In Camp.
Nestling snugly among large stately trees of pine and spruce, the little
log-cabin presented a picturesque appearance. Its one room, lighted by a
small window, served as kitchen, living and sleeping apartments combined.
It was warm, for the rough logs were well chinked with moss, while the
snow lay thick upon the roof and banked up around the sides. This cabin
had been recently built, and stood there by the little brook as an outward
and visible sign of an inward change in the heart and mind of one of
Glendow's sturdy sons.
The night Stephen Frenelle left Nellie at the Rectory after the drive home
from the dance, he had fought one of those stern, fierce battles which
must come to all at some time in life. As Jacob of old wrestled all night
long for the mastery, so did Stephen in the silence of his own room. Sleep
fled his eyes as he paced up and down, struggling with the contending
thoughts which filled his heart. At times he clenched his hands and ground
his teeth together as he pictured Dick Farrington standing in the Hall,
hurling forth his taunting remarks. Then he longed for daylight to come
that he might go to his house, call him forth, and give him the thrashing
he so well deserved. He would drive that impudent, sarcastic smile from
his face, and make him take back his words. A voice seemed to say to him,
"Do it. _You must_ do it if you consider yourself a man. He insulted
you to your face, and people will call you a coward if you allow it to
pass." But always there came to him that gentle touch on his arm; he heard
a voice pleading with him to be a man, and saw Nellie looking at him with
those large, beseeching eyes, and his clenched hands would relax. And thus
the battle raged; now this way, now that. Which side would win? When at
length the first streak of dawn was breaking far off in the eastern sky,
and Stephen came forth from the Chamber of Decision, there was no doubt as
to the outcome of the fight. His face bore the marks of the struggle, but
it also shone with a new light. When his mother and Nora came downstairs
they were astonished to see him up so early, the fire in the kitchen stove
burning brightly, and the cattle and sheep fed. Usually Stephen was hard
to arouse in the morning, and it was nearly noon before the chores were
finished, and then always in a half-hearted way. They looked at each
other, and wondered at the change which had taken place.
Although Stephen had won a victory over himself, he was yet much puzzled.
He wished to redeem the homestead, but how should he set about the task?
As he waited that morning while breakfast was being prepared, this was the
great thought uppermost in his mind. He knew that when spring came there
was the farm to work. In the meantime, however, during the days of winter
when the ground was covered with snow, what could he do? Once aroused, it
was needful for him to set to work as soon as possible. Mechanically he
picked up the weekly paper lying on a chair and glanced carelessly at the
headlines set forth in bold type. As he did so his attention was arrested
by two words "Logs Wanted." He read the article through which told how the
price of lumber had suddenly advanced, and that logs were in great demand.
When Stephen laid down the paper and went into breakfast, the puzzle had
been solved. What about that heavy timber at the rear of their farm? No
axe had as yet rung there, no fire had devastated the place, and the trees
stood tall and straight in majestic grandeur. A brook flowed near which
would bear the logs down the river.
His mother's and sister's hearts bounded with joy as Stephen unfolded to
them his plan. He would hire two choppers; one could go home at night,
while the other, old Henry, could live with him in the little camp he
would build. They would chop while he hauled the logs to the brook. Mrs.
Frenelle and Nora would do most of the cooking at home, and Stephen, would
come for it at certain times. Thus a new spirit pervaded the house that
day, and Mrs. Frenelle's heart was lighter than it had been for many
months. Stephen did not tell her the cause of this sudden change, but with
a loving mother's perception she felt that Nellie's gentle influence had
much to do with it all.
One week later the cabin was built, the forest ringing with the sturdy
blows of axes and the resounding crash of some hoary pine or spruce.
Although the work was heavy, Stephen's heart was light. Not only did he
feel the zest of one who had grappled with life in the noble effort to do
the best he could, but he had Nellie's approbation. He drank in the
bracing air of the open as never before, and revelled in the rich perfume
of the various trees as he moved along their great cathedral-like aisles,
carpeted with the whitest of snow.
The two choppers were kept busy from morning dawn to sunset. They were
skilled craftsmen, trained from early days in woodland lore. One, old
Henry, thoroughly enjoyed his work and at times snatches of a familiar
song fell from his lips as his axe bit deep into the side of some large
tree.
"You did that well, Henry," Stephen one day remarked, as he watched a
monster spruce wing its way to earth with a terrific crash.
"It's all in knowin' how," was the deliberate reply, as the old man began
to trim the prostrate form. "Now, a greenhorn 'ud rush in, an' hack an'
chop any old way, an' afore he knew what he was doin' the tree 'ud be
tumblin' down in the wrong place, an' mebbe right a-top of 'im at that.
But I size things up a bit afore I hit a clip. Havin' made up me mind as
to the best spot to fell her, I swing to, an' whar I pint her thar she
goes; that's all thar is about it."
"But doesn't the wind bother you sometimes?" Stephen inquired.
The chopper walked deliberately to the butt-end of the tree, and with the
pole of his axe marked off the length of the log. Then he moistened his
hands and drove the keen blade through the juicy bark deep into the wood.
"I allow fer the wind, laddie," he replied, "I allow fer that. When the
good Lord sends the wind, sometimes from the North, sometimes from the
South, I don't go agin it. Why, what's the use of goin' agin His will, an'
it's all the same whether yer choppin' down a tree, or runnin' across the
sea of Life fer the great Port beyon'. That's what the parson says, an' I
guess he knows, though it seems to me that the poor man hisself has
head-winds aplenty jist now."
Stephen asked no more questions then, being too busy. But that night,
after supper, as the old man was mending his mittens he sat down by his
side.
"Henry," he began, "how is it that the parson has head-winds? Do you think
it's the Lord's will?"
"'Tain't the Lord's will, laddie," was the slow response. "Oh no, 'tain't
His."
"Whose, then?"
"It's the devil's, that's whose it is, an' he's usin' sartin men in
Glendow as human bellows to blow his vile wind aginst that man of God.
That's what he's doin', an' they can't see it nohow."
"And so you think the parson had nothing to do with Billy Fletcher's gold.
You think he is innocent?"
"Think it, laddie? Think it? What's the use of thinkin' it when I know it.
Haven't I known Parson John fer forty years now. Can't I well remember
when his hair, which is now so white, was as black as the raven's wing.
An' why did it become white? I ax ye that. It's not old age which done it,
ah no. It's care an' work fer the people of Glendow, that's what's done
it. D'ye think I'd believe any yarn about a man that's been mor'n a father
to me an' my family? Didn't I see 'im kneelin' by my little Bennie's bed,
twenty years ago come next June, with the tears runnin' down his cheeks as
he axed the Good Lord to spare the little lad to us a while longer. Mark
my word, Stevie, them people who are tellin' sich stories about that man
'ill come to no good. Doesn't the Lord say in his great Book, 'Touch not
Mine anointed, an' do My prophets no harm?' My old woman often reads them
words to me, fer she's a fine scholar is Marthy. 'Henry,' says she, 'the
parson is the Lord's anointed. He's sot aside fer a holy work, an' it's a
risky bizness to interfere with sich a man.'"
Scarcely had the speaker finished when the door of the cabin was pushed
suddenly open, and a queer little man entered. A fur cap was pulled down
over his ears, while across his left shoulder and fastened around his body
several times was a new half-inch rope.
"Hello, Pete," Stephen exclaimed, "You look cold. Come to the stove and
get warm."
"Y'bet I'm cold," was the reply. "My fingers and nose are most froze."
"What's brought you away out here this time of the night?" questioned
Stephen, "I thought you liked the store too well to travel this far from
the fire."
"Bizness, Steve, bizness," and the man rubbed his hands together, at the
same time taking a good survey of the cabin.
"You look as if you were going to hang yourself, Pete, with all that rope
about your body. Surely you're not tired of living yet."
"No, no, Steve. Not on your life. There'd be no fun in that, an' it's fun
I'm after this time."
"But I thought you said you were out on business, and now you say it's
fun."
"Bizness an' fun, me boy. Bizness an' fun; that's my motto. My bizness
this time is to pinch the Stickles' cow, an' the fun 'ill be to hear
Stickles, Mrs. Stickles an' the little Stickles squeal. Ha, ha! Bizness
an' fun, Steve. Bizness an' fun."
"What! You're not going to take away the only cow the Stickles have left?"
cried Stephen in amazement.
"Sure. It's the boss's orders, an' he doesn't mean fun, either. Nuthin'
but bizness with 'im; ah no, nuthin' but bizness."
"Farrington is a mean rascal!" and Stephen leaped to his feet, his fists
clenched and his eyes flashing. "Hasn't he any heart at all? To think of
him taking the only cow from a poor family when the husband is sick in
bed! What does the man mean?"
"Don't git excited, me boy. It's only bizness, boss sez, only bizness. The
heart has nuthin' to do with that."
"Business be blowed! It's vile meanness, that's what it is! And will you
help him out with such work?"
"It's bizness agin, Steve. I've got to live, an' keep the missus an'
kiddies. What else is there fer a feller to do?"
"But why is Farrington taking the cow in the winter time, Pete? Why
doesn't he wait until the summer, and give the Stickles a chance?"
"It all on account of a woman's tongue. That's what's the trouble."
"A woman's tongue?"
"Yes, a woman's tongue, an' ye know it's Mrs. Stickles' without me tellin'
ye. She told Tommy Jones, wot told Betty Sharp, wot told the boss, that
she was mighty glad the parson beat 'im at the auction. So the boss got
mad as blazes, an' has sent me fer the cow to pay what the Stickles owe
'im. That's all I know about it, lad, so good-bye to yez both, fer I must
be off. I'm to stay the night at Tommy Jones', an' in the mornin' will go
from there fer the cow. Bizness an' fun, Steve; bizness an' fun; don't
fergit that," and the little old man went off chuckling in high glee.