Shears’ schemes, not because he was feared or distrusted, but because
he seemed so lowly, abject and unimportant. He had scarcely more
consequence in the farm life than one of the snow hens. He slept on
a hard bunk under the kitchen sink. He was not allowed to associate
with the scissor-bills. The only attention he ever received from them
was when they made him the object of blows and ridicule. One time he
had been Thomas O’Meery, the Irish Orphan, an aspiring young logger.
The rich food served in Paul Bunyan’s cookhouse had been his undoing.
He became obese, rotund, unable to swing an ax. He got such heft and
circumference that he was a nuisance. Whenever he fell down he would
have to roll around until he could find a logger who would lift him
to his feet. He was a danger also. One time he rolled down a hill and
bounced head-on into a column of marching loggers. He flattened every
one, and Johnny Inkslinger, the timekeeper and camp doctor, was busy
all night setting their broken ribs. After this mishap, Paul Bunyan
turned him over to John Shears. The boss farmer gave him the meanest
job on the farm; he put him to washing the dishes and slopping the
pigs. Little Meery finally became resigned to his grievous affliction
and lowly lot, and a spirit of sublime meekness sustained him even when
he was most cruelly treated.
This corpulent child of misfortune had a rare and charming soul.
He alone, of all the toilers on the great farm, felt the pastoral
loveliness of his surroundings. His day of toil done, he would part his
hair, gather a bunch of clover blooms, take Porkums, his little lame
pet pig under his arm, waddle over the footbridge that crossed Honey
Creek, and in the grounds of the old home camp enjoy his one small
pleasure in life. Sitting on an old maple log, he would pretend that
he was a lean, muscular head faller in Paul Bunyan’s camp and one of
the great logger’s favorites. He would see himself as a bunkhouse hero,
walking in the shadows of the blue ox, living a grand, free life. What
delight Little Meery had from such imaginings! What pity that they had
to fade! Little Meery always tried to be bravely cheerful when the
dream was done. He would force back his tears, return the comforting
squeals of Porkums with a trembling smile, then move gently among the
jaybirds, which always gathered trustingly around his feet, and return
to his cruel slavey’s life with only thoughts of kindness and charity
for John Shears and the scissor-bills. If Paul Bunyan could only have
truly known that heart of gold!
One evening in the old home camp Little Meery’s imaginings became
more active than usual. He pretended that he was winning a felling
championship, while Paul Bunyan applauded him.... He made great chips
fly like buckshot, the loggers were a cheering host, he swung the ax
violently at every stroke.... Too late he felt himself slipping from
the maple log, and he rolled helplessly to the ground. As usual, he
could not get back on his feet. He rolled to the footbridge, but he
could not pass between the railings. He lay there until dawn, and no
help came. The morning passed, and still he lay helpless. He was not
found until John Shears came to the farmhouse for dinner and discovered
the breakfast dishes unwashed.
“Did it on puppus, I bet!” roared the boss farmer. “I’d let ye lay
there an’ rot ef ’twarn’t fer the dishes. I got a mind to whale ye
anyhow, hi gravy!”
“Please, oh, please don’t beat me, Mr. Shears,” pleaded Little Meery.
“I tried to roll home, honest I did.”
The boss farmer brought an ellum club into view.
“Oh, _by_ gosh! Mr. Shears----”
“Swearin’, hey?”
“I meant to say ‘my’--honest!”
“Didn’t nuther. Ye used a ‘by’ word, an’ ye know plagued well ye meant
to be profane!”
“Oh! oh! oh’” screamed poor Little Meery, as the blows poured upon him.
John Shears beat him until sundown, taking five minutes out of each
hour for rest.... He raised the ellum club for a last terrific blow,
and Little Meery bravely tried to stifle his sobs, as he waited to
receive it. The cruel blow was never delivered. Two words stopped it.
“Here ... John!”
The words seemed to be calmly spoken, yet the tones that made them
filled the vast plain of the home camp and reverberated in thunderous
echoes among all the hills. The trees shook, the surface of Smiling
River broke into violent waves, the slopes of old Rock Candy were
disturbed by the smoke and roar of an avalanche. John Shears quietly
dropped his ellum club; Little Meery opened his eyes and saw near him
a boot with a toe cap made of an elephant hide. Then he looked up and
beheld the kindly bearded countenance of the good and mighty Paul
Bunyan looming above him. Then John Shears hastily helped him to his
feet and he limped between the boss farmer’s ankles and out on the
footbridge. There he stopped to look worshipfully on his hero, his
lord, his king, Paul Bunyan, who shook hands solemnly with John Shears.
“I didn’t expect ye to ketch me a frolickin’ with one o’ my men,” said
John Shears attempting a grin. “But I do like to frolic once in a
while, jest like your loggers do.”
“I’m glad that you have learned to play, John,” said Paul Bunyan
gently. “The playful spirit of my loggers has helped them to bear
untold perils, griefs and hardships. They are a fine bunch of savages,
worthy of emulation. I intend for them to enjoy the bounties and peace
of home life for a season. We return to log off the rest of the Smiling
River country.”
“Well, now, I’m mighty glad you’re to be with us again, Mr. Bunyan,”
said John Shears effusively.
“Thank you, John. And I wish to commend you for your faithful service.
I hope to reward you fittingly. And I overlook your failure to ship
Babe his parsnips last fall. Your one failure, for which I shall
not reprove you. But you must prepare him acres of them at once.
Understand? Very well. Yay, Babe!”
Johnny Inkslinger, the timekeeper, and the Big Swede, the foreman,
were beside Paul Bunyan. The three moved towards the maple grove, and
the blue ox, who had been straddling the river, stepped on across it,
dragging the cookhouse, the bunkhouses, and the other camp buildings
behind him. He was thin, and the shape of his great ribs showed through
his shaggy blue hide. As he moved through the twilight shadows he
looked like a wrinkled bluff when it is seen dimly in a fog. For half
an hour the bunkhouses flashed by so swiftly that their lighted windows
made an unbroken streak of light. The loggers in them were singing
about the jam on Garry’s Rock and the death of young Munro. As Little
Meery listened to the roaring choruses he felt that he would willingly
give his life for a single day as a real logger. If he could only
be there in one of the bunkhouses, a tough and respected member of
a logging crew, a lean, supple, vigorous axman, a fine and admired
figure! Vain, vain desire! Poor Little Meery. He abandoned the dream
with a sigh. Then he was startled by a dry, rasping chuckle from John
Shears. Little Meery was astonished, for he had never heard the boss
farmer laugh.
“Parsnips, hey?” he cackled. “Ol’ Paul wants his ox critter to have his
parsnips right now, does he? Dad gum’, ef that ain’t funny! Ho! ho!”
The boss farmer leaped over Honey Creek and strode rapidly towards the
farmhouse. Every hundred yards he would pause and chuckle convulsively.
“Parsnips, hey? Ye dern’ tootin’ I’ll feet him parsnips! It’s Mr.
Bunyan’s pers’nal orders, says I. Heh! heh! Dad burn’, ef that ain’t
funny!”
While Paul Bunyan, Johnny Inkslinger and the Big Swede cruised the
remaining timber in the Smiling River country, the loggers renewed
their affections for the delights of the old home camp. In the mornings
they roamed the cool slopes of old Rock Candy, they gorged themselves
with ripe fruit from the raspberry trees and strawberry bushes, and,
barefooted, they climbed the maple trees and gamboled over the clover
fields. In the afternoons Smiling River was splashed with foam for
miles as they swarmed into their old swimming holes. Swimming over,
the loggers would line up on the banks and shake their right legs
to get the water out of their left ears and their left legs to get
the water out of their right ears. Then they would angle for the
bright-hued butterfish that fluttered among the water flowers. And
what exhilarating meals they enjoyed! Now they had all the fresh stuff
that the farm could provide. Cream Puff Fatty, the baker, made them
strawberry shortcake and raspberry pie twice a day, and he covered
these juicy confections with snowy piles of vanilla-flavored whipped
cream. The cobs from golden, fat-kerneled roasting ears were soon
heaped mountain-high in the kitchen yard. The cream gravy for the
rosy new potatoes and bouncing green peas was made from real cream,
sweet and thick. The loggers became lighthearted boys again, and as
they enjoyed themselves they were happily unconscious of the bitter
enviousness of the scissor-bills, who were digging parsnips for twenty
hours a day on the other side of Honey Creek.
Babe, the blue ox, too, was enjoying life as never before. The stream
from the lemonade springs had been diverted to a trough that ran
through his manger; and he was surrounded with fresh, green clover, for
John Shears, with sinister purpose, had mown all the clover fields on
the day after Paul Bunyan’s arrival and had stacked it in and around
Babe’s stable. He had hoped that the blue ox would bloat on the green
feed, and perish before his master could return from his cruising
expedition. But the early harvest had only served to throw the two bees
into a rebellious rage; they had been imprisoned in their hive, and
there, night and day, they had buzzed wrathfully over their half-filled
honey barrels. Babe digested the green clover easily, and ate it with
delight, his great blue eyes shining with affection and gratitude for
the boss farmer.
“Pity ’tain’t alfalfy, ye blame’ hog,” snarled John Shears in disgust.
But it wasn’t, so John Shears made the scissor-bills work twenty hours
a day in the parsnip patch, and he aided them with his own efforts, for
he realized that once Paul Bunyan and Johnny Inkslinger had returned
a fatal poisoning of the blue ox would be difficult to accomplish. He
would not have the courage to attempt it then. Now was the time to
strike. Heaven helping him, he should not fail!
During this week Little Meery had been kept within the bounds of the
farmyard by the strict orders of John Shears. His heart was heavy
indeed as he toiled away in the kitchen. Never had the scouring of pots
and pans seemed to be such wretched labor; never had the odors and
steam of dishwater seemed so detestable. When he went out to slop the
pigs at eventide he heard the jaybirds’ songs no more; he had ears only
for the shouts, laughter and harmonies that sounded in the old home
camp. Next week the grand life of logging would begin; all summer he,
poor unfortunate, would suffer the misery of vain longings. Poor Little
Meery; he looked in vain for a silver lining to his cloud.
Saturday came, and only one more holiday remained for the loggers to
enjoy. As Little Meery listened to their exuberant noise, he was unable
to drive away his despondency with songs or cheerful thoughts. Hour by
hour his spirits got lower; his optimism left him, and his mind was
dark with dismal shades. When he went to bed under the kitchen sink he
did not fall into a sound sleep at once, as he usually did; his misery
and dejection kept him awake. For two hours he lay there, soaking his
pillow with tears, then the droning murmurs from the settin’-room
were hushed, and, after a pause, John Shears began a speech. He fully
revealed his frightful scheme to the scissor-bills, and he exhorted
them to be true to his cause, which was their cause also. When Little
Meery understood that the boss farmer intended to poison the blue ox
and thus do away with the logging industry forever, he gave such a
start of horror that his head banged against the bottom of the sink.
The speech was halted at the sound.
“It’s only Little Meery,” said a scissor-bill contemptuously.
Little Meery did not venture to stir again as John Shears went on
speaking.
“So it’s all fixed to pizen the ox critter to-night,” said John Shears
in conclusion. “Then they’ll be no more wicked loggin’. Loggin’ must
be wicked because it makes wicked men. Farmin’ must be good because it
makes good men. When ol’ Paul Bunyan an’ his loggers has to go farmin’
they’ll nacherlly turn into good men. Then they’ll have to foller us,
hi grabby, because we was farmers an’ good men before they was. I hate
to pizen a pore dumb critter, but this here’s by way of makin’ him a
sackerfice--a sackerfice for the glory of life eternal! Glory! glory!
glory!”
The scissor-bills all shouted “Glory! glory! glory!” after him, and
then Little Meery heard them all move out of the settin’-room. For a
few minutes he did not dare to stir, then he could no longer tolerate
the anxiety of waiting. He slid carefully from his bunk, he took off
his nightgown and slipped on his ragged slavey’s clothes, and then,
pausing cautiously at every heavy step, he approached the kitchen
door. He opened it and peered outside. There was a fair light from a
half-moon, and he could see the scissor-bills standing in rows and
clusters along the barnyard fence. John Shears was already across Honey
Creek. He opened the door of Babe’s stable, and then ran back to the
farmyard. Soon Babe’s head appeared in the stable doorway, his great
gentle eyes looked inquiringly about, then they shone hungrily as they
glimpsed a white heap of the vegetables he loved. Other piles were
scattered at intervals of seven hundred yards. In a short time Babe was
in the parsnip patch, and he began to devour the first mountainous pile
of the deadly vegetables. John Shears and the scissor-bills shouted
halleluiahs of joy and triumph.
Horror, despair, a terrible sense of helplessness, held Little Meery
motionless in the doorway. Hours seemed to pass as he frantically tried
to think of some means to thwart the plot of John Shears and to ward
off the tragic event that was swiftly casting its shadow over the old
home camp. But what could _he_ do? He was only Little Meery, scorned,
despised, held in such contempt that he had been ignored entirely in
the plans. Then a sound that had roared in his ears ever since the
clover was cut for the blue ox startled his mind with a desperate
idea. The sound was the raging hum of two great bees, Bum and Bill,
and Little Meery now resolved to release them from the hive, whatever
the danger to himself. He knew that they would make a savage attack on
the blue ox and perhaps drive him from the perilous parsnip patch. So
he eased himself out of the kitchen and trod as softly as his obesity
permitted towards the beehive. He reached it without being discovered,
then he heaved up desperately on the latch. Up it went--six inches,
twelve, eighteen, thirty-six, sixty--it was over the top of the block!
As Little Meery pantingly threw the door open, the bees began to roar,
then they shot out of the hive with a deafening buzz, their wings
humming so violently that the wind from them stripped the shirt off
his back. The bees zigzagged doubtfully for a moment, then they spied
the blue ox in the parsnip patch. They cracked their wings together
and lit out for him in a beeline. John Shears saw them and bawled for
them to return, but, though they were obedient bees in their gentle
moods, his yells now made them buzz on in a greater rage than ever.
They circled the blue ox three times, then they sat on him and began a
furious stinging of him. Babe bellowed. The scissor-bills were thrown
through the barnyard fence when the wind from that bellow struck them,
but John Shears charged through the vegetable gardens after the bees.
And reached the anguished ox just as he had lifted his hind legs for
a tremendous kick. Babe’s hoof caught the boss farmer squarely between
his eyebrows and his ankles, and he was hurled so high into the air
that he sailed over the cloud-kissed crest of old Rock Candy. Babe
flailed away mightily with his tail, he pawed up clouds of dirt, he
stood on his horns, but the bees remained seated. At last the blue ox
galloped out of the parsnip patch and ran for the sanctuary of his
stable, where the bees dared not follow him.
Babe’s bellow had rolled Little Meery among the scissor-bills, but he
landed on his feet. He lumbered away from them in the direction of the
footbridge, and when the scissor-bills had disentangled themselves from
the splinters of the fence, they set out after him. They caught him
in the center of the bridge, but just as they were beginning to beat
him, the loggers, who had all been shaken from their bunks by Babe’s
anguished bellow, came with a rush from the other side. Then began the
famous Battle of the Footbridge, in which the opposing forces vainly
attempted to reach each other over the obese form of Little Meery, who
received hundreds of blows a minute. All through the night the battle
raged, while Babe mooed woefully in his stable and Bum and Bill buzzed
gleeful satisfaction in their hive.
Not until sunrise, when Paul Bunyan reached the old home camp, was the
terrible struggle ended. He ordered the loggers and the scissor-bills
into the plain before the maple grove and demanded an explanation. The
combatants were too weary from their terrific struggle to reply, but at
last Little Meery found strength to speak and told his awful story.
“Brave, brave heart,” Paul Bunyan commended him. “And how can I reward
you?”
“I want to be a head faller, Mr. Bunyan.”
“But a head faller must fit into a head faller’s uniform, and you my
fine lad--well, you are Little Meery.”
Then Little Meery staggered triumphantly from among the weary host.
Not a stitch remained on him, he was bruised from head to heels, but
he showed himself with pride. For he was not now the seven hundred and
eighty pound Little Meery of yesterday, but a raw-boned two hundred and
fifty pound logger, lean, solid and strong. During the long battle,
pound by pound, over a quarter of a ton of fat had been pushed,
prodded, punched, pounded, rolled, jerked, squeezed and stamped from
his body. His obesity was gone! Miracle of miracles! Paul Bunyan could
hardly believe his eyes.
“A head faller you shall be,” he said.
John Shears was three weeks returning from the spot whither Babe had
kicked him. Meek, humble, chastened, repentant, he came to Paul Bunyan
and declared himself willing to submit to the dire punishment which
he supposed awaited him. He expected to be made to eat gravel for a
month, at the very least. The good and mighty Paul Bunyan, however,
merely ordered John Shears to get back to the farm. But he put a ban
on parsnips. As for Little Meery, when he heard that John Shears had
returned, he twisted his hat around--his hair was never parted now,--he
took a grand chew of fire cut, hitched up his tin pants and growled.
“Let’s walk on him! Let’s put the calks to him! Let’s cave his head
in!” Little Meery had become a logger indeed, and he lived gloriously
ever after.
[Illustration]
SHANTY BOY
In Paul Bunyan’s time, camp entertainment was of, by and for the
woodsmen. In Paul Bunyan’s camp there were hypnotic story-tellers,
singers who could make you laugh and cry in the same moment, and
steppers who could do a breakdown fit to shatter the frame of a
bunkhouse. “Ol’ Paul” knew the importance of social pleasures for his
loggers, and he made natural provision for them. A good bunkhouse bard
was marked by the great logger’s especial favor; many a man who toiled
poorly was saved from the lowly life of a farm hand by his ability to
dance, whistle and sing. Consequently Paul Bunyan’s Bunkhouse Nights
are as famous in history as his great feasts and labors.
Every night but Sunday, when the twelve hours of toil in the woods
were ended and supper was over, the tired loggers would be cheered
and consoled by the bunkhouse bards. There was one for each shanty,
and each one had his own particular virtues. There was Beeg An’tole,
for example, who made his mates in Bunkhouse 999 hilarious as he told
quaint tales about logging in “dat ver’ fines’ countree, which she’s
t’ree weeks below Quebec.” Angus MacIlroy of Bunkhouse 1313 was made
to sing “The Island Boys” a dozen times a night by his song-loving
comrades. And Tinty Hoolan of Bunkhouse 6000 jigged with such violence
and speed that a modern jazz band would have gone crazy trying to make
music fast enough for him. The rattle of his jigging feet sounded like
the buzz of a big bee. His bunkhouse cronies boasted that he could
imitate any known sound with his feet except a tired logger’s snore.
And this, anyone admitted, defied imitation or description. Tinty
Hoolan was a swamper, and a poor one; his feet, however, saved him from
life among the scissor-bills on Paul Bunyan’s farm.
Now these were three of the greatest of Paul Bunyan’s bards, and no one
has ever found words to describe them or to give them fitting praise.
And if words fail with them, how can they reveal the brightest star of
all Paul Bunyan’s performers? Indeed, Shanty Boy, of Bunkhouse 1, was
more than a star; he was a constellation, for he was an entertainer
with a thousand talents. What old logger does not feel his own soul
dance as he hears, in the Bunyan histories, the soft, vibrant patter
of Shanty Boy’s right foot, the thunderous stamp of his left foot, the
sharp rattle of his heel-cracking in a great breakdown? He not only
danced with his feet, but with his hands and eyes; he had a dancing
grin, too, which would shine now on the right side of his face, now
on the left. Shanty Boy put his whole soul into his dancing. And so
he did with his stories. When he told a Swede story he _was_ a Swede,
and when he told a dirty story he _was_ dirty. He was never content
with mere pretending. He made entertainment of everything, and he did
it naturally. A log would roll over his leg when he was at work. That
night he would hobble down the bunkhouse aisle like an ailing old man,
talking in the mournfullest way. “Oh, lawdy, boys! I ’low I ain’t long
fer _this_ life. Thet new medicine I’m usin’ don’t ’pear to be doin’ my
rheumatiz no good, no good a-tall. I spect I’ll be havin’ to change to
’nuther kind agin.” Then he’d hobble back again, drawing his sore leg
up like a string-halted horse, and groaning, “M-m-m-! M-m-m! I ’low I
feel worse’n anyone thet ever lived in this here world--an’ lived.” If
somebody asked him what time it was, he would take out his old watch,
hold it at arm’s length, throw back his head and squint at the watch
like he was looking at it through glasses. He claimed that “grandpap
carried thet watch fer nigh on forty year, an’ it won’t tell the time
onless I look at it jest like he did.” Sometimes he would sit down by
the stove and eat an apple or a raw turnip. Then he would pull his hat
down over his eyes, and while he chewed away, looking as solemn as a
politician, he would make the hat bob up and down to keep time with his
jaws. No one else could have done this without seeming foolish, but
Shanty Boy always kept a kind of dignity when he was performing that
made men respect him even when they were laughing at him.
But it was his songs and stories which truly endeared him to the
loggers. His renditions of “John Ross,” “Jack Haggerty,” “The Island
Boys,” and “Bung Yer Eye,” were so affecting and inspiring that the
loggers, what with laughing, crying, stamping, clapping and cheering,
often made so much sympathetic noise that the song itself could not be
heard. Shanty Boy only sang two nights a week and then for no longer
than four hours at a time. The other nights he danced, and told true
but thrilling stories of life in the woods. The bards from other
bunkhouses would come to hear him and then give imitations of his
performances. His supremacy was unquestioned, yet he remained unspoiled.
For he was more than a mere entertainer. The mightiest of Paul Bunyan’s
loggers lived in Bunkhouse 1, and as a logger Shanty Boy was the peer
of any of them. He could notch a tree or work in white water with
the best of the fallers and rivermen. He held his own with even Mark
Beaucoup in the rough bunkhouse frolics. He was Paul Bunyan’s favorite
faller, and the great logger often carried him to the woods on his
shoulder. He had an equal rank with Hot Biscuit Slim, the chief cook,
Shagline Bill, the freighter, and Big Ole, the blacksmith. He was a
true hero. And a time came when he reached the greatest height of glory
ever attained by a plain logger. Here is how it came about.