A certain man whom it is safe to call Angus, as there was at least one
Angus in every household, lived near the stage road that connected two
large villages, which were, if I remember aright, about fourteen miles
apart. His home was situated nearly midway between them, and about a
mile from the aforementioned hollow. He seems to have taken more
interest in the post-office than his friends whom I knew, and subscribed
for and studied certain Montreal newspapers. For this he was pitied in
the parish, and called “Poor Angus,” for the general sentiment of the
place was opposed to literature, and reading was considered a sign of
mental weakness. He appears to have adhered, however, to the habit,
whether from native independence or native imbecility, I cannot say. I
have noticed that as a means of separating a man from his fellows,
either strength or weakness, if sufficiently pronounced, is equally
potent. So this man, following the bent of his nature, went twice or
thrice a week to the post-office late in the afternoon, when the passing
stage threw in a big leather mail-bag. The post-office was in a
farmhouse, and to reach it he walked through the hollow with the
unwholesome reputation. On the slope of the hill farthest from the
post-office was a grove, not a dense wood,—just about half an acre of
thinly wooded land, the trees being so far apart that you could easily
get glimpses and peeps of the country beyond. I remember once admiring a
pink sunset scantily visible among the dark trunks of those trees.
Well, one autumn afternoon Angus was ascending this hill on his way home
with his newspapers, when in the grove on his right suddenly sounded the
chopping of a tree. He stopped, interested at once. The grove belonged
to a neighbor and cousin of his own, and it had been for very many years
left undisturbed. I think it very possible that it was a “sugar bush,”
that is, a wood reserved for sugar-making, but of this I cannot be sure.
But if my guess is right it would account for the surprise he felt at
the cutting down of a tree there. He went to the fence, or rather stone
dike, for that is one of the very few parts in which you find fields
inclosed by stone dikes in lieu of fences, as in Scotland. The chopping
continued, though he saw no one, and he moved along, expecting every
moment to see man and axe. Finally he shouted. To his intense
astonishment there was no reply, although it was incredible that he was
unheard by a person in so near vicinity. As the echo of his shout died
away, the chopping, which for a moment or two had been suspended, began
again. A curious horror crept over the listener, and he looked no more,
but made haste up the hill, and turning the corner was soon at home. He
said nothing about the matter on this first occasion, and a few days
later was again on the road returning from the same errand, when, lo! on
the quiet air came again the same chop, chop, chopping. In telling it
afterwards, he said that in his heart he made no fight against fate, but
he just thought sadly of his worldly affairs, and wondered if things
were in good shape for him to leave wife and little ones, for from that
hour he confidently looked for death before another spring. He stood
long listening, and when at last he went home he related the whole
circumstance to his wife. Together they recounted it to friends, who
went in parties and singly to the place, but heard nothing. They also
thoroughly searched the little wood, arguing that chopping must leave
signs behind in the shape of chips and disfigured trunks. But no, there
was no mark of any kind in any part of the grove. Angus was now
earnestly counselled to abandon his literary pursuits. He could not but
own that he had received a warning, and he did own it, but contended
that it was undeserved, and refused to be guided, as one might say, by a
light that, as all admitted, shone with a lurid glare. He was exhorted
to forswear the reading of vain and foolish lies; for with the acumen
which surprised and gratified me so much, they even refused to regard
our newspapers as mediums of information, recognizing instinctively
their right to stand in the ranks of fiction. Their advice was in all
points save one unheeded. With one voice they bade him, if he heard the
warning again, to pursue his way as if he heard it not, looking neither
to the right nor left. This counsel he followed, and the end shows the
folly and uselessness of attempting to elude a menace which is—well,
which is of this kind.
Angus continued to walk to and from the post-office, and when alone
never failed to hear the mysterious axe at work in the wood. He never
heard it unless alone, and it was never heard by any one else. Although
the conviction that his death would happen before many months took firm
hold of his mind, yet in time he became so accustomed to the thought and
its cause as to go about his usual occupations with much of the wonted
interest, and even to hear the sound of an axe, wielded by invisible
hands, without experiencing agitation.
Weeks sped on and brought winter, and an unusual fall of snow. The
stage-road became blocked, and vehicles left the highway to make a new
track through the fields. For several months that winter the real road
through the hollow was not used, and the snow, which drifted high in it,
covered the dikes on each side. Temporary roads and footpaths made
winding lines over the white plains on every hand. Angus now followed
one of these roads, which ran parallel to the real highway, just the
dike being between them, until he reached the grove, when he, with
extraordinary and fatal hardihood, instead of remaining in it, used to
leave it, and striking out at right angles to it, would walk through the
grove, aiming directly for his own house, and greatly shortening his
walk thereby. The trees had of course protected the place from wind;
there had been no drifting, and walking was easy. He told it at home,
and said with grim humor that the Man in the Bush seemed pleased that he
would come that way, for his chopping was louder and gladder than ever
before; and his wife repeated her counsel earnestly that he look only
straight before him, and never stop, nor answer any sound, nor take heed
in any way of that unholy work. “And,” said the Angus who years after
related it to me, “the Axe might well be merry when she bade him that
way!” But Angus laid the advice to heart, and strode steadily through
the grove, looking straight before him, and every day the Axe grew gayer
and louder. He did not speak of it now. He was getting used to it, and
the neighbors had ceased to think of it, the more easily because, as I
have told, his literary tastes had separated this Angus from among them.
So one day the owner of the grove and his sons went over to chop down
one particular tree that, on the day when they had searched the grove in
the autumn, had appeared to them to merit destruction. Perhaps it was a
beech growing among maples, where it was not wanted, or perhaps it was a
dead maple cumbering the ground. They began to chop. It was late in the
afternoon. One said with a laugh, “It may be we are taking the tree that
poor Angus’ ghost has been working at so long.”
Perhaps the invisible man heard them. At any rate he did not chop that
evening. It was only his cousin’s axe that gave the good strokes that
poor Angus heard as he turned from the track to cross the grove as
usual. The tree was swaying and shivering, and all but ready to fall. He
had cut trees all his life, and he knew the sound of the stroke when the
task was almost done; but no goblin’s trick would beguile him into
turning his head. He looked neither to right nor left. Then the chopping
ceased, and his blood nearly froze as he heard his own name shouted in
tones of such horror that a familiar voice was unrecognized. Others
caught up the cry. There was a din, the crashing of branches and sound
of rushing feet, mingled with shouts of warning, and poor Angus fell,
with the enormous tree upon him. When at last the burden was removed,
and the crushed body borne home, there were men there who heard among
the trees inhuman laughter, and knew that Something had lured poor Angus
to his doom.
Another weird tale, that made a strong impression on me, I wrote down at
the time, and called—