THE LOST OXEN
It was now approaching time to tap the maples again; but owing to the
disaster which had befallen our effort to make maple syrup for profit
the previous spring, neither Addison nor myself felt much inclination to
undertake it. The matter was talked over at the breakfast table one
morning and noting our lukewarmness on the subject, the old Squire
remarked that as the sugar lot had been tapped steadily every spring for
twenty years or more, it would be quite as well perhaps to give the
maples a rest for one season.
That same morning, too, Tom Edwards came over in haste to tell us, with
a very sober face, that their oxen had disappeared mysteriously, and ask
us to join in the search to find them. They were a yoke of "sparked"
oxen--red and white in contrasting patches. Each had wide-spread horns
and a "star" in his face. Bright and Broad were their names, and they
were eight years old.
Neighbor Jotham Edwards was one of those simpleminded, hard-working
farmers who ought to prosper but who never do. It is not easy to say
just what the reason was for much of his ill fortune. Born under an
unlucky planet, some people said; but that, of course, is childish. The
real reason doubtless was lack of good judgment in his business
enterprises.
Whatever he undertook nearly always turned out badly. His carts and
ploughs broke unaccountably, his horses were strangely prone to run away
and smash things, and something was frequently the matter with his
crops. Twice, I remember, he broke a leg, and each time he had to lie
six weeks on his back for the bone to knit. Felons on his fingers
tormented him; and it was a notable season that he did not have a big,
painful boil or a bad cut from a scythe or from an axe. One mishap
seemed to lead to another.
Jotham's constant ill fortune was the more noticeable among his
neighbors because his father, Jonathan, had been a careful, prosperous
farmer who kept his place in excellent order, raised good crops and had
the best cattle of any one thereabouts. Within a few years after the
place had passed under Jotham's control it was mortgaged, the buildings
and the fences were in bad repair, and the fields were weedy. Yet that
man worked summer and winter as hard and as steadily as ever a man did
or could.
Two winters before he had contracted with old Zack Lurvey to cut three
hundred thousand feet of hemlock logs and draw them to the bank of a
small river where in the spring they could be floated down to Lurvey's
Mills. For hauling the logs he had two yokes of oxen, the yoke of large
eight-year-olds that I have already described, and another yoke of
small, white-faced cattle. During the first winter the off ox of the
smaller pair stepped into a hole between two roots, broke its leg and
had to be killed. Afterwards Jotham worked the nigh ox in a crooked yoke
in front of his larger oxen and went on with the job from December until
March.
But, as all teamsters know, oxen that are worked hard all day in winter
weather require corn meal or other equally nourishing provender in
addition to hay. Now, Jotham had nothing for his team except hay of
inferior quality. In consequence, as the winter advanced the cattle lost
flesh and became very weak. By March they could scarcely walk with their
loads, and at last there came a morning when Jotham could not get the
older oxen even to rise to their feet. He was obliged to give up work
with them, and finally came home after turning them loose to help
themselves to what hay was left at the camp.
The old Squire did not often concern himself with the affairs of his
neighbors, but he went up to the logging camp with Jotham; and when he
saw the pitiful condition the cattle were in he remonstrated with him.
"This is too bad," he said. "You have worked these oxen nearly to death,
and you haven't half fed them!"
"Wal, my oxen don't have to work any harder than I do!" Jotham replied
angrily. "I ain't able to buy corn for them. They must work without it."
"You only lose by such a foolish course," the old Squire said to him.
But Jotham was not a man who could easily be convinced of his errors.
All his affairs were going badly; arguing with him only made him
impatient.
The snow was now so soft that the oxen in their emaciated and weakened
condition could not be driven home, and again Jotham left them at the
camp to help themselves to fodder. He promised, however, to send better
hay and some potatoes up to them the next day. But during the following
night a great storm set in that carried off nearly all the snow and
caused such a freshet in the streams and the brooks that it was
impracticable to reach the camp for a week or longer. Then one night the
small, white-faced ox made his appearance at the Edwards barn, having
come home of his own accord.
The next morning Jotham went up on foot to see how his other cattle were
faring. The flood had now largely subsided; but it was plain that during
the storm the water had flowed back round the camp to a depth of several
feet. The oxen were nowhere to be seen, nor could he discern their
tracks round the camp or in the woods that surrounded it. He tried to
track them with a dog, but without success.
Several of Jotham's neighbors assisted him in the search. Where the oxen
had gone or what had become of them was a mystery; the party searched
the forest in vain for a distance of five or six miles on all sides.
Some of the men thought that the oxen had fallen into the stream and had
drowned; it was not likely that they had been stolen. Jotham was at last
obliged to buy another yoke of cattle in order to do his spring work on
the farm.
Two years passed, and Jotham's oxen were almost forgotten. During the
second winter, after school had closed in the old Squire's district,
Willis Murch, a young friend of mine who lived near us, went on a
trapping trip to the headwaters of Lurvey's Stream, where the oxen had
disappeared and where he had a camp. One Saturday he came home for
supplies and invited me to go back with him and spend Sunday. The
distance was perhaps fourteen miles; and we had to travel on snowshoes,
for at the time--it was February--the snow was nearly four feet deep in
the woods. We had a fine time there in camp that night and the next
morning went to look at Willis's traps.
That afternoon, after we had got back to camp and cooked our dinner,
Willis said to me, "Now, if you will promise not to tell, I'll show you
something that will make you laugh."
I promised readily enough, without thinking much about the matter.
"Come on, then," said he; and we put on our snowshoes again and prepared
to start. But, though I questioned him with growing curiosity, he would
not tell me what we were to see. "Oh, you'll find out soon enough," he
said.
Willis led off, and I followed. I should think we went as much as five
miles through the black growth to the north of Willis's camp and came
finally to a frozen brook, which we followed for a mile round to the
northeast.
"I was prospecting up this way a week ago," Willis said. "I had an idea
of setting traps on this brook. It flows into a large pond a little way
ahead of us, but just before we get to the pond it winds through a swamp
of little spotted maple, moose bush and alder."
"I guess it's beaver you're going to show me," I remarked.
"Guess again," said Willis, "But keep still. Step in my tracks and don't
make the brush crack."
The small growth was so thick that we could see only a little way ahead.
Willis pushed slowly through it for some time; then, stopping short, he
motioned to me over his shoulder to come forward. Not twenty yards away
I distinguished the red-and-white hair of a large animal that was
browsing on a clump of bushes. It stood in a pathway trodden so deep
into the snow that its legs were completely hidden. In surprise I saw
that it had broad horns.
"Why, that's an ox!" I exclaimed.
"Yes," said Willis, laughing. "His mate is round here, too."
"Willis," I almost shouted, "they must be the oxen Jotham lost two years
ago!"
"Sure!" said Willis. "But don't make such a noise. There are moose
here."
"Moose!" I whispered.
"There's a cow moose with two moose calves. When I was here last
Thursday afternoon there were three deer with them. The snow's got so
deep they are yarding here together. They get water at the brook, and I
saw where they had dug down through the snow to get to the dry swamp
grass underneath. They won't leave their yard if we don't scare them;
they couldn't run in the deep snow."
We thought that probably the oxen had grown wild from being off in the
woods so long. However, Willis advanced slowly, calling, "Co-boss!"
Seeing us coming and hearing human voices, the old ox lifted his muzzle
toward us and snuffed genially. He did not appear to be afraid, but
behaved as if he were glad to see us. The other one--old Broad--had been
lying down near by out of sight in the deep pathway, but now he suddenly
rose and stood staring at us. We approached to within ten feet of them.
They appeared to be in fairly good flesh, and their hair seemed very
thick. Evidently they had wandered off from the logging camp and had
been living a free, wild life ever since. In the small open meadows
along the upper course of the stream there was plenty of wild grass.
And, like deer, cattle will subsist in winter on the twigs of freshly
grown bushes. Even such food as that, with freedom, was better than the
cruel servitude of Jotham!
On going round to the far side of the yard we spied the three deer, the
cow moose and her two yearling calves. They appeared unwilling to run
away in the deep snow, but would not let us approach near enough to see
them clearly through the bushes.
"You could shoot one of those deer," I said to Willis; but he declared
that he would never shoot a deer or a moose when it was snow-bound in a
yard.
We lingered near the yard for an hour or more. By speaking kindly to the
oxen I found that I could go very close to them; they had by no means
forgotten human beings. On our way back to Willis's camp he reminded me
of my promise. "Now, don't you tell where those oxen are; don't tell
anybody!"
"But, Willis, don't you think Jotham ought to know?" I asked.
"No, I don't!" Willis exclaimed. "He has abused those oxen enough!
They've got away from him, and I'm glad of it! I'll never tell him where
they are!"
We argued the question all the way to camp, and at last Willis said
bluntly that he should not have taken me to see them if he had thought
that I would tell. "You promised not to," said he. That was true, and
there the matter rested overnight.
When I started home the next morning Willis walked with me for two miles
or more. We had not mentioned Jotham's oxen since the previous
afternoon; but I plainly saw that Willis had been thinking the matter
over, for, after we separated and had each gone a few steps on his way,
he called after me:
"Are you going to tell about that?"
"No," said I, and walked on.
"Well, if you're not going to feel right about it, ask the old Squire
what he thinks. If he says that Jotham ought to be told, perhaps you had
better tell him." And Willis hastened away.
But on reaching home I found that the old Squire had set off for
Portland early that morning to see about selling his lumber and was not
to return for a week. So I said nothing to any one. The night after he
got back I watched for a chance to speak with him alone. After supper he
went into the sitting-room to look over his lumber accounts, and I stole
in after him.
"You remember Jotham's oxen, gramp?" I began.
"Why, yes," said he, looking up.
"Well, I know where they are," I continued.
"Where?" he exclaimed in astonishment.
I then told him where Willis had found them and about the yard and the
moose and deer we had seen with the oxen. "Willis doesn't want Jotham
told," I added. "He says Jotham has abused those oxen enough, and that
he is glad they got away from him. He made me promise not to tell any
one at first, but finally he said that I might tell you, and that we
should do as you think best."
The old Squire gave me an odd look. Then he laughed and resumed his
accounts for what seemed to me a long while. I had the feeling that he
wished I had not told him.
At last he looked up. "I suppose, now that we have found this out,
Jotham will have to be told. They are his oxen, of course, and we should
not feel right if we were to keep this from him. It wouldn't be quite
the neighborly thing to do--to conceal it. So you had better go over and
tell him."
Almost every one likes to carry news, whether good or bad; and within
fifteen minutes I had reached the Edwards farmhouse. Jotham, who was
taking a late supper, came to the door.
"What will you give to know where your lost oxen are?" I cried.
"Where are they? Do you know?" he exclaimed. Then I told him where
Willis and I had seen them. "Wal, I vum!" said Jotham. "Left me and took
to the woods! And I've lost two years' work from 'em!"
For a moment I was sorry I had told him.
The next day he journeyed up to Willis's camp with several neighbors;
and from there they all snowshoed to the yard to see the oxen and the
moose. The strangely assorted little herd was still there, and, so far
as could be judged, no one else had discovered them.
Jotham had intended to drive the oxen home; but the party found the snow
so deep that they thought it best to leave them where they were for a
while. Since it was now the first week of March, the snow could be
expected to settle considerably within a fortnight.
I think it was the eighteenth of the month when Jotham and four other
men finally went to get the oxen. They took a gun, with the intention of
shooting one or more of the deer. A disagreeable surprise awaited them
at the yard.
At that time--it was before the days of game wardens--what were known as
"meat-and-hide hunters" often came down over the boundary from Canada
and slaughtered moose and deer while the animals were snow-bound. The
lawless poachers frequently came in parties and sometimes searched the
woods for twenty or thirty miles below the Line in quest of yards.
Apparently such a raiding party had found Willis's yard and had shot not
only the six deer and moose but Jotham's oxen as well. Blood on the snow
and refuse where the animals had been hung up for skinning and dressing,
made what had happened only too plain.
Poor Jotham came home much cast down. "That's just my luck!" he
lamented. "Everything always goes just that way with me!"