trees. Without losing a second, he threw the timber scythe from his
shoulder, he grasped its handles, then took a long swing, and the first
section of trees thundered to the ground. On he went, making a circular
swath. As he stepped with his right foot the sharp scythe blade crashed
through the trees on the cutting stroke, and as he stepped with his
left he brought the scythe behind him with a vigorous swing. On and
on he labored, his steps coming faster as the circle widened. Every
seven hours he paused to whet the blade of the timber scythe on a
bundle of the stonewood trees which he carried in his hip pocket. The
hot winter drove its fires upon him, but his passion of toil repelled
them with a stronger flame. The great logger’s walk became a run; the
dazzling blade of the timber scythe flashed in strokes of inconceivable
rapidity; the sections of stonewood trees fell in a steady roar.
Then Paul Bunyan began to sweat. He had labored before this, but
never so savagely, nor in such penetrating heat. Only the man who
raises a good sweat for the first time can realize what an astounding
store of perspiration the human body can hold. On occasion it gushes
from innumerable springs, seeming inexhaustible. It streams down the
crevices and valleys of the body and floods the flat spaces; it soaks
the clothing and drips to the ground. Imagine then what happened when
Paul Bunyan’s stored perspiration was unloosed. As he toiled on, ever
more fiercely, his sweat flooded his boots, it surged over their tops
and foamed towards the ground like two Niagaras. His swinging body and
flying arms flung out clouds of spray. These strange waters coursed
over the plains in torrents and gathered in heaving pools. The little
river was submerged, drowned, exterminated. The waters crept towards
the camp. Paul Bunyan, more and more engrossed with his labor as time
went on, did not note the rising flood. His circle grew wider and
wider. It left the plain and swung around the bordering slopes. Section
after section of the trees was felled, only to be covered by water, for
the stonewood timber was too heavy to float. But Paul Bunyan labored
around and around the circle, quite unaware of the tragical consequence
of his efforts.
For five days and nights the loggers lay in their bunks, too lazy to
get up to eat, too lazy to do aught but drowse and dream. But at twelve
o’clock on the fifth night the waters had reached the bunkhouses, and
they learned of their peril. Yells of fear arose from every quarter,
and in a few moments the whole camp, with the exception of Babe, the
Big Swede, and Johnny Inkslinger, was aroused. Fright made the loggers
forget the hot winter, and gave them energy. When they looked out on
a vast lake glittering in the moonlight, and saw in the dim distance
the twin rivers roaring from Paul Bunyan’s boots, they knew that
speedy and efficient action was necessary to save their lives. The
best swimmers swam out to the tool house and brought back hammers,
saws and nails. Each logger then began to build a boat from his bunk,
and for three hours they worked feverishly and silently constructing
the vessels. When the last one was finished the word was passed along
and in a few moments the boats, each one carrying a logger and his
blankets, swarmed from the bunkhouses. Before the armada had gone
twenty feet the boats all filled with water and sank, while the loggers
uttered lamentable cries. These changed to sounds of rejoicing,
however, when it was discovered that the water was only waist deep. The
loggers rescued their bundles from the boats and scampered to the shore
like a holiday host at a beach.
But their joy did not last; it quickly gave way to dread. Paul Bunyan,
toiling more desperately every moment, was rapidly moving around the
circle. In a short time he would be upon them, and at any instant
he might discover the fate of his trees, the flooding of his camp,
his complete disaster. The loggers all understood the reason for the
mighty man’s wrathful labor. Their sense of blame confused them and
smothered their native courage. The host began to move over the hills,
haltingly at first, and with heads bowed like penitents. Then, as the
volleying thunder of Paul Bunyan’s timber scythe sounded nearer and
nearer, they lifted their heads and struck a faster pace. Then guilty
fears possessed them and every logger of the lot began to gallop madly.
Someone yelled, “Ol’ Paul’s a comin’!” and the warning cry was echoed
from thousands of throats all over the hills. The loggers were taken
by panic; the runaway became a stampede. By dawn they were making such
running leaps that each logger would hit his chin with his front knee
and his head with his back heel at every stride. They were so scared
that they never stopped until they got to Kansas.
Now Kansas at that time had the only kingdom that was ever known to
exist in this country. The ruler of Kansas was King Bourbon, and Topeka
was his capital. The Kansas country was then one of the pleasantest in
Real America. It was rolling land, like that everywhere else, but its
heavy vegetation and its forests were beautiful and unique, and the
climate and seasons were always spring; and indeed the history of Paul
Bunyan’s time tells of a year in Kansas that had thirteen months of
spring.
The forests were mostly whisky trees, which grew amid carpets of
cigarette grass and were entwined with beervines. The greatest of these
forests was around Lake Topeka, and by the lake was the capital city,
where the nobility and gentry of Kansas led a pleasurable life and
envied no one.
When Paul Bunyan’s loggers reached Kansas they were so exhausted from
their long run that they had no eyes for the beauties of that region;
they only felt that it invited them to rest and promised them security.
So when they came to the banks of Rolling River they dropped on the
soft and fragrant masses of cigarette grass, and rested in the cool
shade of the spreading whisky trees, with the bliss known only to
the utterly weary. For a long while they were not aware of the virile
odors of the beervine blossoms, and they heard but faintly the melodies
of the huge but gentle piano birds who were everywhere in the forest,
either flitting from bough to bough or sitting in their nests. And
even when they were rested and soothed by the sweet airs and tinkling
melodies the loggers enjoyed the originality of their environment but a
short while, for each one became conscious of a raging hunger.
“Let’s look for a nose bag!” the cry up and down the columns and lines.
The loggers all arose with the intent of foraging in the forest, and
they would no doubt have appeased their hunger at once, if an impulsive
curiosity had not made them take a last look at the river. A great gasp
of astonishment went up, then a terrific crash of laughter shook the
vast forest and silenced the piano birds. The loggers, one and all,
dropped again to the ground and rolled and bounced about in convulsions
of merriment.
Rolling River was a stubborn and valiant stream, and, unlike tamer
rivers, it refused to follow the easiest course. From its source
extended a range of hills which decreased in height until it was merged
in the slope of a far valley. Rolling River made its way up and down
these hills, cleaving each summit. At the place where the loggers were
resting the river always had a hard fight, as one hill was nearly equal
in height to the one that preceded it. Sometimes Rolling River would
fail here; the waters would part at the summit, and one end of the
river would go rushing on and the other end would slide back down the
hill for a fresh start.
It was then that the giddyfish which dwelt in this stream would perform
so clownishly as to tickle any observer into fits. Bewildered by the
waters’ abrupt desertion of them, and perplexed as to which end of
the river it was best to follow, numbers of them would hesitate on
the hilltop, agitated and floundering, then half of them would take
out after the lower end of the river and half of them would take out
after the upper end. They could make great speed by leaping along like
kangaroos, using their long fins and tails. But they traveled clumsily,
and their limber tongues lolled from their mouths as they leaped down
the hillside, all of which made their every action seem inexpressibly
humorous.
There was never an army of men who enjoyed a good laugh more than Paul
Bunyan’s loggers. And when they saw the giddyfish galloping after the
river they laughed till they cried. When the river finally made it up
the hill and began to roll on as usual the loggers could hardly stop
laughing even then. But they remembered their hunger, and they again
got up to search for food. But no sooner had they started than the
river parted again, and once more the loggers rolled and laughed over
the performance of the giddyfish. And indeed for fifty-seven hours the
loggers were unable to get away from the riverside, for no sooner would
they start to leave than the stubborn river and the clownish giddyfish
would repeat their hilarious performance. The loggers would no doubt
have laughed themselves to death, or else starved, had not King Bourbon
come along with his race horses and jockeys and saved them.
King Bourbon had his jockeys make a wall of horseflesh between the
laughing loggers and the river, and they were then able to stagger back
into the safety of the forest. The king then made the loggers a speech
of apology and warning. He told them that the only crimes punishable
by death in Kansas were dealing from the bottom of the deck, throwing
a horse race or a fight, and shooting craps with loaded dice. Those
convicted of such crimes were sentenced to watch the giddyfish until
they laughed themselves to death. The king then asked the loggers at
what games and contests did they excel, and when they told him of their
expertness at spinning logs in rough water his face shone with a joy
that made it brighter than the diamond in his necktie; for this new
sport promised to be a thrilling one. He ordered his lord bookmaker to
bring them on to the capital and find a place for them in the life of
the city. After giving this order, he courteously lifted his plug hat
to the loggers and, followed by his jockeys, he set out for Topeka,
which was over the next hump.
After three days the loggers were themselves again and they began to
explore the delights of the city.
Topeka, under King Bourbon’s rule, was a city of amusements. There
were eleven racetracks, and on each one there were seven races every
afternoon. Each morning there were five baseball games, the first one
beginning at four A. M. Boxing and wrestling matches, swimming and
running races, driving and jumping contests were to be seen each Sunday
in the stadium which faced Lake Topeka. In the time between races and
contests the people played poker, solo, rummy and pool, and shot craps
in the palace, which was the one public building in the city. In its
single vast room there were countless tables for the players, and these
tables were circled by a bar of such circumference that a man would
grow a beard while walking the length of it. The glitter of the glasses
and mirrors back of the bar was so brilliant and the jackets of the
bartenders were so white that a beholder seemed to look on ice and snow
which dazzlingly reflected sunlight. But the eye was soothed indeed
when its gaze dropped to the dusky mahogany bar and searched the amber
depths of a huge glass which frothed with the sharp and fragrant liquid
brewed from foamy beervine blossoms. Even more was the eye delighted
when it caught the jolly winks that bubbled from the most potent and
jovial beverage, the aged sap of the whisky tree. One part of the bar
was a great free lunch counter, which was always loaded with filling
and peppery food. Here the nobility and gentry of Topeka ate and drank,
King Bourbon, his lord bookmaker and his lord bartender among all the
rest. The cooks, waiters and dishwashers had been working three shifts
on the free lunch counter, but King Bourbon generously offered Paul
Bunyan’s kitchen crew employment there, and the lord bartender then had
to divide the day into forty-eight shifts in order to have work for
everyone.
The loggers were royally received into the grand life of Topeka. The
skill they displayed in spinning logs on the lake each Sunday won them
an honored place in the kingdom. They became tireless players of poker,
solo, rummy, craps, and even of pool. They drank huge quantities of
beervine brew and whisky tree sap. The free lunch made them forget
the delights of Paul Bunyan’s dinners. Soon they ceased to consider
themselves as working loggers, and they repelled with scorn proposals
to try a new life of toil, which were slyly made by followers of Duke
Dryface, who was a cousin of the King.
The duke was secretly planning a revolt. He had renounced Topeka life,
and he now lived among the serfs who brewed the beervine blossoms,
aged the sap of the whisky trees, and made all of the materials that
composed the grand life of Topeka. The serfs were called Cornmen, after
a harsh cereal which they had devised, and which they all raised in
clearings among the whisky tree forests. Duke Dryface planned to drive
the king and his nobility and gentry from the country and clear off
the forests, level the hills and make the whole state into a flat corn
country. The king thought him simply a harmless old crank, and would
listen to no warnings against him. But, nevertheless, the duke had a
revolt well planned for the coming Fourth of July celebration. After
bribing the bartenders, he had substituted raw sap for the mild and
gentle aged liquors to be served on that day; he had the Cornmen all
grandly inspired, and perfectly drilled, instructed and armed; though
he had not converted the loggers, he had directed the bartenders to
fill their glasses with triple-distilled, high-powered redeye sap on
the night of the Fourth, and he was sure that he could capture them and
keep them in bondage until the last whisky tree was felled. The duke
did not fear Paul Bunyan, for he thought the loggers’ stories about him
to be drunken exaggerations; he thought of him as some plain leader
whom they had basely deserted, and who would no doubt be happy to see
them punished by slavery. He kept the strength and extensiveness of his
power well hidden, and the loggers lived on blissfully in ignorance of
their real danger.
For many days and nights after the stampede of his loggers Paul Bunyan
had toiled on, swinging his timber scythe with undiminished rapidity.
He had not observed the desertion of his men, or the flooding of his
camp, or the fate of the stonewood trees. But at last his energy and
strength began to fail, his pace slackened, he swung the scythe with
slower strokes, and the intervals between the rolling thunders of
falling trees became longer and longer. Then the timber scythe dropped
from his hands, and he sank to the ground. Now he saw for the first
time the shimmering distances of salt water which covered the stonewood
trees and all but the tallest buildings of his camp. For seven hours he
gazed on the lamentable scene, then his head dropped to the ground. He
was not disheartened; he was only tired. He slept.
Days and nights went by with little change in the unnatural season.
The days of springtime came, but here there was no spring. Summer
days began, the sultriness of the nights got increasingly heavy and
thick, and in the daytime the overpowering blaze of the sun seemed to
make the very hills shrink, while the surface of the lake was veiled
in steaming mists. The slumbers of Paul Bunyan, Johnny Inkslinger, the
Big Swede and the blue ox became so deep that the active careers of all
of them might have ended there ingloriously had it not been for Babe’s
appetite, which always tormented him, sleeping or waking. The Big Swede
was couched on the high-piled hay in the manger, and Babe’s chin rested
on his body. Stirred by a hunger that would not be denied, his jaws
began to work mechanically; they closed over the fifty pound plug of
chewing tobacco that the Big Swede always carried in his hip pocket,
and it was swallowed like a blade of grass. Babe gasped, groaned, and
shuddered; then he lunged to his feet, snorting and bellowing, for
chewing tobacco was as poisonous to him as to a circus elephant. He
gouged the Big Swede viciously with his horns until he awoke with yells
of agony and astonishment. And not until he saw, through the stable
door, Paul Bunyan asleep on the far side of the lake did Babe heed the
foreman’s powerful remonstrances. With a last angry toss of his horns,
which threw the Big Swede through the stable window, Babe turned and
plunged into the water. So fast did he run that he threw foaming waves
to the furthest reaches of the lake. When he reached Paul Bunyan he
emitted a joyous bellow and eagerly began licking the great logger’s
neck. For one hour and twenty-seven minutes Babe assiduously tickled
him, and then Paul Bunyan sprang to his feet with a great roar of
laughter. He felt strong and fresh; he smiled cheerfully at the blue
ox, who capered around him. He straddled Babe and rode him across the
lake to the flooded camp. There he awakened Johnny Inkslinger, and,
refusing to listen to his apologies, he sent him out to discover the
trail taken by the loggers. By the time it was found, Paul Bunyan and
the Big Swede had the camp out of the water and ready to move. Babe
was hitched to the buildings and the search for the errant loggers
began. As he traveled on Paul Bunyan said nothing; his head was bowed
in painful meditation. There was still wrath in his heart for his
loggers’ desertion of him, but there was more of loneliness. Excepting
the pleasures of history-making, invention and oratory, there had never
been any joy for him like the joy that comes from the comradeship of
labor, and he wished to feel it again. Then he feared that the loggers
might be completely lost; they were as helpless as sheep, without
understanding guidance. One moment he swore to punish them severely,
then his heart would be softened by sad and gentle thoughts. So
engrossed was he with perplexing ideas and troubling emotions that he
did not notice the decline of heat and the new sweetness in the air as
the balmy clime of Kansas was approached....
A Fourth of July in Topeka during the reign of King Bourbon! Who
would not give his fame and fortune to have participated in one of
those marvelous celebrations! What pale and weakly imitations we
have nowadays of the ball games between the Fats and the Leans, of
the potato races, and of all the other ingeniously devised contests
which made the last day of King Bourbon’s reign a long procession of
glories and wonders! When will we see again parades, marches and drills
performed by uniformed organizations as they were performed by The
Bartenders’ and Bookmakers’ Bands, The Knights of the Spotted Cubes,
The Mystics and Oracles of Fistiana, The Stentorian Order of Umpires,
The Grandiose Guild of Jockeys, The Loyal Legion of Log-burlers and
many others on that historical day in Topeka? The last-named society
was a new organization that was composed of Paul Bunyan’s loggers. They
aroused the wildest enthusiasm when they appeared in the line of march
treading beer kegs, and for this, and for their triumphs in the races,
King Bourbon awarded them the grand prize.
The bar had been closed for the celebration, and when it was opened
in the evening no one in the spruce and jocund throngs which streamed
through its doors suspected that treason was afoot. Clinking of
glasses, guffaws, jigging feet, back-slapping, bellowed songs and
shouted jests made a tumult of rollicking and boisterous noise as the
reveling began. Urged on by the traitorous bartenders, the nobility
and gentry drank nothing but the sap of the whisky trees. It was a
mild, mellow and soothing beverage when properly aged, but the raw
green sap which the conspirators had supplied would suddenly addle
the mind and paralyze the nerves. The loggers, flushed with conceit
over their day’s triumph, boasted that they were champion drinkers
also, and they dared everyone to enter drinking contests with them.
The bartenders, obeying instructions, filled the loggers’ glasses with
triple-distilled, high-powered redeye. So they were the first to get
bleary-eyed, to wilt and to stagger about. By the time the nobility and
gentry had begun to be affected the loggers had all stumbled outside or
had been carried out. Too late the king and his followers realized that
they were the victims of a conspiracy. When the fumes of the powerful
green sap had completely befuddled them the spies of the Cornmen
lighted the signal fires that were to start the attack.
In a short time the hosts of Cornmen, with husking hooks strapped to
their left wrists, and with corn knives swinging from their right
hands, charged, whooping and bounding, into the city. King Bourbon and
his followers, deaf, weak-kneed, color-blind, dumb and addled, could
make no resistance. They were driven through the streets, out of the
city, on through the whisky tree forests and headed towards the far
lands of Kentucky. Duke Dryface remained behind with the greater part
of the Cornmen to secure the loggers, who were laid out in heaps,
rows, circles, squares and fantastic groups all over the city. In
three hours half of the loggers had balls and chains locked to their
legs. Duke Dryface had begun to breathe easily and to enjoy the first
glow of complete triumph when he became conscious of a vast shadow, an
overpowering presence. The light of the moon seemed blotted out, the
ground shook under a monstrous tread; then sounded a bellow of rage
that lifted every Cornman and every logger seven feet into the air and
whirled them all over five times before they struck the ground again.
The rudely awakened and sobered loggers and the affrighted Cornmen then
saw the august figure of Paul Bunyan and the blue ox looming above
them. The good and mighty man was chiding Babe for bellowing so loudly
and was restraining him from attacking the Duke and his followers.
Duke Dryface had the courage of true virtue. He fearlessly stepped
up to Paul Bunyan and began a speech. First he spoke of the sins of
King Bourbon and of the oppressions suffered by the Cornmen; he showed
the necessity for reform. Next, he went on to prove that sin was in
the very soil of Kansas, and that this soil could only be purified by
destroying the evil forests and raising virtuous corn in their stead.
That was his main reason for wanting to make slaves of the loggers,
he said, but he hoped also to make righteous men of them later. Paul
Bunyan nodded gravely for him to go on, and the duke then rose to the
grandest heights of eloquence in describing the moral imperfections of
the loggers. Deserters, braggarts, beer-bibbers, gluttons, cigarette
fiends, and many other evil names he called them. Paul Bunyan listened,
and the loggers got sick with shame and fear. They had surely sinned,
they were indeed lost souls, they felt; they would forever despise
themselves. Then, just when they had reached the lowest depths of
self-loathing and despair, they saw Paul Bunyan give an enormous wink.
Only a wink, but what forgiveness flashed from it, what unshakable
faith seemed fixed in its depths! That one gesture of an eyelid
restored and consoled them, for it spoke pardon and promised to forget.
The duke declaimed until dawn, but the loggers listened complacently,
grinning knowingly at each other. Once more they would toil grandly
in the woods, once more hot cakes, ham and eggs would sizzle for them
on the long kitchen ranges, once more they would be delighted by the
wonders of noble Sunday dinners, for by the wink of his eye Paul Bunyan
had made them his loggers again....