In a town of the north there dwelt three men apart from their
fellows. One of these men was a Philosopher, one was a Poet, and one
was a Painter. These lived and wrought, while all the folk looked up
to them from afar off. There was a halfbreed called Bigfoot Joe who
hewed in a lumber camp, so that the folk knew nothing of him.
The Philosopher penned a mystical work on the philosophy of the
woods, and he grew known in the world. The Poet wrote stanzas filled
with the music of the pines and cedars, and his verse brought high
wage. The Painter limned a single hemlock, instinct with the breath
of the lonely forest; and it found fame. But, deep in the woods,
trees crashed down and the unknown lumberjack lopped off their
branches.
Now it so happened that a certain Great Author, having heard of the
famous Three, journeyed across the seas to visit them; for he was an
unwearied seeker after the truth that is in life.
The Artists, receiving him as a brother, expounded to him the
philosophy and rhythm and tonal harmony of Nature; but the Great
Author warmed himself in their steam-heated studios and said little.
One day the Artists took the distinguished guest on a visit to the
woods. They came to camp in time to lunch with the jacks, and the
visitor was seated next Bigfoot Joe. Naturally observant, he noted
that the halfbreed, coming from the woods bare-headed, flung an
expressive glance at the thick furs of the Philosopher.
During their meal the Painter apologized for the coarse fare--the
beans and bread, the creamless coffee; but the halfbreed gorged
hugely, and drank his molasses-sweet coffee with gusto. The Poet was
disgusted by the table manners of the jacks, for a bread-fight arose
amid jests and curses; but the halfbreed deftly caught a crust and
devoured it.
Later, the visitors went to the woods and watched the work.
Presently they came to Bigfoot Joe; the others would have passed on
but the Great Author paused and spoke.
"B'jou," replied the halfbreed, wiping his brow and staring at the
stranger.
"Is the work hard?"
"It is my work--I am strong, me! You little man, wear four eyes."
His gaze swept in contempt over the visitor. "Dis tree, she's be my
brudder; she's be tall, strong like me. 'Bon!' she's say. 'You good
lumberjack, you Joe!'" And his axe bit a deep chord of assent from
the heart of the pine.
The Great Author perceived that here was a philosopher, who drew from
the woods his one rule: "Work! You are here; so it is evident that
you were to be a lumberjack--but be careful to be a _good_
lumberjack!"
The halfbreed was a poet, for he could read the secret heart of the
woods and make response from his own. He was a painter, whose brush
was the axe; with that brush he limned great canvases, whose truth
all woodsmen loved instantly.
The Philosopher groped after his soul, the Painter strove to express
his soul, and the Poet tried to clothe his soul in words. The
half-breed, caring nothing about soul, struck fire from the spirit of
the Great Author, who knew what a plain thing the soul really is;
this, in fact, was why he was a Great Author.
And so, when he had returned again to his own country, the Great
Author neglected to write about the famous Artists. Instead, he
penned a wonderful tale about a halfbreed Indian, and the world cried
out in rapture.
But the three Artists bitterly termed him an ignorant fakir.