdued tones, from which I was enabled 
 to connect disjointed sentences. 
 
 " 'And you really think there are hopes for him, doctor ?' 
 
 " 'I certainly do Miss. Southwick. The crisis is now past, 
 and if fever does not intervene the broken limb will be 
 nothing.' 
 
 " 'Thank the good God for his great mercy, for I had 
 almost despaired.' 
 
 "The latter voice was certainly that of Edith Southwick. 
 Ah ! how well I knew its tones. Where was I ? Had I also 
 died in the grasp of the demon, and with the rest was now in 
 the spirit land? All was dark about me and something cold 
 and clammy was over my face. Footsteps were gently moving 
 about the room, and I lay striving to realize whether I was in 
 time or eternity. Again the soft footsteps moved towards me, 
 and a gentle hand lifted the covering from off my eyes, while 
 the same sweet well known voice murmured softly : 
 
 " 'My precious saved darling !' 
 
210 THE SHANTY BOY. 
 
 "The voice preceded the action of a pair of warm lips gently 
 pressed to mine. I opened my eyes and a flood of subdued 
 light poured in upon me. Bending over me was the beauteous 
 face and form of Edith Southwick ! Surely I was in heaven, 
 and this was her bless't forgiving spirit. 
 
 " 'Fred darling, do you know me, your own Edith ?' 
 
 " 'Yes ! I know you dear, but are we both in heaven ?' 
 
 " 'Well yes love, I am at least in having you restored to me, 
 but you are in your old room in papa's house dear, snatched 
 from an awful death, and given back to me,' and again the 
 dear lips sealed love's sweet solicitude on mine. 
 
 " 'But tell me dearie, what has happened ? I cannot under- 
 stand it ? How have I been hurt ?' 
 
 " 'Hush Fred, hush dear, you mus'n't talk too much. There 
 was a fearful explosion at the mills, and for the past ten days 
 you have been hovering between life and death.' 
 
 " 'But how was I caught, Edith ? I know fully about the 
 explosion for wasn't I — But I thought — Tell me dear, were 
 you not killed ? and are we not in heaven where we cannot be 
 separated ?' 
 
 " 'No Fred, you see I am not killed for don't you feel my 
 arm about you, and surely that kiss is not a ghostly one ?' 
 
 " 'But dear, I cannot understand. Is not George Sinclair 
 killed ?' 
 
 " '0 poor George, yes he was one of the victims, and Flor- 
 ence is breaking her heart. But I cannot see how you know, 
 for you were taken up in a condition of unconsciousness, and 
 have remained so ever since. Poor George's body has never 
 been recovered, and you would hardly know where the mill 
 once stood.' 
 
 " 'I do not understand you Edith. Do you mean to tell me 
 that you and George Sinclair have not been false to me, and 
 that in revenge I did not — O I cannot understand it! Where 
 is Gilbraith?' 
 
 " 'Mr. Gilbraith was here about an hour ago darling, and 
 has watched with us by your bedside, night and day. But 
 Fredie, your mind is wandering a little, and so try and go to 
 
OB. LIFE IN A LUMBER CAMP. 311 
 
 sleep and get well dear, for my sake. There that's a good bye 
 kiss.' 
 
 " 'But Edith, you must not leave me till I know all, or I will 
 surely lose my senses. Tell me dear the whole circumstances.' 
 
 " 'Well love, we got the little we know from Dan, the office 
 boy. He is the only one saved besides yourself. Dan was in 
 the office when the explosion took place, and states that 
 George was at work on the books, and you were sleeping on 
 the couch in the inner room, and that is all poor Dan can tell 
 us. We found him senseless in the top of that great willow 
 tree by the brook, and you were found near by, behind a great 
 rock, with your right leg broken, and blackened with smoke. 
 
 " 'We brought you home, but had almost begun to despair — 
 at least mamma and papa did, but I never gave up.' 
 
 " 'And Edith dear, I hav'n't been guilty of this horrible 
 calamity ?' 
 
 " 'Certainly not love. Don't be silly!' 
 
 " 'And you have not been false to me ?' 
 
 " 'O Fred ! For shame sir ! How could that ever be, you 
 foolish boy?' 
 
 " 'God grant me my reason to understand all this dear, but 
 it seems inexplicable.' 
 
 " 'Never mind it now darling, take a drink of this sedative 
 and go to sleep and you will wake up refreshed.' 
 
 " 'One kiss of forgiveness Edith first, for Oh, dear, I have 
 had an awful experience.' 
 
 " 'Certainly love, if I have anything to forgive,' and again 
 the dear loving lips were pressed close to mine. 'It has only 
 been a dream dear, and all will be clear when you awaken 
 again.' 
 
 " 'Yes ! a dream possibly, but Oh, what a dream!' I mur- 
 mured as I felt the sense of drowsy sleep stealing over me. 
 'God in his mercy grant I may never have another such dream.' 
 * * * * * * 
 
 "Now this is my story, sir, and you will admit that it is a 
 strange one. What is your opinion ?" 
 
 "I certainly think it a remarkable experience sir, and if the 
 
212 THE SHANTY BOY, 
 
 German theory of the 'dopple ganger' or double going be 
 true, then when your body was resting on the couch, previous 
 to the explosion, your soul had separated from it, and inde- 
 pendent of the reasoning powers of the brain, had formulated 
 the monstrous absurdity, coincident with the fatal catastrophe 
 which took place." 
 
 "Yes, another phase of the 'Dr. Jekyl and Mr. Hyde' theory, 
 or else the soul, independent of the body, had during the ten 
 previous days, prior to my recovering consciousness, gathered 
 the disconnected impressions, serving to form the story of my 
 suppostitious guilt." 
 
 "It is a puzzle certainly, but bears out the inference that 
 two active, separate natures exist in man, in which the invisi- 
 ble can receive and retain impressions of a character, such as 
 you have been reciting." 
 
 "Yes, and that will account for the strange emotion we fre- 
 quently feel, by the touching of some hidden key in memory, 
 which like a flash restores an inkling of the past in our pre- 
 vious existence." 
 
 "I agree with you, Mr. Grover, but what about Edith — Oh, 
 I beg pardon — " 
 
 "Edith ? Well she is probably enjoying the comfort of the 
 bed you so kindly provided for her, and our two little ones. 
 God bless her slumbers !" And Mr. Grover raised his hat rev- 
 erently as he looked toward the state room door. 
 
 To which I responded with a warm "Amen !" 
 
OR, LIFE IN A LUMBER CAMP. 213 
 
 CHAPTER XXV. 
 
 Tells How a City Maiden was Hopelessly Wooed by a Young Mich, 
 igan lumbebman — one glrl who chose for herself— a rather 
 Pretty Incident in the Court op Love. 
 
 "When a woman will she will, 
 
 You may depend on't; 
 But when she won't she won't. 
 
 And that's the end on't." 
 
 "John dear, do you suppose your logs ara hopelessly "hung 
 up?" 
 
 "Yes mother not a foot of them will float down the Flint 
 this season." 
 
 "My dear son, while it is extremely unfortunate, you must 
 take courage and hope for the best." 
 
 "I try to mother, but you know how I am involved. The 
 dry weather has about killed off every thing on the farm as 
 well as hung up my winter's cut. I tell you mother, things 
 look blue." 
 
 "How much will you be involved dear ?" 
 
 "About $1,500 mother, but if the logs came down I would be 
 more than that ahead. But these bank notes must be met 
 when due and how that is to be done the Lord only knows, 
 for I don't." 
 
 "That is exactly it my son, although you speak in a rather 
 irreverent spirit. H& knows, and sendeth the rain or the sun- 
 shine as pleaseth him." 
 
 "Well, well, mother, I am not complaining, and will take 
 my chances. Still I have to start my summer camp and get 
 
214 THE SHANTY BOY, 
 
 in that other six millions. My credit is good but I hate to 
 ask favors. Still I may renew the notes by giving a mortgage 
 on my camp tools and horses." 
 
 "John dear, I'd rather you would raise the money on our 
 home than on your woods property. You know how risky 
 that is and I would be willing to help you that way." 
 
 "No mother, no more mortgages on the farm 1 This is your 
 home. Father left it to you, and you have already helped me 
 all that you should. I will get along some way. But I will 
 have to leave next week for the woods, and start camp in that 
 new piece of pine. I will be away two weeks." 
 
 "Well dear, you know best, but I received a letter to-day 
 from the daughter of an old school mate, stating that she 
 wants to visit Michigan, and asks to spend the summer with 
 me here on the farm." 
 
 "Is it that Miss Thompson, of Buffalo, I have heard you 
 speak so much about ?" 
 
 "Yes John, and she offers to pay well for her board if I will 
 accept of her. You will be away a great deal and I am lone- 
 some, with only the girl Jane and William the hired man." 
 
 "O, I will be at home most of the time, but I don't like the 
 idea of a stuck up miss, with more money than brains, coming 
 here to laugh at our pine country, and bother us with her 
 citified ways." 
 
 "I do not know her personally John, but Mrs. Graystock 
 wrote me some time ago about her and praised her to the 
 skies. Martha Graystock is not apt to say too many kind 
 things about anyone, but she certainly goes into raptures over 
 Jessie Thompson. However, your best plan John, is to leave 
 the matter to me. She will-not trouble you in the least." 
 
 "As you please mother, but I will keep clear of her, you may 
 rest assured of that !" 
 
 "But John, I will expect you to meet her at Flint on Thurs- 
 day, and this is Monday." . 
 
 "All right mother, I have to get some extra help to get in 
 the hay, so I will drive in early and kill two birds with one 
 stone." 
 
OR. LIFE IN A LUMBER CAMP. 215 
 
 "Take care my son, you are not one of the birds. Mrs. 
 Graystock writes me that Jessie Thompson is a very beautiful 
 girl, as well as wealthy." 
 
 "O, she can't fool me mother ! I am twenty-five you know, 
 and have never seen the woman I could love better than you, 
 you dear little mother." 
 
 "Thanks my son, but I do not expect to always reign mis- 
 tress of the heart of my great big shanty boy. That would be 
 asking too much." 
 
 "Well, we will see mother mine, but there is Jane calling 
 supper and I am hungry as a horse." 
 
 The scene of the above dialogue is placed in Northwestern 
 Michigan, in a cosy farm house upon the banks of the Flint 
 river, and about twenty-five miles from the lovely city of the 
 same name. The period of time need not be specified further 
 that to state that the Flint was one of the leading lumbering 
 rivers in Michigan and not less than eleven saw mills at Flint 
 city, found employment for a vast number of men, and use for 
 an immense amount of logs every year. 
 
 The mother and son here introduced to the reader, had 
 labored early and late to keep the grasp of the law from taking 
 possession of the little homestead of 140 acres heavily encum- 
 bered with a mortgage, and which had been left to burden the 
 farm since the death of the husband and father. It was a 
 hard task for the young mother left with a child of twelve, to 
 battle alone. But she was a woman of nerve and had suc- 
 ceeded in finally paying in full the mortgage, and also educat- 
 ing her child, with the fond hope of making him a minister. 
 But John Dennison, grown to manhood, preferred to be a 
 soldier in the "army of the pine/' to being one in that of the 
 cross, and so was in every feature and experience a true woods- 
 man. His winters bad been spent for the past five years as a 
 scaler, and latterly foreman in a camp, while during the sum- 
 mer he had worked the farm for his mother. It was a pretty 
 farm, and the home was a picture of comfort, surrounded by 
 lilacs and prairie roses, with the front facing upon the beauti- 
 ful river. The rich, luxuriant orchard on the brow of the slop- 
 
216 THE SHANTY BOY. 
 
 ing hill, at the rear of the house, vied in its brilliant June 
 blossoming, with the dark green of the distant maples, where 
 the cooling zephyrs, borne from the distant Huron, gathered 
 up the scented fragrance filling the air with Nature's perfume. 
 John Dennison was entering upon his twenty-sixth year, the 
 only son of his mother and she was a widow. It has been 
 well said that the Wolverine state has no peer for stalwart 
 men and winsome maidens, and John Dennison was no excep- 
 tion to the rule. Five feet ten inches and symmetrically built 
 in proportion ; muscles standing out upon his arms like bunches 
 of whip cord, eyes dark gray, and brown hair clustering over a 
 brow that gave token of far more intelligence than might be, 
 
 "To plow and mow and reap and sow 
 And be a farmer's boy." 
 
 Or in the winter's season to find his home amid the rude 
 and rough associations of the lumber camp. For the previous 
 three years John had reached out rather extensively in lum- 
 bering, and the dialogue with which this chapter opens, was 
 illustrative of a phase in lumbering well known to many of our 
 readers. In short, John's winter's work was "hung up" for 
 lack of water in a stream tributary to the Flint river. 
 
 Of Mrs. Dennison, a word will suffice. She was simply a 
 hard working, handsome, healthy, farmer's wife — or rather 
 widow — for twelve years previous her husband had gone the 
 way of all earth, leaving behind him little else save a partially 
 improved farm, a heavy mortgage, and a young widow and boy 
 of thirteen. But as stated, the widow — who in the face of 
 many eligible offers was still such — was fully equal to the 
 emergency, and at the time we write was the possessor of as 
 fine a farm as the county could boast. The farm house gave 
 every evidence of picturesque beauty in its umbrageous sur- 
 roundings. The interior was far above the average in comfort, 
 convenience and refinement, for Mrs. Dennison was a York 
 state girl, who had a practical knowledge of farming and a cul- 
 tivated taste for the beautiful. The house possessed a large 
 kitchen, parlor, dining room and four bedrooms, around the 
 
OB, LIFE Z2V A LUMBER CAMP. 217 
 
 windows of which clustered honey suckles and climbing roses, 
 while the veranda looked out on a handsome lawn ending upon 
 the pretty river, down to the shore of which a path led, thickly 
 embowered by arbor vitae, dividing it from the spacious 
 kitchen garden. Home made carpets covered the floor, and 
 sweet brier filled the fireplace in the parlor, where comfortable 
 easy chairs and cheerful pictures gave a pleasant and cosy 
 aspect to the room. Added were plenty of books, for John, 
 though but a shanty boy, delighted in storing his mind with 
 wholesome food. The country farm house to which the reader 
 is thus introduced, was all embodied in the word home ! 
 * « * * * * 
 
 "I beg your pardon, but are you Miss Thompson ?" 
 The question was asked hesitatingly by John Dennison of a 
 young lady who had just stepped from off the cars at Flint 
 station. 
 
 "Yes sir, and you are Mr. Dennison I presume ?" 
 The speaker was a bright brunette, a little above the average 
 hight of woman, but beautifully formed, as was discernable in 
 the close fitting traveling dress of gray in which she was 
 garbed. She was certainly a beautiful girl about twenty-two 
 years of age, with a freedom and vivacity in her every move- 
 ment, born alone of innocence, social position and perfect 
 health. Her eyes — black as night — had a depth and tender- 
 ness in them seldom associated with orbs of that hue, and as 
 the two young people stood for an instant observing each 
 other for the first time, it was evident that each mutually 
 admired the other. As this is a veritable love story the author 
 may be pardoned in thus being prolix and explicit in descrip- 
 tion. 
 
 "Mrs. Dennison wrote me that you would be sure to meet 
 me at the station, and I was afraid we might fail to connect," 
 remarked the young lady, smiling sweetly and extending her 
 hand. "Thanks ! so much for your consideration." 
 
 "I had no knowledge of your coming Miss Thompson, till 
 my mother told me on Monday last." 
 
 "Why, Mrs. Dennison and I have been corresponding all 
 
218 THE SHANTY BOY. 
 
 spring with reference to my visiting Michigan, Mr. Dennison. 
 I sincerely trust I am not intruding." 
 
 "0 dear no Miss, not in the least. Mother will be delighted, 
 and I am sure that — that — well you see mother might have 
 told me. I am happy indeed to meet you, and only hope our 
 rough country ways will not be entirely distasteful to 
 you." 
 
 "I think not, Mr. Dennison, but how far have we to drive ?" 
 
 "It is quite a distance, Miss Thompson, but I have a comfor- 
 table carriage, and we will be home in time for tea. Let me 
 have your checks please, and I will get your trunks. Have 
 you had dinner ?" 
 
 "I dined upon the cars, but I rather fear your country roads 
 for a long drive." 
 
 "O, you will find we have excellent roads, and I have one of 
 the best teams in Lapeer county. Have yoii many — trunks?" 
 
 "Only one moderately sized one, and a satchel sir. Here is 
 my check." 
 
 "Only one ? Well if you will take a seat in the waiting 
 room a moment, I will be ready to start directly. My team is 
 just around the corner." 
 
 John easily placed the little trunk in the back of his buggy, 
 and on handing Miss Thompson in remarked : 
 
 "I certainly expected a city lady to have at least four 
 trunks and five or six band boxes, but you travel light Miss 
 Thompson." 
 
 It was a little impertinent on the part of John, so to speak, 
 and evidently the lady so received it, for with a glance of her 
 eye toward him she replied : 
 
 "Indeed? "Well Mr. Dennison, you have at last the good 
 fortune to meet one city girl without four trunks and five or 
 six band boxes." 
 
 "O," thought John, "she's a Tartar ! Thunder, what a look 
 she gave me ! I must certainly keep out of her way, for I feel 
 that I shall positively dislike her. And still isn't she a 
 beauty." 
 
 And Jessie Thompson also mused as John busied himself in 
 
OR, LIFE IN A LUMBER GAMP. 219 
 
 making the little trunk fast, "What a great handsome over- 
 grown boor he is. I certainly realize that we are not destined 
 to be friends, and that my stay at the Dennison farm will be 
 a short one." 
 
 Both being thus unfavorably impressed, the long afternoon 
 drive was not one of very warm sociality. Each seemed to be 
 measuring the mental strength of the other, and each realized 
 fully that they had at last met with antagonisms in each, which 
 could be turned into positive admiration or negative dislike. 
 
 Still the drive impressed both with one well established 
 fact, that each had met in the other a foe worthy of their steel, 
 and the question was who would first surrender. Jessie 
 Thompson was a girl brim full of vitality, fun and mischief, 
 while John on the contrary was grave and sedate. Jessie had 
 a laugh and a joke for every incident of the journey, while 
 John confined himself to long dessertations on the grandeur, 
 glory and growth of Michigan in general and Lapeer county 
 in particular. To this Jessie opposed New York as a state 
 and Buffalo as a city, concluding her elogium by the well 
 known classic : 
 
 "O Buffalo gals are you coming out to-night, 
 To dance by the light of the moon !" 
 
 sung as only a Buffalo girl could sing it. 
 
 By the time they arrived at the farm, John was mystified 
 and even shocked at the frivolity of the beautiful girl by his 
 side, whom he committed to the kisses and embraces of his 
 waiting mother, while he drove to the barn humming grimly: 
 
 "There was a criminal in a cart, 
 
 A going to be hanged; 
 Reprieve to him was granted, 
 
 The crowd and cart did stand ; 
 To see if he would marry a wife, 
 
 Or otherwise choose to die; 
 '0 why should I torment my life, 
 
 The victim did reply; 
 The bargain's bad in every part, 
 But the wife's the worst, drive on the cart.' " 
 
330 THE SHANTY BOY. 
 
 Strange as it may sound, John Dennison was a woman 
 hater, and the little innocent scheme in which his mother 
 sought to find a daughter was likely to come to naught. 
 * * * * * * 
 
 Two weeks had passed away at the farm house since Jessie 
 Thompson's arrival. Whatever had been the result of her 
 fascinating attractions with John, it was evident that Jessie 
 had in that short time, thoroughly captivated the heart of Mrs. 
 Dennison. Among the first to rise in the morning and the 
 last to go to bed at night, she might be seen feeding the 
 chickens, down at the spring house watching the process of 
 making butter, or with sleeves rolled up on her shapely arms, 
 busy moulding the yellow rolls for market. In the kitchen 
 helping Jane with the cooking for the half dozen hungry men 
 cutting the hay, in the dough of the bread trough, busy can- 
 ning berries, making cake and pies, in all of which she soon 
 excelled as an apt scholar under the tutelage of Mrs. Denni- 
 son. Or in her beautiful little boat on the river, sketching, 
 rowing or fishing; or under a favorite beech tree, on the river 
 bank, embowered about with cedar, she would sit and read or 
 work by the hour, with the birds and chipmunks flitting and 
 skipping around her. In her rambles it was a little singular 
 how often — by accident of course — John would come suddenly 
 upon her in these solitary escapades, and still more singular 
 what a diffidence toward each other these two young people 
 would exhibit in conversation, to shape and construe their short 
 sentences. It was very evident that war had been silently 
 declared between the aristocratic city lady and the young 
 Michigan lumberman farmer, at least a war of sharp wit. 
 
 One evening while seated upon the veranda John remarked 
 to his mother : 
 
 "I have my summer camp running in good shape, mother, 
 and we are putting in pine at a great rate. I have now over 
 sixty men at work.'' 
 
 "0, Mr. Dennison," interjected Jessie, "I would so love to 
 see a lumber camp. Cannot we make up a party and drive 
 out to where your men are working ?" 
 
OR. LIFE IN A LUMBER CAMP. 221 
 
 "A camp is rather a rough place for a lady, Miss Thompson, 
 (it was still Miss and Mr. between these two) but if you really 
 desire to go, we could get up a couple of loads of young people, 
 and go out to camp easy enough as the roads are good." 
 
 "That would be delightful ! I will see some of the girls 
 myself, and have them consent to go. My mind is made up 
 to see a Michigan lumber camp before I return east." 
 
 John turned with surprise toward the gir] : "Why, Miss 
 Thompson, you are surely not thinking of leaving us ?" 
 
 "Not necessarily right away, but you know, Mr. Denni- 
 son, I cannot stay here always." 
 
 "Oh certainly not, but we shall miss you very much." 
 
 "Indeed! I thought (archly) from the way you have 
 "miss'd" me ever since I have been here, that I could not be 
 more missed in leaving." 
 
 "Not more "miss'd" than "mis'tered," I fancy, Miss Thomp- 
 son." (sarcastically). 
 
 A deep sigh from Mrs. Dennison followed, for : 
 
 "The best laid plans of mice and — women — 
 Gang oft aglee." 
 
 But nevertheless it was evident that John was pleased with 
 the idea of taking this proud, bea,utiful girl out into the woods, 
 and the following day a number of the young people were in- 
 vited to join in the contemplated excursion to John Denni- 
 son's lumber camp. The drive was an exceedingly pleasant 
 one, and John and Jessie, seated together, seemed to be far 
 more companionable than ever before. The girl was in ecsta- 
 cies over the beauties of the forest through which the road led, 
 and unconsciously won upon John by the admiration she 
 exhibited. He, on his part, showed to the best advantage in 
 vivid description of woods and river life, and Jessie found her- 
 self wondering at the natural gifts this handsome woodsman 
 displayed, in word painting the life of a Michigan shanty 
 boy. 
 
 The camp was reached in time for supper, and very much to 
 the surprise of the uncouth shanty boys, the table was graced 
 
282 THE SHANTY BOY, 
 
 by the presence of a group of beautiful girls, who seemed to 
 be perfectly at home with the camp fare. The young men 
 accompanying them, were known to most of the men in camp, 
 and every effort was made to cause the visitors to feel at home. 
 The intention was to drive back by moonlight, the distance 
 being only twelve miles, so the evening was before them for 
 enjoyment. John's camp was one of those built for comfort 
 and cleanliness, and while in full keeping with the work the 
 men were engaged in, had no repelling features whatever to 
 annoy the sensibilities of the visitors. 
 
 "0, if we only had a fiddle what a glorious dance we could 
 have in this dining room," exclaimed Minnie Gorman, a fairy 
 little mischief, that all the young men for five miles 'round 
 were in love with. 
 
 "I can furnish a mouth organ," said Fred Stoddard, at the 
 same time producing the humble instrument. 
 
 "Good, good !" exclaimed several, and in a moment the long, 
 tables were placed against the wall. 
 
 "It's leap year, girls," cried Mollie Crawford, "so take your 
 partners for a cotillion." 
 
 No sooner said than done. Two sets were formed. Fred 
 Stoddard blew his level best, and Minnie Gorman "called off." 
 The men gathered in from the "bunk camp" and ranged them- 
 selves about the wall. 
 
 "The dancers wild and wilder flew, 
 The piper loud and louder blew." 
 
 It was fun unadulterated, and the young people enjoyed it 
 to the utmost. The big cook camp would easily hold eight 
 set without crowding, but finally poor Fred gave out in the 
 very midst of a dance. All at once the dulcet tones of a mas- 
 terly played violin, was heard to take up the tune where Fred 
 had broken down. Every one stood stock still with amaze- 
 ment. 
 
 "Go right along, friends. You shall not want for music," 
 said Jessie, who was discovered with a violin at her shoiilder 
 deep in the mysteries and intricacies of "Fisher's Horn-pipe." 
 
OR. LIFE IN A LUMBER CAMP. 228 
 
 Now the author of this veracious narrative is fully aware, 
 that he has injured our heroine in the estimation of many 
 readers by the above revelation of her in the capacity of a 
 fiddler in a lumber camp ! The proprieties are certainly 
 destroyed, but what could he do ? Facts are stubborn things, 
 and distorted statements only serve to mar them. The fact 
 was that Jessie was an accomplished musician, on piano and 
 guitar, but her favorite instrument was the violin, on which 
 she was a superb performer. The cook had an old instrument 
 which Jessie had used for the present occasion. Of course it 
 was not to be expected that the company assembled in that 
 cook camp would be able to fully appreciate classical music, 
 but they certainly did enjoy the cotilions, jigs, reels, 
 strathspays and hornpipes rendered by Jessie, with such 
 exquisite skill that the camp went perfectly wild with enthu- 
 siasm. The shanty boys mingled freely with the visitors, and 
 danced with partners they never before had met or spoken to. 
 Clog dancing, Scotch reels, French fours, Irish jigs and 
 contra dances vere all there indulged in to the fullest extent, 
 attached to their original music. It was truly a "saturnalia," 
 in which the pipe of the pied piper of Hamlin, would not have 
 had a ghost of a show. Till at last, after the "Buffalo break 
 down" all laughingly exhausted, sank on the rough benches, 
 totally collapsed. Then the music changed from the wildly 
 gay and humorous to the pathetic and sentimental, and the 
 Flowers of the Forest, When the Swallows Homeward Fly, 
 Last Eose of summer, Killarney, Home Sweet Home, Nearer 
 my God to Thee, and Jesus Lover of my Soul, were all breathed 
 forth by the wonderful girl, who stood modestly creating 
 strains that caused the gashing tear to trickle down more than 
 one bronzed cheek, and going down deep into the hearts of 
 these children of the woods, in the form of a grateful bene- 
 diction : 
 
 "He who hath no music in his soul, 
 
 Is fit for treasons, strategems and spoils." 
 
 Poor John Dennison. That evening in camp, finished the 
 
224 THE SHANTY BO Y. 
 
 work the blind god had been laboring to accomplish for the 
 previous two months. He had sat all the evening, to all out- 
 ward observances fully enjoying the fun, but he was strangely 
 silent during the homeward ride, and that night he tossed 
 sleeplessly upon his bed and feebly fought against the inevit- 
 able. The fact was before him in all its stern reality that he 
 loved Jessie Thompson with all the ardor of a warm, impul- 
 sive nature, hitherto by him deemed invulnerable but now 
 prostrated before a force he had never before realized the 
 strength of. Poor John, well could he say ; 
 
 "O woman in our hours of ease, 
 
 Uncertain coy and hard to please; 
 
 # * * * * 
 
 But seen too oft — familiar with thy face' — 
 We first endure then pity then embrace.'" 
 
 And what about the thoughts and wishes of the girl in yon- 
 der little rose embowered bed room ? Thanks dear reader 
 for the interrogation, but those precincts are sacred, to the 
 thorough exclusion of all "peeping Toms," and prying curiosity. 
 So there ! 
 
 The conduct of John Dennison, after that wonderful evening 
 in camp, was strangely contradictory. He was seldom if ever 
 in the house on an evenings but might be seen reclining under 
 one of the fruit trees, dreamily smoking, with his great gray 
 eyes apparently busy in counting the stars. At the same time 
 Jessie and widow Dennison would be seated upon the vine 
 covered veranda exchanging their little womanly confidences — 
 though the bright black eyes would surreptitiously wander 
 throngh the intercises of the vine openings to where the recumr 
 bent form of the sulky young shanty boy was extended upon 
 the grass beneath the old apple tree. It was truly wonderful 
 how the young city bred girl — only daughter of one of Buffalo's 
 richest and most aristocratic merchants — could have thus 
 insinuated herself into the affections of the simple country 
 mother. But still it was so, and the corresponding wonder 
 was that Jessie could find such congenial companionship in 
 this aged woman, so as to cause her to postpone her departure 
 
OB. LIFE IN A LUMBER GAMP. 325 
 
 from week to week, till now the dog woods, sumachs, and 
 soft maples began to take on the gaudy colors of departing 
 summer. Possibly it was because in Mrs. Dennison, Jessie 
 had found a long dead mother's love restored, for which she 
 yearned. Or perhaps it was because — Pshaw ! we cannot 
 read a woman's heart nor guess her reasons for doing the 
 oddest kind of things, and we only say, that Jessie still 
 lingered at the Dennison homestead. Did she herself know ? 
 
 But it was now the last week of Jessie's stay, and on the 
 following Monday she was to take her departure for her eastern 
 city home. 
 
 "I will be very lonesome after you when you are gone 
 dearie." And the old lady's knitting needles flew with fast 
 increasing rapidity. "I never had a daughter, and but few 
 confidential women associates, save the hired help on the 
 farm, since I came here a young verdant girl, twenty-six years 
 ago." 
 
 "I certainly regret leaving as much as you, Aunty Dennison, 
 I assure you. This old house seems to me like home, and my 
 summer here has been delightfully spent. It makes me sad to 
 leave you all, but I will return to you again next summer." 
 
 "Next summer you dear child ! You will be married and off 
 to Europe next summer." 
 
 "No Auntie I think not. I have no idea of being married. 
 I am yet heart whole and fancy free." (Ah ! tell tale eyes, 
 why glance with lightning flash to yonder lazy form under the 
 apple tree smoking). 
 
 "How I wish we were rich Jessie !" 
 
 "Why Aunty ?" 
 
 "Because you might be induced to stay with us, and my 
 John and you — " 
 
 "O, Aunt Dennison hush !" said Jessie with a hysterical 
 laugh which sounded more like a succession of sobs, "can you 
 not see that Mr. Dennison has taken a dislike to me from the 
 very first of our acquaintance ? He has never been more than 
 respectful, but since that unfortunate night when I played my 
 violin in his camp, he has taken every pains to avoid me, and 
 
226 THE SHANTY BO Y. 
 
 shown in various ways his evident disapprobation of that 
 foolish escapade." 
 
 "Why mercy me, Jessie darling ! Don't you see that my 
 John is dying for love of you child ? A babe could see it, and 
 the hopelessness of his love is breaking his great manly 
 heart." 
 
 "Indeed !" said Jessie slowly rising, "Mr. Dennison succeeds 
 excellently in hiding his feelings," and she swept into the 
 house with a movement that savored strongly of resentment. 
 
 "O dear ! what have I done," murmured the widow, "blisters 
 on my foolish old tongue by dozens ! Gone and told poor 
 John's secret, that he imparted to me with such caution. What 
 a stupid old fool I am, and now the dear child has gone away 
 vexed." 
 
 Jessie had indeed retired to her room without the custom- 
 ary good night kiss, to the kind old lady, she so lovingly termed 
 "Auntie." Her indignation was evidently of a serious charac- 
 ter, as the next morning she, for the first time, failed to appear 
 at the breakfast table, pleading a severe headache as the 
 cause. 
 
 And hadn't she cause for indignation ? She — the petted 
 favorite of select society, to fall so low as to become the object 
 of a "gee whoa haw buck" shanty boy's love ! The presumption 
 of some people ! It was fully time she took her departure, but 
 before doing so she would give this audacious, presuming 
 young "hayseed" a piece of her mind. That she fully decided 
 upon. 
 
 The week passed away without any further developments, 
 and gave Miss Jessie no opportunity to satiate her indignation. 
 John Dennison was sulkier than ever, and barely civil to Jes- 
 sie. Things were very uncomfortable in the Dennison home- 
 stead. The Sunday before Jessie's departure, John drove his 
 mother and her to church, but the only demonstration on his 
 part was a most unnecessary flogging bestowed upon his horses, 
 which brought upon the irate John a justly deserved reproof 
 from his mother. After dinner — partaken of in painful silence 
 — John went out for one of his lonely strolls, leaving the two 
 
OB, LIFE IN A LUMBER CAMP. 227 
 
 women alone in a constrained silence, broken only by an 
 occasional "Miss Thompson," 6r a "Mrs. Dennison." Finally 
 the old lady sank back in her chair, and throwing her apron 
 over her face, burst into a paroxyism of tears. 
 
 "Mrs. Dennison, Aunty dear, why what is the matter?" 
 exclaimed Jessie, rushing toward her. 
 
 "My dear child, I cannot endure the thought of your leav- 
 ing me with the impression, that I have purposely offended 
 you by what I said the other evening," sobbed forth the weep- 
 ing woman. 
 
 Jessie's answer was to throw her arms about the neck of her 
 grief wrung friend, and take the old head to her bosom. 
 
 "Hush, Auntie dear, you did not offend me by what you 
 said. John is worthy the fondest affection of the best woman 
 that ever breathed, and when he finds his mate he will make 
 her a happy woman by manfully telling her his love." 
 
 And finally the girl succeeded in soothing the weeping 
 woman back into a condition of outward tranquility at 
 least. 
 
 The afternoon was fine, and Jessie felt as though she would 
 like to visit for the last time some of her favorite haunts, as 
 she was to leave on the following morning. Taking her gypsy 
 hat, and throwing a shawl loosely over her shoulders, she 
 strolled from place to place. Partially down the river bank, 
 a large beech tree grew, surrounded with cedars. This was 
 Jessie's favorite retreat and where she had spent many pleas- 
 ant hours in maiden meditation. The path to this place was 
 steep from the top of the bank down, thickly hidden by shrub- 
 bery, and Jessie decided to make it the conclusion of her stroll, 
 by resting a few moments in her accustomed seat under the 
 beech tree. Her light footfall was unheard as she approached, 
 and looking over a huge old moss covered boulder she was 
 very much surprised to see John Dennison in her favorite 
 place, under the beech tree. A t the same moment he raised 
 his eyes and beheld Jessie, whose face at the recognition be- 
 came in a moment suffused with 
 
 "Celestial rosy red, love's choicest hue." 
 
228 THE SHANTY BOY. 
 
 "I sincerely trust I do not unfortunately intrude upon you, 
 Mr. Dennison ?" said Jessie, peeping from over the rock, 
 retreat being impossible. John's face was pale as death, but 
 his great gray eyes looked her full in the face : 
 
 "No, Miss Thompson," replied John, rising to leave, "It is I 
 who intrude upon your favorite retreat." How well he was 
 aware of the fact. 
 
 "Mr. Dennison !" 
 
 "At your service, Miss Thompson." 
 
 "What is the matter with you, may I ask, that for the past 
 three weeks you have treated me with such scant courtesy." 
 
 "I was not aware that my conduct differed from my usual 
 manner, Miss Thompson. If so I am sincerely sorry." 
 
 "Stuff and nonsense, sir !" 
 
 John's face turned fairly purple with the suppressed indig- 
 nation, the reply invoked. 
 
 "You know very well, John Dennison, that you have treated 
 me very unkindly for the past month, and now I am deter- 
 mined to know the reason why. Come, be a man and tell me 
 how I have offended you." 
 
 "I am not offended, Miss Jessie. Why should a poor shanty 
 boy be offended with a rich and aristocratic lady like Miss 
 Thompson ?" 
 
 "Now John, don't be sarcastically silly. Tell me all that 
 you are harboring against me, so that I may beg forgiveness, 
 and we part friends to-morrow." 
 
 "If I were to tell you my candid opinion of you, Miss 
 Thompson, you might not feel that I was complimenting you 
 very highly." 
 
 "Indeed ! Well, as I am curious to learn what impression I 
 may have made upon Mr. John Dennison, I shall come down 
 from this coign of vantage, and listen to the story, plain and un- 
 varnished. Now sir, the accused would hear the indict- 
 ment as read by the court." 
 
 "During the passage of the above badinage, Jessie had 
 descended to where John was seated. She had never appeared 
 to better advantage than as she stood before him, swinging 
 
OR, LIFE IN A LUMBER CAMP. 339 
 
 her gypsy hat by its blue ribbons, her cheeks flushed with the 
 exercise of descending the rocky pathway. A saucy smile 
 lighted up her face, filling with mischief the merry laughing 
 black eyes. John's indignation had reached the boiling point, 
 and began in fact to slop over. 
 
 "Miss Thompson, I am intruding, and with your permission 
 will retire." 
 
 "Not till I hear that wonderful opinion you have formed of 
 me, Mr. Dennison." 
 
 "Well, Miss Thompson, if you will have it, I am a man of 
 few words, and I crystalize the whole into a sentence : You are 
 a merciless, heartless flirt !" 
 
 "Ah indeed !" and the gypsy hat began to swing more vio- 
 lently. "Anything more ?" 
 
 "Yes, plenty Miss ! You are a cruel woman. You thought 
 it would be glorious sport to wind your irresistable fascinations 
 about a poor green country boy and break his heart." 
 
 "Yes ? Anything further your honor ?" 
 
 "O, you may laugh ! Of course ! It will be rare fun when 
 you return to Buffalo, to tell how a country bumpkin in Michi- 
 gan, fell in love with you. It will be great enjoyment for 
 your toney gentlemen admirers, to listen to your funny story. 
 Wish I had a dozen or so of 'em here now, I'd break their 
 cursed necks, one after another." 
 
 "Don't be intense your honor!" 
 
 "Yes, you can stand there in all your glorious beauty, like 
 a — like a — " 
 
 "Is 'serpent' the word you want sir ?" 
 
 "Yes serpent ! Beautiful to the eye but with death to the 
 victim. But remember, Miss Thompson, that which may be 
 pleasure to you is death to me." 
 
 "Positively ? Well now do you know, I never thought I 
 was so bad a girl as that. Any further naughtiness allotted to 
 me, Mr. Dennison ?" The gypsy hat was swinging by one 
 ribbon now. 
 
 "Your cool, heartless audacity, madam, convinces me that I 
 am correct in my conjectures of your character. Any woman 
 
980 THE SHANTY BOY, 
 
 who could witness unmoved the tortures I have endured for 
 these last two wretched months, is unworthy the name." 
 
 "You afford me much gratification, I assure you, Mr. Denni- 
 sOn. Anything further ?" 
 
 "Anything further ? Yes I have something further. You 
 are cruel as the grave ; you — you — OGod grant me patience !" 
 And John covered his face with his hands and sobbed con- 
 vulsively. 
 
 "What is it the poet says about 'his eyes in fine frenzy rol- 
 ling ?' Do you remember the quotation, Mr. Dennison ? It 
 would be so appropriate for the present occasion." 
 
 John started to his feet, all the manhood within him at once 
 aroused at this cruel taunt. 
 
 "I see your bosom heaving with suppressed emotion, you 
 heartless girl, but it is no true womanly impulse that moves 
 beneath that silken zone. Let me pass you, Miss Thompson, 
 I only wish to the good God I had never set eyes upon you ! 
 And now that you have my opinion in full, I will only ask you 
 to forgive my unmanly emotions which for a moment have 
 overcome me. Remember it has to be a great joy or great grief 
 which can wring tears from a man. Let me pass please !" 
 
 "You will please to remain just a moment, Mr. Dennison. 
 You have freely given me your opinion of a lone, motherless 
 girl — a trifle frivolous perhaps, but not intentionally wicked, and 
 your language in conveying that opinion has been rather 
 severe. Now sir, hear my opinion of you !" 
 
 John cowered beneath the flash of those wondrous eyes, as 
 Jessie struck an attitude like some tragic queen, while the 
 gypsy hat by its one blue string, gyrated violently. 
 
 "John Dennison, considering your intelligence and man- 
 hood, yes and the size of you" — John looked up with an awful 
 woe begone visage — -"you are, in my humble estimation sir, the 
 biggest and blindest goose I ever saw in all my life ! So 
 there !" 
 
 At that moment the blue ribbon gave way, and the gypsy 
 hat flew down into the top of a very conceited hemlock, where 
 it coquetishly perched itself. 
 
OR. LIFE IN A LUMBER CAMP. »81 
 
 "Miss Thompson !" 
 
 "Mr. Dennison !" 
 
 The beautiful black eyes were swimming in a sea of tender- 
 ness, as they gazed fondly at him. John started to his feet 
 as the glorious revelation burst upon his astonished vision. 
 
 "Miss Thompson— Jessie — in the name of God what do you 
 mean ? Surely it isn't possible that you — " 
 
 "Have fondly loved you, John dear, for these past two 
 months, with all the ardor of soul found in a girl's first love. 
 You foolish, silly boy ! I had given you my heart from the 
 moment you handed me into your buggy at Flint." 
 
 "Jessie, my precious darling ?" * * * 
 
 "There now be good ! Just see how you have rumpled my 
 hair and mussed my collar ! Go and get my hat out of that 
 tree, sir, where it seems to be laughing at us. No sir, no — * * * 
 
 The result was a repetition of the rumpling and destroying 
 process, and which face the big brown mustache belonged to 
 would be difficult to tell. When John Dennison at last took 
 breath, it was to corroborate Jessie's statement : 
 
 "My blessed darling, what a goose I have been not to see 
 it before ! What I have suffered and lost this past two 
 months !" 
 
 "I know what I have lost, John !" 
 
 "What, my own precious ?" 
 
 "The worst case of heart ache in Michigan." 
 
 * # # * * # 
 
 "How do you manage to have such excellent butter, Mrs. 
 Dennison, do tell me ?" asked Mrs. Devon, the British consul's 
 wife, one evening about seven years later, while taking tea 
 with Mrs. Senator Dennison in Buffalo. 
 
 "We keep a cow, Mrs. Devon, and I make all my own 
 butter." 
 
 "Impossible ! Why where and when did you serve as dairy 
 maid, Mrs. Dennison ?" 
 
 "At my mother-in-law's farm in Michigan, where I was mar- 
 ried, you know, and where our first babe was born. I learned 
 a number of excellent things there, especially about the com- 
 
382 THE 8HANTT BOY. 
 
 forts of home and personal happiness. Among others I 
 learned that if I preferred joy to sorrow, I had the choice of 
 either, and am thankful I was woman enough to choose the 
 first." 
 
 "0 certainly 1 Still I cannot see what that has to do with 
 fresh butter," 
 
 "I can — But excuse me a moment. I hear the baby crying." 
 
 CHAPTER XXVI. 
 
 Life in the Woods as a Health Restorer — The Shanty Boy in 
 General — His True Estimate Presented — The Hospital Agent — 
 Incidents — French "Jumpers" — Woods Fires — Economy in Cutting 
 Timber — Estimated Pine and Hard Wood in Michigan — Homesteads 
 — Conclusion. 
 
 ' 'And after all it seems to me, 
 
 'Tis only noble to be good ; 
 Kind hearts are more than coronets, 
 
 And simple faith than Norman blood." 
 
 We come at last to the concluding chapter of a work, which 
 has been to the author a labor of love, and one he could wish 
 had been much better performed. Very much that was held 
 in contemplation to appear within these pages, must of neces- 
 sity be omitted from want of time in which to prepare the 
 matter for the printer. Accordingly, we are forced to place 
 before the patient reader as a final dish, a plate of hash, formed 
 largely of a conglomeration, any part of which would furnish a 
 long chapter in itself. 
 
 But the shanty boy — for whom this book has been chiefly 
 
OR. LIFE IN A LUMBER CAMP. 233 
 
 written — will sit down with his habitual good natured smile, 
 and with us discuss the several ingredients entering into this 
 chapter. And in mentioning the shanty boy we are reminded 
 that he is but poorly understood by the multitude of people so 
 much benefited by his labor. The writer knows him at his 
 best and worst, and can truthfully say that the best largely 
 predominates. His character may be briefly summed up in a 
 few terse sentences : Hard working, rough and ready, big 
 hearted, generous, fraternal, impulsive, a hand for a friend, a 
 foot for a foe, foolishly prodigal with his hard earned wealth, 
 happy under very questionable conditions for joy, sensitive to 
 the sorrows of others more than his own, and faithful to his 
 engagements where he is used with even moderate considera- 
 tion and kindness. This is the average shanty boy. Of course 
 there are exceptions to this rule, but the general result will be 
 found to embrace all the above features, clothed in a suit of 
 "mackinaws." 
 
 There is one thiDg about the pine woods which can be abso- 
 lutely relied upon for truth, and that is its value as a health 
 restorer. This fact I have fully proven, not only in my own 
 instance but in that of others whom I have known. If a per- 
 son be afflicted with any pulmonary complaint, my advice is 
 make for a lumber camp and put in a winter. In my own 
 instance I know that my sojourn in the woods has fully 
 restored my prostrated condition and added fully thirty pounds 
 to my weight. But it must not be supposed that this result 
 was brought about by lazily lounging in a camp or luxuriously 
 driving from place to place in a comfortable vehicle. On the 
 contrary I came to think but little of a twelve or twenty mile 
 tramp through the woods from camp to camp in the capacity 
 of an hospital agent. This leads me to say that this occupa- 
 tion is probably one of the hardest features of life in the woods. 
 It is certainly a peculiar business, and the man who follows it 
 must be a close student of human nature to prove a success. 
 He never has two meals alike, two drinks of water alike, two 
 beds alike, and seldom meets two men alike out of the hun- 
 dreds he is brought in contact with. These mental and phy- 
 
284 THE SHANTY BOY. 
 
 sical changes are much more severe than might be expected, 
 and taken all in all I would advise no one, save those with a 
 robust constitution, to attempt the work — which may be termed 
 part Indian part half breed, and all mighty trying on both 
 body and soul. In my own personal experience I have noth- 
 ing but words of kindness for the men in the woods. They 
 may be a little rough, and fond of "horse fun," but let one of 
 their number meet with an accident, rendering him helpless, 
 and quickly each man subscribes to a "shake-purse" to help 
 the poor fellow through his trouble. I shall not soon forget 
 the kindness of Thomas N. Smith, of Saginaw, when I was for 
 a week in his camp very ill. To be sure Tom didn't know 
 what was the matter with me, and neither did I, but he got 
 all the horse medicine in the "van," and ranged it on a table, 
 where I could gaze upon it, and the sight of the awful bottles 
 and jugs frightened away my distemper. 
 
 I might tell how on one dark night I lost my way, going 
 from one of Henry Stephen's St. Helens, Mich., camps to 
 another — three miles — I fell in a swamp, and finally arrived at 
 the house of manager Curtis, cold, wet and hungry, where he 
 and his good wife fed, and clothed me in dry garments, 
 and with them I found the brotherhood born of true 
 sympathy. 
 
 I remember on January 19th, 1887, a tramp I had from Big 
 Creek, on the head waters of the Au Sable river, across the 
 plains, to the camp of Campbell & Gorman, of Bay City. The 
 day when I left the Au Sable river camp of Penoyer 
 Bros., was intensely cold, fully 32 degrees below. I did not 
 mind the cold so much, but rather dreaded the journey of 
 eighteen miles, six of which were across the "plains," divested 
 of even a jack pine, and with only the woods in the distant 
 horison to guide me. The snow was about a foot deep when I 
 left a small jobber's camp on Big Creek, after dinner for my 
 long tramp. By the way, that camp was composed entirely of 
 Frenchmen, and a "watch peddler'' had been among them the 
 evening before, and sold nearly every man a watch. The 
 sight was a comical one, to see every Frenchman sitting in his 
 
OR, LIFE IN A LUMBER CAMP. 385 
 
 bunt after dinner, admiring his new watch. From the way 
 they handled the "tickers," I was under the impression a 
 "watch tinker" would have a good job before long. One had 
 bought a big stem winder, and was already in trouble. It had 
 stopped, and he brought it to me to see what was the matter. 
 I could not see anything out of order with the watch, and 
 asked him if he had wound it up. 
 
 "Yes me woun' heem twelve turn tiam dis waa ;" and he 
 showed me, turning the ratchet backwards. "Twelve tiam an' 
 he no caatche greep by gar." 
 
 I showed him how to wind the watch, and left him 
 happy. 
 
 Well, to return. I got on the trail to Campbell & Gorman's 
 camp, crossing on my way Big Creek. The creek was about 
 two miles from the Frenchman's shanty, and the water was 
 low. I had to walk across a small Norway that served as a 
 bridge over the creek, and when half way over I slipped and 
 fell plump in the water. The weather was so intensely cold 
 that I had hardly got to land, before my clothes were frozen 
 stiff. I had on long German socks, with low rubbers, and in 
 slipping off, fortunately fell on my feet and only got wet a little 
 above my knees. Still, I would not turn back to the shanty I 
 had left, but struck out across the plains for Campbell & Gor- 
 man's, where, when I arrived, my feet were frozen solid. The 
 blacksmith and "chore boy" were my doctors, and immersed 
 my feet in a tub of snow, where, after an hour's hard rubbing, 
 they managed to get the frost out, but I didn't wear a shoe for 
 three months afterwards. 
 
 That previous fall, a rather ludicrous thing happened to me, 
 in which I exhibited a large amount of misdirected zeal. I 
 had started to make a camp one evening, distant three miles, 
 and calculated to get to it before the men had gone to bed. 
 The night was dark as a stack of black cats, but I plodded 
 along through the woods, and tired and weary, I at last 
 arrived at the camp — to find it deserted. Not a soul was 
 there, and so I made up my mind to stay in one of the empty 
 buildings, at least till the moon had arisen which would be 
 
236 THE SHANTY BOY, 
 
 in the course of an hour or two. I climbed into one of the 
 upper bunks, in the men's camp, where there was still some 
 marsh hay left, and putting my grip under my head, I lighted 
 my pipe, and soon smoked myself into a condition of par- 
 tial sleep. 
 
 I was aroused by the sound of footsteps approaching, and 
 quickly the shanty door opened, and two hard looking "moss- 
 backs" entered. (The settlers in the pine clearings of Michi- 
 gan are called "mossbacks" by the lumbermen.) One was 
 carrying a lighted lantern and a spade, the other had a sus- 
 picious looking elongated parcel on his shoulder, wrapped up 
 in an old blood stained sheet. Both were smoking and talking 
 quietly to each other. The shape of the bundle on the fellow's 
 shoulder lookod awfully grewsome, and to my distorted vision 
 had the form and semblance of a dead body. They laid it 
 carefully on the floor, and proceeded to tear up some of the 
 boards, and the fellow with the spade began to dig a hole in 
 the ground, very much in shape like a grave. They were 
 within six feet of where I was lying, but had not the least sus- 
 picion a third party was looking on. When the hole was about 
 eighteen inches deep, they .carefully deposited the package, 
 wrapped in the old dirty sheet, within it, and hurriedly filled 
 up the hole with the newly removed earth. After carefully 
 replacing the boards they departed as quietly as they came, 
 leaving me terror stricken and alone with the dead ! How 
 long I remained in a semi-stupor I do not know, but finally 
 managed to get out of that shanty "right smart" and when I 
 reached the "tote road" leading to the camp I had 
 left, I made some of the prettiest time on record. 
 The intervening three miles were got over in a hur- 
 ry, and when I arrived at camp every one was asleep. 
 I routed out the foreman, after some hard pounding 
 on the "van" door, and related what I had seen in the deserted 
 camp. He at once surmised that a murder had been com- 
 mitted, and roused out the boys of the camp. T assure you, 
 dear reader, there wes dressing and arming in haste, in that 
 camp, and within ten minutes there were fully thirty of us on 
 
OB. LIFE IW A LUMBER CAMP. 287 
 
 the trail leading to the scene of the bloody tragedy. We went 
 carefully and carried our lanterns unlighted, so that we might 
 if possible, catch the miscreants. We decided to form a cor- 
 don about the deserted camp, and approach stealthily. This 
 was done and we had the bunk camp surrounded. The fore- 
 man lighted his lantern, and with a pistol in hand he entered. 
 I followed on tip toe. The men gathered in quietly, and a 
 thorough search of all the buildings was rapidly instituted, 
 but nothing was found. We then proceeded to disinter the 
 corpse. I showed where the bloodthirsty ruffians had dug the 
 grave, and we stood around while the foreman and another 
 shoveled the earth out with a couple of thin boards. It was 
 not very deep and the suspicious covering was soon laid bare. 
 A rip of the foreman's knife left the body exposed, and our 
 faces blanched as we beheld the bloody spectacle pre- 
 sented. 
 
 There lay the corpse, smeared with blood ! 
 
 The head had been removed and the bowels taken out. We 
 stared, dumb with awe and astonishment ! 
 
 It was a sheep ! 
 
 The awful silence was finally broken by the foreman remark- 
 ing, in a voice tremulous with emotion : 
 
 "Well, I'll be d— d !" 
 
 The men looked from one to another in amazement which at 
 last blazed into a good square shanty boy's mad. 
 
 "I move we put that d — d agent up," said one. 
 
 "Up he goes !" was the universal response. 
 
 "Stop your cussed nonsense," said the cook, who had come 
 with us, armed with two big carving knives, "get to work and 
 'pack' that ther mutton to camp. Don't yer see it's a fine fat 
 sheep ? Ye'll have roast lamb to-morrow, as sure as ever 
 that's an old ewe." 
 
 "The cook's right," said the foreman, "and we are owing the 
 agent one, for this lucky find. He don't 'go up' boys, not for 
 Joseph if he knows it. He happened very lucky to light on a 
 couple of sheep theives, and we won't wait for them to come 
 back, but jes' shoulder that 'ere nnitton and pike for camp." 
 
388 THE 8HANTT B07, 
 
 The men all began to realize that in place of proving to them 
 what one had termed "a cussed aggriwation," I was 
 decidedly a public benefactor, in providing for the 
 camp a supply of fresh meat, and from the point of 
 being "lynched," I became the hero of the hour. The 
 carcass was removed, and the grave restored to its previous 
 condition when we all struck a bee line for camp, where for a 
 couple of days, mutton — roast fried and boiled — was the 
 "piece de resistance" of the cook camp* 
 
 Thus you see my son, that virtue is its own reward, and 
 everything is well that ends well. 
 
 The foregoing ridiculous incident re minds me that at the camp 
 where it took place, I had my first experience of a woods on 
 fire. As this book claims to give a description of woods 
 life, it would be very incomplete without presenting some gen- 
 eral picturing. of the work of the "fire-fiend" in the pine woods. 
 
 No true estimate can be formed of the amount of destruction 
 entailed upon timber bj woods fires. It is safe to say that 
 not a year passes in which a "fire tax," of millions of dollars, is 
 not imposed upon the Michigan and Wisconsin owners of pine 
 lands. Forest fires nearly always originate from absolute care- 
 lessness. Men tramping through the woods and camping over 
 night, will build fires either for warmth or to keep off mosqui- 
 toes. The embers are. left burning, and a general conflagra- 
 tion follows. Or a settler sets fire to a fallow, and permits the 
 fire to creep, into the woods, when the usual destruction ensues. 
 In a dry time a spark will serve to ignite the resinous pine 
 needles covering the ground, and acres of valuable pine will be 
 burned as a consequence. The writer is not extravagant in 
 saying that lumber enough has been lost in this way to pay a 
 woods warden's salary ten times over just to watch fire. It 
 should be made a highly punishable offense to leave 
 unquenched fires in the woods. To this end the provisions 
 already existing should be made more stringent, and the atten- 
 cion of the settlers called to the fact. If owners of pine lands 
 were to convene together and devise some method of care over 
 the timber, the outlay, however apparently heavy, would be 
 money well expended. 
 
OR, LIFE IN A LUMBER CAMP. 289 
 
 The time was when "burned timber" might be as well con- 
 sumed entire as to be "fire killed." If not lumbered the fol- 
 lowing winter after the fire, the "borers" completed what the 
 fire had left undone, and the timber in the second season was 
 valueless. This is not so long ago but that some reader of 
 this paragraph can still feel the smart of the loss he at that 
 time sustained, by being unable to lumber his piece of burned 
 timber in time to save it from the "borers." Bat to-day things 
 have materially changed, and by the intersection of logging 
 railroads in almost every direction, timber subjected to the 
 ravages of the "fire fiend" can be saved by seasonable cutting. 
 Very much Michigan timber has thus been rescued from com- 
 pleted destruction, that was burned over, and this is largely 
 owing to the vast improvements made in lumbering in the past 
 few years. 
 
 The day after my sheep episode, was one of excitement. 
 The camp men had for the previous three days been fighting 
 fire, about two miles from camp, but it had got the start of 
 them and fastened into the rollways, where some five millions 
 of timber — the very choicest pine — had been decked up. Un- 
 fortunately, the "rollways" were very close together, and the 
 fire spread from one to another with wondrous rapidity, con- 
 sidering the fact that the logs were green pine. Water was 
 scarce, and utensils for carrying it were scarcer, so that the 
 men could do little else than to stand and watch the result of 
 their winter's labors turn into ashes. This only required a day 
 and a night to accomplish, by which time the woods for miles 
 around were in flames. I had a five mile tramp to get out, 
 but for nearly the whole distance the fire was burning fiercely. 
 Escapes from death were numerous, and especially did the 
 poor "homesteaders" suffer, having everything they had in the 
 world swept away. The waste in this direction is terrible, and 
 irreparable in character. 
 
 But there is another slovenly waste to which attention is 
 here called. Economy in the cutting of pine trees is a subject 
 which should ever be present with the foreman of a camp. 
 The proper direction in which the tree should fall is a matter 
 
240 THE SHANTY BO T, 
 
 of the utmost importance in the making of lumber. Fre- 
 quently the tree is felled by ignorant sawyers, so as to break 
 its back in half a dozen places, and render it useless for tim- 
 ber. Even what logs are saved from such careless felling, are 
 so badly "shaken" as to virtually render them worthless when 
 they reach the mill. The writer knew a foreman who made it 
 a. point to fell a dozen of trees at once by cutting each till the 
 point of falling was nearly reached, when the last tree was 
 allowed to fall against the one next to it, and so on, each fal- 
 ling against the other till all were down in the form of a 
 "slashing." It was, certainly, an expeditious method of getting 
 the trees down, but played havoc with the timber. However, 
 this is all in passing. 
 
 The great loss sustained, in lumbering is in cutting the tree 
 too high, and leaving a stump with fully two feet of valuable 
 timber to stand there and rot. This foolish waste is frequently 
 occasioned by the depth of snow in the woods, and in going 
 through old cuttings, the various depths of snow in past win- 
 ters can be easily ascertained by noticing the height of the 
 stumps. The objection is raised to cutting stumps low down 
 that the butt will be found full of pitch. This may be an ob- 
 jection, but certainly does not affect the two or three feet of 
 good timber left above where the roots take hold upon the 
 tree trunk proper, and by this folly much good timber is per- 
 mitted to be lost. 
 
 It would pay a large amount of expense incurred in running 
 a camp if the sawyers were caused to kneel in place of stand- 
 ing up when sawing down the tree. They could work just as 
 well and save a large amount of valuable timber which can 
 be estimated in figuring the difference in the height of a stump 
 cut by men working in an upright position. It is a point the 
 writer throws out as being well worthy of analysis. Some time 
 ago a description was published of a machine which might well 
 be termed a "scavenger." Its purpose is to cut from off stumps 
 a piece of timber the length of a shingle bolt. One of these 
 machines set at work in a fresh cutting will soon provide a 
 stock of excellent timber for a shingle mill and of the very 
 
OR. LIFE IN A LUMBER CAMP. 241 
 
 best quality. Where wood for firing locomotives in the woods 
 is required, this machine is a grand provider. It can be 
 gauged to cut the stump level with the ground, thus securing 
 the "fat pine," than which there can be no better firing 
 material. 
 
 On the whole, the time is now upon our lumbermen in which 
 more economy is demanded in cutting timber. Stumps should 
 be cut shorter, and trees felled with a view to their striking 
 the ground without "riving" the most valuable part of the 
 timber into slivers. These two important points should be 
 well impressed upon the minds of camp foremen, and the 
 result would soon be seen in the extra amount of logs. It 
 would only take six or eight stumps cut low, to make a twelve 
 foot log, which fact would be a great consideration in a winter's 
 lumbering. 
 
 The author may be expected, in this connection, to say a 
 few words relative to the amount of timber yet producible in 
 the great Northwest lumber centers, as it is a continually 
 mooted question how long lumbering will continue, at least in 
 Michigan. For the next twenty years from date — 1888 — there 
 will be pine in plenty to cut in the latter state, but it will be 
 of a very inferior quality. In 1881, the Forestry Bulletin gave 
 the following as the actual amount of standing pine and hard 
 wood in Michigan : 
 
 STANDING PINE. 
 
 On Saginaw Bay waters 7,000,000,000 
 
 Lake von waters 8,000,000,000 
 
 Lake Michigan (Lower Peninsula) 14,000,000,000 
 
 Menominee River Valley 1,000,000,000 
 
 North Shore Lake Michigan 2,400,000,000 
 
 Balance in Upper Peninsula 2,000,000,000 
 
 Total feet 84,400,000,000 
 
 HARD WOOD (COEDS). 
 
 Lower Peninsula !>75,500.000 
 
 Upper Peninsula...: 124,500,000 
 
 Total 700.000,000 
 
«43 THS 8BANTY BO T, 
 
 The yearly cut of pine in Michigan, for the six years ending 
 in 1887, averaged three billions per year, which if taken at 
 18,000,000,000 in round numbers, would leave 16,400,000,000 
 yet standing. The last Forestry bulletin up to close of season 
 of 1886, gives nineteen billions of standing pine for Michigan. 
 
 In regard to hard woods it may be stated that as yet but 
 little inroad has been made upon this great staple outside 
 of the charcoal supply for the iron furnaces,* although with the 
 settling of the country the clearing of land involves the destruc- 
 tion of very much valuable timber. These facts and figures, 
 thus briefly hinted at, are gathered from reliable sources, and 
 may be depended upon as being as nearly accurate as such 
 estimates can be made. 
 
 If the author has any clearly defined purpose, in presenting 
 these pages to the working man in the lumber woods, it is to 
 induce habits of frugality among working men, with the object 
 in view of all such obtaining a home. Michigan offers very 
 many opportunities to the careful and industrious, and the 
 homestead law of the state gives labor every facility for obtain- 
 ing a permanent home. The lumber woods has furnished a 
 large portion of the farming community, of Michigan, especially, 
 with means for improving their homesteads, and at this writing 
 thousands have occasion to bless their "life in a lumber camp," 
 for the home comforts and independence they to-day enjoy. 
 The annual report of S. M. Stockslager, commissioner of the 
 general land office, shows that during the last fiscal year 64,- 
 133 acres of the public domain in Michigan were patented or 
 otherwise passed title to and conveyed by the general land 
 office. The total number of patents was 367. Two hundred of 
 them were for final homesteads ; 134 were private cash entries; 
 27 warrant and scrip locations ; and five commuted homesteads. 
 In addition to this 257 acres were patented to the state of 
 Michigan under the swamp land grant. Private land claims, 
 donations, Indian claims in severalty and scrip locations were 
 patented in the state during the year to the extent of 5,156 
 
 *Tlie annual supply of hard wood for charcoal averages 145,000 cords per 
 blast fumac#in the Tapper Peninsula. 
 
on. Lire zar a lumber camp. we 
 
 acres. There are now 891 final homestead entries in Michi- 
 gan, 1,757 final private cash entries, 533 final cash entries and 
 229 final warrant and scrip locations pending in the general 
 land office. There are 3,396 original homestead entries in 
 Michigan now pending. 
 
 Let me reiterate what I have striven to embody in both the 
 spirit and letter of this book: Boys, save your money and get 
 a home ! 
 
 I wonder if the reader has ever heard of what is known as 
 "jumpers ?" If not I will here narrate a little incident, which 
 first introduced me to this strange class of Frenchmen, and 
 with whom the men in the woods are frequently brought in 
 contact. It was in the winter of 1883 that I first met three 
 "jumpers" in the headquarters camp of Hackley & Hume, 
 north of Harrisville, Mich. The foreman, Mr. Frank Desheau 
 for my especial benefit, put the men through a course of gym- 
 nastics, which were mysteriously wonderful, to say the least. 
 The three men were physically, large, robust fellows, and 
 capable of doing a good day's work at any description of wood's 
 labor. But they were strangely affected with some sort of 
 nervous affection, by which they were entirely subject to the 
 manual or vocal command of whoever was near them. Thus, 
 the violent clapping of the hands would cause all three to 
 simultaneously imitate the same action. The shouting out 
 loud, would bring a corresponding shout from each. A jump 
 would start them all jumping, or to strike a man a quick blow, 
 would cause each of them in turn, to strike someone else. 
 In short they seemed perfectly powerless in the control of 
 their actions, and for an hour the foreman showed them off, till 
 they were apparently exhausted. 
 
 I had frequently heard of the "jumpers," but never before 
 had met any' of this singularly afflicted race, and of course, 
 was extremely anxious to learn something more about them. 
 The foreman, Frank Desheau, gave me the following : 
 
 In the province of Quebec, on the Madawaska river, there is 
 a colony of over three hundred families of French "jumpers" 
 settled. All are more or less afflicted with this strange ner- 
 
344 THE SHANTT BO T. 
 
 vous malady, which seems to partake of the character of "St. 
 Vitus dance." They have been located for over two hundred 
 years in this part of Lower Canada, and intermarry with each 
 other. Men and women are alike afflicted in greater or less 
 degree with this strange poverty of will power, and knowing 
 their infirmity, they keep it to themselves. Physically and 
 mentally they are otherwise perfect, and the men frequently 
 go into the lumber woods of Michigan and Wisconsin to work. 
 
 But Mr. Desheau informed me that to make a motion with 
 an axe, as though to strike a person, would cause the "jumper" 
 seeing the motion, to drive his axe into the man next to him. 
 Knowing their peculiarity, the other men are careful what 
 them do, when working with them, and confine their "funny 
 business" to acts which are intended to bring out the ridiculous 
 character of the "jumper." The women are just as suscepti- 
 ble as the men. One wiping a dish, can be made to dash the 
 same upon the ground, simply by another person making a 
 motion as though throwing down a dish. The foreman, the 
 night I speak of, took his pipe from his mouth, and made a 
 feint of throwing it down. In an instant the three men had 
 dashed their pipes on the floor. He did the same with his 
 jack-knife, and the hand of each man went into his pocket and 
 bringing out his knife, dashed it on the floor. All three sat 
 side by side, and a motion the foreman made to strike me a 
 blow, caused each to turn and strike real hard at his neighbor. 
 
 They actually had no power to resist the imitation of any 
 physical motion, and I noticed one, with tears running down 
 his cheeks, begging the foreman in French to let him be 
 still. 
 
 It certainly is a singular phenomenon, and it is yet more 
 singular that we have not had some scientific explanation of 
 this nervous condition, which would seem to be exclusively 
 confined to one branch of the French Canadian people. The 
 men and women thus afflicted, are noted for their physical 
 beauty, but no French man or woman will marry a "jumper." 
 
 It is now with extreme reluctance that the author approaches 
 the conclusion of his work. The trip is about completed, and 
 
OR. LIFE IN A LUMBER CAMP. 248 
 
 the "tote road" shortens up to where we can see camp in the 
 near distance. The road through these preceding chapters, 
 has not been a very smooth one, but it has been one that I 
 trust- the shanty boy has not felt very weary over, and if these 
 pages have been half as pleasing to the reader as they have 
 been to the writer in the preparation, we will part mutually 
 satisfied. In reviewing my work, I can see where great sins 
 of omission and commission have occurred. Volumes could be 
 written upon the strange life of the woodsman, each far trans- 
 cending this in interest and practical value. But the inten- 
 tion throughout has been to so present the shanty boy to the 
 outside world, in order that he may be known at his true 
 value, as the pioneer in the great army of civilization. To him 
 also does this book come, to wile away a long Sunday after- 
 noon, in camp, telling him the story of the woods, already to 
 him so well known. Shall these pages add either to his pleas- 
 ure or profit ? It is hard to say, but still the intention prompt- 
 ing the hurried preparation of this work has been to benefit 
 the shanty boy. To the kind, careless, generous, happy-go- 
 lucky lad, we commend it as a tribute of fraternal gratitude, 
 from the author to a class of men but little known, and still 
 less properly understood. To all such, one who has lived 
 among them and knows the kind hearts beating under the 
 mackinaw shirt the author concludes these pages by saying : 
 Put it right thar chummy ! Shake ! 
 
 All hail to the pioneer army grand — 
 
 The men of the axe and the saw — 
 In labor's formost rank they stand. 
 
 And the car of Progress draw; 
 The forests so brown at their march go down, 
 
 Towns and cities rise where they fell; 
 While work well done and wealth well won. 
 
 Speaks the shanty boy's labor well. 
 
THE SHANTY BOY. 
 
 VIRTCTE NON VERBIS. 
 
 POSTSCEIPT. 
 
 The critical reader -will have doubtlessly discovered very many evidences 
 of hurried preparation, in the preceeding pages. While fully admitting the 
 fact, the author's apology for all such errors, will rest in the statement, that the 
 copy for the "Shanty Boy" was written and placed in the printer's hands, within 
 eight days after deciding to publish this work. In fact, the publication of the 
 "Shanty Boy," was an after thought, and another work of the author's — "The 
 Land of Nod" — was withdrawn, after several pages were in type, in order to 
 make room for this— deemed the book better suited for the season. It may be 
 added however, that with the bare exception of, two or three popular songs used, 
 the matter contained in the foregoing pages is original with the author of the 
 "Shanty Boy," and written in plain Anglo Saxon. Some of the sketches and 
 stories forming the concluding chapters were originally contributed by me to 
 the Detroit, Chicago, West Brancli and Cheboygan press. These all have been 
 revised and returned to manuscript form, especially for the present work. 
 Trusting that, independent of superficiality or blunders, the kind reader may 
 have derived some small amount of instruction and amusement from the perusal 
 of my modest little effort, 
 
 I remain very sincerely. 
 
 Cheboygan, Mich., Dec. 1st, 1888. J. W. FM.