'O "^O. >. ^0 '^■ '<^>. O^ r ° " ° O C <5°* » • S V' .^■■ -.'b-'^v; ■ 1^ Around the camp the timbered hills rimmed up Like dark green clouds fringed low against the sky. At sunrise they lay black against the dawn ; At sunset they were painted like the sky. Back in the hills — some five on to ten miles — The shanties stood, where the log choppers lived. They chopped and limbed the logs; we skidded them, Then " teamed it " down the river, logs chained high To our bob sleds. The roads were glare with ice — A log road wasn't much — just a cut trail — But we had horses then ; they'd brace and slide Bad hills on all four feet. One time I fell Before my load to almost certain death. Old Nell, my off mare, jumped clean over me Sideways into the snow, and stopped the load. I tell you, I took care she had her oats When I put up my horses for the night. We used chains on the runners for our brakes. Sometimes they wouldn't work on the steep grades, And when the load got going 'twas a run With death till we struck level down below. I'd swing the reins and yell " Giddap " like mad At my old bays. We always beat it out And got down safe, although it made us puff. [91] The log-road's gone ; a year ago they built A spanking brand-new auto road in there. The camp's gone too ; you'd never know the place. It all burned down ; you'll find just here and there A few logs tumbling down among the brush To tell you that folks lived there long ago. They shipped the tannery off somewhere else ; The hemlock bark gave out. They use oak now, But hemlock is the best. There's nothing left To mark the place but one poor, creaking shack. An old man lives there just to sell soft drinks To auto-folk who come in summer time. Upon the hills the hemlock and white pine Are growing fast, for the State owns the land. I never cared for any tree that grew Except a pine ; they're leaves and boughs and bark. But pine is friendly, I went chopping once, And never put an axe into a pine But that I hated to ; it seemed alive. And I tell you when I am laid away That I don't want a marker over me Of marble, or some other fancy stone ; If I can have my way, 'twill be a pine. [92] JIMMIE DOHERTY Years ago a bitter feud raged between the Irish Catholics and the Protestant Irish in certain sections of the North Woods. When the Protestants condescended to attend the " wake " of an Irish Catholic, it was a tribute to the personal worth of the man. There's a " wake " for Jimmie Doherty in the Bunk- house Saturday night. The Protestants are coming — they knew that he was right. We're going to keen him till the dawn — he came from County Clare — And send the word across the sea to them that's over there. He froze to death on Thursday night a-crossing through the snow That drifted in on Newcomb Lake when the wind began to blow. He'd been to Newcomb Corners a-drinking hard and fast, And never thinking that the night might prove to be his last. He made the fat bartender roar with some old Shanty lie, And treated all around three times, the best that he could buy; And packed a sup o' whiskey to bring us Shanty men, [93] And started out to cross the Lake; the clock had just struck ten. He must 'a' took a drop too much ; he never reached the shore; He walked in circles till the Lake looked like a threshing floor. Oh, cold it was, and bitter, the gale that blew that night ; There was no moon to guide him, nor stars to give their light. We found him in the morning with the dawn-light on his brow; His face was white as any saint's and drifted with the snow. We found him kneeling peacefully, his hands upon his breast As if he'd bowed to say a prayer, or get a breath and rest ; And the " wee drap " he carried to warm our Shanty joys He'd never touched nor drawn the cork : he'd kept it for the " boys." We're " waking " Jimmie Doherty in the Bunk- house Saturday night; We're going to keen him till the sun swims up in . . . broad daylight. [94] There'll be enough for everyone — the boys have been so free — And Big Tim Cole is coming, and Michael Gog- gerty. We'll wake him as a man should be who came from County Clare, And raise a keen that maybe'll stir the auld sod over there. [95] CONSERVATION (The old Lumber- jack returns to the North Woods) I WENT back home last year to the North Woods — Up where I lumbered nearly fifty years ago ; It all seemed new and strange and different. There were the broad, new roads with white guard rails, Slashed in the hills we lumber-jacks stripped bare. It looks to me there'll be as much again Good pine as we cut down, in just ten years : Not like the whopping burnt-out stumps you see Half charred among the stubbly underbrush; That's " first-growth," gone forever. You won't see Pine that it took four hundred years to grow In the North Woods again, but the new crop will be As good as the old " second-growth " we cut. There's miles and miles of the North Woods I knew Blindfolded years ago ; now it looks strange — Like some new country. It's a " Park," they say. The State has taken it and bought the farms, But farmers can stay on, and campers come If they obey the rules of forestry The State has posted up all through the Woods, And cut for firewood only fallen trees Or the old creaking scrubs with crumbling hearts Like to crash down in the first winter gale. [96] They have a name for what they aim to do : 'Tis " conservation," sort of saving up The woods and headwaters up in the hills For children's children : — I join hands with it. When I had hoofed a bit, I struck old Factorytown. The factory's tumbled down some sixty year. But the town stuck there, rooted 'twixt cross roads. The land was part of the John Burnam grant. He had two townships granted by the State In early days, if he would settle them With immigrants — or so folks always said. Many a time I've heard the old men tell How he took beechnuts down to where ships land, And spread them out and said, " Now come with me," To starved out folk from County Antrim way. " There isn't gold around these foreign parts. But there's rich grain — buckwheat ; it grows as large As these few kernels I've brought down with me." They took his land and held the grant for him And nearly starved the first year they were there, Then prospered fairly. They were stern, grim folk — Protestant Irish — and they toiled and made Those mountain valleys blossom like the rose. [97] You never saw such farms — Old Summerville Raised tons of rye and oats on the new land, And grew so rich he took it in his head To go to Kansas; he went on out there, And grasshoppers ate everything he had. 'Twas there the Irish weavers, yearning back To their old home, dammed up the brawling creek And built a factory close beside the road To weave fine calico. It didn't pay. But after the old looms were taken out The name stuck fast — the place was Factorytown. I think you'll find still in old houses there Some scraps in patchwork of that calico, With little roses running on buff ground. But mostly it has gone the way of everything. The Factorytown you know forgets the spot The old dam crossed the creek; the country's changed. And folks have changed ; I hear a Polack built A shack up on the old Gid Stackhouse place ; And Johnson's store — a German owns it now And keeps it neat and all methodical. I liked it better with the sheet-iron stove And clutter of old barrels and sacks and things. And strings of apples hanging down from hooks, And knitted socks and leggings on the floor, [98] And nothing ever quite in the same spot. It was a kindly place; we lumber-jacks Always came there to sit on pay-day nights, To gather round the stove and hear the yarns Old Johnson read us from the Weekly News. The stove would get red hot, then we'd push back And talk and roar. The store's so spick-span now A man don't dare to sit there any more And talk. He buys and hears the clink Of silver in the new cash register : Bill Johnson kept coin in a leather bag. He had a bit of skin-flint blood in him, But somehow it seemed right to give his price. If 'twas too high. You thought maybe he'd had An extra tax, or that someone had died Among his kinfolk. If you couldn't pay He'd " trust " ; they said he lost a lot that way. " So much for so much " never troubled us. The farmers were the misers in those days : A lumber-jack spent money like a lord While his pay lasted: 'twas the fun we craved. — Oh, life was kind of human in those days ! They've built a new hotel in Factorytown ; The old one rotted down upon its sills. A smart Jew bought the dust heap for a song, [99] And put a new one up ; the white State road Runs past it and the autos toot and screech Their horns through Factorytown now every day, And the farm-horses aren't scared any more. I like the new hotel; it's plumb sure fine, But it's not home to me like the old one With its round pillars and the bright green blinds. I always thought the White House looked like it Before I saw it, but somehow, to me. It made me think of old George Washington And Valley Forge and wars with Indians. The country's changing fast ; I wonder why The State plans " conservation " all the time, And yet forgets the most important thing — To just conserve the old America We knew. It's slipping — slipping every day. And we won't long remember what we've been. The timber's growing up so fast again ; The mountain streams are all a-bursting full; The State is sending seeds and bulletins To tell the farmers how to grow their crops. And foreigners come tumbling in pell-mell To do it all. It kind of makes me sad; I'm not-at-home up here; my friends have gone — The folks that first came over and became Americans. I know I'm just dead wrong. [100] Men laugh at me and say the new folks here Will be the same. I know it may be so, But something's gone that never can come back. I can't lay hands on it, no more can you ; But it's still in the woods. When I get blue I go and sit beside an old skidway And shut my eyes : far of the supper horn Blows from the Shanty, and I hear the thump Of green logs falling on tlie hemlock skids, — The tapping of the axes far aivay. It don't stay long. I stretch, and light my pipe, And watch a red squirrel chittering on a bough. [101] JAMES McBRIDE An imitation of the numerous Slianty Ballads that were composed by Lumber-jaclvS and River-drivers to commemorate notable events in their lives. Forty or fifty years ago a great many of these ballads were composed and sung to old tunes and also to new ones made up like negro spirituals on the spur of the moment. Set down in cold type, these ballads often had the curious metrical awkwardness of " James McBride " which made them difficult to read. They were composed to be sung and only to the accompaniment of the reeling Shanty tunes, did they rise to full artistic effectiveness. " Now who will cross to the other side On a raft?" the young Boss cried. " The old North River is boiling brown And the bridge is battered down. Now who will cross and risk his life, Who has no child or wife? On the Black Rock there on the other side Is our Foreman, James McBride. " He rode a log from the upper jam Below the timber dam ; It splintered up on the Black Rock here And flung him high and clear. The river is rising fast tonight; If you wait for broad daylight, You will not see on the other side Your Foreman, James McBride." [102] Now two men stepped to the young Boss's side ; " We will man the raft," they cried. 'Twas big Pat Heeney who stepped out there, And the Frenehy, Joe Le Clare. " We'll ride the waves, the rocks we'll clear. And our hearts shall not know fear. And we'll bring you back from the other side Our Foreman, James McBride." We watched the raftsmen steer their way To where the Black Rock lay; We watched the Foreman wave his hand And show them where to land; But just as they reached the slippery rock The waves gave them a shock. And they could not get to Black Rock's side And their Foreman, James McBride. The waters carried them far away Where the rapids fierce did play, They waved their hands and called " goodbye " Where the waters foamed so high; But though they were carried far away, The raft by the Rock did stay; We saw it hang to the Black Rock's side. Near the Foreman, James McBride. [103] Young James McBride was a raftsman bold, Who feared not waves nor cold; He jumped and made as firm a stand On the raft as on dry land. He steered his way through the rapids there And round him he did stare, Till the Shanty boys were pulled to the side By their Foreman, James McBride. Now all you brave young Shanty men Who want to " drive " again ; Now all you fine young Shanty boys Who know a raftsman's joys, — Remember those two lads so brave Who steered their friend to save; Remember the man, the Shanty's pride. Our Foreman, James McBride. [104] SINGING SAM When I was lumbering up on Thirteenth Lake, Old " Singing Sam " was " greaser " on our job. A " greaser " is a camp cook's handy man Who washes dishes and does all odd tasks Peels the potatoes, cleans up after grub, And gets kicked round the camp by everyone. Sometimes he is a crippled lumber-jack Who got hurt in the woods, or some poor fool. Or often a Canuck with Frenchy ways And he just gets his board and nothing more. But Singing Sam was all plain Yankee blood; I think he was a little soft or queer. He had a knack for fiddling, and a voice And memory for every song he heard. And there were songs he sang he'd never heard, They weren't set down in any music book. He used to say, when he tramped up and down The woods, there was a wild woman who came And fiddled for him under old gnarled trees And taught him songs that no one ever knew. When we were turning in around the fire. Filling our pipes and feeling at our ease. We'd call him in to get his fiddle out And sing a tune before we all bunked in. [105] He had a fiddle that he made himself, — Leastwise the most of it. When it was new A man had smashed it in a bar-room fight, And it was thrown out on the rubbish heap; And Sam had picked it up and whittled out The neck and sounding board from maple wood And seasoned it a while, then stretched the strings, And 'twas as good as new. How Sam could play! They sometimes sent for him from miles away To fiddle for a dance. He'd play all night. With one eye cocked up wide, the other drooped As if he saw the music in his head. I never heard another fiddler play " The Devil's Dream " one half as well as Sam, — Or all those hornpipe tunes, and reels and jigs. In those days all the Shanties had their songs ; The lumber- jacks made new ones every year About something that happened at the camp. Our Shanty Boss was William Anderson. We made a song near twenty verses long; It started out wuth something of this kind : My name, 'tis Billie Anderson, I'll have ye for to know; They put me in the corn field To scare away the crow. [106] Oh, lock-oon-ge-aye, lock-oon-ge-aye, Lock-oon, lock-oon, lock-oon-ge-aye, Whack-ful diddle-ful di-do. Another one we called " The Shanty Boy " ; It set us thinking of the girls back home. As I walked out one evening As the sun was going down, I walked into a place Called Crinkling Town. I heard two girls conversing As slowly I passed by; One said she loved a farmer's son, The other a Shanty Boy. Oh, the one that loved the farmer's son These words I heard her say : " The reason why I love him — At home with me he'll stay. " He'll stay at home all winter ; Not lumbering will he go; And when the springtime it comes on, His lands he'll plant and sow." And Ave would cheer when he came on to this, About the girl who loved the Shanty Boy : " Oh, how I love my Shanty Boy, Who goes out in the fall; He is both strong and hearty. And able to stand a squall. [107] " How happy I'll receive him In the spring when he comes home; His money free he'll share with me, While your farmers' sons have none." He had one song about some " Frenchy Joe " Who got drowned river-driving in a jam. " Oh, Joey wasn't handsome, But Joey he was tall; And we called him Old Joe Muffereau, The Bully o' Montreal." There was another song he used to sing, (That one was written down in an old book) ; It was about a woman who was wild And hid her lover in a big tea-chest. And then the husband comes and takes the chest Oh, they picked up the chest And they lugged it along. And they hadn't gone o'er half the ground Afore they sat down to rest. And says one to the other: Think the devil's in the chest — Tum-a-raddle-faddle-daddle Tum-a-raddle-f addle-day. They opened up the chest. Right there before them all There lay the little tailor. Like a piggy in a stall. I'll take you down to China, [108] And I'll trade you off for teaj I'll not have you round Making trouble for me. Tum-a-raddle-faddle-daddle Tum-a-raddle-f addle-day. And sometimes Sam would sing " The Cumberland," And our eyes smart as we thought on the thing ; And all join in when we came to the lines : Slowly they sank in Virginia's dark waters; Their faces on earth shall be seen nevermore. And sometimes we would have him sing " James Bjrd " : Listen to me, sons of Pleasure, And ye daughters, too, give ear. You a sad and mournful story As was ever told shall hear: Hull, you know, his troops surrendered And defenseless left the west; Then our forces quick assembled The invader to resist. Oh, I could go on telling you all day The songs he picked up somehow, here and there. He was a cheerful fool, and after all We missed him like a brother when he died. He left a paper with a bit he'd saved To hire some music for his funeral. We sent out fifty miles down to " The Falls " And hired a big brass band to come up here. [109] They wore red coats and horse tails on their heads, And when we laid old Singing Sam away They stood around the grave and played the tune He used to play when we bunked in at night. There's a land that is fairer than day, And by faith we can see it afar, Tor the Father waits over the way To prepare us a dwelling place there. In the sweet bye-and-bye We shall meet on that beautiful shore; In the sweet bye-and-bye We shall meet on that beautiful shore. [110] z m < NANCE HILLS A LUMBER CAMP IDYLL The lumber camps were lonely years ago. I've heard my mother tell how many a time, When she was " keeping Shanty " years ago In the North Woods, cooking three meals a day For twenty men on Morgan lumber jobs, That four months would go by, and she'd not see Another woman, and she would grow wan And half forgetful out of loneliness. And have strange fancies coming and start quick If icicles fell down from off the eaves; And if a panther howled down in the swamp She'd go and bar the door, although she knew 'Twould never come into the clearing there. And then she'd always say, " 'Twas not so bad In later years, for then I had the boys Playing around to keep me company, And never went clean crazy like Nance Hills, Who kept the Byrd Pond Shanty at ' The Forks.' 'Twas good six miles away as the crow flies Across the cedar swamp to reach Byrd Pond, Yet Nance would often tramp the trail and come And sit with me what time she had to spare. And play with you an hour with blocks and things When you were little. And one day she said : [111] " ' I'm not the same since little Jimmie died ; You see, he was the only one I had. I ache somewhere; I think it's in my heart, And I've steeped herbs, but still the pain don't go. When I went home last year, I told Mis' Tripp, And she said : " Sho, don't worry about that ; I've felt that way now, years and years ago When I was young and lost a little child. It's habij-fever; when you've lost your own. Or they've been grown up for a heap of years, Or sometimes when you're just sick and alone, The spell comes on ; you sit and ache and ache And don't know rightly where. Sometimes it seems Your heart is jumping right up in your throat, And other times as if a lump of lead Lay on your breast, and you have crazy dreams Of babies ; and sometimes in broad daylight You see one come and play round on the floor, And food don't taste, and you can't even cry ; But always you know somehow what you want, And feel soft fingers clutching at your breast. And all night long a head upon your arm. That's ^ baby-fever ' ; it drives women mad." [112] " She sat a time, and then she spoke again : ^ I've hoped and hoped since little Jimniie died — ' Then I just bustled out and stirred the fire And made her drink a good hot cup of tea. " One day I heard our ' marker ' laugh and say, * They've got a baby over at " The Forks." ' And I said, ' No, I haven't heard of it.' And he said, ^ Yep, it's so, for I looked in : There was a cradle rocking on the floor.' " ' Poor thing,' I said ; ' she must have had a time Without a woman 'round to care for her ; I must go over there the first fair day.' Next day I saddled our old skidding horse And strapped a blanket on, and rode the trail Through Cedar Swamp and came down to ' The Forks.' " Nance met me at the Shanty door ; her face Was sunshine. ^ Sh-h-h,' she said, ' he's gone to sleep. Take off your shawl ; your mittens are all stiff ; I'll thaw them out; sit down and warm yourself.' We sat down by the stove and talked and talked, And all the while she stitched and laughed away And showed me fixings such as women make. [113] " I asked to see the baby and Nance said, * If you don't mind today, I'll let him sleep, For he was sick and fretted in the night.' I thought 'twas queer I couldn't look at him. But something in her face kept my tongue still. I rode off home and she stood watching me Out of the clearing. I can see her now, With her red hair wrapped in a bright blue shawl ; She looked like some old picture I had seen I think now rightly in a Cath'lic Church ; They're full of pictures and of idols too. " The snow was deep that year ; I couldn't go Until Spring came again, on the swamp trail. And by that time I'd heard no one had seen The baby that was over at ' The Forks.' They couldn't get a word out of Nance's man. He'd say black oaths whenever they quizzed him. But when Nance was alone — a man had watched — She'd bring the baby from her own bunk-room And coddle it, and nurse it at her breast. But no one ever heard it make a cry. " One day when the Spring freshets gullied out The old log roads, Jim Hills came riding in. ' Can you come over? Nance is awful sick,' He said as soon as I had let him in. I said I could, and got on up behind. [114] We had to walk the horse through ankle slush, And when we got there Nance was awful sick, And wild with fever. ^ Land,' said I, ' what's this? She needs a woman ; let me look at her.' And when I made her easy, I went out To tend the baby, for I saw a crib. You won't believe 'twas true: I turned the quilt And saw a baby made of cloth and rags — A poor rag doll that she had dressed and nursed And made believe with to her starved out heart. I stared at it and lifted up the thing, — I'd swear that it was warm — and then I screamed And let it drop, for somehow something moved Just like a baby moves, right in my hands. And then I put it back, for Nance cried out. And I heard Jim come blundering in the house. " He saw me by the crib and said shamefaced : ' I couldn't stop her ; so I held my tongue.' ' Of course,' I said ; then Nance screamed out again, And I went out and put the kettle on To have hot water in a little while. " She slept at last, and nestling by her side I laid her baby — the real living one That came to answer that old craving need That's deep in women. When the wind blew in The chinks between the logs, I slipped away [115] And brought her old blue shawl to wrap her in Against the cold. Then Jim came tip-toe soft. ' She's gone to sleep ; don't you wake her,' I said. *■ I won't/ he whispered ; then he turned to me : ' She looks like someone, but I don't know who — I think my mother, but I don't just know.' " Just then we heard the log chains clank outside. The men had come ; the skidding horses raced Down to the barn ; the kitchen door banged wide ; ' Hullo,' a big voice called ; ' say, where's the grub?'" [116] RIVER DRIVING RiVEE driving on the Sacondog, Riding on a slippeiy log, Sleeping in a frozen bog — My girVs waiting for me. Hard-boiled eggs three times a day, Wet as beavers we hit the hay. Not much sleep but good big pay — My girl's waiting for me. Big French Joe and I went out To break the jam ; I heard him shout : ^'^ Prenez garde/' and the jam went out — My girl's waiting for me. Big French Joe, the logs drowned him; He'd no chance to fight and swim. Logs jammed up to the river's rim — My girl's ivaiting for me. His girl come to me and cry, " If he's dead, then I shall die ; 'Ma Petite/ he used to sigh." — My girl's waiting for me. [117] We will find him down below, Bound the bend where the water's slow, Floating with his " pike " in tow — My girl's waiting for me. '' Ma Petite " will wring her hand When we scrape the yellow sand And lay him by the river strand. — My girl's tvaiting for me. One more night and one more day, The logs will reach the river bay; I'll skin off these togs, and — say — My girVs icaiting for me. [118] MAKY TAMAHAW She wore a bright red ribbon in her hair, Little Mary Tamahaw, Seventh daughter of old Charlie Tamahaw And his squaw. She was like a lily pale and fair, Like a golden lily, for her skin Never reddened with the Indian stain, Never coarsened with the wind and rain. She was silent, wouldn't talk to us When we teased or tried to make a fuss When we came to buy the moccasins That her mother cut from the moose skins ; — Only sat and smiled, and smiling slid Out of sight beneath the furs and hid. — Little Mary Tamahaw, Seventh daughter of old Charlie Tamahaw And his squaw. City folks came, coaxed her far away " Down below " to New York town to stay ; Gave her play-houses and costly things, Shetland ponies and some bright gold rings, Eibbons that she wanted. She was glad For a while, then something made her sad. She was lonely for the old North River [119] For the sunset flames that leap and quiver In the sky when dusk of night is falling? Did she hear the grey mist-spirits calling? No one ever knew; Only saw her life-stream going — going — Like a weary river flowing — flowing. In a palace on Fifth Avenue, Where the walls were painted every hue, Where the rain could never drip and seep Down the gilded walls, she fell asleep, Broken, like a springtime lily golden. Plucked from out the forest gray and olden- Little Mary Tamahaw, Seventh daughter of Old Charlie Tamahaw And his squaw. [120] SABEAL Sabeal, an old Indian trapper who lived years ago on the shore of Thirteenth Lake, was murdered — so the story goes — by a lumberman who coveted his hoard of gold. Since that time the curious noises made by the wind under the ice in winter are attributed to the spirit of the old Indian, who is said to haunt the lake. When the wailing shrieks rise from the frozen lake on windy winter nights superstitious folk tell the youngsters : " It is old Sabeal crying for his gold." As a matter of fact the wind cutting through a gap in the moun- tains manages to create suction under the ice and curious whistling shrieks rise from the airholes when the wind gets free sweep of the lake. You'll wonder, if you go to Thirteenth Lake In winter when the ice is hard and clear, At the strange noises you will hear at night When the wind blows. A wildcat's scream, you'd say, Or some man driven crazy Avith black fear. In winter when the Northwest wind blows hard, Somehow it gets in under the thick ice And whistles through each airhole down the lake, And folks will say — unless you pin them down — : " That's old Sabeal a-crying for his gold." I'll tell the story — yes, I'll fill my pipe. Some lumberjacks can love a skidding horse Better than humans, or a big log team They winter with — whv, you could call some 'jacks [121] Hard names and they would take them as a joke. But say their horses weren't as good as those Another shanty stabled, you'd strike fire. There's shanty boys who'll coddle a pet pipe, Or chewing plug, or some old fiddle string They tune up in the bunk house after gi'ub, And others yarn about a girl back home, — But French Sav'ree, he only loved his axe. Or so we thought ; he cradled it at night Up in his bunk. When the sun caught the blade 'Twas double-bitted, steel-blue, spitting fire. He ripped it back and forwards all the day. He was the nerviest chopper that we had. And the Boss favored him because of it. He'd keep two horses skidding after him And never miss a stroke; the blue axe bit Both ways when he was " limbing " in the woods. Oh, he was cordy, muscles just like wire, But sullen. What we knew about Sav'ree You could speak in one breath; he never said Where he had come from, places that he'd worked (Though we had heard he came from Canada), What folks he had, or maybe none at all. He never spent a penny of his pay; He drew it from the " Company " in coin And buried it somewhere till we broke camp. [122] Now on the Lake down by the long sand-bar Lived old Sabeal, the last one of his tribe In the North Woods — a fighting Iroquois, And Sav'ree, somehow knowing Indian ways, Made friends with him ; we used to see him there Helping the old man catch fish through the ice. Once every week our shanty cook went down To take Sabeal a pail of Christian grub. One night she didn't find him at the hut; The ashes of his fires were damp with frost ; There'd been no fire for close on to a week. Now every lumberjack from the Thirteenth To Newcomb Lake knew that the old man kept A bag of gold hid, in the log shack there. He'd been a trapper (fox furs they come high, And mink and otter and the young lynx skins) ; He always made the traders pay him gold. You hate to think ill of a shanty mate. But some dark feeling rolled up in our minds, And we kept wondering about French Sav'ree. Come Spring, when we were peeling hemlock bark ; The Sheriff rode in on the logging trail And after supper when we all bunked in He cornered us, turned round and barred the door, And said : " I've come in here to get a man. I've got my guns ; don't spring a game on me. [123] You'll have to give him up — a lumber-jack Killed old Sabeal ; his body's floated down The Outlet, someone knocked him in the head. You lumber-jacks know who — now out with it." We swore we didn't know a thing ; we cursed The dirty coward. All the while we talked Sav'ree stretched in his bunk beside his axe. The Sheriff said : " There's one man in this camp Guilty as hell ; I'll take you all unless You give him up." That moment on the edge Of his pole bunk, Sav'ree's face showed as white As rabbit fur against a black spruce tree. He tumbled out down on the floor and screamed: " 'Twas I, Sav'ree. ... I keel heem with my axe, He was so ol' — and I — see, I am 3'oung And he had money, much, much money hid. Why should he live and I lose everything Because I cannot find a bag of gold? That ol', ol' man — Now take me, keel me too. He calls me every night ; I hear him groan And sleep comes not to me; he walks out there. Take me away — 'twas I — 'twas I, Sav'ree." The Sheriff got the story out of him After he put the bracelets on his wrists. [124] He loved some girl up on the Sagiienay. She had two lovers; one was French Sav'ree, But he was poor. Her father drove him out. He must find yellow gold to woo and wed. It's dangerous to love things that aren't alive; They're always sure to get the best of you. 'Twas that keen, wicked, blue-lipped axe of his That leaped out quicker than Sav'ree's weak will, And did the deed that drove him raving mad. The old lake creaking in the winter gales Cried to him " Murder " and " Sav'ree — Sav'ree " ; Tortured him slowly till the Sheriff's voice Came like a freshet on an icy jam. I saw Sav'ree once since our lumbering days A-building road up in a convict camp. Beaten and doglike, sullen as the rock He hammered, still there lay within his eyes Something that froze the words down in my throat, And for a minute I knew that he saw — The girl he'd loved up on the Saguenay. Your Frenchy men — now say — their dreams die hard! [125] X4 9 'oK V-o^ * c ^^..^'^ ^. -^^^^ ^^c,<^' ..> ^^^.'- ^--/ -A"". ^-^^^^ . . . / - ■ c