Homespun Tales - Kate Wiggin 3 стр.

And the baffled raconteur, who had never done a piece of work cheerfully in his life, dragged himself reluctantly to the shed, where, before long, one could hear him moving the dasher up and down sedately to his favorite churning tune of

III. The Edgewood Drive

Just where the bridge knits together the two little villages of Pleasant River and Edgewood, the glassy mirror of the Saco broadens suddenly, sweeping over the dam in a luminous torrent. Gushes of pure amber mark the middle of the dam, with crystal and silver at the sides, and from the seething vortex beneath the golden cascade the white spray dashes up in fountains. In the crevices and hollows of the rocks the mad water churns itself into snowy froth, while the foam-flecked torrent, deep, strong, and troubled to its heart, sweeps majestically under the bridge, then dashes between wooded shores piled high with steep masses of rock, or torn and riven by great gorges.

There had been much rain during the summer, and the Saco was very high, so on the third day of the Edgewood drive there was considerable excitement at the bridge, and a goodly audience of villagers from both sides of the river. There were some who never came, some who had no fancy for the sight, some to whom it was an old story, some who were too busy, but there were many to whom it was the event of events, a never-ending source of interest.

Above the fall, covering the placid surface of the river, thousands of logs lay quietly in boom until the turning out process, on the last day of the drive, should release them and give them their chance of display, their brief moment of notoriety, their opportunity of interesting, amusing, exciting, and exasperating the onlookers by their antics.

Heaps of logs had been cast up on the rocks below the dam, where they lay in hopeless confusion, adding nothing, however, to the problem of the moment, for they too bided their time. If they had possessed wisdom, discretion, and caution, they might have slipped gracefully over the falls and, steering clear of the hidden ledges (about which it would seem they must have heard whispers from the old pine trees along the river), have kept a straight course and reached their destination without costing the Edgewood Lumber Company a small fortune. Or, if they had inclined toward a jolly and adventurous career, they could have joined one of the various jams or bungs, stimulated by the thought that any one of them might be a key-log, holding for a time the entire mass in its despotic power. But they had been stranded early in the game, and, after lying high and dry for weeks, would be picked off one by one and sent downstream.

In the tumultuous boil, the foaming hubbub and flurry at the foot of the falls, one enormous peeled log wallowed up and clown like a huge rhinoceros, greatly pleasing the children by its clumsy cavortings. Some conflict of opposing forces kept it ever in motion, yet never set it free. Below the bridge were always the real battle-grounds, the scenes of the first and the fiercest conflicts. A ragged ledge of rock, standing well above the yeasty torrent, marked the middle of the river. Stephen had been stranded there once, just at dusk, on a stormy afternoon in spring. A jam had broken under the men, and Stephen, having taken too great risks, had been caught on the moving mass, and, leaping from log to log, his only chance for life had been to find a footing on Gray Rock, which was nearer than the shore.

Rufus was ill at the time, and Mrs. Waterman so anxious and nervous that processions of boys had to be sent up to the River Farm, giving the frightened mother the latest bulletins of her sons welfare. Luckily, the river was narrow just at the Gray Rock, and it was a quite possible task, though no easy one, to lash two ladders together and make a narrow bridge on which the drenched and shivering man could reach the shore. There were loud cheers when Stephen ran lightly across the slender pathway that led to safetyran so fast that the ladders had scarce time to bend beneath his weight. He had certainly taken chances, but when did he not do that? The loggers life is one of moving accidents by flood and field, and Stephen welcomed with wild exhilaration every hazard that came in his path. To him there was never a dull hour from the moment that the first notch was cut in the tree (for he sometimes joined the boys in the lumber camp just for a frolic) till the later one when the hewn log reached its final destination. He knew nothing of tooling a four-in-hand through narrow lanes or crowded thoroughfares,nothing of guiding a horse over the hedges and through the pitfalls of a stiff bit of hunting country; his steed was the rearing, plunging, kicking log, and he rode it like a river god.

The crowd loves daring, and so it welcomed Stephen with bravos, but it knew, as he knew, that he was only doing his duty by the Company, only showing the Saco that man was master, only keeping the old Waterman name in good repute. Ye cant drownd some folks, Old Kennebec had said, as he stood in a group on the shore; not without you tie sand-bags to em an drop em in the Great Eddy. Im the same kind; I remember when I was stranded on jest sech a rock in the Kennebec, only they left me there all night for dead, an I had to swim the rapids when it come daylight.

Were well acquainted with that rock and them rapids, exclaimed one of the river-drivers, to the delight of the company.

Rose had reason to remember Stephens adventure, for he had clambered up the bank, smiling and blushing under the hurrahs of the boys, and, coming to the wagon where she sat waiting for her grandfather, had seized a moment to whisper: Did you care whether I came across safe, Rose? Say you did!

Stephen recalled that question, too, on this August morning; perhaps because this was to be a red-letter day, and some time, when he had a free moment,some time before supper, when he and Rose were sitting apart from the others, watching the logs,he intended again to ask her to marry him. This thought trembled in him, stirring the deeps of his heart like a great wave, almost sweeping him off his feet when he held it too close and let it have full sway. It would be the fourth time that he had asked Rose this question of all questions, but there was no unerceptible difference in his excitement, for there was always the possible chance that she might change her mind and say yes, if only for variety. Wanting a thing continuously, unchangingly, unceasingly, year after year, he thought,longing to reach it as the river longed to reach the sea,such wanting might, in course of time, mean having.

Rose drove up to the bridge with the mens luncheon, and the under boss came up to take the baskets and boxes from the back of the wagon.

Weve had a reglar tussle this mornin, Rose, he said. The logs are determined not to move. Ike Billings, thats the hansomest and fluentest all-round swearer on the Saco, has tried his best on the side jam. Hes all out o cuss-words and there haint a log budged. Now, stid o dog-warpin this afternoon, an lettin the oxen haul off all them stubborn logs by main force, were goin to ask you to set up on the bank and smile at the jam. Land! she can do it! says Ike a minute ago. When Rose starts smilin, he says, there aint a jam nor a bung in me that dont melt like wax and jest float right off same as the logs do when they get into quiet, sunny water.

Rose blushed and laughed, and drove up the hill to Mite Shapleys, where she put up the horse and waited till the men had eaten their luncheon. The drivers slept and had breakfast and supper at the Billings house, a mile down-river, but for several years Mrs. Wiley had furnished the noon meal, sending it down piping hot on the stroke of twelve. The boys always said that up or down the whole length of the Saco there was no such cooking as the Wileys, and much of this praise was earned by Roses serving. It was the old grandmother who burnished the tin plates and dippers till they looked like silver; forcrotchety and sharp-tongued as she wasshe never allowed Rose to spoil her hands with soft soap and sand: but it was Rose who planned and packed, Rose who hemmed squares of old white table-cloths and sheets to line the baskets and keep things daintily separate, Rose, also, whose tarts and cakes were the pride and admiration of church sociables and sewing societies.

Where could such smoking pots of beans be found? A murmur of ecstatic approval ran through the crowd when the covers were removed. Pieces of sweet home-fed pork glistened like varnished mahogany on the top of the beans, and underneath were such deeps of fragrant juice as come only from slow fires and long, quiet hours in brick ovens. Who else could steam and bake such mealy loaves of brown bread, brown as plum-pudding, yet with no suspicion of sogginess? Who such soda biscuits, big, feathery, tasting of cream, and hardly needing butter? And green-apple pies! Could such candied lower crusts be found elsewhere, or more delectable filling? Or such rich, nutty doughnuts?doughnuts that had spurned the hot fat which is the ruin of so many, and risen from its waves like golden-brown Venuses.

By the great seleckmen! ejaculated Jed Towle, as he swallowed his fourth, Id like to hev a wife, two daughters, and four sisters like them Wileys, and jest set still on the river-bank an hev em cook victuals for me. Id hev nothin to wish for then but a mouth as big as the Sacos.

And I wish this custard pie was the size o Bonnie Eagle Pond, said Ike Billings. Id like to fall into the middle of it and eat my way out!

Look at that bunch o Chiny asters tied on t the bail o that biscuit-pail! said Ivory Dunn. Thats the girls doins, you bet; women-folks dont seem to make no boquets after they git married. Lets divide em up an wear em drivin this afternoon; mebbe theyll ketch the eye so t our rags wont show so bad. Land! its lucky my hundred days is about up! If I dont git home soon, I shall be arrested for goin without cloes. I set up bout all night puttin these blue patches in my pants an tryin to piece together a couple of old red-flannel shirts to make one whole one. Thats the worst o drivin in these places where the pretty girls make a habit of comin down to the bridge to see the fun. You hev to keep rigged up jest so stylish; you cant git no chance at the rum bottle, an you even hev to go a leetle mite light on swearin.

IV. Blasphemious Swearin

Steve Watermans an awful nice feller, exclaimed Ivory Dunn just then. Stephen had been looking intently across the river, watching the Shapleys side door, from which Rose might issue at any moment; and at this point in the discussion he had lounged away from the group, and, moving toward the bridge, began to throw pebbles idly into the water.

Hes an awful smart driver for one that dont foller drivin the year round, continued Ivory; and hes the awfullest clean-spoken, soft-spoken feller I ever see.

Theres ben two black sheep in his family aready, an Steve kind o feels as if hed ought to be extry white, remarked Jed Towle. You fellers that belonged to the old drive remember Pretty Quick Waterman well enough? Steves mother brought him up.

Yes; most of them remembered the Waterman twins, Stephens cousins, now both dead,Slow Waterman, so moderate in his steps and actions that you had to fix a landmark somewhere near him to see if he moved; and Pretty Quick, who shone by comparison with his twin. Id kind o forgot that Pretty Quick Waterman was cousin to Steve, said the under boss; he never worked with me much, but he want cut off the same piece o goods as the other Watermans. Great hemlock! but he kep a cussin dictionary, Pretty Quick did! Whenever he heard any new words he must a writ em down, an then studied em all up in the winter-time, to use in the spring drive.

Swearin s a habit that hed ought to be practiced with turrible caution, observed old Mr. Wiley, when the drivers had finished luncheon and taken out their pipes. Theres three kinds o swearin,plain swearin, profane swearin, an blasphemious swearin. Logs air jest like mules: theres times when a man cant seem to rip up a jam in good style thout a few words thats too strong for the infant classes in Sunday-schools; but a man hed nt ought to tempt Providence. When hes ridin a log near the falls at high water, or cuttin the key-log in a jam, he aint in no place for blasphemious swearin; jest a little easy, perlite damn is bout all he can resk, if he dont want to git drownded an hev his ghost walkin the river-banks till kingdom come.

You an I, Long, was the only ones that seen Pretty Quick go, want we? continued Old Kennebec, glancing at Long Abe Dennett (cousin to Short Abe), who lay on his back in the grass, the smoke-wreaths rising from his pipe, and the steel spikes in his heavy, calked-sole boots shining in the sun.

There was folks on the bridge, Long answered, but we was the only ones near enough to see an hear. It was so onexpected, an so soon over, that them as was watchin upstream, where the men was to work on the falls, would nt a hed time to see him go down. But I did, an nobody aint heard me swear sence, though its ten years ago. I allers said it was rum an bravadder that killed Pretty Quick Waterman that day. The boys hed nt give him a dare that he hed nt took up. He seemed like he was possessed, an the logs was the same way; they was fairly wild, leapin around in the maddest kind o water you ever see. The river was bilin high that spring; it was an awful stubborn jam, an Pretty Quick, hed ben workin on it sence dinner.

He clumb up the bank moren once to have a pull at the bottle that was hid in the bushes, interpolated Mr. Wiley. Like as not; that was his failin. Well, most o the boys were on the other side o the river, workin above the bridge, an the boss hed called Pretty Quick to come off an leave the jam till mornin, when theyd get horses an dog-warp it off, log by log. But when the boss got out o sight, Pretty Quick jest stood right still, swingin his axe, an blasphemin so it would freeze your blood, vowin he would nt move till the logs did, if he stayed there till the crack o doom. Jest then a great, ponderous log, that hed ben churnin up an down in the falls for a week, got free an come blunderin an thunderin down-river. Land! it was chock full o water, an looked bout as big as a church! It come straight along, butt-end foremost, an struck that jam, full force, so t every log in it shivered. There was a crack,the crack o doom, sure enough, for Pretty Quick,an one o the logs lep right out an struck him jest where he stood, with his axe in the air, blasphemin. The jam kind o melted an crumbled up, an in a second Pretty Quick was whirlin in the white water. He never riz,at least where we could see him,an we did nt find him for a week. Thats the whole story, an I guess Steve takes it as a warnin. Anyway, he aint no friend to rum nor swearin, Steve aint. He knows Pretty Quicks ways shortened his mothers life, an you notice what a sharp lookout he keeps on Rufus.