I
THE song of the saws began long ago at the mouths of the rivers. Slowly
the axes gnawed their way southward, and the ominous, prophetic chant
followed them. Men seemed to goad the rivers to increase their speed.
They caught and held and harnessed them as if they had been horses and
drove them into flumes and leaped them over dams and pulled and hauled
and baffled them until they broke away with the power of madness in
their rush. But, even then, the current of the rivers would not do; the
current of thunderbolts could not have whirled the wheels with speed
enough.
Now steam bursts upon the piston-head with the power of a hundred
horses. The hungry steel races through columns of pine as if they were
soft as butter and its' bass note booms night and day to the heavens.
Hear it now. The burden of that old song is m-o-r-e, m-o-r-e, m-o-r-e!
It is doleful music, God knows, but, mind you, it voices the need of
the growing land. It sings of the doom of the woods. It may be heard all
along the crumbling edge of the wilderness from Maine to Minnesota. Day
by day hammers beat time while the saws continue their epic chorus.
There are towers and spires and domes and high walls where, in our
boyhood, there were only trees far older than the century, and these
rivers that flow north go naked in open fields for half their journey.
Every spring miles of timber come plunging over cataracts and rushing
through rapids and crowding into slow water on its way to the saws.
There a shaft of pine which has been a hundred years getting its girth
is ripped into slices and scattered upon the stack in a minute. A new
river, the rushing, steam-driven river of steel, bears it away to the
growing cities. Silas Strong once wrote in his old memorandum-book these
words: "Strong says to himself seems so the world was goin' to be peeled
an' hollered out an' weighed an' measured an' sold till it's all et up
like an apple."
On the smooth shore of the river below Raquette Falls, and within twenty
rods of his great mill, lived a man of the name of Gordon with two
motherless children. Pity about him! Married a daughter of "Bill" Strong
up in the woods--an excellent woman--made money and wasted it and went
far to the bad. Good fellow, drink, poker, and so on down the hill!
His wife died leaving two children--blue-eyed little people with curly,
flaxen hair--a boy of four a girl of nearly three years. The boy's full
name was John Socksmith Gordon--reduced in familiar parlance to Socky.
The girl was baptized Susan Bradbury Gordon, but was called Sue.
Their Uncle Silas Strong came to the funeral of their mother. He had
travelled more than eighty miles in twenty-four-hours, his boat now
above and now beneath him. He brought his dog and rifle, and wore a
great steel watch-chain and a pair of moccasins w with fringe on the
sides, and a wolf-skin jacket. He carried the children on his shoulders
and tossed them in the air, while his great size and odd attire seemed
to lay hold of their spirits.
As time passed, a halo of romantic splendor gathered about this uncle's
memory. One day Socky heard him referred to as the "Emperor of the
Woods." He was not long finding out that an emperor was a very grand
person who wore gold on his head and shoulders and rode a fine horse
and was always ready for a fight. So their ideal gathered power and
richness, one might say, the longer he lived in their fancy. They loved
their father, but as a hero he had not been a great success. There was
a time when both had entertained some hope for him, but as they saw how
frequently he grew "tired" they gave their devotion more and more to
this beloved memory. Their uncle's home was remote from theirs, and so
his power over them had never been broken by familiarity.
Socky and Sue told their young friends all they had been able to
learn of their Uncle Silas, and, being pressed for more knowledge, had
recourse to invention. Stories which their father had told grew into
wonder-tales of the riches, the strength, the splendor, and the general
destructive power of this great man. Sue, the first day she went
to Sunday-school, when the minister inquired who slew a lion by the
strength of his hands, confidently answered, "Uncle Silas."
There was one girl in the village who had an Uncle Phil with a fine air
of authority and a wonderful watch and chain; there was yet another with
an Uncle Henry, who enjoyed the distinction of having had the small-pox;
there was a boy, also, who had an Uncle Reuben with a wooden leg and a
remarkable history, and a wen beside his nose with a wart on the same.
But these were familiar figures, and while each had merits of no low
degree, their advocates were soon put to shame by the charms of that
mysterious and remote Uncle Silas.
There was a little nook in the lumber-yard where children used to meet
every Saturday for play and free discussion. There, now and then,
some new-comer entered an uncle in the competition. There, always, a
primitive pride of blood asserted itself in the remote descendants,
shall we say, of many an ancient lord and chieftain. One day--Sue was
then five and Socky six years of age--Lizzie Cornell put a cousin on
exhibit in this little theatre of childhood. He was a boy with red hair
and superior invention from out of town. He stood near Lizzie--a deep
and designing miss--and said not a word, until Sue began about her Uncle
Silas.
It was a new tale of that remarkable hunter which her father had related
the night before while she lay waiting for the sandman. She told how her
uncle had seen a panther one day when he was travelling without a gun.
His dog chased the panther and soon drove him up a tree. Now, it seemed,
the only thing in the nature of a weapon the hunter had with him was a
piece of new rope for his canoe. After a moment's reflection the great
man climbed the tree and threw a noose over the panther's neck while his
faithful dog was barking below. Then the cute Uncle Silas made his rope
fast to a limb and shook the tree so that when the panther jumped for
the ground he hung himself.
To most of those who heard the narrative it seemed to be a rather
creditable exploit, showing, as it did, a shrewdness and ready courage
of no mean order on the part of Uncle Silas. Murmurs of glad approval
were hushed, however, by the voice of the red-headed boy.
"Pooh! that's nothing," said he, with contempt. "My Uncle Mose chased
a panther once an' overtook him and ketched him by the tail an' fetched
his head agin a tree, quick as a flash, an' knocked his brains out."
His words ran glibly and showed an off-hand mastery of panthers quite
unequalled. Here was an uncle of marked superiority and promise.
There was a moment of silence in the crowd.
"If ye don't believe it," said the red-headed boy, "I can show ye a vest
my mother made out o' the skin."
That was conclusive. Sue blushed for shame and looked into the face
of Socky. Her mouth drooped a little and her under lip trembled with
anxiety. Doubt, thoughtfulness, and confusion were on the face of
her brother. He scraped the sand with his foot. He felt that he had
sometimes stretched the truth a little, but this--this went beyond his
capacity for invention.
"Don't believe it," he whispered, with half a sneer as he glanced down
at Sue.
Lizzie Cornell began to titter. All eyes were fixed upon the unhappy
pair as if to say, "How about your Uncle Silas now?" The populace,
deserting the standard of the old king, gathered in front of the
red-headed boy and began to inquire into the merits of Uncle Mose.
Socky and Sue hesitated. Curiosity struggled with resentment. Slowly
and thoughtfully they walked away. For a moment neither spoke. Soon a
cheering thought came into the mind of Sue.
"Maybe Uncle Silas has ketched a panther by the tail, too," said she,
hopefully. Socky, his hands in his pockets, looked down with a dazed
expression.
"I'm going to ask father," said he, thoughtfully.
It was now late in the afternoon. They went home and sat in silence on
the veranda, watching for their father. The old Frenchwoman who kept
house for him tried to coax them in, but they would make no words with
her. Long they sat there looking wistfully down the river-bank.
Presently Sue hauled out of her pocket a tiny rag doll which she carried
for casual use. It came handy in moments of loneliness and despair
outside the house. She toyed with its garments, humming in a motherly
fashion. It was nearly dark when they saw their father staggering
homeward according to his habit. They knew not yet the meaning of that
wavering walk.
"There he comes!" said Socky, as they both ran to meet him. "He can't
carry us to-night. He's awful tired."
They thought him "tired." They kissed him and took his hands in theirs,
and led him into the house. Stern and silent he sat down beside them
at the supper-table. The children were also silent and sober-faced from
intuitive sympathy. They could not yet introduce the topic which weighed
upon them.
Socky looked at his father. For the first time he noted that his clothes
were shabby; he knew that a few days before his father had lost his
watch. The boy stole away from the table, and went to his little trunk
and brought the sacred thing which his teacher had given him Christmas
Day--a cheap watch that told time with a noisy and inspiring tick. He
laid it down by his father's plate.
"There," said he, "I'm going to let you wear my watch."
It was one of those deep thrusts which only the hand of innocence can
administer. Richard Gordon took the watch in his hand and sat a moment
looking down. The boy manfully resumed his chair.
"It don't look very well for you to be going around without a watch," he
remarked, taking up his piece of bread and butter.
His father put the watch in his pocket.
"You can let me wear it Sundays," the boy added. "You won't need it
Sundays."
A smile overspread the man's face.
The children, quick to see their opportunity, approached him on either
side. Sue put her arms around the neck of her father and kissed him.
"Tell us a story about Uncle Silas," she pleaded.
"Uncle Silas!" he exclaimed. "We're all going to see him in a few days."
The children were mute with surprise. Sue's little doll dropped from her
hands to the floor. Her face changed color and she turned quickly, with
a loud cry, and drummed on the table so that the dishes rattled. Socky
leaned over the back of a chair and shook his head, and gave his feet a
fling and then recovered his dignity.
"Now don't get excited," remarked their father.
They ran out of the room, and stood laughing and whispering together for
a moment. Then they rushed back.
"When are we going?" the boy inquired.
"In a day or two," said Gordon, who still sat drinking his tea.
Sue ran to tell Aunt Marie, the housekeeper, and Socky sat in his little
rocking-chair for a moment of sober thought.
"Look here, old chap," said Gordon, who was wont to apply the terms of
mature good-fellowship to his little son. Socky came and stood by the
side of his father.
"You an' I have been friends for some time, haven't we?" was the strange
and half-maudlin query which Gordon put to his son.
The boy smiled and came nearer.
"An' I've always treated ye right--ain't I? Answer me."
"Yes, sir."
"Well, folks say you're neglected an' that you don't have decent clothes
an' that you might as well have no father at all. Now, old boy, I'm
going to tell you the truth; I'm broke--failed in business, an' have had
to give up. Understand me; I haven't a cent in the world."
The man smote his empty pocket suggestively. The boy was now deeply
serious. Not able to comprehend the full purport of his father's words,
he saw something in the face before him which began to hurt. His lower
lip trembled a little.
"Don't worry, old friend," said Gordon, clapping him on the shoulder.
Just then Sue came running back.
"Say," said she, climbing on a round of her father's chair, "did Uncle
Silas ever ketch a panther by the tail?"
The children held their breaths waiting for the answer.
"Ketch a panther by the tail!" their father exclaimed. "Whatever put
that in your head?"
Sue answered with some show of excitement. Her words came fast.
"Lizzie Cornell's cousin he said that his Uncle Mose had ketched a
panther by the tail an' knocked his brains out."
Their father smiled again.
"That kind o' floored ye, didn't it, old girl?" said he, with a kiss.
"Le's see," he continued, drawing the children close on either side of
him. "I don' know as he ever ketched a panther by the tail, but I'll
tell ye what he did do. One day when he hadn't any gun with him he come
acrost a big bear, an' Uncle Sile fetched him a cuff with his fist an'
broke the bear's neck, an' then he brought him home on his back an' et
him for dinner."
"Oh!" the girl exclaimed, her mouth and eyes wide open.
Socky whistled a shrill note of surprise and thankfulness. Then he
clucked after the manner of one starting his horse.
"My stars!" he exclaimed, and so saying he skipped across the floor
and brought his fist down heavily upon the lounge. Uncle Silas had been
saved--plucked, as it were, from the very jaws of obscurity.
When they were ready to get into bed the children knelt as usual before
old Aunt Marie, the housekeeper. Sue ventured to add a sentence to her
prayer. "God bless Uncle Silas," said she, "and make him very--very----"
The girl hesitated, trying to find the right word.
"Powerful," her brother suggested, still in the attitude of devotion.
"Powerful," repeated Sue, in a trembling voice, and then added: "for
Christ's sake. Amen."
They lay a long time discussing what they should say and do when at last
they were come into the presence of the great man. Suddenly a notion
entered the mind of Socky that, in order to keep the favor of fortune,
he must rise and clap his hand three times upon the round top of the
posts at the foot of the bed. Accordingly he rose and satisfied this
truly pagan impulse.
Then he repeated the story of his uncle and the bear over and over
again, pausing thoughtfully at the point of severest action and adding
a little color to heighten the effect. Here and there Sue prompted him,
and details arose which seemed to merit careful consideration.
"I wouldn't wonder but what Uncle Silas must 'a' spit on his hand before
he struck the bear," said Socky, remembering how strong men often
prepared themselves for a difficult undertaking.
When the story had been amplified, in a generous degree, and well
committed to memory, they began to talk of Lizzie Cornell and her
cousin, the red-headed boy, and planned how they would seek them out
next day and defy them with the last great achievement of their Uncle
Silas.
"He's a nasty thing," the girl exclaimed, suddenly.
"I feel kind o' sorry for him," said Socky, with a sigh.
"Why?"
"Cos he thinks his uncle beats the world an' he ain't nowhere."
"Maybe he'll want to fight," said Sue.
"Then I'll fetch him a cuff."
"S'pose you was to break his neck?"
"I'll hit him in the breast," said Socky, thoughtfully, feeling his
muscle.
Sue soon fell asleep, but Socky lay thinking about his father. He
had crossed the edge of the beginning of trouble. He thought of those
words--and of a certain look which accompanied them--"I haven't got
a cent in the world." What did they mean? He could only judge from
experience--from moments when he had stood looking through glass windows
and showcases at things which had tempted him and which he had not been
able to enjoy. Oh, the bitter pain of it! Must his father endure that
kind of thing? He lay for a few moments weeping silently.
All at once the thought of his little bank came to him. It was nearly
full of pennies. He rose in bed and listened. The room was dark, but he
could hear Aunt Marie at work in the kitchen. That gave him courage, and
he crept stealthily out of bed and went to his trunk and felt for the
little square house of painted tin with a slot in the chimney. It lay
beneath his Sunday clothes, and he raised and gently shook it. He could
hear that familiar and pleasant sound of the coin.
Meanwhile his father had been sitting alone. For weeks he had been
rapidly going downhill. His friends had all turned against him. He had
been fairly stoned with reproaches. He could see only trouble behind,
disgrace before, and despair on either side. He held a revolver in his
hand. A child's voice rang out in the silence, calling "father."
Gordon leaned forward upon the table. He began to be conscious of things
beyond himself. He heard the great mill-saw roaring in the still night;
he heard the tick of the clock near him. Suddenly his little son peered
through the halfopen door.
"Father," Socky whispered.
Gordon started from his chair, and, seeing the boy, sat down again.
Socky was near crying but restrained himself. Without a word he
deposited his bank on the table. It was a moment of solemn renunciation.
He was like one before the altar giving up the vanities of the world.
He looked soberly at his father and said, "I'm going to give you all my
money."
Gordon said not a word and there was a moment of silence.
"More than a dollar in it," the boy suggested, proudly.
Still his father sat resting his head upon his hand in silence while he
seemed to be trying the point of a pen.
"You may give me five cents if you've a mind to when you open it," Socky
added.
Gordon turned slowly and kissed the forehead of his little son. The boy
put his arms around the neck of his father and begged him to come and
lie upon the bed and tell a story.
So it happened the current of ruin was turned aside--the heat-oppressed
brain diverted from its purpose. For as the man lay beside his children
he began to think of them and less of himself. "I cannot leave them," he
concluded. "When I go I shall take them with me."
In the long, still hours he lay thinking.
The south wind began to stir the pines, and cool air from out of the
wild country came through an open window. Fathoms of dusty, dead air
which had hung for weeks over the valley, growing hotter and more
oppressive in the burning sunlight, moved away. A cloud passing
northward flung a sprinkle of rain upon the broad, smoky flats and was
drained before it reached the great river. All who were sick and weary
felt the ineffable healing of the woodland breeze. It soothed the aching
brain of the mill-owner and slackened the ruinous toil of his thoughts.
Gordon slept soundly for the first time in almost a month.