{"collection":"myth-cosmogony","full_text_available":true,"graph_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/api/page/gutenberg_70060/graph","html_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/page/gutenberg_70060","id":"gutenberg_70060","license":"Public Domain (US)","rights_basis":"gutenberg_metadata_copyright_false","source":"gutenberg","source_url":"https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/70060","summary":null,"tags":["Bunyan, Paul (Legendary character)","Category: American Literature","Category: Mythology, Legends & Folklore"],"text":"PAUL BUNYAN\n\n\n[Illustration]\n\n\n\n\n                             JAMES STEVENS\n\n                              PAUL BUNYAN\n\n                        WOODCUTS BY ALLAN LEWIS\n\n                             [Illustration]\n\n                                NEW YORK\n                    GARDEN CITY PUBLISHING CO., INC.\n\n\n\n\n               COPYRIGHT, 1925, BY ALFRED A. KNOPF, INC.\n\n\n          NOTE: _Four of Mr. Lewis\u2019 woodcuts were originally\n          made for, and are used by courtesy of The Century\n          Magazine._\n\n\n                                   CL\n              MANUFACTURED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA\n\n\n\n\n                                   TO\n                            OTHEMAN STEVENS\n\n\n\n\nCONTENTS\n\n\n  INTRODUCTION                               1\n\n  THE WINTER OF THE BLUE SNOW               11\n\n  THE BULL OF THE WOODS                     31\n\n  A MATTER OF HISTORY                       51\n\n  THE SOURDOUGH DRIVE                       70\n\n  THE BLACK DUCK DINNER                     90\n\n  THE OLD HOME CAMP                        114\n\n  SHANTY BOY                               132\n\n  THE KINGDOM OF KANSAS                    149\n\n  ORATORICAL MEDICINE                      169\n\n  NEW IOWA                                 188\n\n  THE HE MAN COUNTRY                       207\n\n  EVIL INVENTIONS                          225\n\n\n\n\nINTRODUCTION\n\n\nThe Paul Bunyan legend had its origin in the Papineau Rebellion of\n1837. This was a revolt of the French-Canadians against their young\nEnglish queen. In the Two Mountains country, at St. Eustache, many\nloggers armed with mattocks, axes, and wooden forks which had been\nsteamed and warped into hooks, stormed into battle. Among them was\na mighty-muscled, bellicose, bearded giant named Paul Bunyon. This\nforest warrior, with a mattock in one hand, and a great fork in the\nother, powerful as Hercules, indomitable as Spartacus, bellowing like\na furious Titan, raged among the Queen\u2019s troops like Samson among the\nPhilistines. He came out of the rebellion with great fame among his own\nkind. His slaughters got the grandeur of legend.\n\nLater this Paul Bunyon operated a logging camp. In that day logging\nwas heroic labor. In the autumn the loggers went to the woods, forcing\ntheir way in batteaux up swift rivers. On every trip there were many\nwearisome portages around rapids. Snow and ice then locked them in\ntheir camps for five or six months. The workday was from dawn to dusk.\nThe loggers lived on beans, salt pork and sourdough bread. At night\nthere were songs and tales around the shanty stove. Of course these\nwere mainly about their own life, their own heroes. The camp boss was\nlike the chief of a tribe; his will had to be the law, and he had to\nhave exceptional physical power and courage to enforce it. After his\npart in the rebellion there was no more famous camp chief in Canada\nthan Paul Bunyon.\n\nSure that the Paul Bunyan stories which have been told for generations\nin the American timberlands were of Canadian origin, I questioned many\nold time French-Canadian loggers before I found genuine proofs. At last\nI met Louis Letourneau in the Big Berry country, Puyallup, Washington.\nAnd Louis\u2019 father-in-law, Z. Berneche, a snowy-maned, shining-eyed,\nkeen-minded veteran logger of ninety years, told me about the original\nhero. His uncle, Collet Bellaine, fought by the side of Paul Bunyon,\nand later worked two seasons for him. Now, the French-Canadians have no\ngenius for the humor of purposeful exaggeration such as the Americans\nhave; the _habitans_ exaggerate honestly and enthusiastically and with\nan illusion of truth, like Tartarin of Tarascon.\n\n\u201cMy uncle, Collet Bellaine,\u201d said Mr. Berneche earnestly, \u201cknow that\nPaul Bunyon carry five hundred pounds on portage. That is truth. He was\nvery big, strong man, you understand; he fight like hell, he work like\nhell, and he pack like hell. Never was another man like Paul Bunyon.\nThat\u2019s right.\u201d\n\nIt is not difficult to imagine the _habitans_ honestly exaggerating\nthe logging feats of the war hero as they talked about him in the New\nBrunswick camps, and in Maine, and in the Great Lakes pineries. And it\nis simple for one who has seen the two races together to imagine the\nAmericans \u201cimproving\u201d on the first stories about Paul Bunyon, only to\nridicule his extravagant admirers; and then developing their own Paul\nBunyan legend to ease their weariness when their twelve-hour day was\ndone.\n\nOther evidence supports this view of the origin of the stories. There\nare stories told about an Irish-French-Canadian logger, Joe Mufraw\n(Murphy was his ancestral name); and the name of Joe Mufraw is famous\nin the woods, sometimes being linked with Paul Bunyan\u2019s. He appears in\nthe Red River Lumber Company\u2019s collection of Paul Bunyan stories. Now,\nJoe Mufraw logged in the Misstassinny River country in Quebec less than\nfifty years ago. I have seen pictures of this huge frowning man and\nhis oxen. Many old French-Canadians have sworn to me that he put the\ncalks in his boots in the shape of his initials, and that after the\nthirteenth drink he would kick his initials in a ceiling eight feet\nhigh. His feats in camp and on the log drives were as magnificent.\n\nIt was the American loggers below the Border who made of Paul Bunyon a\ntrue hero of camp nights\u2019 entertainment. They gave him Babe, the blue\nox, who measured forty-two ax handles and a plug of chewing tobacco\nbetween the horns. They created the marvelous mythical logging camp,\nwith its cookhouse of mountainous size and history of Olympian feats;\nand they peopled this camp with astounding minor heroes. They made\ntheir Paul Bunyan an inventor and orator, and an industrialist whose\nlabors surpassed those of Hercules. They devised a chronology for him;\nhe ruled American life in the period between the Winter of the Blue\nSnow and the Spring That the Rain Came Up From China. By 1860 Paul\nBunyan had become a genuine American legendary hero.\n\nPerhaps the Paul Bunyan narrator who won most lasting fame was Len Day,\nwhose firm of Len Day & Son was one of the largest lumber concerns of\nMinneapolis in the sixties. I had often heard of him; and lately Mr.\nMichael Christopher Quinn, yard superintendent for the Northwestern\nLumber Company, of Hoquiam, Washington, for twenty-two years, gave me\na first-hand account of him. In 1873 Quinn was working in a great log\ndrive down the Mississippi; his camp was at Haney Landing, Minnesota.\nLen Day was then eighty-five, a prosperous and influential lumberman.\nBut the lure of the drive and of camp life still stirred the true\nlogger\u2019s soul of him, and he came to the camp each spring. Every night\nthe gang gathered in the cookhouse to hear the old camp bard declaim a\ncanto of the Paul Bunyan epic.\n\n\u201cLen Day told the stories in sections,\u201d said Mr. Quinn.\n\nA section, or a canto, or a chapter, or whatever one may call it,\nwas delivered each night by the old lumberman, who could see toiling\ndemi-gods and sweating heroes in his dark woods, and imagined\nnarratives about them, to which he gave the substance and characters of\nthe traditional Paul Bunyan stories. Len Day had lived in New Brunswick\nin the forties and had thus heard the stories in their beginnings. The\nPaul Bunyan stories which form the body of the legend have not had\nmany changes or surviving additions in fifty years. They themselves\nare not a narrative; they exist, rather, as a group of anecdotes which\nare told among a group of camp men until the story-teller of the gang\nis started on a narrative which he makes up as he yarns along, and\nwhich may take him an hour, or three evenings, to relate. A Paul Bunyan\nbunkhouse service is a glory to hear, when it is spontaneous and in a\nproper setting; preferably around a big heater in the winter, when the\nwind is howling through crackling boughs outside, and the pungent smell\nof steaming wool drifts down from the drying lines above the stove.\nWhen the vasty spirit of the woods really moves the meeting a noble\nand expansive ecstasy of the soul is exhibited. Remarks are passed\nabout a similar night in Paul Bunyan\u2019s camp, when the wind blew so hard\nthat Big Ole, the blacksmith, had to bolt iron straps over the logs to\nkeep them from being sucked up the chimneys. The theme grows and bears\nstrange fruits; and finally the camp bard harvests them all in a story\nbased on such a venerable anecdote as that one about Big Ole toting one\nof Babe\u2019s ox shoes for half a mile and sinking knee-deep into the solid\nrock at every step.\n\nThis anecdote is what might be called a \u201ckey story,\u201d for it is one of\nthe very old ones. There are at least a hundred of these, all familiar\nto every man who has worked long in the woods. They all deal with some\nof the characters whom tradition has placed about Paul Bunyan, with\nthe mighty logger himself as the main hero; their settings are in such\nregions as the Onion River country, the Bullfrog Lake country, or the\nLeaning Pine country; and each one is a theme for gorgeous yarns, when\na knowing and gifted camp bard is inspired to use it.\n\nNowadays, with a shed garage in every logging camp, a radio in the\ncamp office, graphophones in the bunkhouses, and a jazz shack in the\nvillage just \u201cover the hump,\u201d the camp bard has a scant audience. But\nin happier times each camp enjoyed its chief story-teller; and such a\nbard could take one of the key stories and elaborate on it for hours,\nbuilding a complete narrative, picturing awe-inspiring characters,\ninventing dialogue of astonishing eloquence. (And what stupendous\ncurses, terrifying threats and verbose orations such bards as Happy\nOlsen and Old Time Sandy could invent!) It is the method of the old\nbards that I have attempted to follow in writing this book.\n\nThe art of the plain American, which in the last century brought forth\ntales and songs as native to the soil as the grass of the prairies,\nis at last perishing under the feet of the herd arts of a perfected\ndemocratic culture. The legends about Buffalo Bill and Brigham Young\nhave passed; these heroes are now plain figures in book history. Jim\nBridger, the heroic \u201cold man of the mountains,\u201d is obscenely and\nfalsely portrayed in a movie to draw snickers from the chiropractors,\npants salesmen and tin-roofers who are the passionate devotees of this\ncarnal herd art. Kentucky and Tennessee mountain folk still tell their\ntales about \u201col\u2019 Dan\u2019l,\u201d tales in which the listener will discover a\nBoone a thousand times more picturesque and grand than the hero of\nwritten history. Crockett, Carson, old Andy Jackson, Sam Houston--but\nI could name a score whom the plain man\u2019s untutored art ennobled and\nglorified in a manner that put the erudite narrators to shame. This art\nis perishing simply because Universal Education, and other blights,\ncurses and evil inventions of democracy are destroying all the old\nsimplicity, imaginativeness and self-amusement of plain American life.\n\nOnly in a few regions, and among the elders, do the creations of this\nart, this folk lore, or whatever one wills to call it, survive as\nshining memorials to sturdier and nobler days. And the legend of Paul\nBunyan is certainly the greatest of these creations; for it embodies\nthe souls of the millions of American camp men who have always done the\nhard and perilous pioneer labor of this country. It is true American\nlegend now, for Paul Bunyan, as he stands to-day, is absolutely\nAmerican from head to foot. He visualizes perfectly the American\nlove of tall talk and tall doings, the true American exuberance and\nextravagance. Beginning in Paul Bunyon, soldier with Papineau, he has\nbecome the creation of whole generations of men. Thousands of narrators\nby far-flung campfires have contributed their mites to the classical\npicture of him. And he, at least, will live as long as there is a\nforest for his refuge, as long as there are shadows and whispers of\ntrees.\n\nI want to thank the old camp comrades who have sent me so many versions\nof all the known key stories, and who have given me accounts of new\nideas. They, and several lumbermen also, have been very kind to me. And\nI owe gratitude particularly to Mr. H.\u00a0L. Mencken, of the _American\nMercury_. Without his help and encouragement the stories would not have\nbeen written.\n\n[Illustration]\n\n\n\n\nPAUL BUNYAN\n\n\n\n\nTHE WINTER OF THE BLUE SNOW\n\n\nPaul Bunyan was the one historian of the useful and the beautiful;\nother writers of history tell only of terrible and dramatic events.\nTherefore the chronicles of Paul Bunyan, the mighty logger, the\ninventor of the lumber industry, the leader-hero of the best band\nof bullies, the finest bunch of savages, that ever tramped the\ncontinent, the master orator of a land that has since grown forests of\norators--his chronicles alone tell of the Winter of the Blue Snow.\n\nThe blue snow fell first in the North. It fell scantily in its earlier\nhours, its sapphire flakes floating down on the waves of a mild winter\nwind, and glittering in an ashen gold light, a sober pale radiance\nwhich shimmered through silver mists. There was poetry in the spectacle\nof these hours. And then the hard gray ground of a peopleless land was\nhidden under a blanket of dark blue. And the nameless frozen lakes and\nrivers, the silent valleys and the windy hills of the country were\nall spread over with a sky-dyed snow. When the last light of this day\nwent out, the boughs of the great pines were creaking under heavy wet\nmasses of snow like torn bales of blue cotton. There was a rush in the\nsnowfall now, as a fiercer wind whipped it on; its heavy flakes were\ndriven down in thick, whirling clusters, in streaming veils, leaping\nlines and dashing columns; and there were cloudlike swarms of the blue\nflakes, which settled slowly, floating easily in the hard wind. This\nwind got so strong that it shivered the timber, and the piles of blue\nsnow which had gathered on the pine boughs were shaken down. Most of\nthis snow fell into blue mounds around the trees, but some of it fell\non the fauna of the forest, adding to their troublement.\n\nAt the time of the Winter of the Blue Snow, the forest creatures of\nthis land lived a free and easy life. Man was not there to embarrass\nthem with accusations of trespass and to slay them for their ignorance\nof the crime. Their main problem was the overcrowding of the forests.\nThe vast moose herds, who populated the woods so densely that traffic\nthrough their favorite timber was dangerous, made the matter of getting\nfood a simple one for the carnivorous animals. There were many moose to\nspare, and the elders of the herds, like most prolific parents, never\nbecame frantically resentful over the loss of an offspring. The moose\nthemselves, of course, lived easily on the crisp, juicy moose grass\nwhich grew so plenteously in these regions before the blue snow. So the\ncarnivorous creatures of the forests lived a fast and furious life;\nand it is certain that if they were capable of praise, they had good\npraises for the moose meat which they got with such little difficulty.\nThe coal-black bruins of the North were an especially happy crowd.\nTheirs was a gay, frolicsome life in the summer time, when the big\nbruins danced and galloped through sunny valleys and the small ones had\nrolling races on shady hillsides. In the fall, all fat and drowsy from\nmoose meat, the bruins would go to sleep in their warm caves and dream\npleasantly all winter.\n\nThey were all dreaming now; and the blue snow would no doubt have\nfallen and melted away without their knowledge had it not been for the\nmoose herds which crowded the forest aisles. Moose at that time did not\nhave it in them to enjoy wonder, and they had not learned to combat\nfear, for they were never afraid. Still, they had some imagination,\nand the moose trembled when the first blue snowflakes fell among them.\nThey kept up an appearance of unconcern at first, eating moose moss as\nusual; but they sniffed gingerly at the blue streaks in it, and they\nstole furtive glances at each other as they bravely ate. This strange\nsnowfall was certainly breeding fear of it in the hearts of all the\nmoose, but each one seemed determined to be the last one to show it.\nHowever, as the day-end got near, and the wind grew more boisterous,\nshaking snow masses from the trees, some of the moose had fits of\ntrembling and eye-rolling which they could not conceal. When a heap\nof snow dropped on the back of some timid moose, he would twist his\nhead sharply and stare with bulging eyes at the mysteriously fearsome\ncolor, then he would prance wildly until the unwelcome snow was bucked\nfrom his shivering back. When the early shadows of evening came among\nthe trees, the moose all had a heavy darkness of fear in their hearts.\nLittle was needed to put them in a panic.\n\nIt was a great bull moose, a herd king, who forgot the example he owed\nto his weaker kindred and unloosed a thunderous bellow of terror which\nstarted the moose flight, the first memorable incident of the Winter\nof the Blue Snow. An overladen bough cracked above him; it fell and\nstraddled him from quivering tail to flailing horns, burying him under\nits wet blue load. He reared out roaring, and his own herd echoed the\ncry; then a storm of moose bellows crashed through the forest. This\ntumult died, but there followed the earth-shaking thunder of a stampede.\n\nThe bruins, awakened from their pleasant dreams, came out from their\ncaves and blinked at the hosts of terrified moose which were galloping\npast. The earth-shaking uproar of the flight at last thoroughly aroused\nthe bruins, and they began to sniff the air uneasily. Then they noticed\nthe blue snow; and now in front of every cave crowds of bruins were\nstaring down at the snow; and each bruin was swaying heavily, lifting\nhis left front foot as he swayed to the right, and lifting his right\nfront foot as he swayed to the left. The bruins had no courage either,\nand, once they had got sleep out of their heads, nearly all of them\ntook out after the moose herds. The wind roared louder with every\npassing minute this night. And the flakes of the blue snow were as\ndense as the particles of a fog. At dawn a blue blizzard was raging.\nBut the fauna of the forest plunged tirelessly on, seeking a refuge of\nwhite snow.\n\nAnd Niagara, made faithless by the Blue Terror, galloped behind\nthem--Niagara, the great moose hound, bread-winner for the student of\nhistory, Paul Bunyon (his real name), and his companion also.\n\nPaul Bunyon lived at Tonnere Bay. He dwelt in a cave that was as large\nas ten Mammoth Caves and which had a roof loftier than any tower or\nspire. But this cave was none too vast for Paul Bunyon, the one man\nof this region, but one man as great as a city of ordinary men. His\ntarpaulins and blankets covered one-fourth of the cave floor; his\nhunting clothes, traps and seines filled another quarter; and the rest\nof the space was occupied by a fireplace and his papers and books.\n\nFor Paul Bunyon was a student now. There had been a time when he\nhad gone forth in the hunting and fishing season to gather the huge\nsupplies of provender which he required, but now his days and nights\nwere all spent with his books. Paul Bunyon\u2019s favorite food was raw\nmoose meat, and after he found Niagara in the Tall Wolf country he no\nlonger needed to hunt. Each night Niagara trotted out in the darkness\nand satisfied his own hunger, then he carried mouthfuls of moose to\nthe cave until he had a day\u2019s supply of meat for his master. Niagara\nwas ever careful not to frighten the moose herds; he hunted stealthily\nand with quiet. The moose at night were only conscious of a dark cloud\nlooming over them, then numbers of the herds would disappear without\npainful sound. The moose, if they had thought about it, would have been\nonly thankful to Niagara for lessening the congestion of the forests.\n\nSo Paul Bunyon fared well on the moose meat which Niagara brought him,\nand he lived contentedly as a student in his cave at Tonnere Bay. Each\nday he studied, and far into the night he figured. Taking a trimmed\npine tree for a pencil, he would char its end in the fire and use the\ncave floor for a slate. He was not long in learning all the history\nworth knowing, and he became as good a figurer as any man could be.\n\nVague ambitions began to stir in his soul after this and he often\ndeserted his studies to dream about them. He knew he would not spend\nhis days forever in the cave at Tonnere Bay. Somewhere in the future\na great Work was waiting to be done by him. Now it was only a dream;\nbut he was sure that it would be a reality; and he came to think more\nand more about it. The books were opened less and less; the pine tree\npencil was seldom brought from its corner. Paul Bunyon now used another\npine tree which still had its boughs; it was a young one, and he\nbrushed his curly black beard with it as he dreamed. But he was still\na contented man at the time of the Winter of the Blue Snow, for his\ndreams had not yet blazed up in a desire for any certain attainment.\n\nOn the first day of the blue snow, Paul Bunyon was in a particularly\ncontented mood. He sat all that day before his fire; so charmed with\ndrowsy thoughts was he that he did not once look out. It had been dark\na long time before he rolled into his blankets. He awoke at the dawn\nof a day that had scarcely more light than the night. He was cold, and\nhe got up to throw an armful of trees on the fire. Then he saw the\nblue drifts which had piled up before the cave, and he saw the fog of\nthe blue blizzard. He heard the roar of a terrific wind, too, and he\nknew that the storm was perilous as well as strange. But Paul Bunyon\nthought gladly of the blue snow, for it was a beautiful event, and the\nhistorians he liked most would write wonderful books about it.\n\nHe kicked the drifts away from the cave entrance, but the usual pile of\nslain moose was not under them. Paul Bunyon was a little worried, as he\nthought that Niagara might have lost himself in the blue blizzard. The\npossibility that the unnatural color of the storm might send the fauna\nof the forest, and Niagara as well, into panicky flight did not occur\nto him. He was sure that Niagara would return with a grand supply of\nmoose meat when the blue blizzard had passed.\n\nBut the moose herds were now far to the North, fleeing blindly from\nthe blue snow. The bruins galloped after them. Before the day was\nover, Niagara had overtaken the bruins and was gaining on the moose.\nAt nightfall his lunging strides had carried him far ahead of all the\nfauna of the forest. He galloped yet faster as he reached the blacker\ndarkness of the Arctic winter. Now the darkness was so heavy that even\nhis powerful eyes could not see in it.... Niagara at last ran head-on\ninto the North Pole; the terrific speed at which he was traveling\nthrew his body whirling high in the air; when Niagara fell he crashed\nthrough ninety feet of ice, and the polar fields cracked explosively as\nhis struggles convulsed the waters under them.... Then only mournful\nblasts of wind sounded in the night of the Farthest North.\n\nThe moose were wearied out before they reached the white Arctic, and\nhordes of them fell and perished in the blizzard; many others died from\nfright, and only a tiny remnant of the great herds survived. Some of\nthe bruins reached the polar fields, and they have lived there since.\nTheir hair had turned white from fright, and their descendants still\nwear that mark of fear. Others were not frightened so much, and their\nhair only turned gray. They did not run out of the timber, and their\ndescendants, the silver-tip grizzlies, still live in the Northern\nwoods. The baby bruins were only scared out of their growth, and their\nblack descendants now grow no larger than the cubs of Paul Bunyon\u2019s\ntime.\n\nBeing ignorant of this disaster, Paul Bunyon was comfortable enough\nwhile the blizzard lasted. He had a good store of trees on hand and\nhis cave was warm in the storm. He got hungry in the last days; but\nthis emotion, or any emotion, for that matter, could have but little\npower over him when he was dreaming. And he dreamed deeply now of\ngreat enterprises; his dreams were formless, without any substance of\nreality; but they had brilliant colors, and they made him very hopeful.\n\nThe sun shone at last from a whitish blue sky, and the strange snow\nfell no more. A snapping cold was in the land; and pine boughs were\nbangled and brocaded with glittering blue crystals, and crusty blue\nsnow crackled underfoot.\n\nPaul Bunyon strapped on his snow shoes and started out through the\nBorder forests in search of Niagara. His was a kingly figure as he\nmushed through the pine trees, looming above all but the very tallest\nof them. He wore a wine-red hunting cap, and his glossy hair and beard\nshone under it with a blackness that blended with the cap\u2019s color\nperfectly. His unique eyebrows were black also; covering a fourth of\nhis forehead above the eyes, they narrowed where they arched down under\nhis temples, and they ended in thin curls just in front of his ears.\nHis mustache had natural twirls and he never disturbed it. He wore a\nyellow muffler this morning under his virile curly beard. His mackinaw\ncoat was of huge orange and purple checks. His mackinaw pants were\nsober-seeming, having tan and light gray checks, but some small crimson\ndots and crosses brightened them. Green wool socks showed above his\nblack boots, which had buckskin laces and big brass eyelets and hooks.\nAnd he wore striped mittens of white and plum color. Paul Bunyon was\na gorgeous picture this morning in the frozen fields and forests, all\ncovered with blue snow which sparkled in a pale gold light.\n\nThat day and the next, and for five more days, he searched in vain for\nNiagara; and neither did he see any moose herds in the woods. Only the\nfrost crackles broke the silences of the deserted blue forests. And at\nlast Paul Bunyon returned to his cave, feeling depressed and lonely. He\nhad not thought that the companionship of Niagara could mean so much to\nhim. In his mood of depression he forgot his hunger and made no further\neffort to find food.\n\nLonely Paul Bunyon lay sleepless in his blankets this night, his eyes\ngleaming through hedgelike eyelashes as their gaze restlessly followed\nthe red flares that shot from the fire and streaked the walls and roof\nof the cave. He did not realize that his first creative idea was now\nstruggling for birth. He could yet feel no shape of it. He was only\nconscious of an unaccustomed turmoil of mind. Wearied with fruitless\nthought, he at last fell into a doze. But Paul Bunyon was not fated to\nsleep this night. A sustained crashing roar, as of the splintering of\nmillions of timbers, brought him up suddenly; it was hushed for a short\nsecond; then a thudding boom sounded from Tonnere Bay. Paul Bunyon\nleaped to the cave door, and in the moonlight he saw a white wave of\nwater rolling over the blue beach. It came near to the cave before it\nstopped and receded. He pulled on his boots, and two strides brought\nhim down to the bay. It had been covered with ice seven feet thick, and\nthe cakes of this broken ice were now tossing on heaving waters. Now\nPaul Bunyon saw two ears show sometimes above the billows; they were\nof the shape of moose ears, but enormous as his two forefingers. Paul\nBunyon waded out into the waters, and he reached these ears a mile from\nshore. He seized them without fear and he lifted ... now a head with\nclosed eyes appeared ... shoulders and forelegs ... body and hips ...\nrear legs and curled tail. It was a calf, newborn apparently, though it\nwas of such a size that Paul Bunyon had to use both arms to carry it.\n\n\u201c_Nom d\u2019un nom!_\u201d exclaimed Paul Bunyon. \u201c_Pauvre petite bleue b\u00eate!_\u201d\n\nFor this great baby calf was of a bright blue hue which was neither\ndarker nor lighter than the color of the beautiful strange snow. A blue\nbaby ox calf. For such was its sex. Its ears drooped pitifully, and\nits scrawny, big-jointed legs hung limply below Paul Bunyon\u2019s arms. A\nspasmodic shiver ran from its head to its tail, and its savior was glad\nto feel this shiver, for it showed that life remained. Paul Bunyon was\ntouched with a tenderness that drove out his loneliness. \u201c_Ma b\u00eate_,\u201d\nhe said. \u201c_Mon cher bleu b\u00e9b\u00e9 ausha._\u201d\n\nHe turned back through the waters, and the ice cakes pounded each other\ninto bits as they rolled together in his wake. In thirty seconds Paul\nBunyon was back in his cave. He spread out his blankets in front of the\nfire, and he laid B\u00e9b\u00e9 upon them.\n\nThrough the night Paul Bunyon worked over the blue ox calf, nursing\nhim back to warm life; and in the morning B\u00e9b\u00e9 was breathing regularly\nand seemed to rest. Paul Bunyon leaned over to hear his exhalations,\nand the blue ox calf suddenly opened his mouth and caressed Paul\nBunyon\u2019s neck with his tongue. Paul Bunyon then discovered that he was\nticklish in this region, for the caress impelled him to roll and laugh.\nThe serious student Paul Bunyon had never laughed before; and he now\nenjoyed the new pleasure to the utmost.\n\n\u201c_Eh, B\u00e9b\u00e9!_\u201d he chuckled. \u201c_Eh, B\u00e9b\u00e9! Sacre bleu! Bon bleu, mon\ncher!_\u201d B\u00e9b\u00e9 raised his eyelids with astonishment upon hearing this\ncave-shaking chuckle, revealing large, bulging orbs which were of even\na heavenlier blue than his silken hair. Such affection and intelligence\nshone in his eyes that Paul Bunyon wished he would keep his eyes\nopened. But B\u00e9b\u00e9 was weary and weak, and he closed them again.\n\nHe is hungry, thought Paul Bunyon; and he went out to find him food.\nNone of the animals he knew about could supply milk for such a calf as\nthis blue B\u00e9b\u00e9. But he was newborn and his parents should be somewhere\nin the neighborhood. Paul Bunyon stepped up on the cliff over which\nB\u00e9b\u00e9 had bounced when he fell into Tonnere Bay. From here a wide swath\nof smashed timber ran straight up the side of the tallest Northern\nmountain. It was here that B\u00e9b\u00e9 had made his thunderous roll of the\nnight before.\n\nSix strides brought Paul Bunyon to the mountain-top. One of its jagged\npeaks was broken off, showing where B\u00e9b\u00e9 had stumbled over it and\nfallen. Then Paul Bunyon followed the calf tracks down the land side of\nthe mountain. For two hours he trailed them, but they grew fainter as\nhe went on, and in the Big Bay country the last fall of the blue snow\nhad covered them. Paul Bunyon now had no doubt that B\u00e9b\u00e9\u2019s mother had\nbeen frightened by the strange color of the snow and that his blueness\nwas a birthmark. Like Niagara and the fauna of the forest, the parents\nhad stampeded, forgetting the little one. It was no use to search for\nthem.\n\nPaul Bunyon circled back through the forest and gathered a great load\nof moose moss before he returned to the cave. This rich food would\nmeet the lack of milk. B\u00e9b\u00e9 was asleep before the fireplace when Paul\nBunyon returned, and he still slumbered while his friend prepared him\nsome moose moss soup. But when a kettle full of steaming odorous food\nwas set before him, he opened his eyes with amazing energy and sat up.\nIt was then that B\u00e9b\u00e9 first showed the depth and circumference of his\nnatural appetite, an appetite which was to have its effect on history.\nHe drank most of the moose moss soup at three gulps, he seized the rim\nof the kettle in his teeth and tilted it up until even the last ten\ngallons were drained out of it; then, looking roguishly at Paul Bunyon\nthe while, he bit off a large section of the kettle rim and chewed it\ndown, switching his pretty tail to show his enjoyment.\n\n\u201c_Eh, B\u00e9b\u00e9!_\u201d roared Paul Bunyon, doubling up with laughter for the\nsecond time in his life. And he praised the blue snow for giving him\nsuch a creature, and did not mourn Niagara, who had never been amusing.\nBut now, as Paul Bunyon doubled over for another rare roar of laughter,\nhe got one more surprise. He was struck with terrifical force from the\nrear and knocked flat. Paul Bunyon hit the cave floor so hard that\nits walls were shaken, and a cloud of stones dropped from the roof,\ncovering him from his hips to his thighs. Paul Bunyon dug himself out\nwith no displeasure. He was marveling too much to be wrathful.\n\nThere is strength in this baby animal, he thought; surely he has the\nmuscle and energy for great deeds; for that was such a tremendous\nbutting he gave me that I am more comfortable standing than sitting. So\nhe stood and admired this strong and energetic ox calf, who was calmly\nseated on his haunches before the fireplace, now throwing his head to\nthe right as he licked his right shoulder, now throwing his head to\nthe left as he licked his left shoulder. While Paul Bunyon admired,\nhe pondered; then, even as B\u00e9b\u00e9 had given him his first laugh, the ox\ncalf now showed him the outline of his first real idea. The thought\nstruck him that his student\u2019s life was finally over; there was nothing\nmore for him to learn; there was everything for him to do. The hour for\naction was at hand.\n\nIndeed, if he was to keep this blue ox calf, action was truly\nnecessary. B\u00e9b\u00e9 had shown that his super-abundance of vitality made him\ndangerous as well as delightful and amusing. This inexhaustible energy\nof his must be put to work; this vast store of power in an ox-hide\nshould be developed and harnessed to give reality to some one of Paul\nBunyon\u2019s vague dreams.\n\nSoon the well-fed blue ox calf lay down and slept contentedly. But Paul\nBunyon did not sleep. One after another, occupations, enterprises and\nindustries which would be worthy of his knowledge and his extraordinary\nmental and physical powers, and which would also offer labor great\nenough for B\u00e9b\u00e9 when he was grown, were considered by Paul Bunyon; but\nnothing that he thought about satisfied him in the least. Certainly he\nwould have to invent something new; and as he thought of invention, his\nimagination blazed up like a fire in a dry forest. He was so unused\nto it that it got out of control, and its smoky flames hid his idea\nrather than illuminating it.\n\nWearied at last, he lay on his side, for he remembered his bruises,\nand he fell into a troubled doze. Now he dreamed and saw great blazing\nletters which formed the words REAL AMERICA. He sat up, and his bruises\ngave him such sudden pain that the dream vanished utterly. But he\ndreamed again before morning. In this second dream he saw no words, but\na forest. A flame like a scythe blade sheared through the trees and\nthey fell. Then Paul Bunyon saw in his dream a forest of stumps, and\ntrees were fallen among them.\n\nFor many days Paul Bunyon thought about these dreams as he gathered\nmoose moss for B\u00e9b\u00e9 and seined fish from the bay for himself. And for\nmany nights he tried to dream again, but his sleep was the untroubled\nsleep of the weary.\n\nB\u00e9b\u00e9 grew wonderfully as the weeks went by, and the moose moss made\nhim saucy as well as fat. His bulging blue eyes got a jovial look that\nwas never to leave them. His bellow already had bass tones in it. He\nwould paw and snort and lift his tail as vigorously as any ordinary ox\nten times his age. His chest deepened, his back widened, muscle-masses\nbegan to swell and quiver under the fat of his shoulders and haunches.\nThe drifts of the beautiful unnatural snow melted away in streams of\nblue water, and the marvelous color of this historical winter vanished,\nbut the glittering blue of B\u00e9b\u00e9\u2019s silken hair remained. His tail brush\nwas of a darker blue; it looked like a heavily foliaged cypress bough\nin purple twilight; and B\u00e9b\u00e9 was proud of this wonderful tail brush\nthat belonged to him, for he would twist it from behind him and turn\nhis head and stare at it by the hour.\n\nNow spring came and Paul Bunyon determined to start out with his blue\nox calf and try to find the meanings of his dreams. The bright warm\nhours of these days gave him a tormenting physical restlessness;\nand his imagination ranged through a thousand lands, playing over a\nthousand activities. It was certainly the time to begin a Life Work.\n\nEach day Paul Bunyon pondered his two dreams without finding\nsubstantial meaning in them. The first one indicated that he should go\nto Real America; and this Paul Bunyon finally resolved to do, hoping\nthat he would discover the Work that was meant for him and the blue ox\ncalf. He knew that he could not fare worse in that land, for few of\nthe fauna of his native country had returned with the spring, and Paul\nBunyon could not live well on a fish diet. B\u00e9b\u00e9\u2019s growing appetite,\ntoo, made some move a necessity, for the blue snow had killed the\nmoose grass, and moose moss was a dry food without nourishment in the\nsummer. The more Paul Bunyon thought about Real America, the better\nhe liked the idea of going there. Moose and grass, at least, were to\nbe found across the Border. And no doubt Real America was his Land of\nOpportunity.\n\nSo one fine day Paul Bunyon and B\u00e9b\u00e9 came down to the Border. The blue\nox calf frolicked with his master and bellowed happily when he saw\nthe green grass and clover on the hills of Real America. He was for\nrushing over at once, but Paul Bunyon, the student, was not unmindful\nof his duty to his new country; he would not enter it without fitting\nceremonies and pledges, though B\u00e9b\u00e9 butted him soundly in resenting the\ndelay.\n\nNow Paul Bunyon lifted his hands solemnly and spoke in the rightful\nlanguage of Real America.\n\n\u201cIn becoming a Real American, I become Paul _Bunyan_,\u201d he declared. \u201cI\nam Paul _Bunyon_ no more. Even so shall my blue ox calf be called Babe,\nand B\u00e9b\u00e9 no longer. We are now Real Americans both, hearts, souls and\nhides.\u201d\n\nAfter uttering these words with feeling and solemnity, an emotion more\nexpansive, more uplifting and more inspiring than any he had ever known\npossessed Paul Bunyan and transfigured him. His chest swelled, his eyes\ndanced and glittered, and his cheeks shone rosily through the black\ncurls of his beard.\n\n\u201cAnd I\u2019m glad of it!\u201d he roared. \u201cBy the holy old mackinaw, and by the\nhell-jumping, high-tailed, fuzzy-eared, whistling old jeem cris and\nseventeen slippery saints, I\u2019m _proud_ of it, too! Gloriously proud!\u201d\n\nThen he felt amazed beyond words that the simple fact of entering Real\nAmerica and becoming a Real American could make him feel so exalted, so\npure, so noble, so good. And an indomitable conquering spirit had come\nto him also. He now felt that he could whip his weight in wildcats,\nthat he could pull the clouds out of the sky, or chew up stones, or\ntell the whole world anything.\n\n\u201cSince becoming a Real American,\u201d roared Paul Bunyan, \u201cI can look any\nman straight in the eye and tell him to go to hell! If I could meet a\nman of my own size, I\u2019d prove this instantly. We may find such a man\nand celebrate our naturalization in a Real American manner. We shall\nsee. Yay, Babe!\u201d\n\nThen the two great Real Americans leaped over the Border. Freedom\nand Inspiration and Uplift were in the very air of this country, and\nBabe and Paul Bunyan got more noble feelings in every breath. They\nwere greatly exhilarated physically at first; and they galloped over\nvalleys and hills without looking about them, but only breathing this\nsoul-flushing air and roaring and bellowing their delight in it.\n\nBut before the day was over, Paul Bunyan discovered that Real America\nhad its sober, matter-of-fact side also. A whisper stirred in his\nheart: \u201cTo work! Take advantage of your opportunity!\u201d The whisper got\nlouder and more insistent every moment; and at last the idea it spoke\npossessed Paul Bunyan, and he sat down to ponder it, letting Babe graze\nand roll on the clover-covered hills.\n\nNow the whisper became an insistent cry: \u201cWork! Work! Work!\u201d Paul\nBunyan looked up, and he seemed to see the word shining among the\nclouds; he looked down then into the vast valley, and he seemed to\nsee--by the holy old mackinaw! he did see--the forest of his second\ndream! And now he knew it: his Life Work was to begin here.\n\nFor many days and nights Paul Bunyan pondered on the hillside before\nthe Great Idea came to him. Like all Great Ideas, it was simple enough,\nonce he had thought of it. Real America was covered with forests. A\nforest was composed of trees. A felled and trimmed tree was a log. Paul\nBunyan threw aside his pine tree beard brush and jumped to his feet\nwith a great shout.\n\n\u201cWhat greater work could be done in Real America than to make logs from\ntrees?\u201d he cried. \u201cLogging! I shall invent this industry and make it\nthe greatest one of all time! I shall become a figure as admired in\nhistory as any of the great ones I have read about.\u201d\n\nPaul Bunyan then delivered his first oration. The blue ox calf was his\nonly listener; and this was a pity, for Paul Bunyan\u2019s first oratorical\neffort, inspired as it was, surely was one of his noblest ones. But we\nknow the outline of this oration, if not the words. It dealt mainly\nwith the logging method which he had devised in the moment, the one\nwhich he used in his first work. So he told of his plan to uproot the\ntrees by hand, and to transport the logs overland, binding a bundle of\nthem on one side of Babe, and hanging a sack of rocks from the other\nside for ballast. It was months after this that he made his first\nimprovement, the using of a second bundle of logs, instead of rocks,\nfor ballast. And at this moment Paul Bunyan, for all his foresight and\nimagination, could not have dreamed of the superb tools and marvelous\nlogging methods that he was to originate, or of the countless crews of\nlittle loggers that he was to import from France, Ireland, Scotland and\nScandinavia, or of the tremendous river drives and the mammoth camp\nlife he was to create. He would have been bewildered then by the fact\nthat he would some day need a foreman as grand as himself for his Life\nWork; and the notion that he would some day need help in his figuring\nwould have seemed like a far-fetched jest.\n\nNo; in this first oration, imaginative and eloquent as it must have\nbeen, Paul Bunyan only spoke of simple work for himself and Babe. But\nhe only tells us that the oration was not a long one, for the call to\nWork came more insistently as he ended each period. At last he had to\nanswer this powerful call. He commanded, \u201cYay, Babe!\u201d and the baby blue\nox and Paul Bunyan descended into the valley to begin the first logging\nin the Real American woods.\n\n[Illustration]\n\n\n\n\nTHE BULL OF THE WOODS\n\n\n\u201cThe straw boss is the backbone of industry,\u201d was a favorite saying of\nPaul Bunyan\u2019s. This sage observation is constantly repeated to-day by\nindustrialists who are so overwhelmed by salesmen, efficiency experts,\nwelfare workers and the like that they are forced to leave production\nin the hands of the powerful race of foremen.\n\nPaul Bunyan had become a true man of the woods, and paperwork troubled\nhim. He was fortunate in discovering the greatest man with figures\nthat ever lived to do his office work for him, and this man, Johnny\nInkslinger, did all the figuring alone after he came to camp. But\nbefore the renowned timekeeper was found the keeping of his accounts\nand records was Paul Bunyan\u2019s largest difficulty. He figured wearily\nand the smell of ink often made him sick. His logging operations grew\nmore extensive as time went on. He brought crews of great little men\nfrom overseas and organized his first logging camp. He cleared off\nseven hundred townships in the Smiling River country for a big farm,\nand John Shears, his earnest boss farmer, managed it so efficiently\nthat new companies of loggers had to be added to the camp each season\nto use up the produce; consequently, more and more timber was being\nfelled as each season ran its course.\n\nAt last it got so that figuring occupied all of Paul Bunyan\u2019s time\nbetween supper and breakfast, and then he had to take time away from\nwork in the woods for the keeping of his accounts. In vain he tried to\nincrease his speed as a figurer. He learned to write with both hands\nat once; but this was no use, for the two sets of figures would mix up\nin his head and result in confusion. He invented the multiplication\ntable, cube root and algebra, but production increased so fast that\nthese short cuts gave him no more time than before for the woods. Then\nhe gave in to necessity and looked about for help. No figurers were\nanywhere to be discovered, so Paul Bunyan invented bossmen to carry on\nthe work in the woods while he held forth in the office.\n\nHis first foreman was Gun Gunderson, commonly known as \u201cShot\u201d Gunderson\nbecause of his explosive nature. He originated the \u201cHigh-ball System,\u201d\nwhich is still used in some logging camps. Much of the loggers\u2019 tough\nvocabulary has come down from him. His favorite words of encouragement\nwere: \u201cPut a better notch in that stick or I\u2019ll cave your head in!\u201d\n\u201cHeave harder on that peavy handle, you gizzardless scissor-bill, or\nI\u2019ll put the calks to you!\u201d He began to lose power when the loggers\nlearned his lingo and came back at him fiercely in his own words.\nHis downfall happened in the second winter on Tadpole River, in the\nBullfrog Lake country. That was the winter of the Big Wind, which blew\nso hard for four months that Shot Gunderson had to yell at the top of\nhis voice to be heard in its howling blasts. His voice cracked under\nthe strain and then, of course, his chief strength as a boss was gone.\nHe became a plain logger again, and Chris Crosshaulsen succeeded him.\n\nThis industrious man was a worthy and well-beloved boss, but he, too,\nhad a fatal weakness. Such a passion for river driving did he possess\nthat he could never stop the drive at its destination, but he would run\nthe logs on for miles and then drive them back again. This upstream\ndriving was terrible labor, for each logger had to drive one log at\na time; treading it, he would roll it against the current. So much\ntime and energy was wasted for Chris Crosshaulsen\u2019s pleasure that Paul\nBunyan was forced to depose him.\n\nThe next chief was Ole Olsen. He was so loved that countless loggers\nhave been named after him, but his tender heart made him a failure as\na boss. Other bosses were Lars Larsen, Swan Swanson, Pete Peterson,\nJohn Johnson, Jens Jensen, Anders Anderson, Hans Hansen, and Eric\nEricksen. They were all noble men, and loggers and mill men are still\nnamed in their honor. But not one was powerful enough to keep his job\nas Paul Bunyan\u2019s aide. Once, indeed, it was thought that an ideal\nforeman had been discovered when a burly man who called himself Murph\nMurpheson was put on the job. But one night he was heard talking\nGaelic in his sleep. Cross-questioned, he admitted that his true name\nwas Pat Murphy; knowing Paul Bunyan\u2019s predilection for Scandinavian\nforemen he had called himself Murph Murpheson in order to get his high\nposition. Deceit was the one human frailty that the great logger had\nno tolerance for, and the Irish boss followed his predecessors.\n\nPaul Bunyan was now without a foreman, and he had never had a greater\nneed for a good one. For his next project was to log off the Dakota\ncountry, which was then known as the region of the Mountain That Stood\nOn Its Head. Difficulties loomed before him which only he or a better\nforeman than he had yet discovered could surmount. Unless he discovered\neither a great figurer or a great foreman success would be improbable.\n\nThen fortune shone on him with sudden, dazzling brightness. For word\ncame down through the woods that the mightiest logger of Sweden was\ntramping overland for Paul Bunyan\u2019s camp. The gossip that ran before\nhim called him Sweden\u2019s greatest milker also; and some whispered that\nhe was the greatest fisherman and the greatest hunter of that country\nof superb giants. It was rumored that he was taller than a tree, as\ntall as Paul Bunyan and as wide, and that he feared no man. The great\nlogger, toiling over his vast ledgers, heard and hoped that the perfect\nforeman was coming to him at last.\n\nHe arrived at the end of a bright June day. The loggers were at supper,\nhappily occupied with pea soup and hard-tack, which were their only\nrations at that time. The soup bowls before the loggers were emptying\nfast, and the cookhouse resounded with a hissing rumble, to which the\nclangor of the spoons striking the bottoms of the bowls was presently\nadded. Then above the noise was heard a slow muffled \u201cboom ... boom\n... boom.\u201d\n\nThe loggers listened and wondered. \u201cOl\u2019 Paul\u2019s walkin\u2019 heavy this\nevenin\u2019,\u201d said some. Said others, \u201cBut it don\u2019t sound like Ol\u2019 Paul\u2019s\nstep anyway.\u201d The booming tramp sounded nearer; the cookhouse began\nto shake; the loggers, curious and wondering, gulped down the last of\ntheir soup and hurried outside.\n\nThrough the trees that covered the slopes above the camp they saw a\ngreat man approaching. He was not as tall as the tallest trees, but\nthe shortest ones were no higher than his waist. Yellow bristles\nprotruded through the crevices in the hat that was cocked on one side\nof his head; he walked with a swagger that sent the limbs crashing as\nhe swayed against them; a good-sized pine tree stood in his way, and\nhe cast it aside and marched on. When he had reached the center of the\ncamp he stopped and said in a commanding voice, \u201cAye wan\u2019 see Paul\nBunyan.\u201d\n\nWhile he waited the loggers gazed in awe on his heroic figure, and they\nwhispered to one another that here at last was the Swede of wonderful\ndeeds. It was indeed a marvelous moment for them. Every real logger\nto-day would give ten years of his life to have been among the men who\nfirst saw Hels Helsen the mighty, the Big Swede, the incomparable Bull\nof the Woods.\n\nWhen Paul Bunyan came forth he made no attempt to conceal his pleasure\nover the newcomer. For the first time in months the darkness of worry\nlifted from his countenance and a smile shone through his beard. He\nshook hands awkwardly, as this was a novel experience for him. Here was\na man whom he did not have to look down upon to see, one man who could\nreach above the great logger\u2019s boot tops. Surely he would make an ideal\nforeman; though a fierce light glittered at moments in his blue eyes,\nhis grin showed that he possessed the amiability that a good foreman\nmust have; being a Swede, he was certainly trustworthy and obedient.\n\nIn broken Real American Hels Helsen began to tell Paul Bunyan of the\npurpose of his journey from the old country. But he got no further than\nan account of his hard tramp over the polar lands, where he had lived\non white bear meat and whale steak, when Paul Bunyan stopped him.\n\n\u201cA mountain of energy, a river of power like yourself does not need to\nmake explanations or ask me for anything,\u201d said the mighty logger. \u201cI\nappoint you foreman at once, without question.\u201d\n\n\u201cFooreman?\u201d asked Hels Helsen, seemingly puzzled.\n\n\u201cYes,\u201d said Paul Bunyan heartily. \u201cYou shall be boss over all my\nloggers in the timber and on the drives. Honor and glory will be yours,\nfor you shall be remembered as long as men fell trees. I will give you\na fitting title. I call you \u2018the Bull of the Woods,\u2019 a name which shall\nbe applied to only the greatest of woods bosses hereafter because you\nwere the first to have it.\u201d\n\n\u201cHar noo--\u201d began Hels Helsen; but his words were drowned in the great\ncheer which had arisen from the excited loggers.\n\nTheir enthusiasm inspired Paul Bunyan to make one of his famous\nspeeches. He spoke for an hour about the historic accomplishment that\nwas now certain in the logging off of the Mountain That Stood On Its\nHead.\n\n\u201cA cheer now, my men, for Hels Helsen, the Bull of the Woods!\u201d Thus\nPaul Bunyan ended his speech; and the loggers responded with a shout\nthat sounded like one throat had made it.\n\nSeveral times during the early part of the speech Hels Helsen had\nattempted to interrupt Paul Bunyan, but he was always silenced by the\nmatchless eloquence of the master orator. And when the loggers cheered\nhim he kept in his heart whatever he wanted to say; he frowned and\nmumbled powerfully for a moment; but then he grinned and obediently\nfollowed Paul Bunyan into the camp office.\n\nThe virgin Dakota country of that time had what was no doubt the most\nbeautiful and unique scenic feature in Real America. In the center of\na forested plain stood the largest and most original of all mountains,\nthe Mountain That Stood On Its Head. Its peak was buried in the ground,\nand its slopes ran outward, instead of in toward its summit. It was\nfive miles in a direct line from the head of the mountain and up the\nslope to the rim of its foot; ascent would seem impossible to any\nbeholder, for a climber up the mountain side would necessarily have to\nmove with his feet uppermost or else walk with his head. The stubborn\npine trees on the mountain sides had refused to grow unnaturally;\nthey had kept their roots in the ground, and their tops all pointed\ndownward. The summit of the mountain (perhaps I should go on saying\n\u201cfoot,\u201d but this might prove confusing) was a plain two miles above\na plain, for it was flat and heavily timbered with the noblest of\nclose-grained pine. This unnatural but wonderful mountain top was in\nthe form of a true circle which was one hundred and twenty-seven miles\nin circumference. At one place the rim of the circle rose gently, and a\nmild slope ran away from it towards the center of the plain. Here were\nthe High Springs, whose waters formed Lofty River and flowed smoothly\nthrough aisles of pine and wound among meadows which were abloom with\nmountain orchids and fragrant with purple clover. The falls in which\nthe river made its two mile drop to the plain below had been named\nNiagara by Paul Bunyan, to honor the memory of his old moose hound, and\nthe name was later passed on to a little waterfall along the Border.\n\nIt was to this place of scenic grandeur that Paul Bunyan now moved\nhis camp. It was here that he was determined to try out Hels Helsen\nand make him prove his right to the title of Bull of the Woods. The\ncamp was put in order; the axmen and sawyers were given their stations\nin the woods, trails were swamped out for Babe, the big blue ox, to\nuse in snaking the logs to the landings, Hels Helsen was given final\ninstructions. Paul Bunyan then retired with a sigh to his ledgers, and\nthe logging began.\n\nPaul Bunyan had figured that it would require two seasons to log off\nDakota; one season for the low lands, and one for the mountain. But he\ndid not know Hels Helsen, the Big Swede. From the time that he yelled,\n\u201cRoll out or roll up!\u201d on his first morning in camp the loggers felt\nthe urge of a new power and they put a vigor and force into their work\nwhich had been lacking for a long time. Not often did the Bull of the\nWoods speak to them, but when he did his roar made the loggers remember\nhis title; and the chips flew from the ax bits like leaves in a wind,\nand the saws smoked as they flashed back and forth in the tree trunks.\n\nLogs piled up ahead of the blue ox, but Hels Helsen remembering the\ntricks he had learned as a great man with cattle in the old country,\ntook the exuberant, well-meaning creature in hand and taught him speed.\nSo active did Babe become that only Hels Helsen could handle him. Each\nmorning, eager to get to work, he galloped madly for the woods, while\nthe foreman held grimly to the halter rope, thrown from his feet very\noften, hurled through the air, bounced over rocks and stumps, but\nholding fast always.\n\nSo rapidly did the logging go on that Paul Bunyan could only accomplish\nthe necessary figuring by giving all of his time to it. He began to\nweary of his hours at the desk, while his soul cried out for the\ntimber; he envied Hels Helsen for the ideal life he was living, but\nhe gladly gave him the honor and glory that was his due. Latin Paul\nBunyan praised his great Nordic foreman constantly and said nothing of\nhimself.\n\nNow, as Paul Bunyan\u2019s only physical weakness was a ticklishness\nof the neck, so was his only mental weakness extreme modesty. He\nnever boasted, and he never belittled the pretensions of his men by\nreminding them of his own part in their achievements. Consequently,\nhis inventions were taken as a matter of course, and his paperwork was\nnot considered very difficult by his loggers because they knew nothing\nabout it. His praise of Hels Helsen, and his reticence about himself,\nnaturally made his men exaggerate the greatness of the Bull of the\nWoods and minimize the importance of Paul Bunyan.\n\nThe effect on Hels Helsen was even more dangerous. In the first\nplace he had not come to Paul Bunyan with the intention of seeking\na foreman\u2019s job; he had wanted to propose a partnership between the\ngreatest man of Sweden and the greatest man of Real America. But\nPaul Bunyan\u2019s oratory had baffled him, and he had taken the position\nwithout arguing for what he considered his rightful place. However,\na resentment had been kindled in his soul; and with his success as a\nforeman it flamed into an exalted opinion of his own powers; as the\ntime for logging off the mountain approached he resolved to not only\nmake this enterprise bring him equality with Paul Bunyan but a position\nof command over him. Therefore, a terrible conflict was inevitable.\n\nThe first intimation that Paul Bunyan had of the coming struggle was\nduring the preparations for logging off the mountain. He himself had\nmade many plans for accomplishing the difficult job, taking time from\nhis office work to think them out. Then the first drive was finished\nand the day came when felling was to begin on the mountain side. On\nthat morning Paul Bunyan was about to call his foreman to give him\ninstructions when he heard the loggers marching out of camp. Hels\nHelsen was taking them to the woods; the foreman had seemed to think it\nunnecessary to consult with Paul Bunyan. For a moment the master of the\ncamp had a raging impulse to take after them and assert his authority,\nbut his good sense restrained him.\n\n\u201cThere is no appetite more powerful than that for the strong meat of\nauthority,\u201d Paul Bunyan always told his bossmen. \u201cBut if you bite off\nmore than you can chew, nothing will choke you more surely.\u201d\n\nPaul Bunyan remembered this saying now, and he thought it best to let\nHels Helsen learn the lesson for himself.\n\nSo for days he made no inquiries about the progress of the work in the\nwoods. He busied himself with his figures and waited. He noted with\nsecret pleasure the bafflement and worry that showed in deeper lines\non Hels Helsen\u2019s face each succeeding night. The loggers were always\nutterly weary now when they got into camp; at last many of them were\ntoo exhausted to eat their pea soup when the day was done; others went\nto sleep at the supper table, and they would not awaken until breakfast\ntime. Then the first week\u2019s scale was brought in, and it showed only\nan average of one tree per man for each seventy-two hours of labor. The\nmaster logger chuckled over this, but he said nothing.\n\nOn Monday morning, his accounts being in order, he walked over the hump\nto where he could observe the logging operations.\n\nOn the slopes--or under them, rather--of the Mountain That Stood On\nIts Head crawled Hels Helsen, and he was urging the loggers to follow\nhim. Not an original method had he devised; he was even insisting that\nthe loggers walk upside down and fell the trees in exactly the same\nstyle that they used when standing up. Having been a champion mountain\nclimber in Sweden, he got up the slopes without much difficulty, and he\nstrung cables between the trees. Along these cables the loggers dizzily\nworked themselves. Tree-felling even under ordinary conditions is hard\nlabor for the strongest men. But when a woodsman attempts to operate a\nlimber crosscut saw and a heavy ax, his head down, his body hanging by\na leather belt which is fastened to a swaying cable; when a woodsman\nlooks up to see his feet and to have dirt and sawdust fall down in his\neyes; when a woodsman looks down to see rocks and stumps a mile and a\nhalf below him--brave and powerful though he may be, a woodsman in such\ncircumstances is bound to feel inconvenienced, harassed and impeded in\nthe performance of his labor. And even the threatening roars and the\npleading bellows of a Hels Helsen, the supreme and original Bull of the\nWoods, cannot make him work efficiently.\n\n\u201cThe test of great leadership is originality,\u201d mused Paul Bunyan, as he\nreturned to camp. \u201cAt least some inventiveness is needed. Heroic Hels\nHelsen, the Bull of the Woods--a fair title. The hero inspires, but the\nthinker leads. I shall now think. One great idea put into action can\nset the world afire. Surely it will take no more than a common one to\nmaster Hels Helsen.\u201d\n\nIn such solemn ponderings Paul Bunyan spent the rest of the day. Until\nmidnight he thought, and then the idea came. He at once went to work to\nmake a reality of it.\n\nFrom an old chest that held the weapons and traps of his pre-logging\ndays he brought forth the most prized weapon of his youth, a\ngold-butted, diamond-mounted, double-barreled shot gun. He spent the\nrest of the night in careful cleaning of all its parts. An idea of the\nsize and power of this super-cannon can be gained when it is remembered\nthat he used its two barrels at a later time as smokestacks for his\nfirst sawmill. The shells for it were made from the largest cedar logs\nin the country; they were hollowed out, bound with brass, and capped\nwith sheet iron.\n\nAfter breakfast, when the loggers had gone wearily to their terrible\nlabor, Paul Bunyan ordered Big Ole, the blacksmith, to cut up thousands\nof pieces of sheet iron, making each one two feet square. In two\ndays he had the shells loaded, and he was ready to try out his idea.\nThen he waited for the time when Hels Helsen would have to call on\nhim for help. And this time was sure to come soon, for as the work\nslowly moved up from the head of the mountain the unimaginative\nlogging methods of the stubborn Bull of the Woods could not but fail\ncompletely. And Hels Helsen was not the leader to change these methods\nhimself; he was only a hero.\n\nBut Paul Bunyan was not prepared for the monstrous display of\neffrontery which was given by Hels Helsen when the exhausted loggers\ncould no longer follow him up the mountain side.\n\nOne morning the foreman did not call the men out to work; instead, Paul\nBunyan heard him giving them orders to pack up.\n\n\u201cThunderation!\u201d exclaimed the master logger. \u201cWhat means this, Hels?\u201d\n\nThe Bull of the Woods was attaching a cable to the cookhouse skids. He\nlooked up with an insolent grin.\n\n\u201cAye forgot tal you, Bunyan, but aye goin\u2019 move dar camp,\u201d he said, in\ntones of marked disrespect. \u201cNo use to try har no moore noo, aye tank.\nLogger can\u2019 stan\u2019 on head mooch lonker har. Aye don\u2019 tank so, Bunyan.\nWe move new yob noo.\u201d\n\n\u201cBunyan!\u201d exploded the appalled leader. \u201c\u2018Bunyan,\u2019 you call me! You\nthink _you\u2019ll_ move the camp! _You_ will do so! By the blazing sands of\nthe hot high hills of hell, and by the stink and steam of its low swamp\nwater, how in the name of the holy old mackinaw, how in the names of\nthe whistling old, roaring old, jumping old, bald-headed, blue-bellied\njeem cris and the dod derned dod do you figure you\u2019re wearing any\nshining crown of supreme authority in this man\u2019s camp? Say!!!\u201d\n\n\u201cAye tank so,\u201d said Hels Helsen calmly.\n\n\u201cSuffering old saints and bleary-eyed fathers!\u201d\n\n\u201cYah, aye tank so.\u201d\n\nWith a mighty effort Paul Bunyan recovered his poise and dignity. He\nstrode to the office and got his shot gun and a sack of shells loaded\nwith sheet iron squares. Then his \u201cAll out, men!\u201d rolled through the\ncamp.\n\nThe power of that unloosed voice threw each logger into the air, and\nthey all dropped, bottoms down, on the rocky ground. They were still\ndazed men as they wabbled to their feet, and they meekly followed their\nrightful leader toward the mountain, rubbing sore spots with their\nhands as they staggered along. Muttering darkly, Hels Helsen followed\nat a distance.\n\nPaul Bunyan halted the loggers before they reached the shadows of the\nmountain. He turned and faced them, and for a moment they stood in\nbreathless terror, fearing that he was going to urge them to another\neffort on the slopes above. But no. Paul Bunyan only said, in the tones\nof a gentle teacher, \u201cYou see before you a logged-off plain. Only\nstumps remain upon its soil. I shall make you a forest. Behold!\u201d\n\nHe turned and lifted the shot gun to his shoulder and pulled the\ntriggers; both barrels went off in such a violent explosion that many\nof the loggers again tumbled to the ground. Clouds of dust dropped from\nthe mountain side and blanketed the plain. When the wind had thinned\nout the fog the amazed loggers saw the beginnings of a new forest\nbefore them. The loads from the two shells had sheared off a thousand\ntrees; they had dropped straightly down and plunged their tops into the\nplain. And there they stood, the strangest grove ever seen by man. The\nsmall brushy tops of the trees were imbedded in the ground, and their\nhuge bare trunks were swaying high in the air. Before the loggers had\nrecovered from their astonishment at the sight Paul Bunyan was firing\nagain; and all that day the terrific explosions of his gun, and the\nfalling clouds of dust from the mountain addled the loggers. At sundown\nhe had completed the circuit around the Mountain That Stood On Its\nHead; its slopes were shorn of trees, and the plain underneath once\nmore had a forest. It was an amazing artificial one, and the loggers\ndoubted if they could get used to it. But it promised easy logging, and\nwhen their leader ordered them into camp they went singing. It looked\nlike the good old times were back.\n\n\u201cNow,\u201d said Paul Bunyan to his foreman, \u201cthe idea has mastered the\nmaterial. I turn the job over to you. Go to it in the morning. In the\nmeantime, I\u2019ll invent a way to log off the foot of the mountain which\ntowers yonder among the clouds.\u201d\n\nHels Helsen said nothing; but he scowled and scratched his head.\n\nIn the morning Paul Bunyan was figuring briskly, quite content again,\nwhen he noticed a stir in the camp that was unusual for the late hour.\nHe looked out and saw the loggers wandering idly about. They said that\nHels Helsen had not ordered them to roll out but had gone to the woods\nhimself. Sensing that a struggle was at hand for the dominance of the\ncamp, and realizing that the powerful and obtuse Hels Helsen could only\nbe conquered by physical force, Paul Bunyan ordered his men to remain\nbehind, and he started after the foreman.\n\nHels Helsen was climbing the mountain when Paul Bunyan reached the new\nforest, and he paid no heed to the calls that were sent after him. The\nclimber had his shoes off, and he moved up swiftly by grasping the\nlargest stumps of the sheared trees with his fingers, wrapping his\ntoes around others and drawing himself up like a rope climber. In a\nshort time he reached the rim and, throwing his leg over it, he drew\nhimself to the top. He rested for a moment, then he stood up and began\nuprooting the close-grained white pine trees, which extended scores\nof miles before him. A tumult of rage swelled up in Paul Bunyan\u2019s\nheart. So Hels Helsen had rebelled and become an independent logger.\nIf competition had been necessary to the logging industry the greatest\nlogger himself would have invented it. But he knew that equality was an\nevil thing; a powerful rival was not to be tolerated; for the sake of\nthe grand new race of loggers, if for nothing else, Hels Helsen must be\nput in his proper place.\n\nWise even in wrath, Paul Bunyan did not attempt to climb the mountain.\nHe ran to a far point of the plain, then he turned and rushed back with\nhis greatest speed. When he neared the mountain he leaped, he struck\nthe ground with his knees bending for a spring, and then he threw\nhimself upward in a tremendous lunge. His upstretched hands brushed\ndown the slope and started a roaring avalanche. A large section of the\nrim gave way, and now a large hill stood under the broken edge of the\nmountain rim. Again Paul Bunyan ran and leaped; this time he made his\nsecond jump from the hilltop and his hands caught over a cliff that\njutted below the broken rim. Laboriously he drew himself up, he thrust\nhis foot over the top, and after a struggle that sent more rocks and\ntrees crashing down upon the hill, he won to the plain and lay resting\nfor the battle.\n\nA minute had not passed before he felt the mountain shake, and when he\nrolled over he saw Hels Helsen rushing upon him. The Big Swede\u2019s blue\neyes flashed like hot polished steel, the gritting of his teeth sounded\nlike the grind of a rock crusher, his hat was off and his yellow\nbristles stuck up like tall ripe grain on a squat hill. The pine trees\nrocked and creaked from the wind of his swinging fists. The mighty Paul\nBunyan sprang to his feet and received the furious charge as a cliff of\nsolid rock receives the smash of a tidal wave....\n\nThe loggers in camp heard a stupendous uproar of battle, and they fled\nfrom the shaking bunkhouses. The bravest among them crawled to the top\nof the hump, from where they could see the mountain. When they beheld\nthe titanic conflict that was raging two miles above them on the flat\nmountain top they stood like images of stone and stared affrightedly.\nAround and around the one hundred and twenty-seven mile circle of the\nlofty plain the leader and the foreman fought with all their powers.\nNow came a sound like a thunder-clap as Paul Bunyan smote Hels Helsen\nsolidly on his square jaw. Now came a sound like a hurricane screeching\nthrough a network of cables as Hels Helsen\u2019s hand seized Paul Bunyan\u2019s\nbeard and was jerked loose. For a long time the struggle seemed equal,\nwith neither combatant suffering great injury. Then Paul Bunyan\u2019s\nshoulders struck acres of pine trees with the crash of a tornado. A\nheaving mass of dust rolled over him, but the dauntless leader\u2019s head\nwas suddenly thrust above it; the loggers saw his fist fly from behind\nhim, it squashed over Hels Helsen\u2019s nose, and the sun shone red through\na spray of blood.... Balloons and geysers of dust now rose explosively\nall over the mountain top, and heavy gray clouds soon hid the mountain\nfrom view; trees and rocks crashed everywhere on the plain below; the\nconvulsions of the earth increased in force; even the bravest of the\nloggers were at last terrified by the shocks and blasts, and they fled\nto camp and hid under their blankets.\n\nAll night the tumult of battle sounded, but at dawn there was a crash\nof such shocking force that it upset every bunkhouse; and then a sudden\nhush. The loggers, all shell-shocked and bruised, crawled under their\noverturned bunks, but as the quiet persisted they at length ventured\noutside. The dust was still rolling by in thick clouds and they could\nnot see their hands before them. But at sunup it had thinned out, and\nere long they beheld the figure of one of the fighters looming in the\ndistance. The conqueror was carrying his helpless adversary over his\nshoulder.\n\nAnd this conqueror, this victor in that tourney of the Titans, that\nbattle of the behemoths, that riot of the races, that Herculean\njaw-hammering, chin-mauling, nose-pounding, side-stamping,\ncheek-tearing, rib-breaking, lip-pinching, back-beating, neck-choking,\neye-gouging, tooth-jerking, arm-twisting, head-butting, beard-pulling,\near-biting, bottom-thumping, toe-holding, knee-tickling, shin-cracking,\nheel-bruising, belly-whacking, hair-yanking, hell-roaring supreme and\nincomparable knock-down-and-drag-out fight of all history was the\nmighty leader of the new race of loggers, Battling Paul Bunyan.\n\nTattered, bloody, dirt-streaked, he marched with dignity still. On\nthrough the hosts of silent awed loggers he passed, without glancing\ndown at them. He disappeared with the Bull of the Woods into the camp\noffice.\n\n\u201cYou\u2019re going to be a good foreman now, Hels Helsen!\u201d\n\n\u201cAye tank so, Mr. Bunyan.\u201d\n\n\u201cYou _know_ so, Hels Helsen.\u201d\n\n\u201cYah, Mr. Bunyan.\u201d\n\nAnd no more was said.\n\nThe wonderful mountain was gone, alas; the struggle had demolished it\nand scattered its majesty in dust over the plain. To-day the Northern\nwinds blow down over the desolate remains of that once noble and\nmarvelous eminence--the remains of blood-darkened dust which are now\nknown as the Black Hills of Dakota.\n\n\n\n\nA MATTER OF HISTORY\n\n\nThree weeks after his cataclysmic fist fight with his foreman, Hels\nHelsen, Paul Bunyan was up and around, thinking of his next move.\nDakota, once a great timberland, was now a brown, barren country;\nits logs and stumps had been covered with blankets of dust when the\nMountain That Stood On Its Head was destroyed, and the mountain itself\nwas now only clusters of black hills. The greatest logging camp of all\nhistory was situated in a vacant prairie. It was preposterous.\n\nBut the mighty logger did not revile fate, nor did he lift his voice\nin lamentations. Neither did he have words of condemnation for the\nbelligerent audacity of the Big Swede, who, chastened and meek in\ndefeat, now gazed worshipfully on his conqueror. Still wearing the\nbruises and scars of battle, he limped around his bunk a few times and\nthen said mildly:\n\n\u201cAye tank aye soon be back on yob noo, Mr. Bunyan.\u201d\n\n\u201cWe have no job now. There is no timber within hundreds of miles of us.\u201d\n\nPaul Bunyan shook his head sadly; but presently consoling thoughts came\nto him, and then proud joy flashed in his eyes.\n\n\u201cBut what does the ruin of a season\u2019s logging matter?\u201d he said\ncheerily. \u201cWe have made history; and that is what matters. After all,\nindustry is bunk; making history is the true work of the leader-hero.\nAnd this fight of ours was the first dramatic historical event since\nthe Winter of the Blue Snow. This idea would be a great consolation to\nyou also, but you lack imagination.\u201d\n\n\u201cYah,\u201d said the Big Swede humbly. \u201cAye yust wan\u2019 yob, Mr. Bunyan.\u201d\n\n\u201cAnd a job you shall have,\u201d said Paul Bunyan with great heartiness.\n\u201cWe will move at once to--but that is something to be thought about.\nWherever we go you shall have full command over the blue ox. And, next\nto myself, you shall be in command over the loggers. Now that there is\npeace and understanding between us we can perform impossible labors.\u201d\n\nFor several hours the great logger talked on, and there was more of\nenthusiasm than of purpose in his speech, for he was still shaken from\nthe knocks and strokes the Big Swede had given him three weeks before.\nThe foreman went to sleep at length, but all night Paul Bunyan was\nwakeful with troublous fancies and bright but insubstantial ideas. In\nthe morning, when his mind was calmer and his thoughts more orderly,\nonly one of the notions that had come to him seemed worth while. This\nwas the idea of a double drive, one under his direction, and one in the\ncharge of the Big Swede, but both of them side by side. It should make\na unique race. There was some stuff of history in the idea.\n\nSo Paul Bunyan determined to forget the Dakota Disaster and make\npractical preparations for the new achievement at once. First, he\ninspected the bunkhouses and found that the loggers had set them up and\nrepaired the bunks. Next, he examined the cookhouse, and he saw to his\npleasure, that the cooks had it clean of dust and that pea soup was\nonce more bubbling on the stoves. Babe, the big blue ox, was suffering\nfrom hayfever, and he sneezed dolefully at long intervals, but the old\neager, jovial look was in his eyes; they shone like blue moons when\nPaul Bunyan looked him over.\n\nSatisfied, the master logger returned to his office. He found the Big\nSwede on his feet, and there was only a slight limp in his walk this\nmorning. It looked indeed like good luck was returning, and Paul Bunyan\nthought of the double drive with great hope. In a splendid good humor\nhe jested with his foreman as he opened his roll-top desk to examine\nhis papers. But the great logger\u2019s merriment was quickly hushed as the\ndesk top rolled up and a frightful sight was revealed. The shock of\nbattle had shaken the ink barrels into pieces, and the shelf on which\nthey stood was now covered with a black mass of broken staves. Below\nwere his ledgers. In dismay Paul Bunyan pulled them out and opened\nthem. Nearly every page was wet and black, and the old figures were\nalmost illegible. The Ledgers from 1 to 7, for example, seemed to be\nentirely ruined. Ledger No. 1111 had black pages up to page 27,000,\nand its other sheets were badly smeared. Even Ledger 10,000, the last\none in the row, had streaks and daubs on most of its sheets, and only\nthe last 3,723 pages remained unstained. Paul Bunyan was appalled,\nand only his brave heart could have kept courage in such discouraging\ncircumstances.\n\nHe wished to be alone, so he gave the Big Swede instructions to groom\nthe blue ox and trim his hooves. When the foreman was gone, Paul Bunyan\nsat down, and, having dug a young pine tree out of the earth, he began\nto brush his beard and ponder.\n\nThe damage done to his precious records was a terrible blow, and he\nthought first of how he might repair it. As he had said, his main\ndesire was to make history; his imagination rose above mere industry.\nHis records contained the history of all his operations, even to their\nmost minute details, and if no one could read them his work up to the\npresent time was all wasted. The loss of his grand history was, to\nPaul Bunyan\u2019s mind, the most terrible part of the Dakota Disaster. But\nhis loggers, of course, were only interested in their work; and the\nBig Swede, too, was now anxious to show his conqueror that he would be\nan obedient, efficient foreman on the next job. It was Paul Bunyan\u2019s\nduty to find a good one for them, and one that would make a fitting\nbeginning for a new history also. Resolving to devote his energies\nsolely to realizing this hope, he shook off regret and forced a smile\nand a jest.\n\n\u201cIt is no use crying over spilled ink,\u201d he said.\n\nSo he put the old ledgers away in the chest which held his souvenirs,\nand he brought out a set of new ones. In them his new records should be\nmade, his future history written. It should be an account of splendid\ndeeds and give him enough glory. He found many gladdening thoughts, and\nwhen he gave orders for a move he showed his men the same cheerful face\nthat they had always known.\n\nThe loggers hustled and bustled, and in a short time the camp buildings\nwere lined up and fastened together. The grand cookhouse was put in the\nlead, Babe was hitched to its skids, and Paul Bunyan and the Big Swede\ntook stations in front of him. \u201cYay, Babe!\u201d the leader said, and the\nmove began.\n\nHappy were the loggers as the camp flew over the prairie, though not\none of them knew where it was going. All were certain, of course, that\nthey were headed for some vast timberland where great logging could be\nenjoyed. They supposed that Paul Bunyan planned a surprise for them,\nas he had not given his usual graphic and prophetic speech before the\nstart was made. The word was passed along that the new job was too\nwonderful to tell about. But this was only part of the truth. Paul\nBunyan\u2019s mind was indeed filled with the idea of a unique double drive,\nbut he did not yet know where the project could be carried out. A wide,\ngentle river with timber on both sides of it was needed; and once\nfound, he would have to use his inventiveness to the utmost in order to\ndivide the stream so that two drives could be made side by side on it.\n\nPaul Bunyan traveled far with his camp in search of the ideal river.\nPowder River looked promising at first; it was a mile wide, but then\nit was only a foot deep. It deepened and got narrow in one place, but\nthis was only a deceitful twist of the stream, for it presently turned\nand ran on its edge for the rest of its course, its waters a mile deep\nand a foot wide. Hot River, in the Boiling Springs country, flowed\nplacidly and honestly enough all its way, but it was of a temperature\nto scald the calks off the loggers\u2019 boots. And Wild River, though it\nwas a white water stream, would have served for a double drive; but\nit was alive with cougarfish, a species resembling the catfish of the\nMississippi; but the cougarfish were larger and incomparably more\nsavage and had claws on their tails. Careful Paul Bunyan would not risk\nhis loggers among them.\n\nAt last the master logger had only one hope left. It lay in the Twin\nRivers country. Twin Rivers were ideal for a double drive, as they\nwere two fat streams which flowed lazily, smoothly, and side by side\nthrough a wide valley. But that country was the scene of Paul Bunyan\u2019s\nfirst logging; it was there that he had invented the industry; and,\nhaving no loggers then, he had uprooted trees by handfuls to get his\nlogs. Consequently, second growth timber was not to be hoped for in\nthe greater part of that region. In the lower part of the Twin Rivers\nvalley there might be some new timber, for there Paul Bunyan had taught\nthe blue ox the art of skidding; and he had sheared off most of the\ntrees instead of uprooting them. No doubt there were some new trees on\nthis land, but most of the logs for a double drive on Twin Rivers would\nhave to be procured elsewhere. How he was to get them he did not\nknow. But he was staunch and inflexible in his determination to make\nthe second event of his new history a tremendously successful one.\n\n[Illustration]\n\nSo Babe was turned toward the Twin Rivers country, and in a few hours\nthe loggers were getting glimpses of familiar scenes as the bunkhouses\nsailed over stump-covered valleys and hills. They still had no word of\nPaul Bunyan\u2019s intentions, and they were astonished when, at nightfall,\nthe camp was halted at the upper end of Twin Rivers valley and they\nwere told that here was to be their camping place for the season.\n\nThere was no moon this night, and from the bunkhouses nothing of the\ncountry could be seen except Twin Rivers, which showed surfaces of\nblurred, tarnished gray in the darkness; they looked like two wide,\nlonely roads with a tall black hedge between them. Heavy grass was\ndiscovered around the camp buildings, but there was no indication\nanywhere of timber, or even of brush. But the loggers were too tired to\nwonder; they had been riding for two days behind the blue ox, who could\noutrun a cyclone, and they were thankful for the chance to rest and\nsleep.\n\nPaul Bunyan lay in his camp office and listened to the peaceful\nsnores of the Big Swede, who could sleep so well because he lacked\nimagination. But the great logger\u2019s thoughts and visions banished any\nhope of rest for him. Work should begin at once, and a great idea must\nprecede it. His determination for the double drive was solidly fixed;\nhe _would_ get a good plan for it. Now then: first, for a drive there\nmust be logs; next, for logs there must be trees; then, for trees there\nmust be timberland, as trees cannot be conjured from nothingness. Now,\nall around him was nothing but logged-off land; perhaps it would be\npossible to invent a way to log off logged-off land.... Thunderation!\nwhat preposterous notions he was getting! But all his ideas seemed to\nbe as absurd. As the night hours crawled slowly on Paul Bunyan began to\ndoubt his powers. Had the fight with the Big Swede left him a little\ncrazy? Perhaps. At dawn his mind was in a turmoil; he felt that he had\nbrought himself face to face with the supreme crisis of his career,\nand it looked like he was not to meet it successfully. If so, the\nmeanest swamper in camp would despise him. And the Big Swede--how soon\nhe would lose the humble worship that Paul Bunyan had pounded into\nhim and be filled with a cold Nordic scorn for this Latin victim of\nimagination!... What was wrong with his ideas? Why didn\u2019t they swell\nwith their usual superb force and burst into a splendor of magnificent\nplans? Was this new history of logging, then, to be a history of\nfailure?...\n\nIn a torment of thought, Paul Bunyan could lie still no longer.\nDarkness was passing fast now; he threw off his blankets and tramped\nto the office door. He drew it open, then--motionless, unblinking,\nbreathless--he stared for sixty-six minutes. At last he rubbed his\neyes; but then he again stared as woodenly as a heathen idol. He could\nonly believe that his rebellious imagination was deceiving him, that\nthe incredible sight before him was certainly unreal. For he saw trees\neverywhere; on both sides of the river they reached to the horizon.\n\nThey were in exact rows, like trees in an orchard, and each one was a\nlarge, smooth, untapering column, flat-topped and without a trace of\nbark or boughs. Again and again Paul Bunyan rubbed his eyes, thinking\nto see the strange forest vanish. But it remained, and he rushed out at\nlast and seized one of the trees. He pulled it up easily, and he was\nmore amazed than ever, for it had a sharp point instead of roots. He\nwalked on out into the forest and pulled up others here and there, and\nthey were all exactly alike in shape and size.\n\nSo delighted was Paul Bunyan with his miraculous good fortune that\nfor a long time he only walked back and forth among the rows of Pine\nOrchard--for so he named the forest,--and every moment he found some\nnew feature of it that was wonderful and enchanting. For one thing, he\ncould walk through it without difficulty, as there was room between\nthe rows for one of his feet. He saw that no tedious swamping would be\nrequired for the logging-off of this forest--no cutting of brush and\ntrimming of limbs. It would be unnecessary to build the usual trails\nfor the blue ox. As the logs would all be of like size, driving them\ndown the rivers would be play for his men.\n\nAt last he tramped back to camp and called the loggers out of the\nbunkhouses. They came forth groaning and yawning, but when they saw\nPine Orchard they too were tremendously enthusiastic about the\nbeautiful logging it offered, and some of them got their axes and saws\nand began felling at once. The trees were as tall and as large as the\nmedium trees in an ordinary pine forest, but acres of them had been\nnotched and sawn off when the breakfast gong rang. Paul Bunyan, with\na cyclonic sigh of relief and content retired to the office to do the\nfirst figuring for the new history.\n\nLogging went on at a record-breaking rate during the late summer; early\nautumn passed, and the loggers still felt that they were enjoying\nthe happiest work of their careers. The Big Swede seemed perfectly\ncontented with his position now; his gentleness and patience with\nthe blue ox could not be surpassed, and he bossed the felling crews\nefficiently when Paul Bunyan had to leave them to toil over the new\nledgers. The great logger himself had not been happier in years, for\nthe logs being all of a size made the figuring simple now, and he spent\nall but three hours a day in the woods.\n\nWith the coming of the snapping frosts of late autumn the operations\nhad reached the lower part of the Twin Rivers valley, and the smooth,\nbare trees of Pine Orchard were all piled neatly along the banks of\nthe stream. Now the second growth of regular pine trees was reached,\nand the work of limbing, bucking and swamping again became part of the\nloggers\u2019 duties. But they were fat and saucy from their easy months\nin Pine Orchard, and the first day\u2019s felling in the old-fashioned\nforest brought down a record number of trees. However, it also brought\nmore figuring for Paul Bunyan, for he now had to keep accounts of\na thousand sizes and lengths of logs. This kept him from the woods,\nthough the Big Swede really needed him now because of the problems\nwhich develop incessantly in regular logging. Again Paul Bunyan came\nto feel the need of a great figurer, recorder and secretary; but where\nwas one to be found who had both the size and knowledge to care for his\nvast bookkeeping system and enormous history books? It was folly to\nhope for such a man, so Paul Bunyan stuck bravely to his desk and made\nthe best of his situation.\n\nAnd the logging went on without many discouraging incidents until one\nmorning in November. Then Paul Bunyan looked out and saw that the Twin\nRiver next to the camp had risen six feet, though the other Twin was\nat its normal level. Wondering at the unnatural flood and fearing for\nthe logs piled on the landings, the leader-hero set out at a great\npace to discover what was obstructing the flow of the Left Twin. Where\nthe river curved around a cliff he saw what appeared to be a boot as\nlarge as his own; it was resting in the stream, and, as it reached from\nthe cliff to the bank between the Twin Rivers it made a perfect dam,\nand the river had not yet risen to the top of it. Paul Bunyan\u2019s gaze\ntraveled up the bootleg and reached a corduroyed knee; then he saw that\na remarkable figure was seated on the cliff, the figure of a man who\nwas nearly as large as the master logger.\n\nRemembering the danger to his logs, Paul Bunyan seized the foot that\nwas damning the river and lifted it without ceremony. The released\nwaters boiled and thundered as they rolled on, but above the roar Paul\nBunyan heard a voice, soft and mild for all its power, saying, \u201cI beg\nyour pardon.\u201d\n\nThe master logger could not restrain an exclamation of delight.\n\n\u201cEducated! By the holy old mackinaw!\u201d\n\nHe pulled aside the trees from which the grand gentlemanly voice had\nissued. There sat a man. And such a man!\n\nHis long but well-combed hair was level with the tree tops, though he\nwas seated among them. Some black, straight strands of hair fell over\na forehead of extraordinary height, a forehead which was marked with\ndeep, grave wrinkles. His black eyebrows resembled nothing so much as\nfishhooks, breaking down sharply at his nose. His large, pale eyes\nlooked through old-fashioned spectacles. His nose was original; it\nsloped out to an astonishing length, and a piece of rubber the size of\na barrel was pinched over the end of it. He was certainly an educated\nman. He wore a necktie, for one thing; yes, and there were papers\nresting on one raised knee; in his right hand was a pencil, and many\nothers were behind his ears. Now he was figuring with incredible speed;\nthen he thrust the rubber in his nose against the paper, shook his head\nthree times and the sheet was clean.\n\nPaul Bunyan wanted to shout and jig like a school-boy, so jubilant was\nhis logger\u2019s soul made by the sight of this marvelous man. Here was\nthe one person who was needed to make his camp a perfectly organized\nindustry, to guarantee the success of his plans to become a maker of\nhistory. By hook or crook he must have him.\n\nHe tapped the engrossed figurer on the shoulder.\n\n\u201cPaul Bunyan, the master logger, the maker of history and inventor of\nnote, the only living Real American leader-hero of industry, addresses\nyou,\u201d he said impressively.\n\n\u201cI have heard of you,\u201d said the other, extending his hand but not\nrising. \u201cI am John Rogers Inkslinger, the master figurer, the one and\nonly Real American surveyor. But you must excuse me now, for I am\nendeavoring to solve the one problem that has ever baffled me. I have\nbeen working on it steadily for two months, and still the answer evades\nme.\u201d\n\nHe at once began figuring again, and Paul Bunyan, a little awed, had no\nwords to say at that moment. He had no idea of what a surveyor might\nbe, and he feared that John Rogers Inkslinger was something greater\nthan himself. He would find out. So he said:\n\n\u201cI am a figurer also, though not a great one. Yet I might help you.\nWhat is your problem?\u201d\n\n\u201cI am looking for Section 37,\u201d said John Rogers Inkslinger.\n\n\u201cSection 37?\u201d\n\n\u201cYes. I have only found thirty-six sections in each of the townships\nwhich I have surveyed here. There should be thirty-seven.\u201d\n\nPaul Bunyan was delighted that he could solve the problem so easily.\n\u201cWhen I first logged off lower Twin Rivers valley,\u201d he said, \u201cI had\nno logging crews, but only Babe, my big blue ox. The method I used was\nto hitch Babe to a section of timber--this ox of mine, Mr. Inkslinger,\ncan pull anything that man can walk on--, snake it to the river, shear\noff the trees, and then haul the logged off land back to its place. I\nhandled a township a week in this fashion; but I always left Section 37\nin the river on Saturday night, and the stream would wash it away. Now\nI judge that you survey the land as I measured it; consequently, you\nhave only found thirty-six sections in each township.\u201d\n\n\u201cBless my soul!\u201d cried John Rogers Inkslinger admiringly. \u201cI should\nhave looked you up before. But I supposed you were an ordinary man of\nthe forests. You would certainly make a great surveyor. You must leave\nthis common life you are leading and come with me. Together we will\nsoon have every section of land in the country staked out perfectly.\u201d\n\n\u201cI have a different idea,\u201d said Paul Bunyan.\n\nWhereupon he unloosed his eloquence, and for the rest of the day his\nrichest phrases were lavished on the surveyor. And this man, sure of\nthe greatness of his own accomplishments, listened with strong doubts\nfor a long time. But at last he was convinced that logging was the\ngreatest of all occupations and that Paul Bunyan towered far above him\nas a hero.\n\n\u201cI can only think of you with awe and admiration,\u201d he said at last.\n\u201cBut I have my own work, inconsequential as it now seems. So I cannot\nbecome your figurer at present. Think, Mr. Bunyan, of Real America\u2019s\nuncharted rivers, her unstaked plains, her unplumbed lakes! It is my\nmission to--to----\u201d\n\nHis speech ended in a yell of fright as a monstrous red tongue was\nthrust before his eyes; it passed moistly over his face, it rolled\noozily behind his ear; then he heard a \u201cmoo\u201d that was as loud as\nmuffled thunder, but affectionate and kind. The surveyor wiped his face\nand his spectacles and turned fearfully to see Babe, the ox whose hair\nwas blue as the sky, gazing at him, with a pleading tenderness in his\nbulging eyes.\n\n\u201cEven Babe wants you to come with us,\u201d said Paul Bunyan, his beard\nshaking in a chuckle. \u201cSuch a powerful argument. Now what in\nthunderation----\u201d\n\nJohn Rogers Inkslinger had let out a scream of horror that sent Babe\ngalloping back through the timber.\n\n\u201cMy instruments!\u201d cried he. \u201cYour infernal clumsy ox has trampled them\nand demolished every one. What misfortune!\u201d He jumped to his feet and\nbegan looking for his books and papers.\n\n\u201cGone!\u201d raged the surveyor. \u201cThat blue devil has eaten them! All of my\nrecords, the history of my works--gone! gone! gone! Eaten by an ox! His\nfour stomachs are crammed with them! Gone! gone! gone!\u201d\n\n\u201cStop that caterwauling,\u201d said Paul Bunyan impatiently. \u201cWhen my\nledgers were ruined, I simply observed, \u2018There is no use crying over\nspilled ink.\u2019 The hero is even more heroic in disaster than in triumph.\nBe true to your pretensions.\u201d\n\n\u201cPretensions, the devil!\u201d said John Rogers Inkslinger peevishly. \u201cIf\nyou had the true figurer\u2019s soul you would give me your sympathy instead\nof unconsoling platitudes.\u201d\n\nThen the tears began to fall from his eyes and made great splashes in\nthe river. Paul Bunyan, saying no more, grasped his arm and marched him\ntoward the camp. The two heroes walked silently until they were out\nof the timber and had started over the country where Pine Orchard had\nstood.\n\nThen Paul Bunyan said conversationally, \u201cI found a very original forest\nhere. But it offered splendid logging.... Thunderation again! What ails\nyou anyway?\u201d\n\nFor John Rogers Inkslinger had once more burst into yells of agony.\n\n\u201cMy stakes!\u201d he cried. \u201cMy surveyor\u2019s stakes! Two years\u2019 work ruined,\nutterly ruined! The stakes that marked my section lines--you have\nfelled them all and dragged them all to the rivers for logs! My stakes\nthat were to have stood forever--gone! gone! gone!\u201d\n\nHe choked and gasped, he clutched wildly at nothingness, and then he\nfainted into the appalled logger\u2019s arms....\n\nThat winter was the only period of his career in which Paul Bunyan\nknew the affliction of a guilty conscience. It was true that he\nhad not injured the great surveyor willfully, but the fact that he\nhad destroyed another man\u2019s work could not be ignored. He had done\nirreparable damage and for the peace of his soul he must somehow make\namends, devise consolations and give heart balm and recompense. He only\nasked that the surveyor make any demand of him, that he give him any\nopportunity to do a service that would make up for the loss.\n\nBut the winter long John Rogers Inkslinger brooded in the back room\nof the office and would speak to no one. Each day regret bore heavier\non Paul Bunyan\u2019s generous heart; Christmas was a time of deep gloom\nfor him; and when the first sunshine of spring brightened the valley,\neven the approach of the great double drive did not cheer him. He had\nabandoned his ledgers, and he spent all of his time in the woods; he\nhad no wish to record the destruction of the surveyor\u2019s work.\n\nThe double drive was a huge success, and the rivermen returned from it\nsinging the praises of Paul Bunyan, who had bested his foreman in the\ngrand race. But the great logger himself had only cheerless thoughts\nas he came to the camp office. Another move must now be made, and the\nsad business of repaying John Rogers Inkslinger must be attended to at\nlast. He would place his camp and crew, his foreman and the great blue\nox, himself and all his august talents unreservedly at the surveyor\u2019s\ndisposal. Better long years of surveying than to leave this blot on\nhis history. It would be wretched work for him and his men, he mused\nunhappily, as he opened the office door, but he could not oppose\nconscience. His mind formed the words of a contrite, submissive speech,\nhe tramped on into the office and prepared to utter them; then out of\nthe back room rushed John Rogers Inkslinger; his eyes were shining, his\nface was flushed with happiness, his hands were raised as though in\nappeal.\n\n\u201cPaul Bunyan, greatest of Real Americans!\u201d he cried. \u201cI have read\nyour histories, and in the pages of them I have learned the grandeur\nand glory of your deeds, the extent and influence of your power, the\nmight of your mind! I now know your inventiveness, your heroism, your\nmajestic thoughts, your generous heart! To think that I roared about\nPaul Bunyan using my miserable stakes! And still you smile upon me! Oh,\nGlory! I beg pardon humbly and ask only to serve you henceforth in your\nenterprises----\u201d\n\n\u201cHere now,\u201d said Paul Bunyan, dumfounded, incredulous of his hearing,\ngreatly embarrassed. \u201cHow could you have read my ink-soaked ledgers?\u201d\n\nJohn Rogers Inkslinger answered him by bringing out one of the volumes\nand opening it. On the black pages were figures and letters of white;\nwith white ink the great figurer had painstakingly traced out the old\ndimmed entries, and now every volume was as readable as it had ever\nbeen.\n\n\u201cThere!\u201d he declaimed. \u201cThere, Mr. Bunyan, is the proof of my worth and\nzeal. I found the ledgers, and when you were on the drive I traced out\ntheir messages. From them I learned to worship you. Give me a desk and\nlet me serve you as well hereafter.\u201d\n\nOvercome by emotion, Paul Bunyan turned and stared unseeingly at\nthe lands which had once been Pine Orchard. Visions of tremendous\naccomplishments swept before him; he now had the perfect organization\nhe had always dreamed about, and there could be no good reason for\nanother failure. But he had a new responsibility also; he was now more\ndeeply in debt to this man than ever. For, even as his fists and feet\nhad won him the faith and loyalty of the Big Swede, so had his mind and\nheart, as revealed in his history, won the extravagant devotion of the\ngreatest figurer. Only mighty works would keep it. Well, he should not\nfail. Resolutely he faced the unfortunate surveyor, the restorer of\nruined accounts, the man who should win fame with him as the greatest\nfigurer of all time.\n\n\u201cTimekeeper Johnny Inkslinger,\u201d he said, \u201cshake hands.\u201d\n\n\n\n\nTHE SOURDOUGH DRIVE\n\n\nPolitical campaigns remind old loggers of the violent debate that once\nraged between Paul Bunyan, the originator of the lumber industry, and\nhis timekeeper, Johnny Inkslinger. This debate was strictly about\nbusiness, however, for there was no politics in those days. It was\npoor policy, argued the timekeeper, to increase the varieties and\nquantities of edibles grown on Paul Bunyan\u2019s great farm simply to make\nmore stuffing for the loggers. He recommended that the camp rations be\ncut down and that ships be built, in which surplus farm produce could\nbe shipped to European markets. Johnny Inkslinger was the original\nefficiency expert and he had hordes of figures at hand to support\nhis arguments. Paul Bunyan listened with his usual calm and dignity,\nbrushing his beard with a fresh pine tree and nodding gravely, until\nthe timekeeper began to insist that the loggers could do their work\nwell enough on pea soup and sourdough biscuits; then the great man\nerupted.\n\n\u201cGood glory, Johnny!\u201d he exclaimed. \u201cHave you forgotten the Sourdough\nDrive?\u201d\n\n\u201cI have not, Mr. Bunyan,\u201d Inkslinger retorted spiritedly. \u201cBut I have\nfigures which show you should have handled it differently.\u201d\n\n\u201cThe hell you have!\u201d roared Paul Bunyan, in rare tones of anger. \u201cDamn\nfigures and figuring men!\u201d\n\n\u201cAnd damn a man who damns figures!\u201d thundered Johnny Inkslinger,\nhimself getting angry.\n\nWhereupon Paul Bunyan damned him again in return, and they kept up a\nfurious argument until the trees began to fall among the bunkhouses.\nThe sourdough drive was a subject that tormented Paul Bunyan\u2019s feelings\nwhenever he thought of it; it was always a sore spot with him. But\nwhen he heard the trees tumbling down in the valley he remembered his\ndignity and he silenced his timekeeper with a majestic gesture. Then\nhe gave instructions for a Sunday feast so huge and diversified that\nHot Biscuit Slim, the chief cook, went into a solemn trance of joy upon\nreceiving the order. The timekeeper could not hide his mortification,\nand Paul Bunyan clapped him on the shoulder, saying cheerily, \u201cThere,\nthere, my lad. You live in a world of figures. I could not expect you\nto know the soul of the born woodsman. But treasure this always: a\nlogging crew works on its stomach.\u201d\n\nAfter Paul Bunyan had invented logging and brought hosts of little\nloggers over to Real America to fell trees and drive logs down the\nrivers, his most baffling problem sprang from the fact that little\nloggers could not live on raw moose meat as he did. They required\ncooked food; consequently Paul Bunyan was compelled to build a\ncookhouse and import cooks. His first cookhouse was a crude affair\nwithout any notable mechanical equipment. And his first cooks were men\nwithout talent or experience. But Paul Bunyan\u2019s loggers were hardy men\nwhose appetites had never been pampered, and no one complained of the\ncamp fare until Pea Soup Shorty took command of the cookhouse.\n\nPea Soup Shorty was a plump, lazy, complacent rascal, and he made no\nattempt to feed the loggers anything but hard-tack and pea soup. He\neven made lunches for them by freezing pea soup around a rope and\nsending the loggers\u2019 lunches out to them in sticks like big candles.\nEven then the loggers did not complain greatly. Not until the winter\nin the Bullfrog Lake country were they heard to cry out against their\nfood. That winter Shagline Bill\u2019s freight sleds broke the ice on the\nlake, and the season\u2019s supply of split peas was lost in the water. Pea\nSoup Shorty did not try to originate any new food for the loggers;\nhe simply boiled the lake water and served it to them for pea soup.\nThen the bunkhouse cranks began to growl; and finally all the loggers\nrevolted against Pea Soup Shorty; and they declared against pea soup\nalso. Paul Bunyan had to look for another kitchen chief. Old Sourdough\nSam was his selection.\n\nThe Bunyan histories tell that Sourdough Sam made everything but coffee\nout of sourdough. This substance is really fermented dough, having the\nrising qualities of yeast. It is said to be an explosive. Modern camp\ncooks are always at great pains to warn the new kitchen help away from\nthe sourdough bowl, telling them of the sad accident of Sourdough Sam,\nwho had his left arm and right leg blown off in an explosion of the\ndangerous concoction.\n\nThe old cook brought this misfortune on himself. Sourdough was his\nweakness as well as his strength. Had he been content to keep it only\nin the kitchen, where it belonged, and to develop it simply as a food,\nhe, and not his son, Hot Biscuit Slim, might be remembered as the\nfather of camp cookery, even as the mighty Paul Bunyan is venerated as\nthe father of logging. But Sam was prey to wild ideas about the uses of\nhis creation. He declared it could be used for shaving soap, poultices,\neye wash, boot grease, hair tonic, shin plasters, ear muffs, chest\nprotectors, corn pads, arch supporters, vest lining, pillow stuffing,\nlamp fuel, kindling, saw polish and physic. One time he came into the\nbunkhouse with a chair cushion made out of sourdough. As bad luck would\nhave it, Jonah Wiles, the worst of the bunkhouse cranks, was the first\nman to sit on it. He always sat hard, and when he dropped on the new\nchair cushion, he splashed sourdough as high as his ears. Jonah Wiles\nwas fearfully proud of his mackinaw pants, for they were the only pair\nin camp that had red, green, purple and orange checks. Now the bursted\ncushion was splashed over all their gaudy colors. Sam apologized humbly\nand begged the privilege of washing them. His rage showing only in the\nglitter of his beady blue eyes, Jonah Wiles stripped off the smeared\npants and handed them over to the cook. Sourdough Sam recklessly washed\nthem in another of his creations, sourdough suds. Not a thread of color\nwas left in the prized pants; they were a brilliant white when they\nwere returned. The old cook brought them back reluctantly and he was\ntremendously relieved when Jonah Wiles did not tear into him with\noaths and blows. But Jonah Wiles was different from other loggers in\nthat he always concealed even his strongest feelings. So he put on the\npants without saying a word, though he was blazing with wrath inside.\nHis rage against the cook was aggravated when his mates began to call\nhim \u201cthe legless logger,\u201d because of his invisibility from the bottom\nof his coat to the tops of his boots when he tramped to work. The\nbrilliant white pants did not show at all against a background of snow.\n\nThis unfortunate incident led to the important happenings of the\nSourdough Drive, which was one of the turning points in the history\nof logging. For Jonah Wiles now cherished a vicious hostility against\nSourdough Sam; with patient cunning he awaited the time when he might\nbe avenged for the outrage that had made him known in the camp as \u201cthe\nlegless logger.\u201d\n\nJonah Wiles was not a great man among the loggers; he was only a\nswamper, and Mark Beaucoup, who was a mighty man with both ax and pike\npole, was much more to be feared as a bunkhouse crank. But where Mark\nBeaucoup was a roaring grouch, Jonah Wiles was a sly, quiet one; he had\na devilish insinuating gift of making men see and believe uncomfortable\nthings.\n\n\u201cToo bad yer so hoarse to-night,\u201d he would say to a bunkhouse bard who\nhad just finished a song. \u201cI\u2019m thinkin\u2019 we\u2019re needin\u2019 more blankets.\nOl\u2019 Paul\u2019ll let us all freeze to death.\u201d\n\nHe would lead the bard to think he _did_ have a hoarseness, the\nbunkhouse gayety would vanish and a seed of resentment would be sown\nagainst the master logger. Before his pants were ruined Jonah Wiles\nhad never found a grievance which would serve to keep his instinct\nof revolt always inflamed. But now his misfortune was in his mind\nconstantly. Without openly attacking the culinary methods and creations\nof Sourdough Sam, he slyly made a terrible shape of them for his\nbunkhouse mates.\n\n\u201cPoor ol\u2019 Sam,\u201d he would say, drawing his lean, gray face into an\nexpression of pity. \u201cPoor ol\u2019 Sam. He cooks the best he knows how,\nmaybe. But I\u2019m afeard that sourdough uh his\u2019n \u2019ll bring us all to an\nontimely end, fin\u2019ly.\u201d\n\nLet a logger complain of corns, and Jonah Wiles would remark that he\nhad never heard of corns in the woods before sourdough was invented. He\ninsinuated that everything from ingrown nails and bunions to toothache\nand falling hair was due to the loggers\u2019 sourdough meals. Ere long\nold Sam was met with silence and bitter looks when he visited the\nbunkhouses to show a new use of sourdough. And the loggers\u2019 appetites\nfell away; one month after the accident to Jonah Wiles\u2019 pants, Johnny\nInkslinger joyfully reported to Paul Bunyan that the consumption of\nflour and soda had been cut in half. The great logger frowned; he had\nalready learned much about the need his men had for good food rightly\ncooked, though it was no necessity for him.\n\n\u201cBut I can\u2019t consider this business, now,\u201d he said ruefully. \u201cWe\u2019ve\ngot to get this country logged off before the water drops in Redbottom\nLake. When the spring drive is finished we\u2019ll settle the feeding\nproblem once and for all time.\u201d\n\nSaying this, he thrust a bundle of sharpened axes and two score new\ncrosscut saws into his pocket, and, followed by his timekeeper, he\nstrode for the woods to lay out the work for the next day. Jonah\nWiles was then in the kitchen with Sourdough Sam. Paul Bunyan and his\ntimekeeper always walked softly, but the wind from their swinging feet\nrattled the doors and windows of the cookhouse.\n\n\u201cThere they go,\u201d muttered Jonah Wiles. \u201cNow listen, Sam. They\u2019ll be\nin the woods for an hour anyway. Now\u2019s yer chance to get in good with\neverybody again. I want yeh to keep yer high place, ol\u2019 feller. I\u2019ve\nalways loved yeh like a brother, an\u2019 yer trouble with the boys is\ngrievin\u2019 me to a shadder.\u201d\n\n\u201cI shore appreciate your sympathy when all is givin\u2019 me the cold\nshoulder,\u201d said the cook disconsolately. \u201cBut \u2019tain\u2019t no use. Nobody\nseems willin\u2019 to give sourdough a real chance. Folks could use it fer\never\u2019thing if they wanted to, an\u2019 now these fool loggers even hate to\neat it.\u201d\n\nJonah Wiles replied with his usual shrewd arguments. Every evening\nwhen he thought he had made all the mischievous suggestions to the\nloggers that it was wise to utter, he would come to the kitchen and,\npretending great sympathy and friendliness, he would urge Sourdough Sam\ninto enterprises that could only end disastrously. He was now urging\nold Sam to dump sourdough into the timekeeper\u2019s ink barrels during\nhis absence with Paul Bunyan. The cook had long been sure that small\nquantities of sourdough would treble the ink supply. But, disheartened\nand discouraged, he had not ventured to broach the idea to Johnny\nInkslinger.\n\n\u201cMake it a surprise party,\u201d suggested Jonah Wiles. \u201cGet busy, Sam. It\u2019s\nyer chance to win a real name for yerself.\u201d\n\nAt last Sourdough Sam yielded to his tempter.\n\nThe flunkies had left the kitchen long before. The stoves and cook\ntables were dark shapes in the twilight shadows. Only the white\nsourdough tanks stood out in the gloom. Jonah Wiles lifted the top\nfrom one of them, and a hissing roar rose from its depths, where the\nfermented dough worked and bubbled like quicklime. Jonah Wiles beckoned\nto Sourdough Sam. The cook\u2019s eyes shone; he breathed heavily.\n\n\u201cIt can\u2019t help but work,\u201d he whispered.\n\n\u201cNow yer my ol\u2019 friend--good ol\u2019 Sourdough Sam!\u201d exclaimed Jonah Wiles\nheartily. \u201cNow yer talkin\u2019. You\u2019ll be king of the camp when Johnny\nInkslinger finds his ink barrels all full and wonders how it happened.\nBe the hero yeh really are, Sam!\u201d\n\n\u201cBy hickory, I will!\u201d declared the cook.\n\nIn a moment he was leaving the kitchen, a foaming five gallon bucket of\nsourdough in each hand. Jonah Wiles slipped through the shadows until\nhe reached a big tree. There he lingered and watched. He knew certainly\nthat this idea would bring evil on the old cook. The sourdough would\nruin the ink as it had ruined everything else. But he had never\ndreamed of such a grand disaster as befell. Johnny Inkslinger had two\ndozen ink barrels. A hose line ran from each one, and when he did his\nmost furious figuring it was necessary to attach all of them to his\nfountain pen in order to get a sufficient flow of ink. The cook dumped\nfive gallons of sourdough into the first barrel and five into the\nsecond; then he rushed back to the cookhouse for more. At his sixth\ntrip the first barrels he had treated were boiling and steaming like\nminiature volcanoes.\n\n\u201cThey\u2019ll settle after bit,\u201d said Sourdough Sam optimistically.\n\nVain hope. No sooner were the words uttered than a barrel of ink\nexploded with a dull roar. The other treated barrels followed with a\nblast that sounded like a salvo of artillery fire. The camp was shaken.\nThe loggers rushed from the bunkhouses and saw a foaming black torrent\nrolling out of the camp office. Sourdough Sam was whirled forth on the\nflood. The bravest of the loggers plunged into the boiling black stream\nand dragged him to safety. He was unconscious, and his left arm and\nright leg had been lost in the explosion. He was gently carried into a\nbunkhouse. The head flunky mounted his saddle horse and galloped after\nPaul Bunyan.\n\nJonah Wiles moved inconspicuously among the excited loggers. A hot\nexultation was in his heart; he had never hoped for such a completely\ntriumphant revenge. New powers seemed to surge up in him, too; he felt\nthat he might bring about even greater disasters than this one. But he\ncautiously repressed these freshly burning hopes and carried the air of\na man made dumb by grief. Tobacco crumbs rubbed in his eyes made the\ntears trickle down his lean cheeks. As the loggers formed into groups\nand began to speak of the sourdough explosion in doleful tones, they\nnoted the silent, mournful appearance of Jonah Wiles, and, among such\nexpressions as \u201cI was allus afeard sompin like it ud happen\u201d--\u201cPore\nol\u2019 Sam, got to be a regular sourdough fanatic\u201d--\u201cPowerful strange,\nain\u2019t it, the way things work out in this life?\u201d--were heard many words\nof sympathy for Sourdough\u2019s best friend. \u201cOl\u2019 Jonah\u2019s takin\u2019 it perty\nhard.\u201d \u201cYeh, you wouldn\u2019t think such an ol\u2019 crab had that much feelin\u2019\nin him.\u201d\n\nJonah Wiles heard them and chuckled evilly. They were making his part\neasy for him. When Paul Bunyan and his timekeeper thundered into camp\nhe was at the fore of the men who pressed around their feet.\n\nJohnny Inkslinger had the unfortunate cook brought into the office,\nwhere he had room to work over him. For half an hour surgical\ninstruments, bandages and bottles flashed through his hands as he\ndoctored the cook. Paul Bunyan watched him hopefully; Johnny Inkslinger\nwas not only the greatest figurer but the greatest doctor of his time\nalso.\n\nAt last he arose. \u201cHe\u2019ll pull through, Mr. Bunyan.\u201d\n\nPaul Bunyan thanked him and then fell into a profound contemplation of\nthe feeding problem. Johnny Inkslinger wiped the blots of ink from the\nwalls and the puddles from the floor.\n\n\u201cOnly two barrels of ink left,\u201d he groaned. \u201cHow\u2019ll I get through the\nwinter, Mr. Bunyan?\u201d\n\nThe great logger smiled grimly. \u201cI only wish all my problems were so\nsimple,\u201d he said. \u201cJust leave off dotting the i\u2019s and crossing the t\u2019s\nand you\u2019ll save ink for the necessary writing and figuring. When the\nspring ink supply comes in you can go over your books again.\u201d\n\n\u201cSuch a mind!\u201d breathed the timekeeper worshipfully.\n\nBut Paul Bunyan felt that even his mind was unequal to the perplexing\nproblem before him. How was he to feed his loggers now? Would they be\ncontent with pea soup? Not for long, certainly. Even sourdough hardly\nsatisfied them now. And this dangerous stuff, lively as gunpowder--who\nwould dare to mix, bake, boil, stew and roast it? No sourdough, no\nwork; and this meant another season in the upper Red River country,\nfor he had to be ready for the drive before Redbottom Lake sank to its\nsummer level. Quick action was necessary. Paul Bunyan sent inquiries\namong the kitchen help for a man who was familiar with the methods of\nSourdough Sam. The head flunky reported that no one was so intimate\nwith the old cook as Jonah Wiles, a swamper.\n\nThe worst bunkhouse crank came into the presence of Paul Bunyan with\nconfidence that Sourdough Sam, the soul of loyalty, had not mentioned\nhim in connection with the explosion. He presented a sorrowful,\ntear-streaked countenance.\n\n\u201cBe consoled,\u201d Paul Bunyan said gently. \u201cYour comrade was performing\nwhat he considered to be an act of duty. He shall be remembered with\ngreat honor. And I am offering you, his best friend, the position he\noccupied.\u201d\n\n\u201cI\u2019m only a pore swamper, Mr. Bunyan,\u201d said Jonah Wiles, in nasal tones\nof humility \u201can\u2019 I\u2019d never be able to make it in the high job of a\ncook.\u201d\n\nPaul Bunyan stroked his beard with a pine tree, as was his habit\nin moments of earnest thought. And at the same time Jonah Wiles\nwas glowing with the fire of dangerous inspiration; he had become\nfirmly convinced that he was a great originator of damaging ideas. He\nremembered that Sourdough Sam had a son; the old cook had often spoken\nof him with parental pride and fondness. With the boy in camp his\nrevenge could go yet farther. Jonah Wiles pounded on Paul Bunyan\u2019s toe\nto attract his attention. The great logger again bent down to him.\n\n\u201cSourdough Sam has a son which he claims is a greater cook than his dad\nalready,\u201d said the bunkhouse crank. \u201cI expect you could send an\u2019 get\nhim easy, Mr. Bunyan.\u201d\n\n\u201cWhere is he, lad?\u201d\n\n\u201cHe\u2019s down in the Corn Pone country. That\u2019s where he\u2019s learnin\u2019 to be a\nbetter cook than Sam, an\u2019----\u201d\n\nJonah Wiles was bowled over by Paul Bunyan\u2019s jubilant roar. Johnny\nInkslinger was ordered to set out for the Corn Pone country at once\nand to return with the young cook, making all speed. The great logger\nthen called his men together and gave them a rousing speech on the\nneed for fast logging, promising them that he would have the old\ncookhouse going good again in a short time. The loggers cheered him\nand went contentedly to bed, where all but Jonah Wiles slept with\ngood consciences. But to him the bad conscience was the good one; he\nrejoiced in evil thoughts. Not a pang of pity did he feel for Sourdough\nSam; he had no regrets; he dreamed only of getting his clutches on the\nson of the man who had ruined his bright pants.\n\nWhile Johnny Inkslinger was speeding after the new cook Paul Bunyan\nwas struggling with the worst difficulty he had ever encountered. The\nkitchen was put in charge of the Galloping Kid, the head flunky, for\nthe time being. He was a grand horseman, a mighty figure, as he rode\nhis white horse among the tables at meal time, directing the running\nflunkies, but he knew little more about cooking than Paul Bunyan\nhimself.\n\nHis sourdough creations were all failures; the loggers broke their\nteeth on them, and what they did swallow was indigestible. All gayety\nvanished from the bunkhouses; even the bards, with the noble exception\nof the incomparable, unquenchable Shanty Boy, got silent and morose.\nEach day less timber was felled. In time the blue ox stood idle most\nof the day, waiting for loads of logs to be hauled to the landings.\nA successful conclusion of the logging seemed impossible, but Paul\nBunyan would not admit it. A late spring thaw, a great physical revival\nwhen the new cook got into action--he stimulated the men with these\nhopes and kept up some semblance of work in the woods.\n\nJonah Wiles was now enjoying the happiest time of his life. Everyone\nwas in a state of wretchedness that delighted him. He heard threats of\nrevolt; disastrous events were surely advancing their shadows on the\ncamp of Paul Bunyan; he gloated over the evil he would wreck on the son\nof his enemy. But he kept his feelings well hidden. His sly suggestions\nwere the source of many of the bitterest complaints the loggers made\nagainst their life, but he never complained now himself. His small blue\neyes had a watery shine of sympathy for everyone. He spent an hour\neach night with Sourdough Sam, pretending to console him, but actually\nenjoying his sufferings.\n\nWhen the new cook arrived in camp Sourdough Sam was able to sit up and\nintroduce his son to Paul Bunyan--\u201cHot Biscuit Slim, sir, who\u2019s goin\u2019\nto be one uh the greatest cooks uh history.\u201d\n\nThe young man leaned nonchalantly against Paul Bunyan\u2019s toe and looked\nup calmly at the mighty figure above him.\n\n\u201cI\u2019ll shore be glad to work for you, Mr. Bunyan,\u201d he said. \u201cBut you\u2019ll\nhave to fix things accordin\u2019 to my ideas.\u201d\n\n\u201cSon, the camp is yours,\u201d rumbled Paul Bunyan. \u201cHalf of my loggers are\nnow too weak to lift an ax.\u201d\n\nWhereupon Hot Biscuit Slim shook his father\u2019s good hand, smiled\nenigmatically when the old man said, \u201cI\u2019m expectin\u2019 you to succeed\nwhere I failed with sourdough, boy,\u201d and left to inspect the cookhouse.\nPaul Bunyan and Johnny Inkslinger attended him. When the inspection was\nfinished he had many recommendations to make. He demanded----\n\nA new cookhouse, ten times the size of the present one.\n\nSteam-power, force-feed batter mixers, and a hot cake griddle large\nenough for a battalion of second cooks to make a line around it.\n\nA battery of great ovens for the baking of pies, cakes, puddings and\ncookies.\n\nBins for potatoes and other vegetables.\n\nFruit and vinegar cellars.\n\nBaking powder and sugar barrels.\n\nSauerkraut tanks and a frankfurter shed.\n\nAn air-tight onion room.\n\nA store of ham, bacon and eggs for the loggers\u2019 breakfasts....\n\n\u201cHold on a moment!\u201d exclaimed Paul Bunyan in bewilderment. \u201cPlease tell\nme first: _what_ are hot cakes, pies, cookies, cakes, puddings, ham,\nbacon, eggs, potatoes, baking powder, sauerkraut, frankfurters and the\nrest of it? Can we get them from somewhere, or must I invent them?\u201d\n\nHot Biscuit Slim patiently explained them to the great logger.\n\n\u201cHoly mackinaw!\u201d said Paul Bunyan, greatly relieved, \u201cI never imagined\nsuch things could be. I\u2019m delighted that they\u2019ve already been\ninvented.\u201d\n\nHot Biscuit Slim told him that they could all be grown or manufactured\non the great farm. Then he went on to recommend that the flunkies be\nequipped with roller skates, thus tripling their efficiency. He made\nmany other suggestions, and Paul Bunyan agreed to all of them.\n\n\u201cNow to work,\u201d said Hot Biscuit Slim. \u201cI\u2019ll have a new sourdough dish\nfor the loggers\u2019 supper. Sourdough is a contraption that\u2019s seen it\u2019s\nday, but I\u2019ll make the best of it while I got to use it. Send me your\nblacksmith.\u201d\n\nA unique smell met the loggers when they crowded eagerly into the\ncookhouse at suppertime, a delightful odor that overpowered the weakest\namong them. And when the flunkies trotted out, carrying huge platters\nheaped high with brown, globular mysteries, each one having a curious\nhole in the center, the famished loggers all bounced about on their\nbenches in uncontrollable excitement, and well they might! For they\nwere being served with the first doughnuts! Doughnut connoisseurs\nof to-day would have regarded them as crude; they were made from\nsourdough, they were hard as hickory and unsweetened. But Paul Bunyan\u2019s\nloggers shouted over them; they discovered to their great leader the\nexuberance and expansion of feeling, the exaltation of spirit, the\nstrengthening of moral qualities, which may develop from grand feeding.\nAs he listened to the extraordinary uproar in the cookhouse and\nconsidered it he formed one of his great reflections: Meals make the\nman.\n\nJonah Wiles was the one dismal figure among the feasters. The\ndoughnuts were bitter in his mouth because they were so pleasing to\nhim. He devoured half a dozen of them and then forced himself to stop,\nfor he was beginning to feel good-humored. His gaze turned shiftily\ntowards the kitchen, where Hot Biscuit Slim was frying doughnuts with\nastonishing rapidity. The assistant cooks were rolling out the dough;\nBig Ole, the blacksmith, bare-armed and streaming with sweat, tossed\nthe doughnuts on his anvil and punched the holes in them with swift\nstrokes. Jonah Wiles glowered malignantly on the scene. With one meal\nthe son of his enemy had brought happiness to the camp and achieved\nglory.\n\n\u201cHe\u2019ll learn Jonah Wiles has a few tricks yet,\u201d the worst bunkhouse\ncrank muttered savagely.\n\nAfter supper he waited for a lull in the bunkhouse merriment. When it\ncame he emitted a terrific groan.\n\n\u201cI\u2019m afeard them new biscuits with the holes in \u2019em ain\u2019t goin\u2019 to set\nwell on the stummick. I\u2019m afeard----\u201d\n\n\u201cTake yer bellyache outside!\u201d yelled the loggers.\n\nThey shoved him through the door and began to roar out their favorite\nsong, \u201cJack Haggerty.\u201d\n\n\u201cI\u2019ve still got some tricks,\u201d said Jonah Wiles.\n\nHe entered the kitchen and greeted Hot Biscuit Slim with a twisted grin\nthat was supposed to express sympathy and understanding.\n\n\u201cI\u2019m yer pap\u2019s best friend,\u201d he said unctuously, \u201can\u2019 I shore am glad\nto see yeh makin\u2019 sech a fine beginnin\u2019 with sourdough.\u201d\n\n\u201cYeh?\u201d said Hot Biscuit Slim.\n\n\u201cYes siree! An\u2019 I allus like to help folks get along, too. I\u2019ve jist\nthought uh somethin\u2019 new to try with sourdough. Yeh see, the loggers\nbeen havin\u2019 trouble gettin\u2019 inner soles fer their boots. Now if yer\npap was doin\u2019 it, why he\u2019d jist slip into all the bunkhouses to-night\nand put sourdough in every boot, fer.... Here now, don\u2019t yeh go to hit\nme! I\u2019m a ailin\u2019 ol\u2019 man, an\u2019 crippled, too. What\u2019s the matter uh yeh,\nanyway?\u201d\n\nHot Biscuit\u2019s face was afire with rage.\n\n\u201cSo you\u2019re the pizen ol\u2019 devil what got my ol\u2019 man into all that\ntrouble, what nearly got him kilt, what ruint his life!\u201d\n\nHe grasped a cold doughnut, swung it far behind him, then hurled it\nwith terrific force at Jonah Wiles\u2019 head. It struck him squarely\nbetween the eyes, and he dropped without a groan.\n\n\u201cThere!\u201d panted Hot Biscuit Slim. \u201cYou moanin\u2019 ol\u2019 hound--you hissin\u2019\nol\u2019 reptile--you squawlin\u2019 ol\u2019 tomcat!...\u201d\n\nWhen Jonah Wiles recovered consciousness two months later he discovered\nthe camp in holiday attire. When he learned the occasion of the\ncelebration he was bewildered. He saw the loggers forming in a great\ncrowd on the shore of Redbottom Lake. The water line was low; the\nspring thaw had evidently come early, for the lake was black with\nlogs. The logging had not been finished before the lake sank below its\noutlet. Yet the camp was celebrating. Jonah Wiles wondered. Had the\nnew biscuits made the loggers so idiotically happy that no misfortune\ncould quench their spirits?\n\nJonah Wiles saw that a new cookhouse had been built; the old one was\nnow standing above a rollway on the lake shore. From crevices in its\nswelling walls, from the eaves and from the chimneys some thick white\nstuff was oozing and bubbling. \u201cSourdough!\u201d exclaimed Jonah Wiles, yet\nmore amazed.\n\nAt this moment Paul Bunyan lifted Sourdough Sam aloft in his hand that\nall the loggers might see him. The old cook waved a new crutch at his\nfriends. He was dressed in an amazing fine style; he was even wearing a\nnecktie. He seemed to be the hero of the celebration.\n\nPaul Bunyan now made a speech. He told the loggers of all the marvelous\nedibles that Hot Biscuit Slim had revealed to him, and he explained\nin detail his latest and greatest invention, the Big Feed. When the\nloggers were done cheering Paul Bunyan paid a tribute to Sourdough\nSam; the old cook\u2019s creation had served a great purpose in the logging\nindustry, he said. Its day was done now, but there remained a last\ngreat work for it to perform, a dramatic work that would keep the\nmemory of its creator alive forever. It was fitting that Sourdough\nSam should see this before retiring to his old home. Now Paul Bunyan\nturned to the big blue ox, who was hitched to blocks supporting the old\ncookhouse.\n\n\u201cYay, Babe!\u201d he commanded.\n\nThe blue ox heaved, the old cookhouse tottered, then it crashed down\nthe rollway. A heaving mass of sourdough rumbled from its cracking\nsides and surged like a boiling tidal wave over the lake. The waters\nbegan to hiss and foam; the logs were all hidden from sight; the lake\nlooked like a heavy white cloud had dropped into its basin. The loggers\nall stared prayerfully; hopeful, yet hardly daring to hope. Only\nSourdough Sam had confidence in the rising powers of his sourdough.\nIn Paul Bunyan\u2019s hand, he shouted joyously and waved his new crutch.\nThe great logger himself was not absolutely sure of success at first,\nbut as the tumult of the lake waters increased, he too showed joy and\ncarefully patted Sourdough Sam\u2019s back with his little finger. The\nleader-hero was pleased to share the glory of this enterprise with\nsuch a noble and faithful little man. Now the waters rose so rapidly\nthat the loggers rushed back in a panic. In half an hour the sourdough\nhad caused the lake to rise so high that the season\u2019s logs were all\nthundering down Red River valley. It was a grand day for everyone; but\nit was the grandest that Sourdough Sam had ever known.\n\nJonah Wiles was sickened by his enemy\u2019s triumph. He contemplated the\nmagnificence of the new cookhouse, and he realized that there was now\nsmall chance of promoting misery among Paul Bunyan\u2019s loggers. The camp\ncould be nothing but a hostile place for him in the new dispensation.\nA dejected, baffled man, he sneaked away in his white pants before\nthe loggers returned, and shambled over the hills, traveling towards\nKansas.\n\n\n\n\nTHE BLACK DUCK DINNER\n\n\nExcept in the spring, when the log drives were being made down the\nrivers, Sunday was a day of rest in Paul Bunyan\u2019s camp. It was a day of\nearnest thought, and of cleanliness and pleasure also. For on Sunday\nPaul Bunyan planned the next week\u2019s work, thought out his orations,\nimagined new inventions, and dreamed of historical exploits for the\nfuture. And on Sunday his loggers made their beds, cleaned their\nclothes, and shaved their faces. The pleasures of this day were the\npleasures of the table, for Paul Bunyan, after building his second\ncookhouse, and developing his famous kitchen organization around Hot\nBiscuit Slim, the chief cook, originated the custom of grand Sunday\ndinners.\n\nEvery Sunday dinner was a feast; but some of them, of course, were\nnobler and more enjoyable than others. His roast pork and plum pudding\ndinners always delighted the loggers when they were served on winter\nSundays; they shouted over the baked trout and cherry pie Sunday\ndinners that he gave them in the spring; in the summer a vegetable and\nstrawberry shortcake Sunday dinner made them happy every time; and in\nthe fall the Sunday dinners of fried chicken and peach cobbler made\nthem prance and roar with pleasure. And the Thanksgiving and Christmas\ndinners of roasted webfooted turkeys, cranberries and chocolate\ncake--the loggers were always speechless when they thought about them.\n\nEvery Sunday morning would see the loggers performing the ceremonies\nof cleanliness as soon as their after-breakfast pipes were smoked.\nFirst, the beds were made; and this was a more trying job than you\nwould think, especially for the loggers who had poor eyesight. These\nunfortunates would throw their blankets into a pile, then shake them\nout one at a time, and attempt to replace them in the bunks. Here\ndifficulties beset them, for Paul Bunyan\u2019s blankets had small square\nchecks; and it took a sharp eye to detect which was the long way of a\nblanket, and which was the wide way. Even the most sharp-eyed loggers\nwould sometimes lose confidence in their vision when replacing these\nperplexing blankets; and they would remove them time and again before\ndeciding that they were spread correctly. As for the cross-eyed and\nnear-sighted men, it was sometimes pitiful to behold the most troubled\nof them stretching out blankets in their extended hands, turning them\nin slow revolutions, doubtfully placing them on the bunks, and then\nwearily lifting them again. These unfortunate men never quitted their\nSunday bed-making until they were worn out; and all the following week\nthey were sure that they had the long way of their blankets on the wide\nway of their bunks. They would swear to have them right next time; but\nevery Sunday their attempts at bed-making would end in as unsatisfying\na manner.\n\nEveryone in the West knows that sheepherders of our time often worry\nthemselves into insanity in their lonely camps, trying to discover the\nwide way and the long way of their quilts and blankets. Fortunately,\nPaul Bunyan\u2019s loggers were all strong-minded men, and their blankets\ndid no more than bedevil them.\n\nAfter bed-making the loggers heated cans of water over small\nfires built out in the timber, and they washed their clothes.\nShaving, boot-greasing, sole-calking, hair-cutting, beard-trimming,\nbutton-sewing, and rip-mending followed; and he was an expert in\nthese Sunday morning chores who had time to stretch out on his smooth\nblankets for a smoke before the dinner gong rang at twelve.\n\nAt the ringing of this gong the inexpressible pleasures of Paul\nBunyan\u2019s Sundays began. First, the loggers enjoyed the ecstasy of\neating; and it was an ecstasy they were fitted to enjoy gloriously.\nAfter dinner the loggers would lie on their bunks and dream drowsily\nall afternoon of a loggers\u2019 paradise; and the paradise they dreamed\nabout was none other than Paul Bunyan\u2019s camp; but a camp whose life\nbegan each day with a Sunday dinner, and whose days were all like the\nwarm drowsy hours of these Sunday afternoons.\n\nBut most of the loggers would be awake and hungry again at suppertime,\nready to enjoy the Sunday supper of cold meat, potato salad, doughnuts,\njelly rolls and coffee. Then in the twilight, and for a long time after\nthe bunkhouse lamps were lit, they would smoke, and talk contentedly\nof the delight they got from Paul Bunyan\u2019s cookhouse; and they would\nprophesy about the Sunday dinners of the future. There were no\nbunkhouse pastimes on Sunday nights. After some hours of low-voiced\ncontented talk, the loggers would change their underclothes and get\ninto their newly made beds, rested and inspired for Monday\u2019s labor.\n\nThe great cookhouse which so ennobled and cheered Paul Bunyan\u2019s loggers\non their Sundays was the grandest and best planned affair of its kind\never heard of. The dining hall was so commodious and had so much room\nbetween the tables that four-horse teams hauled wagonloads of salt,\npepper and sugar down the aisles when the shakers and bowls were to be\nfilled. Conveyor belts carried clean dishes to the tables and returned\nthe dirty ones to the wash room. The long-legged flunkies wore roller\nskates at mealtime, and the fastest among them could sometimes traverse\nthe dining hall in forty-seven minutes.\n\nBut it was the kitchen, the powerhouse of this vast establishment,\nwhich had the most interest. This domain, ruled by the temperamental\nculinary genius, Hot Biscuit Slim, was as large as ten Ford plants and\nas noisy as the Battle of Gettysburg. The utensils that hung on its\nwalls, from the steam-drive potato mashers and sleeve-valve, air-cooled\negg beaters to the big armorplate potato kettles, the bigger force-feed\nbatter mixers and the grandiose stew kettles, in which carcasses of\ncattle floated about like chips in a mill pond when beef dinners were\nbeing prepared--these polished utensils glittered even when the ranges\nwere smoking their worst at hot cake time.\n\nPaul Bunyan had devised the monorail system for this kitchen, and\noverhead cranes rattled about at all hours, carrying loads of dishes\nfrom the Dishwashing Department to the Serving Department, loads of\nvegetables and meats from the Supply Department to the Preparations\nDepartment, and loads of dressed food from the Preparations Department\nto the Finishing Department. The dishes were washed on a carriage like\nthe log carriages of modern sawmills. The head dishwashers jerked\nlevers that threw heaps of dirty dishes from the conveyor belts to the\ncarriage, then the carriage was shot forward until the dishes struck a\nsharp-edged stream of soapy water that had dropped one hundred feet.\nThe clean dishes were bucked off on live rolls, and the head dishwasher\nshot the carriage back for another load. Some of the clean dishes were\nrun through dry kilns, and others were piled for air-drying by Swede\ndish-pilers, who wore leather aprons and mittens and could pile sixty\nthousand dishes per pair in twelve hours.\n\nA list of the marvels of Paul Bunyan\u2019s kitchen would fill a book as\nlarge as a dictionary. Elevators whirred between the kitchen and the\nvegetable bins, and a wide subway held four tracks that led to the\nfruit and vinegar cellars. A concrete chute carried the coffee grounds,\neggshells and other waste to the kitchen yard, and from morning till\nnight it roared like a millrace. Billy Puget, boss over the scraper\ngang, often had to work his mules and men fourteen hours a day in order\nto keep the kitchen yard cleaned of coffee grounds and eggshells.\n\nPaul Bunyan\u2019s loggers had little understanding of the tremendous\norganization that was required for the operation of such an\nestablishment as the cookhouse. They thanked old Paul for feeding them\nso well, and they agreed that Hot Biscuit Slim was a powerful good\ncook. Less fortunate loggers of to-day think of Paul Bunyan\u2019s camp life\nas a dream of bliss, and they are sure that if they had been there they\nwould have worshiped Paul Bunyan. His own loggers, however, took the\ncookhouse glories as a matter of course, and they never realized what\ninventiveness, thought and effort were needed to give them such Sunday\ndinners and such Sunday afternoon dreams and content.\n\nNor did Paul Bunyan expect shouted praises and thanks from his loggers.\nHe gave so much to them because he expected much from them. He worked\nhis men twelve hours a day, and, had they thought about it, they would\nhave been astounded by any idea of working less. And they would have\nbeen perplexed by any other scheme to ease their lot. If there were not\nto be great exertions, they would have asked, why their sturdy frames,\ntheir eager muscular force? If they were not meant to face hazards,\nwhy was daring in their hearts? A noble breed, those loggers of Paul\nBunyan\u2019s, greatly worthy of their captain! He himself told them in a\nspeech he made at the finishing of the Onion River Drive that they were\n\u201ca good band of bullies, a fine bunch of savages.\u201d I should like to\nquote this speech in its entirety, for it celebrated the accomplishment\nof a historical logging enterprise, and it was a master oration which\nshowed the full range and force of Paul Bunyan\u2019s oratorical powers.\nBut as nine days and eight nights were required for its delivery, it is\nobvious that no publication save the _Congressional Record_ could give\nall of it. It was at this time that Paul Bunyan served his great black\nduck dinner.\n\nThe speech ended on a Tuesday, and until the following Saturday morning\nthere were no sounds save the snores of weary men and the scratching\nof the sleepless Johnny Inkslinger\u2019s fountain pen. By Saturday noon he\nhad a time check and a written copy of the oration for every man in\ncamp. After dinner the Big Swede, using a fire hose, a ton of soap, and\na tank of hair tonic began to give the blue ox his spring cleaning,\nand Johnny Inkslinger turned in for the three hours of sleep which he\nrequired each week. Paul Bunyan was arranging his personal belongings\nfor the move to a new job and musing on his recent accomplishment. He\nhad never driven logs down a rougher or more treacherous stream than\nOnion River. And the hills over which the timber had been skidded were\nso rocky and steep that they tried even the strength of the blue ox.\nWorst of all was the rank growth of wild onions that had covered the\nground. They baffled all attempts to fell the trees at first, for they\nbrought blinding floods of tears to the loggers\u2019 eyes and made their\nefforts not only futile but dangerous. When the Big Swede was standing\non a hillside one day, dreaming of the old country, he failed to\nobserve a blinded logger come staggering up the slope, and he did not\nhear him mumble, \u201cThis looks like a good stick.\u201d Not until the logger\nhad chopped a notch in the leg of his boot had the Big Swede realized\nhis peril. Paul Bunyan, baffled by such incidents, was about to abandon\nthe whole operation when the alert Johnny Inkslinger heard of the\nfailure of the Italian garlic crop. He quickly made a contract with the\nItalian government, which sent over shiploads of laborers to dig up the\nwild onions and take them home as a substitute for the national relish.\nWhen this had been accomplished it was possible to log off the country.\n\nThere had been other difficulties to overcome, too, and as Paul\nBunyan spread out a tarpaulin and prepared to roll up his boots and\nworkclothes, he remembered them and praised the saints that they were\nended. The next job offered the best promise of easy and simple logging\nof any he had ever encountered. For miles the land rose in gentle\nslopes from a wide and smoothly flowing river; there was no brush\nor noxious vegetation among the clean, straight trees; and, best of\nall, the timber was of a species now extinct, the Leaning Pine. The\ntrees of this variety all leaned in the same direction, and it was\nthus possible to fell them accurately without the use of wedges. Paul\nBunyan was sure of a season\u2019s record on this new job. He thought of\nthe fresh brilliancy it would give his fame, and like a row of snowy\npeaks glimpsed through the spaces of a forest, his teeth glittered\nthrough his beard in a magnificent smile. But another thought quickly\nsobered his countenance. \u201cThose good bullies of mine!\u201d The words came\nin a gusty murmur. He dropped the tarpaulin and strode over to the\ncookhouse. Hot Biscuit Slim, the kitchen chief, came forth to meet him.\nThere was a knowing look in the cook\u2019s eyes.\n\n\u201cIt\u2019s to be a great Sunday dinner to-morrer?\u201d he asked, before Paul\nBunyan could speak.\n\n\u201cThe greatest Sunday dinner ever heard of,\u201d said Paul Bunyan. \u201cI want\nthis to be remembered as the noblest meal ever served in a logging\ncamp. My loggers shall feast like the victorious soldiers of old time.\nIt is a natural privilege of heroes to revel after conquest. Remember,\nas you prepare this feast, that you may also be making immortal glory\nfor yourself.\u201d\n\n\u201cYou jest leave it to me, Mr. Bunyan!\u201d answered Slim. \u201cIf the baker\u2019ll\ndo his part with the cream puffs, cakes and pies, I promise you\nI\u2019ll make \u2019em a meal to remember. First, oyscher stew, an\u2019 then for\nvegytables, cream\u2019 cabbage, of course, mash\u2019 potatoes an\u2019 potato cakes,\nlettuce an\u2019 onions----\u201d\n\n\u201cNo onions!\u201d thundered Paul Bunyan. There was a terrific crash in the\nkitchen as hundreds of skillets and kettles were shaken to the floor.\n\n\u201cUh--I forgot,\u201d stammered Hot Biscuit Slim. \u201cWell, anyway, they\u2019ll be\noyscher soup, vegytables, sauces, puddin\u2019s, hot biscuits, an\u2019 meat in\ndumplin\u2019 stew an\u2019 mulligan stew, an\u2019 they\u2019ll be drippin\u2019 roasts, all\ntender an\u2019 rich-seasoned--oh, the meat that I\u2019ll give \u2019em! the meat--\u201d\nhe paused sharply, shivered as though from a physical shock, and misery\nglistened in his eyes--\u201conly--uh--only----\u201d\n\n\u201cOnly you have no meat,\u201d said Paul Bunyan gently.\n\n\u201cI\u2019m admittin\u2019 it,\u201d said Slim wretchedly. \u201cHonest, Mr. Bunyan, no\nmatter how I try I jest _can\u2019t_ remember to order meat, \u2019specially for\nSunday dinner. I can remember vegytables, fruits an\u2019 greens easy as\npie, but, by doggy, I always forget meat. I ain\u2019t pertendin\u2019 a cook\u2019s\nworth keepin\u2019 who can\u2019t remember meat, no matter how good he is at a\nfixin\u2019 it. I wouldn\u2019t blame you if you fired me right off, Mr. Bunyan.\u201d\n\nHot Biscuit Slim leaned against the toe of the hero\u2019s boot and wept.\n\n\u201cThat means I must rustle deer and bear,\u201d said Paul Bunyan patiently.\n\u201cWell, bear meat and venison will make a royal feast when they have\npassed through your kettles and ovens. Light the fires, go ahead with\nyour plans; you may yet make history to-morrow!\u201d\n\nHe turned away, and Hot Biscuit Slim watched him worshipfully until he\nwas a dim figure on distant hills.\n\n\u201cThe best friend me an\u2019 my pap ever had,\u201d he said. \u201cI\u2019d do anything for\na boss like that. I\u2019ll learn to remember meat, by doggy, I will!\u201d\n\nRumors of the marvelous dinner that was being planned reached the\nbunkhouses, and the loggers indulged in greedy imagining of the\npromised delights. The day went slowly; the sun seemed to labor down\nthe western sky. Before it sank soft clouds obscured its light,\nbringing showers and early shadows.\n\nAt the approach of darkness Paul Bunyan began his return march to the\ncamp. He was vastly disappointed by the meager results of his hunt.\nAlthough he had gone as far as the Turtle River country, he had snared\nbut two deer and three small bears. These only filled a corner of one\npocket of his mackinaw, and they would provide but a mere shred of\nmeat apiece for his men. Paul Bunyan did not feel that he had done his\nbest; he was not one to rest on feeble consolations. As he journeyed\non he was devising other means to carry out his plans for a memorable\nand stupendous feast. And ere he was within an hour of the camp the Big\nSwede was unconsciously outlining the solution of the problem for him.\n\nThe Big Swede went to the stable some time after supper to see that\nBabe was at ease for the night. The clouds were thinning now, and when\nhe opened the stable door soft light poured in on the blue ox, making\nlustrous spots and streaks on his sleek sides. He turned his head, his\nbulging blue eyes shining with gentleness and good-will, and his tongue\ncovered the foreman\u2019s face in a luscious caress.\n\n\u201cHar noo,\u201d remonstrated the Big Swede.\n\nAs he solemnly wiped his drenched face he sniffed the fragrance of\nBabe\u2019s breath and stared with a feeling of envy at the clean, glowing\nhair. When he had finished his inspection and left the stable, it was\nevident that he was wrestling with some laborious problem. His whole\nface was tense with a terrific frown; his memory groped among the\nshadows of some distant happening; he scratched his sides vigorously\nand breathed deeply of the air, sweet with the odors of washed earth.\nThe purity of the spring weather, the fresh cleanliness it gave the\nworld, and the aroma and sleekness of the blue ox, had brought the\nBig Swede to face his own sore need of a washing. He dreaded it as\nan ordeal, an exceptional and hazardous undertaking, and for that\nreason he wished that he might accomplish it immediately. He wandered\naimlessly on, tormented by an unaccustomed conflict of the soul and\nthe flesh, and at last he came to the edge of a cliff. He stared in\nsurprise at the appearance of a lake below. He could not remember so\nlarge a body of water near the camp. But the Big Swede had no room for\nmore than one emotion at a time, and a violent resolve now smothered\nhis surprise.\n\n\u201cYah, aye do him noo,\u201d he muttered.\n\nHe disrobed swiftly and ran to a rock that jutted from the cliff.\nSwinging his fists he leaped twice into the air; the second time he\nflung himself outward in a magnificent dive, his body made a great\ncurve, and then, head first, he plunged downward. But there was no\ntumultuous surge and splash of waters as a climax of this splendid\ndive. Instead, the Big Swede\u2019s head struck white canvas with a dull,\nrending impact. For he had mistaken Paul Bunyan\u2019s tarpaulin for a lake!\nThe force of his plunge drove him through the canvas and half-buried\nhim in the soft earth underneath. His arms were imprisoned, but his\nlegs waved wildly, and his muffled bellows shook the earth. A prowling\nlogger saw what seemed to be shining marble columns dancing in the\nmoonlight and felt the ground trembling under his feet.\n\n\u201cIt can\u2019t be,\u201d he thought bravely.\n\nJust then the Big Swede made another heroic effort to yell for help,\nand the logger was shaken from his feet. He jumped up and ran to\nJohnny Inkslinger with an alarming tale of dancing ghosts that shook\nthe earth. The timekeeper, after sharpening twenty-seven lead pencils\nto use in case it was necessary to make a report on the spot, started\nwith his medicine case for the place where the logger had directed him.\nWhen nearly there he remembered that he had failed to bring his ten\ngallon carboy of alcohol, which, next to Epsom salts, he considered\nthe most important medicine in his chest. He ran back for it, and by\nthe time he finally reached the Big Swede, that unfortunate\u2019s bellows\nhad diminished to groans, and his legs waved with less and less gusto.\nAfter thoroughly examining and measuring the legs, Johnny deemed\nthe proof positive that they belonged to the Big Swede. Then he got\nbusy with paper and pencil and figured for half an hour. \u201cAccording\nto the strictest mathematical calculations,\u201d he announced, \u201cthe Big\nSwede cannot continue to exist in his present interred, or, to be\nexact, half-interred condition; consequently he must be extricated. I\nhave considered all known means by which this may be accomplished, I\nhave figured, proved, and compared results, and I have arrived at a\nscientific conclusion. I direct that the blue ox and a cable be brought\nhere at once.\u201d\n\nWhen the loggers had obeyed this command, Johnny made a half-hitch\nwith the cable around the Big Swede\u2019s legs, which were waving very\nfeebly now, and in two seconds, amid a monstrous upheaval of dirt and a\nfurther rending of the canvas, the Big Swede was dragged out. For a few\nmoments he spat mud like a river dredge; then the timekeeper proffered\nhim the ten gallon carboy of alcohol. It was drained at a gulp, and\nthen, with aid from Johnny Inkslinger, he was able to stagger to the\ncamp office. When Paul Bunyan reached the camp, the Big Swede was lying\non his bunk, bundled in bandages from head to foot. Johnny Inkslinger\nwas still busily attending him; bottles of medicine, boxes of pills,\na keg of Epsom salts, rolls of bandages, and surgical implements were\nheaped about the room. The timekeeper gave a detailed account of what\nhad happened, and then Paul Bunyan questioned the victim, who answered\nbriefly, \u201cAye yoomped, an\u2019 aye yoomped, an\u2019--_yeeminy_!\u201d\n\nJohnny Inkslinger gave his chief a voluminous report of the Big Swede\u2019s\nfractures, sprains and contusions.\n\n\u201cHe is also suffering from melancholia because he is still unwashed,\u201d\nsaid Johnny. \u201cBut I think I\u2019ll restore him. I\u2019ve dosed him with all\nmy medicines and smeared him with all my salves. I\u2019d have manipulated\nhis spine, but, confound him, he strained his back, and he threatens\nviolence when I touch it. But I have many formulae and systems. He\nshall live.\u201d\n\n\u201cSurely,\u201d said Paul Bunyan. \u201cA man is the hardest thing to kill there\nis.\u201d\n\nKnowing that the Big Swede\u2019s wounds were nothing in comparison with the\nones which he had received in the Dakota battle, Paul Bunyan worried no\nmore about his foreman. He stepped from the camp office, plucked up a\nyoung pine tree and brushed his beard, thinking again of his unrealized\nplan. He remembered the wordless dejection of Hot Biscuit Slim on\nreceiving the scanty supply of deer and bear meat. He determined that\nthe Sunday dinner should yet be as he had planned it; otherwise it\nwould be a bad augury for great achievements in his new enterprise. He\nthrust the tree into his shirt pocket and walked slowly towards his\noutdoor headquarters, pondering various schemes that came to mind.\n\nWhen he reached the white sheet of water he was astonished by its\ndeceptive appearance. It had a silvery glitter in the moonlight, for\nits surface still held the moisture of the showers. Small wonder,\nthought Paul Bunyan, that the Big Swede had dived into it; never was a\nlake more temptingly beautiful or seemingly more deep. He was gazing\nat the torn canvas and the huge cavity made in the ground by the Big\nSwede, when he heard a great chorus of shrill and doleful voices in the\nsky. He looked up and saw an enormous host of black ducks in swerving\nflight. They had lost their way in the low-hanging clouds at dusk, and\nnow they were seeking a resting place.\n\nHere, thought Paul Bunyan, is a noble offering of chance. Was a black\nduck more acute than the Big Swede, that the bright, moist canvas would\nnot deceive him also? And once deceived, would not the ensuing dive be\nfatal? Wasn\u2019t a black duck\u2019s neck of more delicate structure than the\nBig Swede\u2019s, and wouldn\u2019t it surely break when it struck the tarpaulin?\nThis variety of black duck grew as big as a buzzard, and here they\nwere so numerous that clouds of them darkened the moon. Now to deceive\nthem. Paul Bunyan could mimic the voices of all the birds of the air\nand all the beasts of the fields and woods, save only that of the blue\nox, who always replied with a jocular wink when his master attempted to\nsimulate his mellow moo. In his moments of humor Paul Bunyan declared\nthat he could mimic fish, and one Sunday when he imitated a mother\nwhale bawling for her calf the loggers roared with merriment for\nseventeen hours, and were only sobered then by exhaustion. His voice\nhad such power that he could not counterfeit the cry of a single small\ncreature, but only the united cries of flocks and droves. So he now\nmimicked perfectly the chorus that rang mournfully in the sky, and at\nthe same time he grasped the edge of the tarpaulin and fluttered it\ngently.\n\nThe effect was marvelous. Now indeed was the canvas a perfect imitation\nof water. Had you been standing by the sole of Paul Bunyan\u2019s boot and\nseen the gentle flutter you would have been sure that you were watching\na breeze make pleasant ripples on the surface of a lake. Ere long the\nblack ducks were enchanted by the sight and sound, and Paul Bunyan\nheard a violent rush of air above him as of a hurricane sweeping a\nforest. A vast dark cloud seemed to plunge out of the sky. Another\ninstant and the canvas was black with feathered forms. Paul Bunyan\ngrasped the four corners of the tarpaulin, swung the bundle over his\nshoulder and strode home to the cookhouse. Hot Biscuit Slim was called\nforth, and when he saw the mountainous pile of black ducks that filled\nthe kitchen yard he became hysterical with delight. He called out\nthe assistant cooks, the flunkies and dishwashers, and, led by Cream\nPuff Fatty, the baker, the white-clad underlings streamed for eleven\nminutes from the kitchen door. The chief cook then made them a short\nbut inspiring speech and fired them with his own fierce purpose to make\nculinary history.\n\nPaul Bunyan listened for a moment, and then sought repose, with peace\nin his benevolent heart.\n\nAll night fires roared in the ranges as preparations went on for\nthe great dinner. The elevators brought a load of vegetables every\nminute from the deep bins, potatoes were pared and washed, kettles and\nroasting pans were made ready, and sauces and dressings were devised.\nThe black ducks were scalded, plucked and cleaned by the Preparations\nDepartment, and by morning the cranemen were bringing them by the\nhundreds to the Finishing Department, where the kettles and pans were\nwaiting for them.\n\nMost of the loggers stayed in their bunks this morning, and those\nwho did come to breakfast ate sparingly, saving their appetites.\nTime passed quietly in the camp. The loggers washed and mended their\nclothes and greased their boots, but they did not worry themselves with\nbed-making. The other Sunday morning chores finished, they stretched\nout on their unmade bunks and smoked. They were silent and preoccupied,\nbut now and again a breeze blowing from the direction of the cookhouse\nwould cause them to sigh. What enchantment was in the air, so redolent\nwith the aroma of roasting duck and stewing cabbages, so sharply sweet\nwith the fragrance of hot ginger and cinnamon from the bakery where\nCream Puff Fatty fashioned his creations! A logger who was shaving\nwould take a deep breath of this incense, and the blood would trickle\nunnoticed from a slash in his cheek; another, in his bunk would let\nhis pipe slip from his hand and enjoy ardent inhalations, blissfully\nunaware of his burning shirt; yet another, engaged in greasing his\nboots, would halt his task and sit in motionless beatitude, his head\nthrown back, his eyes closed, quite unconscious of the grease that\npoured from a tilted can into a prized boot.\n\nAt half past eleven the hungriest of the loggers began to mass before\nthe cookhouse door, and as the minutes passed the throng swiftly\nincreased. At five minutes to noon all the bunkhouses were empty and\nthe furthest fringe of the crowd was far up Onion River valley. The\nground shook under a restless trampling, and the faces of the loggers\nwere glowing and eager as they hearkened to the clatter and rumble\ninside the cookhouse, as four-horse teams hauled in loads of salt,\npepper and sugar for the shakers and bowls. Then the loggers began\nto stamp and shout as they heard the flunkies, led by the Galloping\nKid on his white horse, rushing the platters and bowls of food to the\ntables. Tantalizing smells wafted forth from the steaming dishes. The\nloggers grew more restless and eager; they surged to and fro in a tidal\nmovement; jests and glad oaths made a joyous clamor over the throng.\nThis was softened into a universal sigh as the doors swung open and\nHot Biscuit Slim, in spotless cap and apron, appeared wearing the\nimpressive mien of a conquering general. He lifted an iron bar with a\nmajestic gesture, paused for dramatic effect amid a breathless hush,\nand then struck a resounding note from the steel triangle that hung\nfrom the wall. At the sound a heaving torrent of men began to pour\nthrough the doors in a rush that was like the roaring plunge of water\nwhen the gate of a dam is lifted. The chief cook continued to pound out\nclanging rhythms until the last impatient logger was inside.\n\nThen Hot Biscuit Slim re\u00ebntered the cookhouse. He was reminded of a\nforested plain veiled in thin fog as he surveyed the assemblage of\ndarkly clad figures, wreathed with white and fragrant blooms of steam.\nHis impression was made the more vivid when the loggers plunged their\nspoons into the deep bowls of oyster soup, for the ensuing sounds\nseemed like the soughing of wind in the woods. The chief cook marched\nto the kitchen with dignity and pride, glancing to right and left at\nthe tables that held his masterwork. He asked for no praise or acclaim;\nthe ecstasy that now transfigured the plainest face was a sufficient\nlight of glory for him.\n\nThe soup bowls pushed aside, the loggers began to fill their plates,\nwhich were of such circumference that even a long-armed man could\nhardly reach across one. The black ducks, of course, received first\nattention. And great as the plates were, by the time one was heaped\nwith a brown fried drumstick, a ladle of duck dumplings, several large\nfragments of duck fricassee, a slab of duck baked gumbo style, a rich\nportion of stewed duck, and a mound of crisp brown dressing, all\nimmersed in golden duck gravy, a formidable space was covered. Yet\nthere was room for tender leaves of odorous cabbage beaded and streaked\nwith creamy sauce; for mashed potatoes which seemed like fluffs of\nsnow beside the darkness of duck and gravy; for brittle and savory\npotato cakes, marvelously right as to texture and thickness; for stewed\ntomatoes of a sultry ruddiness, pungent and ticklish with mysterious\nspices; for a hot cob of corn as long as a man\u2019s forearm, golden with\nsirupy kernels as big as buns; for fat and juicy baked beans, plump\npeas, sunny applesauce and buttered lettuce, not to mention various\ncondiments. Squares of cornbread and hot biscuits were buttered and\nleaned against the plate; a pot-bellied coffee-pot was tilted over a\ngaping cup, into which it gushed an aromatic beverage of drowsy charm;\na kingly pleasure was prepared. More than one logger swooned with\ndelight this day when his plate was filled and, red-faced, hot-eyed,\nwet-lipped, he bent over it for the first mouthful with the joy of a\nlover claiming a first embrace.\n\nIn the kitchen the chief cook, the baker and their helpers watched and\nlistened. At first the volume of sounds that filled the vast room was\nlike the roar and crash of an avalanche, as dishes were rattled and\nbanged about. Then the duck bones crackled like the limbs of falling\ntrees. At last came a steady sound of eating, a sound of seventy\nthreshing machines devouring bundles of wheat. It persisted far beyond\nthe usual length of time, and Hot Biscuit Slim brought out his field\nglasses and surveyed the tables. The loggers were still bent tensely\nover their plates, and their elbows rose and fell with an energetic\nmovement as they scooped up the food with undiminished vigor.\n\n\u201cStill eatin\u2019 duck,\u201d marveled Hot Biscuit Slim.\n\n\u201cThey won\u2019t be more\u2019n able to _smell_ my cream puffs,\u201d said the baker\nenviously.\n\nThe loggers ate on. They had now spent twice their usual length of time\nat the table. Each plate was in a dark shadow from tall rows of slick\nblack duck bones and heaps of corn cobs. But----\n\n\u201cStill eatin\u2019 duck,\u201d reported Hot Biscuit Slim.\n\nThat no one might see his grief Cream Puff Fatty moved to a dark\ncorner. He was now certain that none of the loggers could have room for\nhis pastries. They ate on. They had now spent three times their usual\nlength of time at the table. The baker was sweating and weeping; he was\nsoaked with despair. Then, suddenly:\n\n\u201cThey\u2019re eatin\u2019 cream puffs!\u201d cried Hot Biscuit Slim.\n\nCream Puff Fatty could not believe it, but a thrill of hope urged him\nto see for himself. True enough, the loggers were tackling the pastries\nat last. On each plate cream puffs the size of squashes lay in golden\nmounds. As the spoons struck them their creamy contents oozed forth\nfrom breaks and crevices. Stimulated by their rich flavor, the loggers\nate on with renewed gusto. They had now stayed four times as long as\nusual at the table. Other enchantments still kept them in their seats:\nlemon pies with airy frostings, yellow pumpkin pies strewn with brown\nspice specks, cherry pies with cracks in their flaky crusts through\nwhich the red fruit winked, custard pies with russet freckles on their\ngolden faces, fat apple pies all odorous with cinnamon, cool, snowy\ncream pies, peach cobblers, chocolate puddings, glittering cakes\nof many colors, slabs of gingerbread, sugar-powdered jelly rolls,\ndoughnuts as large around as saucers and as thick through as cups, and\nso soft and toothsome that a morsel from one melted on the tongue like\ncream. So endearing were the flavors of these pastries that the loggers\nconsumed them all.\n\nCream Puff Fatty and Hot Biscuit Slim solemnly shook hands. There was\nglory enough for both of them.\n\nAt last there were no sounds at the tables save those of heavy\nbreathing. The loggers arose in a body and moved sluggishly and\nwordlessly from the cookhouse. They labored over the ground towards\nthe bunkhouses as wearily as though they had just finished a day of\ndeadening toil. Soon Onion River valley resounded with their snores and\ngroans....\n\nAt supper time, when Hot Biscuit Slim rang the gong, Cream Puff\nFatty stood by his side. This was to be the supreme test of their\nachievement. For five minutes the chief cook beat the triangle, and\nthen a solitary logger appeared in the door of a bunkhouse. He stared\nat them dully for a moment and then staggered back into the darkness.\nThis was indeed a triumph! Great as other feasts in the cookhouse had\nbeen, never before had _all_ the loggers been unable to appear for\nsupper. This was a historic day. Cream Puff Fatty and Hot Biscuit Slim\nembraced and mingled rapturous tears. It was their high moment. They\nwould not have traded it for all the glory that was Greece and the\ngrandeur that was Rome.... They had intimations of immortality....\n\nFor five weeks the loggers lay in a delicious torpor, and then Johnny\nInkslinger brought them from their bunks with doses of alcohol and\nEpsom salts. By this time the Big Swede had recovered from his\ninjuries, and Paul Bunyan waited no longer to move his camp. The\nbuildings, which rested on skids, were chained and cabled together, and\nthe blue ox hauled them over the hills to the new job.\n\nNothing marred the beauty of that summer; stirring breezes blew all the\ndays over the loggers as they felled the Leaning Pine trees in perfect\nlines on the grassy slopes. The blue ox waxed fat with the ease of his\nlabor. Weeks passed without the Big Swede having a serious accident.\nDust gathered on Johnny Inkslinger\u2019s medicine case. Hot Biscuit Slim\nnever once failed to remember meat. And a record number of logs were\npiled above the rollways. Paul Bunyan planned a great drive with\nprideful confidence that it would be the glorious climax of a historic\nseason. But here fortune deserted him, for, after driving the logs for\nnine days, and seeing an exact repetition of scenery three times, he\nhad Johnny Inkslinger survey the placid river. The river was round; it\nflowed in a perfect circle; and Paul Bunyan had driven the logs three\ntimes over the same course!\n\nNothing daunted, he thereupon determined to saw the logs and\ntransport the lumber overland, and he erected his famed sawmill,\nwhich was nineteen stories high, with each bandsaw and each circular\nsaw running through all the floors. A description of the original\nmachines and devices used in this mill would fill the pages of a mail\norder catalogue. It is needless to say that it operated perfectly. The\nonly great difficulty Paul Bunyan had to overcome originated from the\nsmokestacks. He was compelled to equip them with hinges and drawbridge\nmachinery so that they could be lowered to let the clouds go by.\n\n\n\n\nTHE OLD HOME CAMP\n\n\nThe old home camp of Paul Bunyan, was in the Smiling River country; it\nlay in a great plain, between this sunny stream and the flowered banks\nof Honey Creek, which lazed on past the camp ere it joined the river.\nWhen the sun got low in the West, the shadow of old Rock Candy Mountain\ncrept over the camp. On hot summer days the frost-hued mountain was\na freshening sight; at night it looked like a huge dish of white ice\ncream. Raspberry trees covered its lower slopes, and in the Junetime\nthey were heavy with berries as big as apples. The lemonade springs\nbubbled from among these trees, and their waters rippled through\nblossoming strawberry bushes as they coursed towards the river. In the\ntwilights of the fruitful season the songs of the jaybirds that nested\nin the raspberry trees sank to a soft and sentimental chorus; and their\nslumbrous melodies, mingled with the cheery \u201cjemine-e-es\u201d of the jeminy\ncrickets that lived among the strawberry bushes, made a beauty of sound\nharmonious with the spirit of eventide.\n\n[Illustration]\n\nThe old home camp had been built in the midst of a grove of maples.\nIt had been deserted for seven years, and only a few moss-covered\nbunkhouses yet remained. Some bare sections of land, deeply corrugated,\nshowed where the great cookhouse had stood; and trails that had been\npacked by the trampling of thousands of calked boots were still marked\nthrough lush growths of grass.\n\nPaul Bunyan\u2019s farm was the source of his supplies; it was ruled by John\nShears and worked by the scissor-bills. It covered the rich bottom\nlands below Honey Creek, and it extended for miles over the bordering\nhills. Huge red clover blooms tossed and nodded on crowns and slopes\nwhen the warm June breezes blew. When the two happy but sensitive bees,\nBum and Bill, had got enough honey from them to fill the thirty-five\nhundred barrels which were required for the loggers\u2019 hot cakes each\nwinter, John Shears and the scissor-bills mowed the hay and baled it.\nThen the milk cows were pastured on the stubble until wintertime. They\ndid not have such grandiose names as are given to cows nowadays--no\none in Paul Bunyan\u2019s time would have thought of naming a kind, honest\nheifer Wondrous Lena Victress or Dairylike Daffodil Sweetbread;--they\nwere simply called Suke, Boss, Baldy and S\u2019manthy, but they were\nqueenly milkers. Boss was the great butter cow; John Shears had only\nto put salt in her milk, stir it a bit, let it stand for a while, and\nhe would have tubfuls of the finest butter in the land. Suke\u2019s milk\nmade wonderful bubbly hot cakes. Baldy\u2019s milk never soured, and it\nwas especially good in cream gravy. S\u2019manthy\u2019s milk was pretty poor\nstuff, but she had a vast hankering for balsam boughs, and in the\nwinter she would eat them until her milk became the most potent of\ncough medicines. It saved Paul Bunyan\u2019s loggers from many an attack\nof pneumonia. The grand flocks of poultry, which were ruled by Pat and\nMike, the powerful and bellicose webfooted turkey gobblers, performed\nmarvels of egg-laying and hatching. The snow hens, for example, would\nlay only in the wintertime; they made their nests in the snow and\nlaid none but hard-boiled eggs. There were great vegetable gardens in\nthe bottom lands; there the parsnips and carrots grew to such a depth\nthat the scissor-bills had to use stump-pullers to get them out of the\nground. It took two men an hour and a half to sever the average cabbage\nfrom its stalk. The potatoes grew to such a size that Paul Bunyan\ninvented the steam shovel for John Shears to use in digging them out.\nIn the chewing tobacco patch the tobacco grew on the plants in plugs,\nshreds and twists, and it was highly flavored by the natural licorice\nin the soil.\n\nIt would take pages to describe all of the marvels and splendors of\nPaul Bunyan\u2019s farm.\n\nFor five years now Paul Bunyan had not visited his farm or the old\nhome camp. He himself knew nothing of farming; first and last he\nwas a logger, so he had left his farm completely in the control of\nJohn Shears when the great move was made from the old home camp. He\ntrusted without doubts his boss farmer, who was a powerfully religious\nman. Only his violent piety had made him a failure as a woods boss.\nThe loggers could not _bear_ to be preached to, and John Shears had\ninsisted on preaching to them through every meal. But he managed the\nscissor-bills ably; they were men who had failed to make good as\nloggers and who had the calm and meek spirit of born farm hands. John\nShears had easily taught them to venerate him as a prophet, and they\nwillingly worked sixteen hours a day for him, though the loggers had\nnever worked more than twelve.\n\nAfter Paul Bunyan\u2019s departure, John Shears had faithfully improved\nthe farm, and at last it became so productive that even the endless\nfreight teams of Shagline Bill could not move all its hay and produce\nto the far-away logging enterprises. Then only the simple routine of\nfarm work remained to be done, and this hardly fetched fourteen hours\nof labor a day from the scissor-bills, even in the harvesting season.\nJohn Shears, always a terror for work, got dissatisfied. He began to\ndream of strange, tempting projects of irrigation and land-clearing.\nHe let himself imagine Paul Bunyan\u2019s logging crews digging ditches,\ngrubbing out stumps, and leveling hills into grand hay and grain\nfields. Then his dream became an active idea. If logging could somehow\nbe prohibited, abolished, totally exterminated--what then? The loggers\nwould all have to turn farm hands, for farming would be the only\nremaining industry. And then he, John Shears, the one and only master\nfarmer, would become supreme over all of them; he would have Paul\nBunyan\u2019s place, and the great logger would have to take a lesser r\u00f4le!\nSoon, waking or sleeping, the idea was always in his mind. It was the\nroot of many plans, and at last it threw out a monstrous growth. John\nShears planned nothing else than to do away with Babe, the blue ox, who\nskidded all of Paul Bunyan\u2019s logs to the river landings, who was the\nmainspring, the central motive force, of all his logging operations.\nLogging without Babe could no more be imagined than rain without\nclouds. This plan was the source of the prodigious poison parsnip plot.\n\nParsnips were Babe\u2019s favorite delicacy, and John Shears was supposed to\nship the parsnip crop to the logging camp each fall. But in the year\nin which the monstrous plot was hatched he did not dig the parsnips at\nall. He allowed them to go to seed instead, and now the parsnip patch\nwas rank with a poisonous second growth. John Shears intended to dig\nthem in another month and ship them to the camp. The blue ox would eat\nthem and die, and then he, the boss farmer, should attain the power and\ntriumph of his dreams.\n\nLittle Meery, the farm slavey, alone was kept in ignorance of John\nShears\u2019 schemes, not because he was feared or distrusted, but because\nhe seemed so lowly, abject and unimportant. He had scarcely more\nconsequence in the farm life than one of the snow hens. He slept on\na hard bunk under the kitchen sink. He was not allowed to associate\nwith the scissor-bills. The only attention he ever received from them\nwas when they made him the object of blows and ridicule. One time he\nhad been Thomas O\u2019Meery, the Irish Orphan, an aspiring young logger.\nThe rich food served in Paul Bunyan\u2019s cookhouse had been his undoing.\nHe became obese, rotund, unable to swing an ax. He got such heft and\ncircumference that he was a nuisance. Whenever he fell down he would\nhave to roll around until he could find a logger who would lift him\nto his feet. He was a danger also. One time he rolled down a hill and\nbounced head-on into a column of marching loggers. He flattened every\none, and Johnny Inkslinger, the timekeeper and camp doctor, was busy\nall night setting their broken ribs. After this mishap, Paul Bunyan\nturned him over to John Shears. The boss farmer gave him the meanest\njob on the farm; he put him to washing the dishes and slopping the\npigs. Little Meery finally became resigned to his grievous affliction\nand lowly lot, and a spirit of sublime meekness sustained him even when\nhe was most cruelly treated.\n\nThis corpulent child of misfortune had a rare and charming soul.\nHe alone, of all the toilers on the great farm, felt the pastoral\nloveliness of his surroundings. His day of toil done, he would part his\nhair, gather a bunch of clover blooms, take Porkums, his little lame\npet pig under his arm, waddle over the footbridge that crossed Honey\nCreek, and in the grounds of the old home camp enjoy his one small\npleasure in life. Sitting on an old maple log, he would pretend that\nhe was a lean, muscular head faller in Paul Bunyan\u2019s camp and one of\nthe great logger\u2019s favorites. He would see himself as a bunkhouse hero,\nwalking in the shadows of the blue ox, living a grand, free life. What\ndelight Little Meery had from such imaginings! What pity that they had\nto fade! Little Meery always tried to be bravely cheerful when the\ndream was done. He would force back his tears, return the comforting\nsqueals of Porkums with a trembling smile, then move gently among the\njaybirds, which always gathered trustingly around his feet, and return\nto his cruel slavey\u2019s life with only thoughts of kindness and charity\nfor John Shears and the scissor-bills. If Paul Bunyan could only have\ntruly known that heart of gold!\n\nOne evening in the old home camp Little Meery\u2019s imaginings became\nmore active than usual. He pretended that he was winning a felling\nchampionship, while Paul Bunyan applauded him.... He made great chips\nfly like buckshot, the loggers were a cheering host, he swung the ax\nviolently at every stroke.... Too late he felt himself slipping from\nthe maple log, and he rolled helplessly to the ground. As usual, he\ncould not get back on his feet. He rolled to the footbridge, but he\ncould not pass between the railings. He lay there until dawn, and no\nhelp came. The morning passed, and still he lay helpless. He was not\nfound until John Shears came to the farmhouse for dinner and discovered\nthe breakfast dishes unwashed.\n\n\u201cDid it on puppus, I bet!\u201d roared the boss farmer. \u201cI\u2019d let ye lay\nthere an\u2019 rot ef \u2019twarn\u2019t fer the dishes. I got a mind to whale ye\nanyhow, hi gravy!\u201d\n\n\u201cPlease, oh, please don\u2019t beat me, Mr. Shears,\u201d pleaded Little Meery.\n\u201cI tried to roll home, honest I did.\u201d\n\nThe boss farmer brought an ellum club into view.\n\n\u201cOh, _by_ gosh! Mr. Shears----\u201d\n\n\u201cSwearin\u2019, hey?\u201d\n\n\u201cI meant to say \u2018my\u2019--honest!\u201d\n\n\u201cDidn\u2019t nuther. Ye used a \u2018by\u2019 word, an\u2019 ye know plagued well ye meant\nto be profane!\u201d\n\n\u201cOh! oh! oh\u2019\u201d screamed poor Little Meery, as the blows poured upon him.\nJohn Shears beat him until sundown, taking five minutes out of each\nhour for rest.... He raised the ellum club for a last terrific blow,\nand Little Meery bravely tried to stifle his sobs, as he waited to\nreceive it. The cruel blow was never delivered. Two words stopped it.\n\n\u201cHere ... John!\u201d\n\nThe words seemed to be calmly spoken, yet the tones that made them\nfilled the vast plain of the home camp and reverberated in thunderous\nechoes among all the hills. The trees shook, the surface of Smiling\nRiver broke into violent waves, the slopes of old Rock Candy were\ndisturbed by the smoke and roar of an avalanche. John Shears quietly\ndropped his ellum club; Little Meery opened his eyes and saw near him\na boot with a toe cap made of an elephant hide. Then he looked up and\nbeheld the kindly bearded countenance of the good and mighty Paul\nBunyan looming above him. Then John Shears hastily helped him to his\nfeet and he limped between the boss farmer\u2019s ankles and out on the\nfootbridge. There he stopped to look worshipfully on his hero, his\nlord, his king, Paul Bunyan, who shook hands solemnly with John Shears.\n\n\u201cI didn\u2019t expect ye to ketch me a frolickin\u2019 with one o\u2019 my men,\u201d said\nJohn Shears attempting a grin. \u201cBut I do like to frolic once in a\nwhile, jest like your loggers do.\u201d\n\n\u201cI\u2019m glad that you have learned to play, John,\u201d said Paul Bunyan\ngently. \u201cThe playful spirit of my loggers has helped them to bear\nuntold perils, griefs and hardships. They are a fine bunch of savages,\nworthy of emulation. I intend for them to enjoy the bounties and peace\nof home life for a season. We return to log off the rest of the Smiling\nRiver country.\u201d\n\n\u201cWell, now, I\u2019m mighty glad you\u2019re to be with us again, Mr. Bunyan,\u201d\nsaid John Shears effusively.\n\n\u201cThank you, John. And I wish to commend you for your faithful service.\nI hope to reward you fittingly. And I overlook your failure to ship\nBabe his parsnips last fall. Your one failure, for which I shall\nnot reprove you. But you must prepare him acres of them at once.\nUnderstand? Very well. Yay, Babe!\u201d\n\nJohnny Inkslinger, the timekeeper, and the Big Swede, the foreman,\nwere beside Paul Bunyan. The three moved towards the maple grove, and\nthe blue ox, who had been straddling the river, stepped on across it,\ndragging the cookhouse, the bunkhouses, and the other camp buildings\nbehind him. He was thin, and the shape of his great ribs showed through\nhis shaggy blue hide. As he moved through the twilight shadows he\nlooked like a wrinkled bluff when it is seen dimly in a fog. For half\nan hour the bunkhouses flashed by so swiftly that their lighted windows\nmade an unbroken streak of light. The loggers in them were singing\nabout the jam on Garry\u2019s Rock and the death of young Munro. As Little\nMeery listened to the roaring choruses he felt that he would willingly\ngive his life for a single day as a real logger. If he could only\nbe there in one of the bunkhouses, a tough and respected member of\na logging crew, a lean, supple, vigorous axman, a fine and admired\nfigure! Vain, vain desire! Poor Little Meery. He abandoned the dream\nwith a sigh. Then he was startled by a dry, rasping chuckle from John\nShears. Little Meery was astonished, for he had never heard the boss\nfarmer laugh.\n\n\u201cParsnips, hey?\u201d he cackled. \u201cOl\u2019 Paul wants his ox critter to have his\nparsnips right now, does he? Dad gum\u2019, ef that ain\u2019t funny! Ho! ho!\u201d\n\nThe boss farmer leaped over Honey Creek and strode rapidly towards the\nfarmhouse. Every hundred yards he would pause and chuckle convulsively.\n\u201cParsnips, hey? Ye dern\u2019 tootin\u2019 I\u2019ll feet him parsnips! It\u2019s Mr.\nBunyan\u2019s pers\u2019nal orders, says I. Heh! heh! Dad burn\u2019, ef that ain\u2019t\nfunny!\u201d\n\nWhile Paul Bunyan, Johnny Inkslinger and the Big Swede cruised the\nremaining timber in the Smiling River country, the loggers renewed\ntheir affections for the delights of the old home camp. In the mornings\nthey roamed the cool slopes of old Rock Candy, they gorged themselves\nwith ripe fruit from the raspberry trees and strawberry bushes, and,\nbarefooted, they climbed the maple trees and gamboled over the clover\nfields. In the afternoons Smiling River was splashed with foam for\nmiles as they swarmed into their old swimming holes. Swimming over,\nthe loggers would line up on the banks and shake their right legs\nto get the water out of their left ears and their left legs to get\nthe water out of their right ears. Then they would angle for the\nbright-hued butterfish that fluttered among the water flowers. And\nwhat exhilarating meals they enjoyed! Now they had all the fresh stuff\nthat the farm could provide. Cream Puff Fatty, the baker, made them\nstrawberry shortcake and raspberry pie twice a day, and he covered\nthese juicy confections with snowy piles of vanilla-flavored whipped\ncream. The cobs from golden, fat-kerneled roasting ears were soon\nheaped mountain-high in the kitchen yard. The cream gravy for the\nrosy new potatoes and bouncing green peas was made from real cream,\nsweet and thick. The loggers became lighthearted boys again, and as\nthey enjoyed themselves they were happily unconscious of the bitter\nenviousness of the scissor-bills, who were digging parsnips for twenty\nhours a day on the other side of Honey Creek.\n\nBabe, the blue ox, too, was enjoying life as never before. The stream\nfrom the lemonade springs had been diverted to a trough that ran\nthrough his manger; and he was surrounded with fresh, green clover, for\nJohn Shears, with sinister purpose, had mown all the clover fields on\nthe day after Paul Bunyan\u2019s arrival and had stacked it in and around\nBabe\u2019s stable. He had hoped that the blue ox would bloat on the green\nfeed, and perish before his master could return from his cruising\nexpedition. But the early harvest had only served to throw the two bees\ninto a rebellious rage; they had been imprisoned in their hive, and\nthere, night and day, they had buzzed wrathfully over their half-filled\nhoney barrels. Babe digested the green clover easily, and ate it with\ndelight, his great blue eyes shining with affection and gratitude for\nthe boss farmer.\n\n\u201cPity \u2019tain\u2019t alfalfy, ye blame\u2019 hog,\u201d snarled John Shears in disgust.\n\nBut it wasn\u2019t, so John Shears made the scissor-bills work twenty hours\na day in the parsnip patch, and he aided them with his own efforts, for\nhe realized that once Paul Bunyan and Johnny Inkslinger had returned\na fatal poisoning of the blue ox would be difficult to accomplish. He\nwould not have the courage to attempt it then. Now was the time to\nstrike. Heaven helping him, he should not fail!\n\nDuring this week Little Meery had been kept within the bounds of the\nfarmyard by the strict orders of John Shears. His heart was heavy\nindeed as he toiled away in the kitchen. Never had the scouring of pots\nand pans seemed to be such wretched labor; never had the odors and\nsteam of dishwater seemed so detestable. When he went out to slop the\npigs at eventide he heard the jaybirds\u2019 songs no more; he had ears only\nfor the shouts, laughter and harmonies that sounded in the old home\ncamp. Next week the grand life of logging would begin; all summer he,\npoor unfortunate, would suffer the misery of vain longings. Poor Little\nMeery; he looked in vain for a silver lining to his cloud.\n\nSaturday came, and only one more holiday remained for the loggers to\nenjoy. As Little Meery listened to their exuberant noise, he was unable\nto drive away his despondency with songs or cheerful thoughts. Hour by\nhour his spirits got lower; his optimism left him, and his mind was\ndark with dismal shades. When he went to bed under the kitchen sink he\ndid not fall into a sound sleep at once, as he usually did; his misery\nand dejection kept him awake. For two hours he lay there, soaking his\npillow with tears, then the droning murmurs from the settin\u2019-room\nwere hushed, and, after a pause, John Shears began a speech. He fully\nrevealed his frightful scheme to the scissor-bills, and he exhorted\nthem to be true to his cause, which was their cause also. When Little\nMeery understood that the boss farmer intended to poison the blue ox\nand thus do away with the logging industry forever, he gave such a\nstart of horror that his head banged against the bottom of the sink.\nThe speech was halted at the sound.\n\n\u201cIt\u2019s only Little Meery,\u201d said a scissor-bill contemptuously.\n\nLittle Meery did not venture to stir again as John Shears went on\nspeaking.\n\n\u201cSo it\u2019s all fixed to pizen the ox critter to-night,\u201d said John Shears\nin conclusion. \u201cThen they\u2019ll be no more wicked loggin\u2019. Loggin\u2019 must\nbe wicked because it makes wicked men. Farmin\u2019 must be good because it\nmakes good men. When ol\u2019 Paul Bunyan an\u2019 his loggers has to go farmin\u2019\nthey\u2019ll nacherlly turn into good men. Then they\u2019ll have to foller us,\nhi grabby, because we was farmers an\u2019 good men before they was. I hate\nto pizen a pore dumb critter, but this here\u2019s by way of makin\u2019 him a\nsackerfice--a sackerfice for the glory of life eternal! Glory! glory!\nglory!\u201d\n\nThe scissor-bills all shouted \u201cGlory! glory! glory!\u201d after him, and\nthen Little Meery heard them all move out of the settin\u2019-room. For a\nfew minutes he did not dare to stir, then he could no longer tolerate\nthe anxiety of waiting. He slid carefully from his bunk, he took off\nhis nightgown and slipped on his ragged slavey\u2019s clothes, and then,\npausing cautiously at every heavy step, he approached the kitchen\ndoor. He opened it and peered outside. There was a fair light from a\nhalf-moon, and he could see the scissor-bills standing in rows and\nclusters along the barnyard fence. John Shears was already across Honey\nCreek. He opened the door of Babe\u2019s stable, and then ran back to the\nfarmyard. Soon Babe\u2019s head appeared in the stable doorway, his great\ngentle eyes looked inquiringly about, then they shone hungrily as they\nglimpsed a white heap of the vegetables he loved. Other piles were\nscattered at intervals of seven hundred yards. In a short time Babe was\nin the parsnip patch, and he began to devour the first mountainous pile\nof the deadly vegetables. John Shears and the scissor-bills shouted\nhalleluiahs of joy and triumph.\n\nHorror, despair, a terrible sense of helplessness, held Little Meery\nmotionless in the doorway. Hours seemed to pass as he frantically tried\nto think of some means to thwart the plot of John Shears and to ward\noff the tragic event that was swiftly casting its shadow over the old\nhome camp. But what could _he_ do? He was only Little Meery, scorned,\ndespised, held in such contempt that he had been ignored entirely in\nthe plans. Then a sound that had roared in his ears ever since the\nclover was cut for the blue ox startled his mind with a desperate\nidea. The sound was the raging hum of two great bees, Bum and Bill,\nand Little Meery now resolved to release them from the hive, whatever\nthe danger to himself. He knew that they would make a savage attack on\nthe blue ox and perhaps drive him from the perilous parsnip patch. So\nhe eased himself out of the kitchen and trod as softly as his obesity\npermitted towards the beehive. He reached it without being discovered,\nthen he heaved up desperately on the latch. Up it went--six inches,\ntwelve, eighteen, thirty-six, sixty--it was over the top of the block!\nAs Little Meery pantingly threw the door open, the bees began to roar,\nthen they shot out of the hive with a deafening buzz, their wings\nhumming so violently that the wind from them stripped the shirt off\nhis back. The bees zigzagged doubtfully for a moment, then they spied\nthe blue ox in the parsnip patch. They cracked their wings together\nand lit out for him in a beeline. John Shears saw them and bawled for\nthem to return, but, though they were obedient bees in their gentle\nmoods, his yells now made them buzz on in a greater rage than ever.\nThey circled the blue ox three times, then they sat on him and began a\nfurious stinging of him. Babe bellowed. The scissor-bills were thrown\nthrough the barnyard fence when the wind from that bellow struck them,\nbut John Shears charged through the vegetable gardens after the bees.\nAnd reached the anguished ox just as he had lifted his hind legs for\na tremendous kick. Babe\u2019s hoof caught the boss farmer squarely between\nhis eyebrows and his ankles, and he was hurled so high into the air\nthat he sailed over the cloud-kissed crest of old Rock Candy. Babe\nflailed away mightily with his tail, he pawed up clouds of dirt, he\nstood on his horns, but the bees remained seated. At last the blue ox\ngalloped out of the parsnip patch and ran for the sanctuary of his\nstable, where the bees dared not follow him.\n\nBabe\u2019s bellow had rolled Little Meery among the scissor-bills, but he\nlanded on his feet. He lumbered away from them in the direction of the\nfootbridge, and when the scissor-bills had disentangled themselves from\nthe splinters of the fence, they set out after him. They caught him\nin the center of the bridge, but just as they were beginning to beat\nhim, the loggers, who had all been shaken from their bunks by Babe\u2019s\nanguished bellow, came with a rush from the other side. Then began the\nfamous Battle of the Footbridge, in which the opposing forces vainly\nattempted to reach each other over the obese form of Little Meery, who\nreceived hundreds of blows a minute. All through the night the battle\nraged, while Babe mooed woefully in his stable and Bum and Bill buzzed\ngleeful satisfaction in their hive.\n\nNot until sunrise, when Paul Bunyan reached the old home camp, was the\nterrible struggle ended. He ordered the loggers and the scissor-bills\ninto the plain before the maple grove and demanded an explanation. The\ncombatants were too weary from their terrific struggle to reply, but at\nlast Little Meery found strength to speak and told his awful story.\n\n\u201cBrave, brave heart,\u201d Paul Bunyan commended him. \u201cAnd how can I reward\nyou?\u201d\n\n\u201cI want to be a head faller, Mr. Bunyan.\u201d\n\n\u201cBut a head faller must fit into a head faller\u2019s uniform, and you my\nfine lad--well, you are Little Meery.\u201d\n\nThen Little Meery staggered triumphantly from among the weary host.\nNot a stitch remained on him, he was bruised from head to heels, but\nhe showed himself with pride. For he was not now the seven hundred and\neighty pound Little Meery of yesterday, but a raw-boned two hundred and\nfifty pound logger, lean, solid and strong. During the long battle,\npound by pound, over a quarter of a ton of fat had been pushed,\nprodded, punched, pounded, rolled, jerked, squeezed and stamped from\nhis body. His obesity was gone! Miracle of miracles! Paul Bunyan could\nhardly believe his eyes.\n\n\u201cA head faller you shall be,\u201d he said.\n\nJohn Shears was three weeks returning from the spot whither Babe had\nkicked him. Meek, humble, chastened, repentant, he came to Paul Bunyan\nand declared himself willing to submit to the dire punishment which\nhe supposed awaited him. He expected to be made to eat gravel for a\nmonth, at the very least. The good and mighty Paul Bunyan, however,\nmerely ordered John Shears to get back to the farm. But he put a ban\non parsnips. As for Little Meery, when he heard that John Shears had\nreturned, he twisted his hat around--his hair was never parted now,--he\ntook a grand chew of fire cut, hitched up his tin pants and growled.\n\u201cLet\u2019s walk on him! Let\u2019s put the calks to him! Let\u2019s cave his head\nin!\u201d Little Meery had become a logger indeed, and he lived gloriously\never after.\n\n[Illustration]\n\n\n\n\nSHANTY BOY\n\n\nIn Paul Bunyan\u2019s time, camp entertainment was of, by and for the\nwoodsmen. In Paul Bunyan\u2019s camp there were hypnotic story-tellers,\nsingers who could make you laugh and cry in the same moment, and\nsteppers who could do a breakdown fit to shatter the frame of a\nbunkhouse. \u201cOl\u2019 Paul\u201d knew the importance of social pleasures for his\nloggers, and he made natural provision for them. A good bunkhouse bard\nwas marked by the great logger\u2019s especial favor; many a man who toiled\npoorly was saved from the lowly life of a farm hand by his ability to\ndance, whistle and sing. Consequently Paul Bunyan\u2019s Bunkhouse Nights\nare as famous in history as his great feasts and labors.\n\nEvery night but Sunday, when the twelve hours of toil in the woods\nwere ended and supper was over, the tired loggers would be cheered\nand consoled by the bunkhouse bards. There was one for each shanty,\nand each one had his own particular virtues. There was Beeg An\u2019tole,\nfor example, who made his mates in Bunkhouse 999 hilarious as he told\nquaint tales about logging in \u201cdat ver\u2019 fines\u2019 countree, which she\u2019s\nt\u2019ree weeks below Quebec.\u201d Angus MacIlroy of Bunkhouse 1313 was made\nto sing \u201cThe Island Boys\u201d a dozen times a night by his song-loving\ncomrades. And Tinty Hoolan of Bunkhouse 6000 jigged with such violence\nand speed that a modern jazz band would have gone crazy trying to make\nmusic fast enough for him. The rattle of his jigging feet sounded like\nthe buzz of a big bee. His bunkhouse cronies boasted that he could\nimitate any known sound with his feet except a tired logger\u2019s snore.\nAnd this, anyone admitted, defied imitation or description. Tinty\nHoolan was a swamper, and a poor one; his feet, however, saved him from\nlife among the scissor-bills on Paul Bunyan\u2019s farm.\n\nNow these were three of the greatest of Paul Bunyan\u2019s bards, and no one\nhas ever found words to describe them or to give them fitting praise.\nAnd if words fail with them, how can they reveal the brightest star of\nall Paul Bunyan\u2019s performers? Indeed, Shanty Boy, of Bunkhouse 1, was\nmore than a star; he was a constellation, for he was an entertainer\nwith a thousand talents. What old logger does not feel his own soul\ndance as he hears, in the Bunyan histories, the soft, vibrant patter\nof Shanty Boy\u2019s right foot, the thunderous stamp of his left foot, the\nsharp rattle of his heel-cracking in a great breakdown? He not only\ndanced with his feet, but with his hands and eyes; he had a dancing\ngrin, too, which would shine now on the right side of his face, now\non the left. Shanty Boy put his whole soul into his dancing. And so\nhe did with his stories. When he told a Swede story he _was_ a Swede,\nand when he told a dirty story he _was_ dirty. He was never content\nwith mere pretending. He made entertainment of everything, and he did\nit naturally. A log would roll over his leg when he was at work. That\nnight he would hobble down the bunkhouse aisle like an ailing old man,\ntalking in the mournfullest way. \u201cOh, lawdy, boys! I \u2019low I ain\u2019t long\nfer _this_ life. Thet new medicine I\u2019m usin\u2019 don\u2019t \u2019pear to be doin\u2019 my\nrheumatiz no good, no good a-tall. I spect I\u2019ll be havin\u2019 to change to\n\u2019nuther kind agin.\u201d Then he\u2019d hobble back again, drawing his sore leg\nup like a string-halted horse, and groaning, \u201cM-m-m-! M-m-m! I \u2019low I\nfeel worse\u2019n anyone thet ever lived in this here world--an\u2019 lived.\u201d If\nsomebody asked him what time it was, he would take out his old watch,\nhold it at arm\u2019s length, throw back his head and squint at the watch\nlike he was looking at it through glasses. He claimed that \u201cgrandpap\ncarried thet watch fer nigh on forty year, an\u2019 it won\u2019t tell the time\nonless I look at it jest like he did.\u201d Sometimes he would sit down by\nthe stove and eat an apple or a raw turnip. Then he would pull his hat\ndown over his eyes, and while he chewed away, looking as solemn as a\npolitician, he would make the hat bob up and down to keep time with his\njaws. No one else could have done this without seeming foolish, but\nShanty Boy always kept a kind of dignity when he was performing that\nmade men respect him even when they were laughing at him.\n\nBut it was his songs and stories which truly endeared him to the\nloggers. His renditions of \u201cJohn Ross,\u201d \u201cJack Haggerty,\u201d \u201cThe Island\nBoys,\u201d and \u201cBung Yer Eye,\u201d were so affecting and inspiring that the\nloggers, what with laughing, crying, stamping, clapping and cheering,\noften made so much sympathetic noise that the song itself could not be\nheard. Shanty Boy only sang two nights a week and then for no longer\nthan four hours at a time. The other nights he danced, and told true\nbut thrilling stories of life in the woods. The bards from other\nbunkhouses would come to hear him and then give imitations of his\nperformances. His supremacy was unquestioned, yet he remained unspoiled.\n\nFor he was more than a mere entertainer. The mightiest of Paul Bunyan\u2019s\nloggers lived in Bunkhouse 1, and as a logger Shanty Boy was the peer\nof any of them. He could notch a tree or work in white water with\nthe best of the fallers and rivermen. He held his own with even Mark\nBeaucoup in the rough bunkhouse frolics. He was Paul Bunyan\u2019s favorite\nfaller, and the great logger often carried him to the woods on his\nshoulder. He had an equal rank with Hot Biscuit Slim, the chief cook,\nShagline Bill, the freighter, and Big Ole, the blacksmith. He was a\ntrue hero. And a time came when he reached the greatest height of glory\never attained by a plain logger. Here is how it came about.\n\nThe Year of the Two Winters had been disastrous for Paul Bunyan. Winter\nhad come again in the summertime that year, and the cold increased in\nthe succeeding months. At Christmas time there was fifty feet of ice\non Lake Michigan, and by the last of February the lake was frozen to\nthe bottom. Paul Bunyan was then engaged in logging off the Peninsula\ncountry, and of course his operations were halted. He cut the ice into\nblocks and hauled them out on the lake shore with Babe, his big blue\nox, who could pull anything that had two ends on it. This was done\nso that the ice would melt more quickly when normal summer weather\nreturned. Then he moved his outfit to the old home camp in the Smiling\nRiver country, where severe weather was never experienced.\n\nPaul Bunyan had done no logging around his old home camp for seven\nyears. The remaining timber was so far from the river and on such steep\nhills that profitable logging seemed impossible. However, it was the\nbest to be had, for elsewhere it would be weeks, even months, before\nthe snow drifts would melt away from the tree tops. Paul Bunyan tackled\nthe tough logging problems before him with characteristic courage. He\nwas sure that his inventiveness and resourcefulness would, as always,\ntriumph over every obstacle.\n\nHis most stubborn and difficult problem was that of getting the loggers\nto the woods in the morning in time to do any work and getting them\nhome at night in time to do any sleep. One plan after another was\ntried and dropped, failures all. Paul Bunyan began with an attempt to\nwork one day shift, but the loggers could not get to the woods before\nlunch time; lunch finished, they had to start at once for the camp.\nTwo shifts were then put on, but little work could be done at night,\nexcept when the moon was full. Paul Bunyan then sent the great Johnny\nInkslinger, his timekeeper and man of science, to investigate the\nAurora Borealis as a means of artificial lighting. Johnny reported\nthat it was pretty but unreliable, and he doubted if even the blue ox\ncould move it down from the North in less than six months. The learned\nInkslinger then sat down and figured desperately for a week, trying to\ndevise a method of working three twelve-hour shifts a day. With such\na routine one shift could be doing a day\u2019s work, while a second shift\nwas coming to work, and a third was going to camp. Johnny Inkslinger\nwas, beyond a doubt, the greatest man with figures that ever lived, but\nhere his mathematics failed him. Paul Bunyan then thought of making\na campsite in the timber, and he dug for water in the high hills. He\nsucceeded in reaching a mighty vein, but it was so deep that it took\na week to draw a bucket of water out of the well. It was out of the\nquestion as a water supply for the camp.\n\nNow Paul Bunyan had to fall back on a last plan, a far-fetched one that\nseemed well-nigh hopeless. This was to build a great sled, something\non the order of a lunch sled, and have Babe, the blue ox, haul the\nloggers to and from work each day. It was a desperate plan, and no one\nbut Paul Bunyan would have had the courage to attempt it. It must be\nremembered that the blue ox measured forty-two ax handles and a plug\nof chewing tobacco between the horns; an ordinary man at his front had\nto use a telescope to see what he was doing with his hind legs, he was\nso long; he had so much energy and such delight in labor that no one\ncould hold him when he started for the woods in the mornings; he was\nso fast that Paul Bunyan\u2019s foreman, the Big Swede, who was as tall as\nthe trees, could not begin to keep up with him. Only Paul Bunyan could\ntravel so fast. Whenever Babe moved the camp he traveled at a careful\npace, but even then some of the loggers were made seasick; and all of\nthem became so irritable when a move was being made that they fought\nconstantly among themselves. If the comparatively slow camp-moving pace\nof the blue ox thus upset them, his timber-going gallop would be apt to\nruin them completely. Paul Bunyan remembered how the Big Swede, hanging\nto Babe\u2019s halter rope, was hurled through the air, only striking the\nground once in every quarter of a mile or so, when the blue ox rushed\nto his delightful labor each morning. A lunch sled full of loggers\nwould be dragged by Babe in much the same fashion; it would be in the\nair most of the time, and when it did strike the ground loggers would\nbe scattered like autumn leaves. The loggers who would hang on until\nthe woods were reached would have the living daylights shaken out of\nthem. A common lunch sled would not do; one must be invented that would\nhold the road.\n\nSo Paul Bunyan devised the serpentine bobsled. It was a long, low-built\ncontraption; the runners were made in short sections, connected by\ndouble joints. When it was completed and lay in the road that led\nfrom the camp it looked like a squat fence, for it snugly fitted the\ncontours of the hills and vales over which it extended.\n\n\u201cThere\u2019s a rig that\u2019ll hold the road,\u201d said Paul Bunyan with pride.\n\u201cNow I\u2019ll invent something equally good to hold Babe to a slow pace.\u201d\n\nSeveral mechanical devices were tried without passing the first test.\nThe sled lay idle. The loggers got sore feet, and they traveled so\nslowly that they began to take twelve hours to reach the woods. There\nwas one shift on the road, going, and one coming all of the time. Not a\ntree was being felled.\n\n\u201cThere\u2019s no way out of it but to try the grizzlies,\u201d Paul Bunyan told\nhis timekeeper.\n\nAmong the other livestock on Paul Bunyan\u2019s farm, which was down the\nriver from the old home camp, was a herd of grizzly bears. The great\nlogger often amused himself by playing with them, and he had taught\nthem many tricks. Not the least of their stunts was for each bear to\nhang from a tree with three paws and try to claw Paul Bunyan\u2019s mackinaw\nwith the other paw as he dodged by.\n\n\u201cI\u2019ll station them at the trees which are left standing along the\nroad,\u201d said Paul Bunyan, \u201cand when Babe roars by they\u2019ll hook him. They\nmay only frighten him into a faster run, but I think surely they\u2019ll\nslow him down.\u201d\n\nThe next morning the loggers, for the most part, joyfully crawled upon\nthe serpentine bobsled. The timid and cranky among the loggers were\npessimistic, of course, and declared noisily that this would be the end\nof them. But Shanty Boy and the other bards laughed at their fears,\nand at last every logger in camp was on the sled. Paul Bunyan ordered\nthe Big Swede to hitch up the blue ox and start in half an hour, and\nhe departed for the woods with his herd of grizzlies. He stationed one\nof them at every tree close to the road. When he reached the timber he\nstraddled a hogback and sat down to wait for the outcome of his daring\nattempt.\n\nIn a short time he heard a faint thunder down in the valley, then he\nsaw enormous balloons of dust twisting up in cyclonic bursts from the\nfoothills, next he heard the crashing sound of hoofbeats that got\nlouder and louder.... Through clouds of dust he saw Babe\u2019s tail brush\nlifted like a triumphal banner and the glitter of his horns.... The Big\nSwede, hanging to Babe\u2019s halter rope, soared and dived....\n\nThe bears had failed. Indeed, they had failed terribly, for when Babe\ncame to a halt in the timber Paul Bunyan saw bears paws hanging from\nboth sides of him. Only one bear had saved his paw, and he was holding\na tree in a frenzied clutch. Babe had carried away bear, tree and\nall. Paul Bunyan rushed back over the road, and as he came to each\nunfortunate grizzly he mercifully dispatched him. He carried them all\ninto camp.\n\n\u201cBear meat for Sunday dinner,\u201d he said to Hot Biscuit Slim, as he threw\nthe bears into the kitchen yard.\n\nPaul Bunyan then had Johnny Inkslinger bring his medicine case, and the\ntwo hurried to the woods. But only a slight number of the loggers had\nbeen made truly ill by the terrific speed with which Babe had hauled\nthem over the hills. The double-jointed sled runners had slipped over\nrocks, logs and gullies as easily as a snake glides over a string. Not\nonce had the sled bounded from the road. Not a logger had suffered a\njolt. Some of them were dazed and breathless, others were choked with\ndust, but most of them were no more than badly scared by their terrific\njourney.\n\n\u201cAye tal you it ban no use try hol\u2019 Babe down,\u201d said the Big Swede,\nwith rare eloquence.\n\n\u201cThe sled worked perfectly, at any rate,\u201d said Paul Bunyan. \u201cWe can\ndepend on it. But those good bullies of mine are going to need a lot of\nencouragement to stand that ride every morning.\u201d\n\nHe was quite right. His loggers thought nothing of the perils of\nfalling limbs, which are called \u201cwidow-makers\u201d to-day in the woods.\nBreaking up log jams, jumping rolling logs, dodging butts of trees\nwhich bucked back from the stumps when they fell--all this was in\nthe day\u2019s work. But even the serpentine bobsled could not banish the\nterrors of riding behind the blue ox each morning. \u201cI\u2019d ruther try\nridin\u2019 a peavy handle down the West Branch.\u201d \u201cI\u2019ll tell you Babe went\nso fast I acshuly _seen_ the wind, an\u2019 I never seen anything more\nsickenin\u2019 in my life!\u201d \u201cWhat if Babe ud a throwed a shoe now? I bet it\n\u2019da tore through us like a cannon ball!\u201d\n\nPaul Bunyan frowned as he hearkened to their complaints. His loggers\nseldom thought of anything but their labor when they were in the woods.\nIf they were complaining now, what would happen when the bunkhouse\ncranks got into action after supper? There would be much gloomy\ngrumbling, and perhaps rebellious talk. When the loggers went to bed\nthey would brood over the cyclonic morning ride instead of getting\nfortifying sleep. Then they would soon balk against riding behind the\nblue ox. To avoid such an event he must call on his bards to cajole,\nhumor and inspire the men until he could devise new methods to solve\nhis logging problems. With this idea in mind he took Shanty Boy aside,\nplaced him on his knee and explained the situation.\n\n\u201cI shore will do my best,\u201d said Shanty Boy. \u201cBut looky here, Mr.\nBunyan, I \u2019low I\u2019ll have to lie to \u2019em right smart.\u201d\n\n\u201cHow so, my lad?\u201d\n\n\u201cWell I\u2019ve alus done the best I knowed how when I set out to be\namusin\u2019. So, if I\u2019m goin\u2019 to make my stories any thicker, I\u2019ll jest\nabout have to stir a few lies into \u2019em.\u201d\n\n\u201cSon, nobody loves a liar.\u201d\n\n\u201cThet\u2019s jest it, Mr. Bunyan. I got a powerful good reppytation fer\ntruth, an\u2019 I can lie quite a spell afore I\u2019m ketched. But if I do get\nketched Mark Beaucoup an\u2019 them Rories\u2019ll chaw me up. You\u2019ve learnt all\nthe loggers to hate lyin\u2019 jest like you do yourself. I\u2019d probably get\nspiled if I was ketched. Besides, I jest nacherly hate to lie. Yet, no\nlyin\u2019, no loggin\u2019, seems to be the fact o\u2019 the matter.\u201d\n\nPaul Bunyan pondered doubtfully for some time. Moral issues baffled him\nalways. But at last he spoke with decision.\n\n\u201cLogging must go on. You may lie, if necessary, during the period of\nemergency.\u201d\n\n\u201cThem\u2019s orders, Mr. Bunyan. But what if the gang gets hostile an\u2019\nstarts to chaw me up?\u201d\n\nAgain Paul Bunyan hesitated. It was against his policy to interfere in\nthe logger\u2019s personal affairs. Then, firmly:\n\n\u201cA man with your talent should not have to lie, Shanty Boy, in order\nto entertain his mates. But you know best, of course. If you are\ndiscovered, tell the men that all complaints must be lodged with me\nbefore they act upon them. Be cautious and discreet, and honor and\nglory shall be yours.\u201d\n\n\u201cI will, sir. Thank ye, sir, Mr. Bunyan.\u201d\n\nShanty Boy went bravely to work carrying out the great logger\u2019s\ncommands. For some time it was not necessary to tell more than two or\nthree lies a week in order to take the logger\u2019s thoughts off their\nsickening morning rides. They were not great lies that he told, either,\nbut only plausible exaggerations. Most of his stories were still true\nones, and he told them better than ever. He inspired the visiting bards\nas never before. Each night he sent his mates smilingly to sleep,\nentirely forgetful of the ordeal that awaited them in the morning. But\nthis was not natural, and of course it couldn\u2019t last. The loggers lost\nweight every day, and they began to complain of hurts in their innards.\nThe bunkhouse cranks got their dismal chorus started, and Shanty Boy\nhad to tell real big lies to hush it.\n\nHe lied wonderfully indeed, once he was well started. He got so funny\nthat the loggers had to strap themselves into their bunks while they\nlistened to him. They went to sleep laughing, as a rule, and the night\nlong they would chuckle in their dreams.\n\nShanty Boy grew bolder with success. He told, with a bare face, stories\nabout snakes that had many joints, and how they would separate into\npieces and crawl a dozen ways at once. He called them joint snakes.\nHe told stories about a snake that would put its tail in its mouth\nand roll down hill. He called it a hoop snake. When the loggers got\na little tired of snakes, he told whoppers about possums, then about\ncoons, and so on. At last he got around to fish, and he told so many\ngood fish stories that the loggers would not let him switch to another\nsubject. He ran out of ideas, but the loggers would not let him get\naway from fish.\n\nOne night as he was trying desperately to invent a tolerable lie about\nfish he remembered a story of a whale that he had heard his grandfather\ntell, insisting that it was the gospel truth. It was the old story\nabout Jonah and the whale, and the loggers had never heard it. They\nbecame indignant when Shanty Boy repeated it for the plain truth, and\nsome of them began to shout at him. For the first time in his life he\ngot stage fright. He felt that he was telling the gospel truth, but\nthe memory of his previous lies overwhelmed him. He tried vainly to\ncontinue his narrative about Jonah\u2019s life in the whale\u2019s belly, but\nhis tongue failed. He dropped his head, and he fixed a shamed gaze\non his feet. First he heard nothing but the pounding of his heart;\nthen an angry mutter ran along the bunks. It grew into a fierce growl.\nThen Shanty Boy heard the tramp of feet, and he looked up to see Mark\nBeaucoup and the bunkhouse cranks advancing upon him.\n\n\u201cShe\u2019s lie!\u201d yelled Mark Beaucoup. \u201c_Sacre!_ but she\u2019s tell a beeg wan.\u201d\n\nHe shook a huge brown fist under Shanty Boy\u2019s nose.\n\n\u201cNow you are feex yourself. Stan\u2019 up w\u2019ile I knock you down!\u201d\n\nThe loggers left their bunks and made a pressing crowd around their\ndiscomfited bard and his challenger.\n\n\u201cI was coun\u2019 for you stan\u2019 up. Wan--two--t\u2019ree----\u201d\n\nThen Shanty Boy remembered Paul Bunyan\u2019s \u201cAll complaints must be lodged\nwith me\u201d and courage returned to him.\n\n\u201cYou bunkhouse cranks shore give me a misery,\u201d he said contemptuously.\n\u201cYou jest go an\u2019 tell my story to ol\u2019 Paul an\u2019 see what _he_ says about\nit.\u201d\n\nThe loggers stared at him with amazement.\n\n\u201cBy gar!\u201d exclaimed Mark Beaucoup. \u201cDe fool wan\u2019 me tell dees to ol\u2019\nPaul! She\u2019s wan\u2019 me tell dees, dat crazy t\u2019ing!\u201d\n\n\u201cThet\u2019s what I said,\u201d growled Shanty Boy. \u201cRun along afore I get into\none o\u2019 my tantrums.\u201d\n\nKnowing Paul Bunyan\u2019s furious opinion of liars, the loggers were\nsmitten with horror. Of course this story might not be a lie, but most\nlikely it was, and what old Paul would do to him for telling it! Mark\nBeaucoup was triumphant. Soon Bunkhouse 1 would have another king; it\nshould know a rule of iron instead of laughter.\n\n\u201cCome wit\u2019 me,\u201d he commanded his friends. The other loggers, except\nShanty Boy, followed them to Paul Bunyan.\n\nAs Paul Bunyan listened to Mark Beaucoup he was struck with a powerful\nregret for having inspired his greatest bard to leave the path of\ntruthful narration. Desperate circumstances had seemed to justify the\nstep. But what a risk he had taken just to save a few weeks logging!\nThe faith his loggers had in him lay in the balance. Now it seemed that\nhe must lose this faith or sacrifice a hero. He had never dreamed that\nShanty Boy would recklessly tell such an incredible story. Surely he\nhad not told it unthinkingly. No doubt he could explain it. Paul Bunyan\nsent for him.\n\nIt was with a heavy heart that the great bard walked through the lines\nof silent, accusing loggers. It looked like the end of everything for\nhim. But he kept his courage, and, as he walked slowly on, his nimble\nmind was leaping from idea to idea, seeking a solid defense. But what\nproof could he offer for such a story? His grandfather _knew_ it was\ntrue, but the old man was far away in the Southern mountains. He alone\nmust prove somehow that he had not lied.... Paul Bunyan\u2019s boots loomed\nbefore him.... He must think hard ... hard....\n\n\u201cThis story must be _explained_,\u201d said Paul Bunyan in a stern voice,\nat the same time flashing him a look of the utmost sympathy.\n\n\u201cI \u2019low the story is beyond explainin\u2019, Mr. Bunyan, but I never lied\nwhen I told it,\u201d said Shanty Boy, bravely.\n\n\u201cProve it!\u201d roared Mark Beaucoup and his followers.\n\nShanty Boy drew himself up pridefully and he fixed upon the multitude a\ngaze of lofty scorn.\n\n\u201cI never lied!\u201d he declared. \u201cI never lied, for when I lie my neck _it\nswells_! An\u2019--now--look!\u201d\n\nHe jerked open the collar of his shirt and exposed his muscular throat.\nThere was not a sign of swelling about it. The loggers lifted a mighty\ncheer, and Mark Beaucoup, baffled, beaten, completely outwitted, could\nonly swear:\n\n\u201cShe\u2019s don\u2019 swell--by gar!--she\u2019s don\u2019 swell!\u201d\n\nPaul Bunyan could not restrain a windy sigh of relief. The trees bent\nbefore the blast and dust clouds rolled through the ranks of loggers.\nNow was the moment to complete the victory.\n\n\u201cGet to your bunkhouses!\u201d Paul Bunyan roared.\n\nShanty Boy was carried on the shoulders of yelling admirers to\nBunkhouse 1. Mark Beaucoup and the bunkhouse cranks did not venture to\nfollow them until the lights had gone out. Then, humbled and quiet,\nthey sneaked into their bunks.\n\nAs a result of his troubles Paul Bunyan came near to abandoning logging\noperations in the Smiling River Country. But one night he got an idea,\nan idea so simple and sound that he was astonished at not thinking of\nit before. He put it into practice at once, and when the loggers awoke\nthe next morning they saw wooded hills at the very door of the camp.\nPaul Bunyan had simply thrown a cable around each hill, and the blue\nox, who could pull anything that had a top on it, had snaked every one\ninto camp. So the logging then went on easily until the new summer had\nmelted the ice and snow and Lake Michigan was filled with water once\nmore, and had new fish in it.\n\nShanty Boy\u2019s triumph was complete. Not only did he have great honors\nfrom Paul Bunyan, but his mates now revered as well as admired him. His\nventures from truth had held off revolt from the bunkhouses. He had\nconvinced the loggers of the truth of the grand old story of Jonah and\nthe whale. And he had made them all fear swelled necks as the result of\nlying. This last effect persists to this day, for everywhere loggers\nare still known as the most truthful of men.\n\n\n\n\nTHE KINGDOM OF KANSAS\n\n\nNo region of Real America, save Kansas, boasted of its weather in Paul\nBunyan\u2019s time. In the heyday of the mighty logger the climates and\nseasons were not systematized; they came and went and behaved without\nrule or reason. There were many years with two winters, and sometimes\nall four seasons would come and go in one month. The wind would\nfrequently blow straight up and then straight down. Sometimes it would\nsimply stand still and blow in one place. In its most prankish moods it\nwould blow all ways at once. The weather was indeed powerful strange in\nthose days and it got itself talked about. And nowhere were its ways\nmore evil than in Utah.\n\nWhen Paul Bunyan moved his camp to the state of Utah for the purpose\nof logging off its forests of stonewood trees he was not careless of\nthe climate; he merely failed to suspect its treachery. Besides, other\ntroubles beset him. The gritty texture of the stonewood timber dulled\nthe edge of an ax bit in two strokes. At the end of their twelve-hour\nday in the woods the loggers had to sharpen axes for seven hours. They\nwere always fagged out. Then there was only one small river near the\nforests, and Babe, the blue ox, who had got hayfever again since coming\nWest, drank it dry every fifteen minutes. The loggers thirsted, and\nthey were bedeviled by sand in their blankets and in the beans, for\nevery time Babe sneezed he raised a dust storm that rolled its clouds\nthrough the cookhouse and the bunkhouses and covered the great plain\nand the hills around the camp. A spirit of dark and evil melancholy\nsettled on the loggers.\n\nPaul Bunyan hoped for an adequate water supply from the December snows.\nAnd he brought all his inventive powers to the problem of felling the\nstonewood trees. In eleven days and nights he devised eight hundred and\nfive systems, machines and implements, and from this galaxy he selected\na noble tool.\n\nPaul Bunyan\u2019s new invention was the double-bitted ax, which is used\neverywhere in the woods to-day. Paul Bunyan devised it so that a faller\ncould chop with one blade, then twist the handle and whet the other\nblade on the gritty stonewood with the backward swing.\n\nBut even with the new axes the logging went on slowly. The camp supply\nof elbow grease gave out, and the loggers suffered stiffened joints.\nThe December snows were light, and the thirsty blue ox continued to\ndrink the entire water supply. The bunkhouses came to be dens of\nominous brooding and quiet instead of gay and noisy habitations.\nFinally the shipment of webfooted turkeys from the Great Lakes arrived\ntoo late for Christmas dinner. The loggers became dour, gaunt,\nembittered men.\n\nThen came New Year\u2019s Day and outrageous fortune. When the loggers went\nto work at the first thinning of darkness they attributed the peculiar\noppressive warmth of the morning to an unusual Chinook wind. There\nwas, however, no wind at all. Then the rising sun shot blazing rays\ninto a cloudless sky. Even then the loggers did not realize that they\nwere witnessing an Event. This was the beginning of a notable year, the\nYear of the Hot Winter. As the sun climbed higher the heat grew more\nintense. The Christmas snow had vanished at the first burning touch of\nday. The ground baked and cracked. The stonewood trees glittered in a\nfierce light. Each logger threw off his mackinaw, muffler, sweater,\nstagged shirt, woolen overshirt and undershirt; his paraffin pants,\nmackinaw pants and overalls and his Arctic socks, heavy wool socks,\nlight wool socks and cotton socks. All heavy clothing was speedily\nthrown aside, and everywhere in the plain, in the valleys, and on the\nhillsides were piles of garments, and by each pile a logger toiled,\nclad only in drawers and calked boots. But still sweat dripped and\ntrickled from their bodies; they labored more and more languorously.\nEach quarter of an hour the blue ox, with lolling tongue, dashed madly\nfor the river and drank it dry.\n\nPaul Bunyan was distressed by this change in his affairs, but he was\nnot daunted. Confident that his loggers would do their best in the\nmeanwhile, he again retired to solitude, hoping to devise something\nthat would conquer the hostile and unnatural season. He returned with\nthe great timber scythe, with which he could fell a full section of\ntimber with one swing of his mighty arms. Carrying the timber scythe\nover his shoulder, Paul Bunyan strode toward his camp. His tread was\nvigorous despite the deadening heat. Benevolent ideas stirred his\nheart. He himself would do the arduous labor of felling the stonewood\ntrees; the loggers would be asked only to do the lighter work of\ntrimming and bucking the trees into logs. They were a fine bunch of\nsavages; ordinarily they would not allow even Paul Bunyan to do their\nnatural work. Perhaps they would resist such intrusion now. But the\ngreat logger was sure of his persuasive powers.\n\nAs he neared the camp, busy as he was with philanthropic thoughts,\nhe failed to note an unusual silence in the woods and about the\nbunkhouses. Not until he saw Babe and the Big Swede sleeping in the\nstable was he made aware of the extraordinary. Paul Bunyan went next to\nthe camp office. Johnny Inkslinger, that tower of energy, was sleeping\nat his desk! His fountain pen had dropped from his hand, and as it\nwas fed by hose lines from twenty-five barrels of ink, a black stream\ngushed from its point and flooded the floor. A chorus of faint snores\ncame from each bunkhouse. The cookhouse looked gloomy and deserted. In\nthe woods the axes and saws lay where the loggers had left them. For\none hundred and seventy-nine minutes Paul Bunyan stood silently in the\nmidst of his camp, tormented by wrath, regret and sorrow. His outfit\nhad failed him. After all these years of comradeship in labor they had\nallowed a mere hot winter to provoke them into faithlessness. He had\nleft them without an idea that they would be untrue to the job while he\nwas scheming to make it a success. But they had weakened. Very well,\nhe thought, after his brief period of emotion, he would perform their\nlabor for them while they snored. They should awaken to shame.\n\nOne stride brought him into the first clearing made among the stonewood\ntrees. Without losing a second, he threw the timber scythe from his\nshoulder, he grasped its handles, then took a long swing, and the first\nsection of trees thundered to the ground. On he went, making a circular\nswath. As he stepped with his right foot the sharp scythe blade crashed\nthrough the trees on the cutting stroke, and as he stepped with his\nleft he brought the scythe behind him with a vigorous swing. On and\non he labored, his steps coming faster as the circle widened. Every\nseven hours he paused to whet the blade of the timber scythe on a\nbundle of the stonewood trees which he carried in his hip pocket. The\nhot winter drove its fires upon him, but his passion of toil repelled\nthem with a stronger flame. The great logger\u2019s walk became a run; the\ndazzling blade of the timber scythe flashed in strokes of inconceivable\nrapidity; the sections of stonewood trees fell in a steady roar.\n\nThen Paul Bunyan began to sweat. He had labored before this, but\nnever so savagely, nor in such penetrating heat. Only the man who\nraises a good sweat for the first time can realize what an astounding\nstore of perspiration the human body can hold. On occasion it gushes\nfrom innumerable springs, seeming inexhaustible. It streams down the\ncrevices and valleys of the body and floods the flat spaces; it soaks\nthe clothing and drips to the ground. Imagine then what happened when\nPaul Bunyan\u2019s stored perspiration was unloosed. As he toiled on, ever\nmore fiercely, his sweat flooded his boots, it surged over their tops\nand foamed towards the ground like two Niagaras. His swinging body and\nflying arms flung out clouds of spray. These strange waters coursed\nover the plains in torrents and gathered in heaving pools. The little\nriver was submerged, drowned, exterminated. The waters crept towards\nthe camp. Paul Bunyan, more and more engrossed with his labor as time\nwent on, did not note the rising flood. His circle grew wider and\nwider. It left the plain and swung around the bordering slopes. Section\nafter section of the trees was felled, only to be covered by water, for\nthe stonewood timber was too heavy to float. But Paul Bunyan labored\naround and around the circle, quite unaware of the tragical consequence\nof his efforts.\n\nFor five days and nights the loggers lay in their bunks, too lazy to\nget up to eat, too lazy to do aught but drowse and dream. But at twelve\no\u2019clock on the fifth night the waters had reached the bunkhouses, and\nthey learned of their peril. Yells of fear arose from every quarter,\nand in a few moments the whole camp, with the exception of Babe, the\nBig Swede, and Johnny Inkslinger, was aroused. Fright made the loggers\nforget the hot winter, and gave them energy. When they looked out on\na vast lake glittering in the moonlight, and saw in the dim distance\nthe twin rivers roaring from Paul Bunyan\u2019s boots, they knew that\nspeedy and efficient action was necessary to save their lives. The\nbest swimmers swam out to the tool house and brought back hammers,\nsaws and nails. Each logger then began to build a boat from his bunk,\nand for three hours they worked feverishly and silently constructing\nthe vessels. When the last one was finished the word was passed along\nand in a few moments the boats, each one carrying a logger and his\nblankets, swarmed from the bunkhouses. Before the armada had gone\ntwenty feet the boats all filled with water and sank, while the loggers\nuttered lamentable cries. These changed to sounds of rejoicing,\nhowever, when it was discovered that the water was only waist deep. The\nloggers rescued their bundles from the boats and scampered to the shore\nlike a holiday host at a beach.\n\nBut their joy did not last; it quickly gave way to dread. Paul Bunyan,\ntoiling more desperately every moment, was rapidly moving around the\ncircle. In a short time he would be upon them, and at any instant\nhe might discover the fate of his trees, the flooding of his camp,\nhis complete disaster. The loggers all understood the reason for the\nmighty man\u2019s wrathful labor. Their sense of blame confused them and\nsmothered their native courage. The host began to move over the hills,\nhaltingly at first, and with heads bowed like penitents. Then, as the\nvolleying thunder of Paul Bunyan\u2019s timber scythe sounded nearer and\nnearer, they lifted their heads and struck a faster pace. Then guilty\nfears possessed them and every logger of the lot began to gallop madly.\nSomeone yelled, \u201cOl\u2019 Paul\u2019s a comin\u2019!\u201d and the warning cry was echoed\nfrom thousands of throats all over the hills. The loggers were taken\nby panic; the runaway became a stampede. By dawn they were making such\nrunning leaps that each logger would hit his chin with his front knee\nand his head with his back heel at every stride. They were so scared\nthat they never stopped until they got to Kansas.\n\nNow Kansas at that time had the only kingdom that was ever known to\nexist in this country. The ruler of Kansas was King Bourbon, and Topeka\nwas his capital. The Kansas country was then one of the pleasantest in\nReal America. It was rolling land, like that everywhere else, but its\nheavy vegetation and its forests were beautiful and unique, and the\nclimate and seasons were always spring; and indeed the history of Paul\nBunyan\u2019s time tells of a year in Kansas that had thirteen months of\nspring.\n\nThe forests were mostly whisky trees, which grew amid carpets of\ncigarette grass and were entwined with beervines. The greatest of these\nforests was around Lake Topeka, and by the lake was the capital city,\nwhere the nobility and gentry of Kansas led a pleasurable life and\nenvied no one.\n\nWhen Paul Bunyan\u2019s loggers reached Kansas they were so exhausted from\ntheir long run that they had no eyes for the beauties of that region;\nthey only felt that it invited them to rest and promised them security.\nSo when they came to the banks of Rolling River they dropped on the\nsoft and fragrant masses of cigarette grass, and rested in the cool\nshade of the spreading whisky trees, with the bliss known only to\nthe utterly weary. For a long while they were not aware of the virile\nodors of the beervine blossoms, and they heard but faintly the melodies\nof the huge but gentle piano birds who were everywhere in the forest,\neither flitting from bough to bough or sitting in their nests. And\neven when they were rested and soothed by the sweet airs and tinkling\nmelodies the loggers enjoyed the originality of their environment but a\nshort while, for each one became conscious of a raging hunger.\n\n\u201cLet\u2019s look for a nose bag!\u201d the cry up and down the columns and lines.\nThe loggers all arose with the intent of foraging in the forest, and\nthey would no doubt have appeased their hunger at once, if an impulsive\ncuriosity had not made them take a last look at the river. A great gasp\nof astonishment went up, then a terrific crash of laughter shook the\nvast forest and silenced the piano birds. The loggers, one and all,\ndropped again to the ground and rolled and bounced about in convulsions\nof merriment.\n\nRolling River was a stubborn and valiant stream, and, unlike tamer\nrivers, it refused to follow the easiest course. From its source\nextended a range of hills which decreased in height until it was merged\nin the slope of a far valley. Rolling River made its way up and down\nthese hills, cleaving each summit. At the place where the loggers were\nresting the river always had a hard fight, as one hill was nearly equal\nin height to the one that preceded it. Sometimes Rolling River would\nfail here; the waters would part at the summit, and one end of the\nriver would go rushing on and the other end would slide back down the\nhill for a fresh start.\n\nIt was then that the giddyfish which dwelt in this stream would perform\nso clownishly as to tickle any observer into fits. Bewildered by the\nwaters\u2019 abrupt desertion of them, and perplexed as to which end of\nthe river it was best to follow, numbers of them would hesitate on\nthe hilltop, agitated and floundering, then half of them would take\nout after the lower end of the river and half of them would take out\nafter the upper end. They could make great speed by leaping along like\nkangaroos, using their long fins and tails. But they traveled clumsily,\nand their limber tongues lolled from their mouths as they leaped down\nthe hillside, all of which made their every action seem inexpressibly\nhumorous.\n\nThere was never an army of men who enjoyed a good laugh more than Paul\nBunyan\u2019s loggers. And when they saw the giddyfish galloping after the\nriver they laughed till they cried. When the river finally made it up\nthe hill and began to roll on as usual the loggers could hardly stop\nlaughing even then. But they remembered their hunger, and they again\ngot up to search for food. But no sooner had they started than the\nriver parted again, and once more the loggers rolled and laughed over\nthe performance of the giddyfish. And indeed for fifty-seven hours the\nloggers were unable to get away from the riverside, for no sooner would\nthey start to leave than the stubborn river and the clownish giddyfish\nwould repeat their hilarious performance. The loggers would no doubt\nhave laughed themselves to death, or else starved, had not King Bourbon\ncome along with his race horses and jockeys and saved them.\n\nKing Bourbon had his jockeys make a wall of horseflesh between the\nlaughing loggers and the river, and they were then able to stagger back\ninto the safety of the forest. The king then made the loggers a speech\nof apology and warning. He told them that the only crimes punishable\nby death in Kansas were dealing from the bottom of the deck, throwing\na horse race or a fight, and shooting craps with loaded dice. Those\nconvicted of such crimes were sentenced to watch the giddyfish until\nthey laughed themselves to death. The king then asked the loggers at\nwhat games and contests did they excel, and when they told him of their\nexpertness at spinning logs in rough water his face shone with a joy\nthat made it brighter than the diamond in his necktie; for this new\nsport promised to be a thrilling one. He ordered his lord bookmaker to\nbring them on to the capital and find a place for them in the life of\nthe city. After giving this order, he courteously lifted his plug hat\nto the loggers and, followed by his jockeys, he set out for Topeka,\nwhich was over the next hump.\n\nAfter three days the loggers were themselves again and they began to\nexplore the delights of the city.\n\nTopeka, under King Bourbon\u2019s rule, was a city of amusements. There\nwere eleven racetracks, and on each one there were seven races every\nafternoon. Each morning there were five baseball games, the first one\nbeginning at four A.\u00a0M. Boxing and wrestling matches, swimming and\nrunning races, driving and jumping contests were to be seen each Sunday\nin the stadium which faced Lake Topeka. In the time between races and\ncontests the people played poker, solo, rummy and pool, and shot craps\nin the palace, which was the one public building in the city. In its\nsingle vast room there were countless tables for the players, and these\ntables were circled by a bar of such circumference that a man would\ngrow a beard while walking the length of it. The glitter of the glasses\nand mirrors back of the bar was so brilliant and the jackets of the\nbartenders were so white that a beholder seemed to look on ice and snow\nwhich dazzlingly reflected sunlight. But the eye was soothed indeed\nwhen its gaze dropped to the dusky mahogany bar and searched the amber\ndepths of a huge glass which frothed with the sharp and fragrant liquid\nbrewed from foamy beervine blossoms. Even more was the eye delighted\nwhen it caught the jolly winks that bubbled from the most potent and\njovial beverage, the aged sap of the whisky tree. One part of the bar\nwas a great free lunch counter, which was always loaded with filling\nand peppery food. Here the nobility and gentry of Topeka ate and drank,\nKing Bourbon, his lord bookmaker and his lord bartender among all the\nrest. The cooks, waiters and dishwashers had been working three shifts\non the free lunch counter, but King Bourbon generously offered Paul\nBunyan\u2019s kitchen crew employment there, and the lord bartender then had\nto divide the day into forty-eight shifts in order to have work for\neveryone.\n\nThe loggers were royally received into the grand life of Topeka. The\nskill they displayed in spinning logs on the lake each Sunday won them\nan honored place in the kingdom. They became tireless players of poker,\nsolo, rummy, craps, and even of pool. They drank huge quantities of\nbeervine brew and whisky tree sap. The free lunch made them forget\nthe delights of Paul Bunyan\u2019s dinners. Soon they ceased to consider\nthemselves as working loggers, and they repelled with scorn proposals\nto try a new life of toil, which were slyly made by followers of Duke\nDryface, who was a cousin of the King.\n\nThe duke was secretly planning a revolt. He had renounced Topeka life,\nand he now lived among the serfs who brewed the beervine blossoms,\naged the sap of the whisky trees, and made all of the materials that\ncomposed the grand life of Topeka. The serfs were called Cornmen, after\na harsh cereal which they had devised, and which they all raised in\nclearings among the whisky tree forests. Duke Dryface planned to drive\nthe king and his nobility and gentry from the country and clear off\nthe forests, level the hills and make the whole state into a flat corn\ncountry. The king thought him simply a harmless old crank, and would\nlisten to no warnings against him. But, nevertheless, the duke had a\nrevolt well planned for the coming Fourth of July celebration. After\nbribing the bartenders, he had substituted raw sap for the mild and\ngentle aged liquors to be served on that day; he had the Cornmen all\ngrandly inspired, and perfectly drilled, instructed and armed; though\nhe had not converted the loggers, he had directed the bartenders to\nfill their glasses with triple-distilled, high-powered redeye sap on\nthe night of the Fourth, and he was sure that he could capture them and\nkeep them in bondage until the last whisky tree was felled. The duke\ndid not fear Paul Bunyan, for he thought the loggers\u2019 stories about him\nto be drunken exaggerations; he thought of him as some plain leader\nwhom they had basely deserted, and who would no doubt be happy to see\nthem punished by slavery. He kept the strength and extensiveness of his\npower well hidden, and the loggers lived on blissfully in ignorance of\ntheir real danger.\n\nFor many days and nights after the stampede of his loggers Paul Bunyan\nhad toiled on, swinging his timber scythe with undiminished rapidity.\nHe had not observed the desertion of his men, or the flooding of his\ncamp, or the fate of the stonewood trees. But at last his energy and\nstrength began to fail, his pace slackened, he swung the scythe with\nslower strokes, and the intervals between the rolling thunders of\nfalling trees became longer and longer. Then the timber scythe dropped\nfrom his hands, and he sank to the ground. Now he saw for the first\ntime the shimmering distances of salt water which covered the stonewood\ntrees and all but the tallest buildings of his camp. For seven hours he\ngazed on the lamentable scene, then his head dropped to the ground. He\nwas not disheartened; he was only tired. He slept.\n\nDays and nights went by with little change in the unnatural season.\nThe days of springtime came, but here there was no spring. Summer\ndays began, the sultriness of the nights got increasingly heavy and\nthick, and in the daytime the overpowering blaze of the sun seemed to\nmake the very hills shrink, while the surface of the lake was veiled\nin steaming mists. The slumbers of Paul Bunyan, Johnny Inkslinger, the\nBig Swede and the blue ox became so deep that the active careers of all\nof them might have ended there ingloriously had it not been for Babe\u2019s\nappetite, which always tormented him, sleeping or waking. The Big Swede\nwas couched on the high-piled hay in the manger, and Babe\u2019s chin rested\non his body. Stirred by a hunger that would not be denied, his jaws\nbegan to work mechanically; they closed over the fifty pound plug of\nchewing tobacco that the Big Swede always carried in his hip pocket,\nand it was swallowed like a blade of grass. Babe gasped, groaned, and\nshuddered; then he lunged to his feet, snorting and bellowing, for\nchewing tobacco was as poisonous to him as to a circus elephant. He\ngouged the Big Swede viciously with his horns until he awoke with yells\nof agony and astonishment. And not until he saw, through the stable\ndoor, Paul Bunyan asleep on the far side of the lake did Babe heed the\nforeman\u2019s powerful remonstrances. With a last angry toss of his horns,\nwhich threw the Big Swede through the stable window, Babe turned and\nplunged into the water. So fast did he run that he threw foaming waves\nto the furthest reaches of the lake. When he reached Paul Bunyan he\nemitted a joyous bellow and eagerly began licking the great logger\u2019s\nneck. For one hour and twenty-seven minutes Babe assiduously tickled\nhim, and then Paul Bunyan sprang to his feet with a great roar of\nlaughter. He felt strong and fresh; he smiled cheerfully at the blue\nox, who capered around him. He straddled Babe and rode him across the\nlake to the flooded camp. There he awakened Johnny Inkslinger, and,\nrefusing to listen to his apologies, he sent him out to discover the\ntrail taken by the loggers. By the time it was found, Paul Bunyan and\nthe Big Swede had the camp out of the water and ready to move. Babe\nwas hitched to the buildings and the search for the errant loggers\nbegan. As he traveled on Paul Bunyan said nothing; his head was bowed\nin painful meditation. There was still wrath in his heart for his\nloggers\u2019 desertion of him, but there was more of loneliness. Excepting\nthe pleasures of history-making, invention and oratory, there had never\nbeen any joy for him like the joy that comes from the comradeship of\nlabor, and he wished to feel it again. Then he feared that the loggers\nmight be completely lost; they were as helpless as sheep, without\nunderstanding guidance. One moment he swore to punish them severely,\nthen his heart would be softened by sad and gentle thoughts. So\nengrossed was he with perplexing ideas and troubling emotions that he\ndid not notice the decline of heat and the new sweetness in the air as\nthe balmy clime of Kansas was approached....\n\nA Fourth of July in Topeka during the reign of King Bourbon! Who\nwould not give his fame and fortune to have participated in one of\nthose marvelous celebrations! What pale and weakly imitations we\nhave nowadays of the ball games between the Fats and the Leans, of\nthe potato races, and of all the other ingeniously devised contests\nwhich made the last day of King Bourbon\u2019s reign a long procession of\nglories and wonders! When will we see again parades, marches and drills\nperformed by uniformed organizations as they were performed by The\nBartenders\u2019 and Bookmakers\u2019 Bands, The Knights of the Spotted Cubes,\nThe Mystics and Oracles of Fistiana, The Stentorian Order of Umpires,\nThe Grandiose Guild of Jockeys, The Loyal Legion of Log-burlers and\nmany others on that historical day in Topeka? The last-named society\nwas a new organization that was composed of Paul Bunyan\u2019s loggers. They\naroused the wildest enthusiasm when they appeared in the line of march\ntreading beer kegs, and for this, and for their triumphs in the races,\nKing Bourbon awarded them the grand prize.\n\nThe bar had been closed for the celebration, and when it was opened\nin the evening no one in the spruce and jocund throngs which streamed\nthrough its doors suspected that treason was afoot. Clinking of\nglasses, guffaws, jigging feet, back-slapping, bellowed songs and\nshouted jests made a tumult of rollicking and boisterous noise as the\nreveling began. Urged on by the traitorous bartenders, the nobility\nand gentry drank nothing but the sap of the whisky trees. It was a\nmild, mellow and soothing beverage when properly aged, but the raw\ngreen sap which the conspirators had supplied would suddenly addle\nthe mind and paralyze the nerves. The loggers, flushed with conceit\nover their day\u2019s triumph, boasted that they were champion drinkers\nalso, and they dared everyone to enter drinking contests with them.\nThe bartenders, obeying instructions, filled the loggers\u2019 glasses with\ntriple-distilled, high-powered redeye. So they were the first to get\nbleary-eyed, to wilt and to stagger about. By the time the nobility and\ngentry had begun to be affected the loggers had all stumbled outside or\nhad been carried out. Too late the king and his followers realized that\nthey were the victims of a conspiracy. When the fumes of the powerful\ngreen sap had completely befuddled them the spies of the Cornmen\nlighted the signal fires that were to start the attack.\n\nIn a short time the hosts of Cornmen, with husking hooks strapped to\ntheir left wrists, and with corn knives swinging from their right\nhands, charged, whooping and bounding, into the city. King Bourbon and\nhis followers, deaf, weak-kneed, color-blind, dumb and addled, could\nmake no resistance. They were driven through the streets, out of the\ncity, on through the whisky tree forests and headed towards the far\nlands of Kentucky. Duke Dryface remained behind with the greater part\nof the Cornmen to secure the loggers, who were laid out in heaps,\nrows, circles, squares and fantastic groups all over the city. In\nthree hours half of the loggers had balls and chains locked to their\nlegs. Duke Dryface had begun to breathe easily and to enjoy the first\nglow of complete triumph when he became conscious of a vast shadow, an\noverpowering presence. The light of the moon seemed blotted out, the\nground shook under a monstrous tread; then sounded a bellow of rage\nthat lifted every Cornman and every logger seven feet into the air and\nwhirled them all over five times before they struck the ground again.\nThe rudely awakened and sobered loggers and the affrighted Cornmen then\nsaw the august figure of Paul Bunyan and the blue ox looming above\nthem. The good and mighty man was chiding Babe for bellowing so loudly\nand was restraining him from attacking the Duke and his followers.\n\nDuke Dryface had the courage of true virtue. He fearlessly stepped\nup to Paul Bunyan and began a speech. First he spoke of the sins of\nKing Bourbon and of the oppressions suffered by the Cornmen; he showed\nthe necessity for reform. Next, he went on to prove that sin was in\nthe very soil of Kansas, and that this soil could only be purified by\ndestroying the evil forests and raising virtuous corn in their stead.\nThat was his main reason for wanting to make slaves of the loggers,\nhe said, but he hoped also to make righteous men of them later. Paul\nBunyan nodded gravely for him to go on, and the duke then rose to the\ngrandest heights of eloquence in describing the moral imperfections of\nthe loggers. Deserters, braggarts, beer-bibbers, gluttons, cigarette\nfiends, and many other evil names he called them. Paul Bunyan listened,\nand the loggers got sick with shame and fear. They had surely sinned,\nthey were indeed lost souls, they felt; they would forever despise\nthemselves. Then, just when they had reached the lowest depths of\nself-loathing and despair, they saw Paul Bunyan give an enormous wink.\nOnly a wink, but what forgiveness flashed from it, what unshakable\nfaith seemed fixed in its depths! That one gesture of an eyelid\nrestored and consoled them, for it spoke pardon and promised to forget.\nThe duke declaimed until dawn, but the loggers listened complacently,\ngrinning knowingly at each other. Once more they would toil grandly\nin the woods, once more hot cakes, ham and eggs would sizzle for them\non the long kitchen ranges, once more they would be delighted by the\nwonders of noble Sunday dinners, for by the wink of his eye Paul Bunyan\nhad made them his loggers again....\n\nPaul Bunyan contracted for the logging-off of the whisky trees, and\nthis was easily accomplished by the inspired toil of the loggers. The\ncountry was flattened by hitching Babe to each section of logged-off\nland and then turning it over. As Duke Dryface had surmised, the land,\nthough rolling on _top_ was flat _underneath_. So the one-time sinful\nsoil of Kansas now lies deeply buried, and only the barest vestiges of\nthe grand life devised by King Bourbon survive anywhere in the Kansas\ncountry.\n\n\n\n\nORATORICAL MEDICINE\n\n\nBefore the second season in the Hickory Hill country there had never\nbeen a great sickness in Paul Bunyan\u2019s camp. The health his loggers\nconstantly enjoyed was due to the skill of Johnny Inkslinger, who\nwas physician and surgeon, as well as timekeeper, to the good and\nmighty Paul Bunyan. His surgical feats were marvelous. When ears were\nbitten off, for example, in the playful jousts with which the loggers\namused themselves, it was no trick for Johnny Inkslinger to sew them\non tightly again. And when a logger got his face walked on by calked\nboots the timekeeper would fill the resulting cavities with bread\ncrumbs, slap on some red paint, and the victim of play would return\nto the frolic, happy and unmarred. But it was digestive ills which he\nunderstood completely; for Paul Bunyan\u2019s loggers like the laborers\nand farmers of to-day, had most of their physical miseries in the\nmysterious regions about the stomach. His knowledge was gained by the\nmost arduous study and extensive research. The timekeeper wrote reports\nand figured all day, he dosed the loggers and operated on them in the\nevening, and the night long he read doctor books. His Sundays and\nholidays he spent among the wild creatures of the forests and seas, and\nthese he studied shrewdly and patiently. He examined fleas, he explored\nwhales, he once found the bones of a moose who had died of old age,\nand he tracked the animal to its birthplace, noting all its habits and\nmethods of life on his way. His knowledge was monumental and complete,\nbut he was content to remain a timekeeper in position and name.\n\nIn the second season on Hickory Hill the life of the camp went on as\nusual for a long time. For twelve hours each day the axes rang in\nthe undercuts, the saws sang through bark and grain, and there was\neverywhere the death shudder, the topple and crashing fall of lofty\ntrees. The blue ox placidly snaked the logs to the riverside, following\nthe Big Swede, who, lost in dreams every trip always walked on into\nthe water. The fumes and exhalations of the great cookhouse were\nnever richer with delightful smells. In the evenings the bunkhouses\nwere loud with gleeful roars as the loggers punched and kicked each\nother in their pastimes. As the work went on Paul Bunyan grew certain\nthat this would be his greatest season among the hardwoods. His heart\nwarmed toward his men. He planned for them feasts, revels, largesses,\ngrand rewards. All his thoughts were benevolent ones as he directed\noperations. Then, at the height of his record-breaking season, Babe,\nthe blue ox, got a misery.\n\nIt was a sly, slow, deceitful illness. It was first marked in the\ndecline of his sportiveness and affection. It was his habit, when\nyoked and harnessed in the morning, to make for the woods at a roaring\ngallop. Always the Big Swede would grip the halter rope and try to\nhold the blue ox to a walk; always Babe would plunge on, dragging the\nBig Swede after him; and always the dutiful foreman would hit the\nground once in every ninety feet, yell, \u201cHar noo!\u201d and then be yanked\ninto the air again, for Babe would pay no heed to the bouncing boss. In\nthe woods the blue ox always had to be closely watched, for he would\nchew up the trees in his jestful moments as fast as they were felled,\nand on the great drives he would prankishly drink the river dry,\nleaving the astounded rivermen mired in the mud of the stream bed. He\nwas forever gouging the Big Swede with his sharp horns or tickling Paul\nBunyan\u2019s neck with his tongue.\n\nWhen this playful spirit of his slackened and he began to walk slowly\nto the timber each morning, it was first thought to signify the\napproach of maturity, with its graver moods. But when Paul Bunyan\ndiscovered him one day, standing with his front feet crossed, his head\nbowed, his cud vanished, and with tears rolling from his half-closed\neyes, the great logger was alarmed. He called Johnny Inkslinger from\namong his ledgers and ink barrels and ordered him to drop all other\nwork until Babe\u2019s ailment was diagnosed and cured.\n\nThough he had studied all animals exhaustively, Johnny Inkslinger\nhad never practised veterinary medicine, except in treating Babe\u2019s\ninconsequential attacks of hayfever and asthma. If he took the case\nhe would be assuming a great responsibility, he told Paul Bunyan; he\nmust have at least forty-seven hours to consider the matter. The great\nlogger, having due respect for the scientific temperament, granted him\nthis, so the timekeeper retired to his office.\n\nPaul Bunyan waited patiently, despite the fears and anguish that smote\nhim when Babe looked at him with beseeching eyes. Work had been stopped\nin the woods, and the anxious loggers spent most of their time around\nthe stable. The cooks, remembering Babe\u2019s fondness for hot cakes and\nfried eggs, brought him tubfuls of them most delicately cooked, but he\nwould only nibble at them politely, then turn away. Once indeed his\nold jestful spirit returned when the Big Swede came near him. He set\nhis hoof on the foreman\u2019s foot, and at the anguished \u201cHar noo!\u201d he\nseemed to smile. But what a difference there was between that shadow of\nmerriment and the one time gay bellow that always followed the joke!\nPaul Bunyan and the loggers were deeply touched.\n\nJohnny Inkslinger finally announced in a scientific speech that he was\nprepared to examine and treat the blue ox. He was certain, above all,\nthat this illness was not caused by indigestion, for Babe\u2019s stomach had\nalways seemed to be iron-clad, invulnerable. When the hay supply ran\nlow in the wintertime Paul Bunyan would tie a pair of green goggles\nover Babe\u2019s eyes and he would graze for weeks on the snow. He was fond\nof the wires that bound his bales of hay, and he had always eaten them\nwithout apparent injury. So Johnny Inkslinger ignored Babe\u2019s stomachs,\nbut every other part of him, from muzzle to tail brush, was minutely\nscrutinized and explored. Nothing escaped observation. Six intrepid\nloggers with lanterns were lowered by ropes into his throat to examine\nhis tonsils when he stubbornly refused to say \u201cAh!\u201d But no diseased\ncondition could anywhere be discovered.\n\nJohnny Inkslinger was baffled, but he would not give up. For sixty-one\nhours he sat in the stable, watching every movement of the blue ox\nand making pages of notes about each one. And all of the time he was\nthinking with the full power of his scientific mind, bringing all his\nvast medical knowledge to the solution of his problem. Then, just as\nhe had reached the darkest depths of hopelessness, a flashing idea\nsaved him with its light. The idea did not spring from his science or\nknowledge; indeed, it seemed to be in opposition to them. It was a\nsimple idea, simply inspired.\n\nHis gaze had been fixed for some time on the hump which the blue ox\nhad on his back. It was such a hump as all ailing animals contrive,\nbut, unoriginal as it was, it was yet the source of an original and\nstartling idea, that the hump in a sick animal\u2019s back, instead of\nbeing the _result_ of the sickness, was really the _cause_ of it!\nJohnny Inkslinger jumped to his feet with a shout of joy. He saw in the\nidea, not only the salvation of Paul Bunyan\u2019s logging enterprises, but\nthe root of a great fame for himself as a veterinarian as well. His\njubilant calls soon roused the camp.\n\nPaul Bunyan listened somewhat doubtfully as the timekeeper revealed\nhis idea and plans. But he was not one to oppose a scientific man with\nmere logic, so he gave orders that the great treatment devised by\nJohnny Inkslinger should be carried out. For five days the loggers\ntoiled, erecting a scaffold on each side of the blue ox. Runways were\nbuilt from the top floors of the scaffolds to Babe\u2019s back. Then all was\nready for the first treatment. For three hours loggers carrying pike\npoles, peavys, sledges and mauls climbed the scaffolds and extended in\nlines on each side of Babe\u2019s humped spine. Then Paul Bunyan grasped\nthe horns of the sick creature, Johnny Inkslinger and the Big Swede\nseized his tail, the command, \u201cGet ready!\u201d was given, then, \u201cLet\u2019s\ngo!\u201d Paul Bunyan said, and the army of doctors began the cure. All\nthat day, through the night, and for seventy-six consecutive hours\nthereafter the loggers attacked the hump in Babe\u2019s spine, while Paul\nBunyan, Johnny Inkslinger, and the Big Swede attempted to stretch it to\nits former shape by tugging on the poor animal\u2019s horns and tail. Babe\nmooed dolorously indeed while this treatment was being performed, and\nthe tears rolled from his saddened eyes in foaming torrents. But he did\nnot resist. Intelligent animal that he was, he knew that his friends\nwere only trying to drive away his misery. And kindly of soul as he\nwas, it was no doubt as much to give them the pleasure of success as\nto stop them from prodding, pounding and stretching his spine that he\nmade a heroic effort to act as cured ox. Pretty deceiver! Once he had\nstraightened his aching back, how lustily he began to devour bale after\nbale of bitter-tasting hay from his manger! How speedily he emptied\ntubfuls of hot cakes and fried eggs, while Hot Biscuit Slim, Cream Puff\nFatty and the assistant cooks looked on and cheered! Never did Babe\ndepart more friskly for the woods than on the morning he was pronounced\ncured. The Big Swede, hanging to the halter rope, only hit the dirt\nonce in every mile and a half!\n\n[Illustration]\n\nThe work of logging was soon in its old routine, but Paul Bunyan\nwas not satisfied. Babe could not hide his spells of trembling; he\nmoved feverishly; his expression was haggard, his mooings hollow.\nJohnny Inkslinger, still flushed with the fire of his grand idea,\nwas impatient with Paul Bunyan\u2019s worriment. But he could not quiet\nthe great logger\u2019s fears. When it was noted that Hickory River would\nsuddenly rise three or four feet above its normal level and as suddenly\nfall again, Paul Bunyan set a close watch on the blue ox and discovered\nthat there were times when the hump in his back became greater than\never before, and that torrents of tears often poured from his eyes in\nfits of weeping, thus flooding the river. Firmly, but without anger,\nPaul Bunyan ordered his timekeeper to devise another treatment.\n\nJohnny Inkslinger reluctantly admitted his failure and again brought\nhis powers of thought to consider the perplexing sickness of the blue\nox. But he did not labor with the materials of his knowledge and\nscience. He longed to glow again with the tickling heat of originality,\nto taste once more the sweet fat of his own ideas. So he sat and\nthought, awaiting inspiration, while his doctor books stood unopened on\nthe towering shelves of the camp office. And at last he was rewarded by\nan idea that floated from mysterious darkness like a bubble of golden\nlight. It was midnight, but his ecstatic shouts awakened the camp. The\nloggers, thrilled and alarmed, rolled from their bunks and ran in their\nunderclothes to the camp office. A white-clad host soon filled the\nbroad valley and covered the distant hills. Johnny Inkslinger then came\nout of the office, carrying a box that had held ninety-five tons of\nsoap. He mounted this box and began to speak. His eyes flamed, his hair\nwaved, his hands fanned the air. He was voluble. \u201cDoctor or prophet?\u201d\nPaul Bunyan asked himself sadly as he strode away, after listening for\na short time. But the loggers were enchanted as the speech went on.\nJohnny Inkslinger ended each period with a mesmeric phrase, and after\nhe had repeated it thrice at the ending of his speech the loggers made\na chant of it. \u201cMilk of the Western whale! Milk of the Western whale!\nMilk of the Western whale!\u201d they roared, as they swayed and danced in\ntheir underclothes. The chant rose in thunders to the sky, it rolled\nover the hickory forests, and it shook the rocks of far mountains. It\nre\u00ebchoed for hours after the loggers had returned to the bunkhouses.\n\nPaul Bunyan considered the situation bravely and calmly. He admitted no\nvain regrets that he had never studied doctoring himself. He pronounced\nno maledictions on his timekeeper\u2019s puzzling mania. He simply\nconsidered the plain facts of his problem: if Babe died the great\nlogging enterprises would be halted forever; Johnny Inkslinger was the\nonly man who had the science and knowledge to cure the sick ox, and if\nhumored he might return to his senses; a change to the Western coast\nmight benefit Babe, and the milk of the Western whale would surely do\nhim no harm. So the mighty logger decided to move his camp to the West,\nand there let Johnny Inkslinger give him the whale\u2019s milk cure.\n\nThere was great rejoicing in the camp when Paul Bunyan gave orders for\nthe move. The blue ox, seeming to realize that it was made for his\nbenefit, acted as though he was in high spirits when he was hitched to\nthe camp buildings and the bunkhouses loaded with loggers. He skipped\nand capered along the trail behind Paul Bunyan, Johnny Inkslinger\nand the Big Swede all the way to the Mississippi. But there he was\nattacked by innumerable squadrons of Iowa horse flies. He smashed them\nunmercifully with blows of his tail until the ground for miles around\nwas strewn with their mangled bodies, but the carnivorous insects\npersisted in their assaults until Babe became blindly enraged. He\nlowered his head and began a furious charge that did not end until\nhe reached Colorado, where he fell exhausted. The loggers had been\nmade violently seasick by their bouncing journey over the hills, and\nPaul Bunyan was compelled to call a halt until they and the blue ox\nhad recovered. While waiting, Paul Bunyan and the Big Swede built a\nlandmark by heaping dirt around an upright pike pole, and the great\nlogger was so pleased with the creation that he gave it a name, Pike\u2019s\nPeak.\n\nThe trip to the coast was made without further misadventures, and the\nloggers were set to work at once to build a whale corral, for Paul\nBunyan wished to get the cure over as soon as possible, so that his\nstubborn timekeeper would begin to do some real doctoring. The loggers\ngrumbled loudly at working with picks and shovels; such foreign labor\ndemeaned them, they said. But the exhortations which Johnny Inkslinger\ndelivered from his great soap box, and the alarming condition of the\nblue ox, who now made no effort to hide his sickness, but lay quietly,\nwith closed eyes, overwhelmed their prejudices, and they made the\ndirt fly in spite of their dislike for shovels and picks. For nine\ndays and nights they threw dirt like badgers, while Paul Bunyan and\nthe Big Swede scooped it aside and piled it into big hills. Then the\nwhale corral was finished, and Paul Bunyan sent the loggers to the\nbunkhouses. They were so sleepy and weary that they began to snore\nbefore they had put away their tools.\n\nPaul Bunyan kicked a hole in the seaward side of the corral, and\nthe waters of the Pacific roared into the basin. When it was filled\nhe began his famous imitation of the bawl of a lonely whale, and so\nperfect was his mimicry that in less than an hour an approaching school\nof the leviathans was sighted. They swam hesitatingly about the opening\nto the corral for a time, but as Paul Bunyan continued to call ever\nmore cunningly and appealingly, they at last entered the trap. The Big\nSwede then got his stool and milk bucket, while Paul Bunyan scooped\ndirt into the corral gate. Johnny Inkslinger was called from the\noffice, and all was ready for the first milking of a creature of the\nseas.\n\nThe Big Swede, who had been raised on a dairy farm in the old country,\nselected a cow whale that looked like a good milker, and Paul Bunyan,\nusing all his wiles of manner and tricks of voice, soon had her playing\nabout his hands. At last she was gentle and quiet, and, while Johnny\nInkslinger held up her tail, the Big Swede came into the water with his\nbucket and stool and began milking with all the energy and skill that\nhad won him the name of Sweden\u2019s greatest milker in his youth. With\nthe vigorous pressure of his hands, the whale\u2019s milk was soon gushing\ninto his bucket with such force that a dozen fire engines could not\nhave equaled the flow. The gentled whale made no resistance, and the\npail was soon filled with healthful, creamy milk. But just as the Big\nSwede was about to rise from his stool the whale\u2019s calf, who had been\nswimming angrily about, suddenly charged the great milker and upset\nhim. His head lodged in the milk bucket; he was bent double; and before\nhe could recover himself, the little whale had butted the breath out\nof him and had spanked him blisteringly with his corrugated tail.\nThis incident frightened the mother whale, and she escaped from Paul\nBunyan\u2019s hands; the Big Swede floundered about and yelled from the\ndepths of the milk bucket; and the whole school of whales plunged about\nthe corral in a wild panic. Worst of all, the first milking was spilled.\n\nAnd indeed they were the whole day securing one bucket of milk. Not\nuntil Paul Bunyan thought of letting a whale calf suck his finger while\nthe Big Swede was milking its mother were the sea-going dairymen able\nto get away from the corral with one milking. But at last the great\nmilker limped to the shore with a foaming pail. He was breathing in\nwheezes, his clothes were in tatters, and the back of him, from head to\nheels, was marked from the tail blows of the little whales. He was the\nsorriest of sorry sights, but he had a feeble smile, nevertheless, in\nreturn for Paul Bunyan\u2019s praise.\n\nBabe took his first dose of whale\u2019s milk resignedly and then closed his\neyes again in weariness and sighed with pain. Paul Bunyan\u2019s emotions\nsmothered his caution; he ventured to express his doubts about the\ncure. Johnny Inkslinger immediately ran to the office, brought out his\ngreat soap box and mounted it.\n\n\u201cIt is a nature cure!\u201d he cried in ringing tones. \u201cIt cures slowly\nbecause nature cures slowly, but it cures surely and divinely! It is a\ngreat cure because it is a great idea, a marvelous idea, a heaven-sent\nidea, an original idea, my own idea, and it is the idea that will save\nus all!\u201d\n\nPaul Bunyan looked for a moment into the glowing eyes of his timekeeper\nand sighed. He did not reply.\n\nFor a week the three milked the whales twice daily and dosed the blue\nox, while the loggers slept away their weariness. Babe took the whale\u2019s\nmilk meekly, but at each successive dose he swallowed more sluggishly,\nand after the fourth day he would not open his eyes while he drank. On\nthe day the loggers came from the bunkhouses he refused to drink at\nall. Only an occasional twitching of his eyelids showed that life yet\nremained with him.\n\n\u201cHe is dying,\u201d said Paul Bunyan.\n\nJohnny Inkslinger mounted the great box which had held the ninety-five\ntons of soap and began to speak.\n\n\u201cFellow loggers and Paul Bunyan,\u201d he began. \u201cThis miraculous idea, this\nsaving and transfiguring idea----\u201d\n\n\u201cSilence!\u201d commanded the good and mighty logger.\n\nSo compelling was the power of that grave and august voice that the\nloggers hardly breathed as it sounded, and the wind subsided until it\nmade only the faintest whisper among the trees. Then Paul Bunyan made\none of his great orations. He did not require a soap box, he made no\nfantastic gestures, and he spoke simply and smoothly. He reviewed his\nenterprises and the deeds of his loggers; he dwelt especially on the\nachievements and faithfulness of Babe, the blue ox. His plain sincerity\nheld the loggers spellbound; for sixty-nine hours the speech went on,\nand they did not so much as move an eyelash. In conclusion, Paul Bunyan\ntold them that Babe would surely die, and as logging could not be done\nwithout him, their last labor together would be to dig his grave. He\ndid not blame Johnny Inkslinger, he said; the best of men may be led\nastray by their imaginings and fall into evil ways. He had been a\ngreat doctor once, and he was a noble scribe still. Then Paul Bunyan\nsolemnly and warningly spoke of the shadowy workings of fate, and in\nsomber utterance he portrayed the pathos of yearnings, the frailty of\nblessings and the ultimate vanity of all endeavor. In the last three\nhours of his oration his voice sounded as a tolling bell. Mournfully,\nmournfully, the moments marched on, and a darkness came over the hills\nand the sea. From the eyes of each motionless logger the tears streamed\nunchecked; they formed in puddles around each man\u2019s feet until all of\nthem stood knee-deep in mud. When the oration was finished and they\nhad extricated themselves and cleaned their boots, they made ready,\nand they left with Paul Bunyan for the North, where he had decided to\ndig Babe\u2019s grave. The Big Swede stayed with the dying ox, and Johnny\nInkslinger hid himself in the shadows of his office.\n\nFor a long time he remained there in an agony of thought. Remorse\ntormented him, though Paul Bunyan had not judged him guilty. But he\nsuffered most from the humiliation of failure. It was his first,\nbut--the thought came like a blinding flash of light--had he\nfailed--yet? His reservoir of ideas was inexhaustible; as long as\nbreath remained in the blue ox he could try other ideas on him. Think\nnow! It had become as easy for him to summon grand ideas as for a\nmagician to conjure rabbits from a hat, and almost instantly he had\none, a superb notion, a glorious thought!\n\nJohnny Inkslinger rushed from the office and roused the Big Swede, who\nwas sitting in apathetic sadness by the blue ox.\n\n\u201cListen now!\u201d commanded the timekeeper. \u201cYou are to sit here and repeat\ncontinuously in a soothing voice, \u2018You are well. You are well. You are\nwell.\u2019 Do you understand? Well then--no questions now--do as I have\ntold you and Babe\u2019s life will be saved. Do not fail, for all depends on\nyour faithfulness! When I have returned with Mr. Bunyan I will finish\nthe cure myself.\u201d\n\nThe timekeeper, exulting in the certainty that his method would\npositively restore health to the blue ox, then started out on the trail\nof Paul Bunyan and the loggers. They should quit their melancholy task\nand return to find Babe on the road to recovery. He would complete the\ncure, and logging should go on as before.\n\nThe Big Swede at once began to repeat the words, \u201cYou ban well,\u201d\naccording to orders. For thirty-one hours they came from his tongue\nwithout interruption. Then his mouth got dry and hoarseness invaded his\nthroat. The phrase was uttered with an effort. Then he had to resort to\nwhispering in Babe\u2019s ear. And finally even his whisper failed him.\n\nThe Big Swede had once nearly choked to death after making a high\ndive into muddy earth, and he had only been saved by copious doses\nof alcohol. The new oratorical cures were not understandable to him,\nbut he remembered the potency of alcohol in clearing out the throat,\nso he got up and ran to the camp office, where he found the great\ncarboys of the medicine once highly prized by Johnny Inkslinger. Taking\nthree of them under his arm, the Big Swede returned to the blue ox.\nHe took a huge drink from one of them, and he was again able to go on\nwith the treatment. For a few hours it was only necessary for him to\ndrink once every thirty minutes to drive away the hoarseness, but it\nresisted stubbornly, and the periods between the drinks grew shorter\nand shorter. By the time the Big Swede had opened the last carboy of\nalcohol his brain was addled by the fumes of the liquor, and his heart\nwas softened by its influence until it beat only with sympathy for the\nblue ox. He forgot what he was to say, and instead of repeating, \u201cYou\nban well,\u201d he began to sigh, over and over, \u201cPoor ol\u2019 sick feller.\nPoor ol\u2019 sick feller.\u201d Fortunately this horrid perversion of Johnny\nInkslinger\u2019s idea did not last. The Big Swede\u2019s vocal cords finally\ngave out, the alcohol smothered his will and closed his eyes. He could\nnot resist the fogginess that crept over his brain, and at last he fell\nover and began to snore.\n\nBabe had lain motionless and silent while the Big Swede was treating\nhim, but when the foreman fell he had knocked over the last carboy of\nalcohol, and the liquor poured over the nostrils of the blue ox and\ntrickled into his mouth. He groaned, he stirred, his legs quivered.\nThen he sat up, looking eagerly about for more. He soon spied, through\nthe open door of the office, the glitter of the other containers of\nliquor. Slowly, painfully, he staggered to his feet. His tongue lolling\nfeverishly, he stumbled towards the office. A desperate swing of his\nhorns crashed in the side of the building, a flirt of his hoofs knocked\nthe tops from the remaining carboys, and in nineteen minutes he had\nemptied them all. A vat of Epsom salts was cleaned up in seven gulps,\nbarrels of pills and capsules, and cartons of powders were quickly\ndevoured; in half an hour there was nothing left of the old time\nmedicines of Johnny Inkslinger but splinters and broken glass.\n\nThen the alcohol began to surge through the veins of the blue ox. The\nfrisky, exuberant spirit of his healthy days returned. He pranced and\nsashayed. He lifted his tail and bellowed. His breath came in snorts as\nhe lightly pawed the ground. For a time he was content with such merry\ngamboling, frolicking and romping about, then he felt a sentimental\nlonging for Paul Bunyan and his mates of the woods, and he started out\nto find them. But the alcohol mounted to his head, it dimmed his eyes,\nand he lost the trail. He wandered into the Wet Desert country and was\ncaught in a terrific rainstorm. He toiled stubbornly on, though his\nbefuddled senses had lost all sense of direction and he sank knee-deep\ninto the desert mud at every step. As he struggled ahead, weaving first\nto the right, then to the left, then to the right again, water rolled\nfrom his back and foamed in cataracts down his dragging tail. A river\ncoursed down the crooked path he left behind him. He grew weak again\nafter he had plowed through the mud for hours and the fever had left\nhis blood. When the storm passed his strength left him and he sought\nrest on a high plateau.\n\nThere Paul Bunyan and the loggers found him, after a three weeks\u2019\nsearch which had begun when the Big Swede brought the news of his\ndisappearance. At first the loggers were sure he was dead, and groans\nof sorrow rose in dismal thunders from the vast host. But Johnny\nInkslinger would not give up hope. He had repelled the lure of grand\nideas at last, and he had his old medicine case with him now. In a\nmoment he had emptied its store of alcohol and Epsom salts down Babe\u2019s\nthroat. In a few minutes the blue ox opened his eyes. The loggers\nfrantically cheered. Babe answered them with a bellow that threw even\nthe loggers on the farthest hills to the ground. Though the blue ox was\nthin and feeble still, the vitality of health was in his voice again.\n\u201cHe is cured!\u201d said Paul Bunyan.\n\n\u201cHe is cured!\u201d shouted the loggers, as they scrambled to their feet.\n\n\u201cYah,\u201d said the Big Swede blissfully.\n\nJohnny Inkslinger alone said nothing. He, too, was cured.\n\nSay the old loggers:\n\nEver since he took his drunken course through the Wet Desert a stream\nhas flowed down the crooked trail made by the blue ox. It is called\nSnake River in all the geographies. The great whale corral is known\nas Coos Bay. And Babe\u2019s unfinished grave has become the islands and\nwaters of Pugent Sound. The Cascade Mountains of Washington were made\nfrom the dirt thrown up by the loggers and Paul Bunyan when they began\nto dig the grave, and a bitter dispute still rages regarding the name\nfor the loftiest peak. The loggers and the people of Seattle call it\nMt. Bunyan, the people of Tacoma and the Indians call it Mt. Tacoma,\nand the geographers and tourists have named it Mt. Rainier, after the\nweather, which is rainier there than in any other part of the country.\n\nSo say the old loggers.\n\nAnd loggers are truthful men.\n\n\n\n\nNEW IOWA\n\n\nPaul Bunyan, a historian first, an industrialist second, an inventor\nthird, an orator fourth, was perhaps an artist in the fifth degree of\nhis importance. Most authorities among the loggers of to-day insist\nthat he was a great man of only four parts; they declare there was\nno art in him. The authorities of the classroom, less reverent and\ngenerous in their judgments, refuse to consider him as more than an\nindustrialist; but the professors must be doubted a little, because\nthey are certainly jealous of the great logger\u2019s simple eloquence and\nhis popularity with the plain people.\n\nIn the camps I have heard college loggers quote a teacher whom they\ncalled Professor Sherm Shermson as follows: \u201cFellows, there is no use\ntalking. Paul Bunyan was a conscientious logger, I guess. Maybe he\nwrote _big_ histories but, fellows, he didn\u2019t write _great_ histories.\nAnd his inventions were only useful in his logging operations; not one\nof them has become a universal boon to humanity. I expect he could make\na right good speech; but, mark this point now, there is a _difference_\nbetween a right good speech and eloquence. Eloquence, fellows, must\nhave morals and ideals in it to _be_ eloquence. And as Paul Bunyan had\nFrench-Canadian blood, I must believe that his orations had more of\nLatin emotionalism in them than of Real American ideals and morals.\nI guess we\u2019ll agree, fellows, that his Nordic foreman was a man of\ngreater moral force and of purer mind.\u201d\n\nI do not know the rest of the professor\u2019s argument, as the college\nloggers would listen to no doubts against the teachings of Professor\nSherm Shermson. So I would always leave them when they went too far in\ntheir educated talk. Some might think that Professor Sherm Shermson\nwas misquoted by his boys; but the first thing college loggers hear\nwhen they come to the woods is warnings about the dangers of telling\nfalsehoods in the bunkhouses; so it is probable that the words which\nthey attribute to Professor Sherm Shermson are typical of the teachings\nabout Paul Bunyan in American universities.\n\nBut so long as trees are felled the race of loggers will hold to a\nstaunch faith in Paul Bunyan as the supreme historian and maker of\nhistory, the most resourceful inventor, and the most powerful orator,\nas well as the most enterprising industrialist of all time. But they\ntoo question his art. He appreciated the folk songs and tales of his\nmen, it is admitted, and he had his playhouses, wherein he painted and\nsculped about. His Paint Pots are still to be seen in the Yellowstone,\nand his wall painting in the Grand Canyon shows that he was clever\nwith the brush. Most of his sculpture was left unfinished, but it\nis impressive, for all that. His beginnings for the busts of Johnny\nInkslinger and the Big Swede, the unfinished works in the Yosemite\nwhich are called North Dome and Half Dome, plainly show that he was no\ncrude chiseler. But, it is no wonder that loggers have little to say\nabout their hero\u2019s artistic creations, for these works had nothing to\ndo with the logging industry, and he had no help from his men in making\nthem. He only amused himself with art when he had no difficult labors\nto perform. Then, it is known that he opposed the teaching and practice\nof art among his loggers. He was particularly opposed to the writing\nof poetry by his men. He encouraged the making of simple songs and the\ntelling of true tales by picked men, bunkhouse bards; but even these\nfavored minstrels dared not attempt the making of grand, grave and\nlofty verse.\n\nThe earnest and reverent critic who studies Paul Bunyan will come to\nreason, however, that the master logger\u2019s Camp Rule 31,721, which\nprohibited the writing of poetry, is no fair indication of his own\nfeeling for noble rimes; it only proves that he thought his loggers\nno more fitted for the enjoyment of art than they were fitted for the\nunderstanding of history or the comprehension of scientific inventions.\nIt is very probable that Paul Bunyan himself wrote tragic blank verse\nin his exuberant youth, and happy hunting songs in his elder years of\ndiscouragement. But he kept them to himself. He felt that all art was\ndangerous for his loggers; he knew that poetry was especially so. This\nhe learned in his attempt to log off New Iowa. For there the loggers\nall turned poets and nearly ruined the logging industry.\n\nPaul Bunyan\u2019s decision to move to New Iowa developed from the thought\nthat its healing climate would hasten the convalescence of Babe, the\nblue ox, and that its orange palms would give his men the tough logging\nwhich they sorely needed. Babe, having fallen sick, had been near\nto perishing from Johnny Inkslinger\u2019s new-fangled cures; but he was\nsaved when the camp doctor got sense and returned to his old-fashioned\nreliable remedies. The blue ox was now cured, but he was far too weak\nto begin hard labor at once. So his master was put to it to devise a\nplan that would let Babe regain his strength and yet give natural labor\nto the loggers.\n\nSince leaving the Hickory Hill country, they had done little of the\ngrand work for which they were born. They had lost a great deal of\ntheir innocent pride and self-respect in toiling with picks and\nshovels; and Johnny Inkslinger\u2019s abandonment of scientific medical\npractice for medical oratory had shaken their faith in the integrity\nof his knowledge and the scope of his power. In the time when he\nhad written his figures and made his cures without explaining and\nglorifying them the loggers had regarded him as a worker of mysteries\nand had been in great awe of him. But now that he had revealed his mind\nfrom a soap box the loggers only remembered his eloquent boasts and his\nfailure to make good. Alcohol and Epsom salts seemed common to them\nnow, and they laughed at the camp doctor for having had to go back to\nthem.\n\nPaul Bunyan heard them poking rough fun at Johnny Inkslinger\u2019s folly on\ntheir first night in the Oregon camp, after the return was made from\nthe Wet Desert country.\n\n\u201cIn words there is a magic poison which is more powerful than the plain\nsubstance of them,\u201d mused Paul Bunyan. \u201cThis magic whips emotions and\nstuns sense, and it overpowers any mind which is one part sense and\nnine parts emotion. And these loggers of mine ... these loggers of\nmine....\u201d\n\nAnother clamor broke out in the bunkhouses, and Paul Bunyan, smiling\nsadly, listened to hear what nonsense his men were talking now. The\nbunkhouse cranks were the leaders in the new uproar, and when the\nmaster logger heard their words and the applause that followed, his\neyebrows drew down in a frown which the moonlight could not penetrate,\nand his eyes had a hard glitter in the shadows.\n\nFor the bunkhouse cranks were saying that it looked like logging\ncouldn\u2019t last much longer now; the old blue ox was in a bad way and\nit was hard to think he\u2019d ever be himself again in this here world;\nJohnny Inkslinger was getting so childish that he\u2019d probably lose his\nfiguring power, just as he had blundered in his doctoring; and old Paul\nhimself--it looked like even he was losing his hold, as he had started\nto dig Babe\u2019s grave before the blue ox was even near dead. Old Paul\nwould never have given in that soon in the days on Onion River, said\nthe bunkhouse cranks. Things would surely go from bad to worse, they\nagreed, and it was no use to look for the good old times to come back.\nThe same talk was going on in all the bunkhouses and the bards had\nfew cheerful arguments against it. The loggers were losing their old\ninnocent, exuberant, devil-may-care spirit.\n\nPaul Bunyan sat down on six of the high hills above the whale corral,\npulled up a young fir tree and began to brush his beard and ponder. He\nhad no doubts of his own powers and he felt that Johnny Inkslinger was\nas great as ever. The timekeeper\u2019s recent obsessions and eccentricities\nwere due to the lowness of spirit, the stagnation of soul, which\ncomes sometime to all mental men. He was now recovered, and he would\ncertainly do his part in the making of logging history as well as\nbefore, perhaps better. The trouble now was with the loggers. True men\nof muscle, the best virtues for them to possess were unquestioning\nloyalty and faithfulness to their leaders and simple confidence in\nthem. Oratory was good for them when it stimulated these virtues, but\nideas were poisonous; for they caused the loggers to become critics\nand independent thinkers, and their minds were not fitted for such\noccupations.\n\n\u201cWork and discipline will repair the damage,\u201d decided Paul Bunyan.\n\u201cWork is the great consoler, for in it men forget the torments and\noppressions of life. And nothing is more tormenting and oppressive to\nmen of muscle than ideas. My loggers shall forget them. And strong\ndiscipline shall release them from the troublous responsibilities of\nindependence. Again I shall have a camp of men who toil mightily and\nmake the hours between supper and sleep jolly with merry songs and\nhumorous tales.\u201d\n\nSaying this, Paul Bunyan rose and looked over the fir forest which\ncovered all the hills and threw shadows far over the silent waters\nof the whale corral. The great logger regretted that he could not\nremain here and fell these splendid trees; but something more than\nplain logging was needed for his present purpose. A powerful task must\nbe set for his men, but a task that would not require arduous labor\nfrom the blue ox. New Iowa best suited his need. There the climate was\nas healing and mild as the one which Kansas had possessed before the\nturnover of its sinfulness. Paul Bunyan\u2019s maps showed that New Iowa had\ngreat forests of orange palms in its valleys, and his samples proved\nthat these trees were tough cutting. The start for the New Iowa country\nshould be made at once.\n\nPaul Bunyan went first to the camp office and called out the Big\nSwede. He gave orders for Babe to be harnessed and hitched to the camp\nbuildings; then he called, \u201cRoll out or roll up!\u201d for the loggers. They\ncame out slowly, rubbing their eyes and expressing wonder, for they\nhad been sleeping only a short while. When their leader told them that\nhe was going to take them down to New Iowa they did not display their\nusual childish excitement over a move; but they looked from one to\nanother with knowing grins and much eye-winking. The bunkhouse cranks\nwhispered, \u201cOl\u2019 Paul\u2019s off on another wild goose chase\u201d; and some of\nthe boldest among them declared that they had never seen better logging\nthan the Oregon country offered, and if they had their way about it\nthey\u2019d stay right here.\n\nPaul Bunyan did not reprove them for their doubts and impertinent\nremarks. With a shrewd show of patience and forbearance, he made them\na speech in which he cunningly portrayed their unreasoning enthusiasm\nfor Johnny Inkslinger\u2019s new cures. Had it not been for their applause,\nthe timekeeper would have quickly abandoned his unscientific notions,\nPaul Bunyan said, and the recent troubles would have been avoided. He\nhoped they had learned a lesson, the leader continued, that they would\nnever again look for hurtful ideas in speeches, but for excitement,\njollity and contentment only, as that was the best that oratory could\ngive them. Their business was not to think, but to fell trees. They\nwere, beyond a doubt, the greatest tribe of loggers that would ever\nmarch through the woods, he said in conclusion, and as Paul Bunyan\u2019s\nmen they would have glory in history. But as thinkers they were no\nbetter than prattling children.\n\n\u201cBack to your bunks!\u201d ordered the leader-hero. \u201cAnd I want no more\nnonsense from you about ideas.\u201d\n\nThe loggers, blushing with shame and contrition, were quick to obey;\nand they all crawled under their blankets and hid their red faces.\nThe Big Swede had the buildings wired together by this time; the blue\nox was hitched to the cookhouse; Paul Bunyan, the foreman, and the\ntimekeeper took hold of the traces to help pull the long load, and the\nstart for New Iowa was made.\n\nBabe had a hard pull over the mountains, and, with all the help that\nwas given him, he labored slowly up the slopes. He was wearied out when\nthe Tall Timber country was reached at dawn. Paul Bunyan stopped for a\nrest, and the loggers came out to gaze upon the trees whose tops were\nas lofty as the clouds. The great logger himself was delighted to\nfind trees that towered far above his head, and he got an overpowering\ndesire to try an ax and a saw on them. Here were trees that were too\ntall and large for his loggers to work on; this timber was made for him\nand it offered him the chance for the historical individual logging\naccomplishment that he had always dreamed about. Paul Bunyan swore\nloudly that, redeemed loggers or no redeemed loggers, cured ox or\nuncured ox, he would send the camp on in charge of the Big Swede and\nthe timekeeper and enjoy a holiday of powerful, pleasant labor. So he\nset up his workshop and built himself a crosscut saw that would span\neven the largest trunks, he made a regulation felling ax of a size to\nfit his hands, and he devised some wedges from Babe\u2019s old ox shoes.\n\nThe next morning the camp was started on its way again; and as it left\nthe Tall Timber country the loggers looked back on the vanishing figure\nof their hero-leader, and their eyes got dim, and a doleful loneliness\nwhispered in all their hearts.\n\n\u201cPaul Bunyan\u2019s a good and mighty man,\u201d they said sincerely.\n\nHappily, New Iowa was a country of such enchanting colorful aspect that\nthe loggers were consoled when the camping place on Lavender River was\nreached. There had lately been considerable argument in the bunkhouses\nas to whether Kansas before the turnover of sinfulness was not a more\nideal country than that around the old home camp. But here was a land\nwhich seemed to surpass both regions. The blue of the sky looked as\nthough it had been painted there, and the hills, too, huge heaps of\ndaisies, bluebells, poppies and buttercups, were out of a picture-book.\nThe river got its name from its lavender color, and its unblemished\nstream curved delicately through the forests of orange palm, and the\nmeadows of pink clover, which were like vast but dainty rugs on the\nvalley floor. Pale green moss hung over the river banks to hide any\nugliness of soil, and mauve and lemon blooms of water lilies made a\nlovely variance of color in the lavender water. The orange palms were\nas tall as coconut palms, and they resembled them in shape also. The\nfoliage, blossoms and fruit were all in the thick crests of the tree\ntops; the leaves and blooms were like those of the common orange trees\nof to-day; the bark of some of the trees was purple, on others it was\ngold, and a few had bark which was wine-red. All were now in heavy\nbloom, and the forests were roofed with solid masses of white blossoms,\nfor the orange palms stood so close together that a logger could hardly\nsqueeze between their trunks.\n\nAll that day Paul Bunyan\u2019s loggers wandered about, savoring the\ndeliciousness of the scene; at suppertime they could not eat, for the\nodors of beans and stewed onions were repugnant, after breathing the\nheavy-sweet fragrances of the drowsy New Iowa air. Nor could they enjoy\nsongs and stories that evening, for they still heard the canaries\nsinging among the orange blossoms. Neither could they sleep, for their\nhonest blankets seemed tough and unclean after their rollings of the\nday on the pink clover and the daisies and buttercups.\n\nBut there was no poetry in the Big Swede\u2019s soul, and he called them\nout at sunup with a vulgar \u201cRoll out or roll up, by yeeminy!\u201d He only\nthought of the job before him, and he was out to show Paul Bunyan that\nthe camp had been left in capable hands.\n\nThe loggers, beguiled by the charms of their new delicacies, all shaved\nand donned clean underclothes before they came out to work, and the Big\nSwede growled at them for being late.\n\n\u201cWe gat bum yob har noo,\u201d he said. \u201cWe gat swamp har first, for, by\nyeeminy, these trees too close for fall noo. You gat broosh hooks;\nclimb tree; an\u2019 aye tank you better swamp first noo. Aye gas so.\u201d\n\nThe Big Swede was in a tremble from his greatest oratorical effort, and\nhe hastened to give the blue ox some hay, that he might recover his\ncomposure. When he had returned, the loggers were moving slowly for the\nforests, each man carrying a brush hook over his shoulder. When they\nreached the orange palms each man selected a tree and climbed it; and\nby noon thousands of purple, gold and wine-red trunks were bare and\nglittering in the sun, their tops swamped away. The ground around them\nwas piled six feet high with blossom-laden boughs. This, though the\nloggers had swamped languidly.\n\nFor a week the swamping went on with fair progress, and the Big Swede\nrejoiced in the thought that he was so conducting operations that Paul\nBunyan would give him high praise.\n\nThen the loggers spent their first Sunday of indolence in this\nhyacinthine land. Hot Biscuit Slim, alarmed by the piles of uneaten\nfood which were left on the tables from each meal, prepared a grand\nfeast; he and the baker and their helpers used their skill to the\nutmost on it; but it was a vain effort, for at dinner-time not one\ndiner appeared. The loggers had all flocked over the hills, and they\nwere now swimming in the waters of the Southern Sea--those warm,\ncrystal waters which lapped languorously on the golden strands of New\nIowa. And the loggers got pink and white sea shells, and when they\nheard the soft music of them they began dancing, and when sundown came\nthey were singing also. Prancing and warbling, they returned to camp in\nthe moonlight, forgetting their clothes.\n\nImagine now the wrath and perplexity of the Big Swede next morning when\nhe saw the loggers running nakedly about, hopping, skipping and posing.\nHe roared at them till they remembered their work and recovered their\nboots and clothes from the sea-shore; but when they were once more\naloft in the orange palms they swamped off few of the blossom-laden\nboughs. Instead, most of them brought out pencils and paper and began\nto write.\n\nIt is certain that Paul Bunyan would never have sent his camp to New\nIowa if he had known that its scenery would evoke longings to write\npoetry in even the simplest souls, thus taking their energies from\nuseful labor. The loggers could not be blamed; for a week now they\nhad been tramping back and forth through piles of orange blossoms\nwhich reached to their armpits; a sky of painted blue had glittered\nabove them; lavender waters, pale green banks, pink meadows, hills of\ndaisies, bluebells, poppies and buttercups had bewitched them also; and\nthe honied melodies of canaries had poured into their ears from dawn to\ndusk each day. The devil himself, coming to such a land, would throw\ndown his pack of sins and temptations and sit upon it to think out a\nsonnet.\n\nBut the Big Swede had no soul, and the loggers\u2019 abandonment of labor\npuzzled and angered him. He yelled at them until some were shaken from\nthe trees. But not one lost his pencil and paper. Johnny Inkslinger,\nhearing the uproar, left off his figuring and delivered an oration; but\nthe loggers went on writing dreamily, paying no heed to the timekeeper.\n\n\u201cYou will have to give them up,\u201d he said to the Big Swede. \u201cIt\u2019s a case\nwhich only Mr. Bunyan can handle.\u201d\n\nHe went back to his ledgers, and the foreman reluctantly set out for\nthe Tall Timber country. The Big Swede found Paul Bunyan in such\nhappiness over his labor that it seemed evil to tell him disturbing\nnews. The great logger had all the tall trees felled by now and he was\ngrubbing out the stumps. He was at work on the last row of them when\nthe Big Swede found him.\n\n\u201cNeeding me already?\u201d he asked jovially. \u201cWell, first help me drag out\nthese stumps, then tell me your difficulties.\u201d\n\nHe said this, seeing the embarrassment of the Big Swede and hoping\nto make him easy in mind. The two mighty men then tackled the row of\nstumps, and in a short time they were uprooted, leaving an enormous\nchasm, the chasm which in this day is called Yosemite.\n\n\u201cNow, there is a historical accomplishment for all to read about,\u201d said\nPaul Bunyan, with great satisfaction.\n\nFollowed by his foreman, he then strode over to the Bay and washed away\nthe stains of toil. This done, he sat down and began to brush his beard\nwith a young redwood tree.\n\n\u201cNow I will listen to you,\u201d he said.\n\nThe Big Swede\u2019s account of the loggers\u2019 strange doings astonished him.\nThe foreman had said nothing about their writing, for he had never\nheard of poetry and had hardly noticed the papers and pencils in the\nloggers\u2019 hands.\n\n\u201cAye tank dey yoost gat lazy noo,\u201d he said, nodding sagely.\n\n\u201cI hope it is nothing worse,\u201d said Paul Bunyan. \u201cLaziness I can cure.\nBut come; we must reach New Iowa before sundown.\u201d\n\nThe two great men traveled swiftly, and they reached the orange palm\nforests just as the sun was touching fluffy clouds on the Western\nhorizon. The loggers, gathered in the meadows around the camp, were\nreading aloud from pages which they held in their hands. They did not\nobserve the approach of their leaders, and when Paul Bunyan got within\nhearing distance of them he stopped and listened.\n\n   \u201cBlossoms, white blossoms! Oh, orange palm blossoms!\n    My heart is afloat on a sea of white blossoms;\n    My heart is a-cry with the calls of canaries;\n    My heart is a-swoon with the odor of clover\u201d\n\nThis was the shouting of one logger.\n\nAnother\u2019s roar sounded above the many:\n\n   \u201cA snow of daisies on the hill,\n    White drifts all starred with gold.\n    But, ah, such snow wilt never chill--\n    It never makes thee cold.\u201d\n\nThis logger went on yelling about a rain of buttercups that would not\nmake you wet, and a soft hail of poppy petals, and a wind of bluebells;\nbut by and by he seemed to get mixed up and his voice got hoarse. Then\nanother logger made himself heard above the tumult of bawled rhythms.\nHe cried:\n\n   \u201cFrom Onion River did I come,\n      Seeking a sweet opprobrium,\n    A glorious derogatory\n      For my rare lust and allegory.\n\n   \u201cWhen I reached this dear venial state,\n      How my heart did debilitate!\n    It leered, it fleshed, it energized,\n      But its emulsion I disguised.\n\n   \u201cI doffed among the daisies snide\n      Till their wan petals mortified.\n    Egregious as incessant Noah,\n      I swamped in carnal New Iowa.\u201d\n\n\u201cPoetry!\u201d gasped Paul Bunyan. \u201cThunderation! Holy mackinaw!\u201d\n\nBut the loggers did not hear him, and Shanty Boy, the great bunkhouse\nbard, now made himself heard above the din.\n\n   \u201cOho! I am a bully boy,\n      I come from Thunder Bay\n    At Pokemouche and Sault au Cochon\n      I got the right o\u2019 way.\u201d\n\n\u201cThat\u2019s more truth than poetry,\u201d murmured Paul Bunyan, somewhat\nmollified. He waited to hear more of this piece which sounded like a\nbunkhouse ballad; but now Bab Babbitson, who had heretofore been looked\nupon as a useless fussbudget around the camp, began to read his poem.\nHe had the loudest voice of anyone among the common men, and the other\nloggers stopped their own reading to listen to him.\n\nHe bellowed:\n\n   \u201cHere is the land of opportunity.\n    It is a sun-kissed land.\n    Flowers bloom on the hills.\n    The sun shines every day.\n    The fruit grows thick on the trees and a man\n    Can pick his breakfast off the trees every morning.\n    People will want to buy farms here some day.\n    Let\u2019s organize a company and sell shares.\n\n   \u201cHere is the land of opportunity.\n    It is a sun-kissed land.\n    Flowers bloom on the hills.\n    The sun shines every day.\n    Here are pink meadows along a lavender river.\n    They would make wonderful townsites.\n    People will want to buy lots here some day.\n    Let\u2019s organize a company and sell shares.\n\n   \u201cHere is the land of opportunity.\n    It is a sun-kissed land.\n    Flowers bloom on the hills.\n    The sun shines every day.\n    And I\u2019d bet good money there\u2019s oil in this country.\n    Anyway, it\u2019s a wonderful place to dig for it.\n    People will want to get in on the ground floor some day.\n    Let\u2019s organize a company and sell shares.\n\n   \u201cYes, this is the land of opportunity.\n    People will come here from all over some day\n    To buy farms, lots, climate and oil wells.\n    Let\u2019s organize a company and sell shares.\u201d\n\nThe loggers all nearly fell over when they heard this; they were\ntremendously surprised, for they had never imagined that Bab Babbitson\ncould have it in him. They hid their own poems, for they were ashamed\nof them now, and someone lifted a shout, \u201cHurrah for Bab Babbitson, the\nboss poet of Paul Bunyan\u2019s camp!\u201d Everyone cheered and begged for more\nverses. Bab Babbitson, gloriously puffed up, was about to comply, when\nthe loggers saw two great shadows advancing upon them. They looked up\nand beheld Paul Bunyan and the Big Swede. The great logger\u2019s brows were\ndrawn in a terrible frown, and his beard was shaking from his rage as\nthe forest boughs shake when a swift wind blows among them.\n\n\u201cAre these Paul Bunyan\u2019s loggers?\u201d he roared. \u201cI don\u2019t recognize them!\u201d\n\nThe poets were all tumbled from their feet by the force of that\nwrathful voice, and all but Bab Babbitson lost their poems in the\nscramble.\n\n\u201cWhere are my old comrades of labor?\u201d their leader went on more gently.\n\u201cWhere are the happy bunkhouse gangs that told loggers\u2019 tales and sang\nloggers\u2019 songs after their honest twelve hours of labor were done? Are\nyou still loggers, or have you really degenerated into poets?\u201d\n\nThey were shamed and they did not answer; but just then Johnny\nInkslinger came out of his office and told Paul Bunyan of the terrible\neffect which the climate and scenery of New Iowa had on the soul after\nsome living in it.\n\n\u201cThen it is no country for loggers,\u201d declared Paul Bunyan.\n\nHe ordered the Big Swede to make the camp ready for an immediate move,\nand he sent his men to the bunkhouses.\n\nThen he took the felling ax he had devised for the tall timbers, and\nthrough the forests of orange palms he strode, smashing them into\nsplinters. Kicks from his calked boots tore up the pink meadows and\nfilled the lavender river with mud. Next, he demolished the hills,\nleaving them in scattered piles of barren sand. He regretted that\nhe could not dissolve the climate also, thus banishing forever the\nenervating prettiness of the land. But he felt that he had done a good\nnight\u2019s work as it was.\n\n\u201cSo much for New Iowa,\u201d he said at last, with a sigh of weariness and\ncontent.\n\nIn the dark hour before dawn the camp was speeding Northward. But Bab\nBabbitson was not in his bunkhouse. Still clutching his poem, he had\nslipped out ere the start was made and hid in the forest wreckage. He\nwas the one man in all that mighty host who was not a born logger. And\nnow he had found his own country.\n\n\n\n\nTHE HE MAN COUNTRY\n\n\nIn Paul Bunyan\u2019s time the He Man country was far from its present tame\nand safe condition. It was then a high, smooth valley which lay between\nthe Cascade Mountains and the Rockies. The highest peaks towered only\na few hundred feet above it. Down the center of the valley Moron River\nflowed, and on each side of this amazing stream the sage trees grew,\nthe wild horses roved, and the long-eared, stub-tailed high-behinds\nsat with lifted front feet and savagely sniffed the air for the scent\nof their hereditary enemy, the blond wolf. There, too, the tigermunks\nlifted their tails and screamed in the moonlight. The professors\nmaintain that the tigermunks, the blond wolves and the high-behinds got\ntheir great size from eating prune pits which were thrown out from Paul\nBunyan\u2019s cookhouse, and that they were all shot by the settlers who\nfollowed the great logger. This notion is ridiculous. The truth is that\nthese animals were cowards at heart, and.... But this should be told at\nthe end of the story.\n\nPaul Bunyan moved to this region after his disastrous experience in\nNew Iowa, when his loggers all turned poets. He depended on the He Man\ncountry to make plain, honest men of them again. The super-masculine\nsage trees, he was sure, would inspire them to anything but poetry;\nand the logging off of these hard forests would be a historical\nachievement. But the great logger left nothing to chance. He remembered\na species of animal which his boss farmer, John Shears, had originated,\nand he ordered a herd of them to be brought West. John Shears had\nproved to him that the virility of buffalo milk was incomparable. So\nPaul Bunyan planned to stuff his loggers with buffalo milk hot cakes as\nan antidote to any poison of poetry that might remain in them.\n\nThus the great logger\u2019s first move in the He Man country was to\nbuild a great buffalo corral and milking pen. When it was completed\nthe buffalos were brought from the old home camp, and a gang of\nscissor-bills came along to herd and milk them. After their first\nbreakfast of the new man food the loggers got some of their old swagger\nback, and Paul Bunyan was a picture of cheerfulness as he cruised the\nsage trees and planned the work of his men.\n\nMoron River offered a chance for the most eventful and picturesque\ndrive of logging history. From its source above the Border to its\nmouth on the Oregon coast it was like a huge child of a river, for it\nflowed ridiculously in every mile of its course. Here it ran smoothly\nfor a short distance, then it would flow jerkily, making spasmodic\nwaves; again, its surface would form into vast eddies that whirled like\nmerry-go-rounds, and from these the waters rushed in heaving rolls\nof foam; there were quicksands where the river played hide and seek,\nnearly disappearing in places, miles where it turned and ran back and\nthen curved into its course again, making a perfect figure eight.\nMoron River flowed everywhere in zigzags and curlicues, cutting all\nmanner of capers and didos. Any man but Paul Bunyan would have admitted\nthe impossibility of making a drive on it. But he only smiled when he\nsaw it and said: \u201cIf my rivermen will forget poetry they can drive it\neasily.\u201d\n\nThe timber in this high, wide valley reached from the Eastern slopes\nof the Cascade Hills to the Western slopes of the Rockies. These sage\ntrees resembled the desert sagebrush of to-day. They were not large;\nfew of them were over two hundred feet in height, and not one of them\ncould give a butt log over nine feet in diameter. But they all had\nmany massive limbs which were crowded with silver gray leaves, each\nleaf being the size of a No. 12 shoe. The brown bark of the sage trees\nwas thick, loose and stringy; it would have to be peeled from the logs\nbefore they were snaked to the landings by the blue ox.\n\n\u201cSplendid work for the swampers and limbers,\u201d said Paul Bunyan, as he\ncruised the timber. \u201cWhat a noble logging land is the He Man country!\nSurely my loggers will be re-born here into even better men than they\nwere before they fell into an illness of poetry and ideas!\u201d\n\nThe first day of logging in the He Man country seemed to justify\nthe great logger\u2019s best hopes. The men came out from breakfast with\na swinging, swaggering tramp, loudly smacking their lips over the\nlingering flavors of buffalo milk hot cakes. This potent food made them\nvigorously he in every action. Each man chewed at least three cans\nof Copenhagen and a quarter-pound of fire cut during his first twelve\nhours in the woods. \u201cP-tt-tooey! P-tt-tooey! P-tt-tooey!\u201d sounded\neverywhere among shouted oaths and coarse bellowing. Every ax stroke\nburied the bit deeply in the tough sage wood, and brown dust spurted\nand gushed constantly from every singing saw. Crash! Crash! Crash! The\nthunder of falling trees sounded like a heavy cannonade. On all the\nloggers\u2019 backs gray sweat stains spread from under their suspenders,\nand their hair hung in dripping strings over their red, wet faces. They\nhad got up steam for the first time since leaving the Hickory Hill\ncountry, and they were rejoicing in it. Even after the eleventh hour\nhad passed their eyes were bright, though red-rimmed from stinging\nsweat, though wrinkles of weariness had formed around them. The men\nwere tired indeed; the fallers and swampers were now panting through\nopen mouths, and they were chewing nervously on their tongues, as is\nthe habit of men when they are wearied out; but they never missed a\nlick, and when Paul Bunyan called them home they could still walk\nspringily.\n\nWhen they were back in camp they did not even complain of the smeared,\nsticky feeling which always follows great sweats. No one spoke\ndelicately of bathing; the loggers all washed and combed carelessly;\nand soon they made a trampling, growling host around the cookhouse door.\n\nThe rafters and beams of the great cookhouse shook at this supper, so\nsavagely did the loggers tackle the platters of bear meat. Even the\nbones were crushed, ground, and devoured; and Hot Biscuit Slim and his\nhelpers were delighted when all the dishes were left slick and clean.\n\nThat night no poems were recited in the bunkhouses, but the loggers\nroared out \u201cThe Jam on Garry\u2019s Rock\u201d and other plain old songs. The\nloggers all crawled into their blankets at an early hour, and every one\nof them emitted gruff snores as soon as he went to sleep.\n\nPaul Bunyan listened to them, and he praised the saints for the He Man\ncountry. Had it not been for this region there was no telling what\ncontinuous plagues of poetry would have afflicted his simple men. Now\nthey were back to normalcy.\n\nThe loggers continued to improve as summer passed and the short autumn\nof the He Man country ran its course. The first snow of the cold season\nfell on a redeemed camp. That snow flew in on a thundering wind; its\nflakes quickly made masses of dry snow around the bunkhouse doors;\nand these were swept into huge drifts that were window-high in places\nwhen the breakfast gong rang. The loggers roared and cheered when they\nrushed out for their buffalo milk hot cakes. Paul Bunyan listened to\ntheir basso growls of hunger, their rumbling jovial cursing, their\nbellows of laughter, and he chuckled so heartily that the snow which\nhad gathered on his beard was shaken over a crowd of loggers, burying\nthem. They dug themselves out, whooping their appreciation of the\nhumorous happening, and they jestfully shook their fists at their\nchuckling leader. Then, without stopping to dig the snow from their\nshirt collars, they galloped on for the steaming cookhouse.\n\nThe stamping and banging, the clatter and crash, the smoking, sucking\nand grinding of meal time had never sounded with more vigor and power\nthan on this wild winter morning. Breakfast done, the loggers came\nforth wiping their mouths with flourishing swipes of their fists, and\nwith much snorting thumb-blowing of noses. When they were back in the\nbunkhouses, they laced up their boots, arguing loudly the while as to\nwhether true savages, real tough bullies, would wear mackinaws when it\nwas only forty below zero.\n\n\u201cMackinaws?\u201d yelled the majority. \u201cWhere\u2019s your red bully blood, you\nHunyoks? Mackinaws! Hell, no, burlies; we won\u2019t even button the collars\nof our shirts!\u201d\n\nAnd then Ford Fordsen, camp tinker, bunkhouse handyman, and prophet,\ngot an idea which swiftly ran through all the bunkhouses.\n\n\u201cReal rough, red-blooded, burly, bully, savage, dirt-stomping,\near-chewing, tobacco-loving, whisker-growing, hell-roaring He Men are\nnot going to wear their boots and pants like we\u2019ve been doing,\u201d said\nhe. \u201cLook you now: here\u2019s a ten-inch boot top, here are two inches of\nwool sock above it; and there\u2019s a pants\u2019 leg all tucked down nice and\npretty inside of it. Mates, it looks too delicate. It is no way for a\nfire-eating logger to wear his duds. Here now; watch me and do as I do,\nand be a real band of honest-to-God bullies. This way--look!\u201d\n\nHe jerked open his horn-handled old knife, and he slashed off the\nlegs of his tin breeches, his mackinaw pants and his overalls, just\nbelow his knees. He bit off a jaw-full of fire cut and then stood up,\nhis fists on his hips, an unshaven cheek bulging with pepper-flavored\ntobacco, shapeless hat down over one eye, collar unbuttoned, suspenders\nstretching over his expanded chest, and--high mark of all high marks,\ndistinction of distinctions--his pants ending in ragged edges below\nhis knees. An inch of red drawers\u2019 legs showed below them, there\nfollowed bands of green wool socks, then black boot tops. Stagged\npants! The finishing touch! Poetry was crushed to earth, never to rise\ntriumphantly again in Paul Bunyan\u2019s camp. The inventive and prophetic\nFord Fordsen had about killed it.\n\nThe great leader was delighted beyond words when he saw the loggers\nin their new costumes. He smiled indulgently when he heard some of\nthe more modest among them saying that the brush would not bother\nthem greatly now, and that Ford Fordsen\u2019s invention was a mighty good\nuseful one. This is the reason loggers of to-day give for stagging\ntheir pants. But Paul Bunyan knew that his men had all taken up with\nthe invention because it suited their natures, which had come back\nto them. Most of them indeed, admitted it. The loggers of our time\nshould also be frank and admit that stagged pants spring from the\nhe-bulliness of their souls. As Paul Bunyan said, \u201cEtiquette, dainty\nspeech, sweet scents, poetry and delicate clothes belong properly in\nthe drawing-room, the study and the sanctum. They are hothouse growths.\nLoggers should take pride in hard labor and rough living. Anything\nthat helps their Hesomeness makes them better men. All glory to you,\nFord Fordsen, for the invention of stagged pants.\u201d\n\nHe offered the bunkhouse genius his little finger. Ford Fordsen got his\narms a fourth of the way around it, and the two inventors shook hands.\n\nThe months went on and the loggers\u2019 rugged virtues continued to gain\nstrength from the virile buffalo milk hot cakes. They did noble work\namong the sage trees and felled so many of them that the Big Swede and\nthe blue ox had to go in a gallop during their working hours to snake\nall the logs to the landings.\n\nNow, this was the year which is mentioned in history as the Year of the\nHard Winter. But the bitterest cold could not now chill the blood of\nPaul Bunyan\u2019s He-Men. They had never been so jolly as they were this\nChristmas, and they jigged and chortled when Paul Bunyan gave each of\nthem a knife devised especially for pants-stagging. The great leader\nhad cut out thousands of these excellent presents from two of Babe\u2019s\nold ox shoes. This was the merriest holiday season the camp had ever\nknown, and even the incredible cold of New Year\u2019s Day did not lessen\nthe noisy bunkhouse gayety.\n\nOn the last night of the old year the mercury in the great thermometer\nwhich hung on the camp office had dropped to four hundred degrees below\nzero. Then the tube burst, and no one could tell the temperature, but\nit got appreciably colder. The next morning the boiling coffee froze on\nthe stove, despite the desperate stoking of the kitchen firemen, and\nthe loggers had to drink hot brown ice for their morning\u2019s breakfast.\nBut they tramped cheerfully to work, nevertheless, cracking their\nmittened hands together and stamping the ground as they went along.\nThey worked so hard to keep warm on this day that they talked and swore\nbut little. This was fortunate. For on this incomparable New Year\u2019s Day\nevery spoken word froze solidly in the air as soon as it was uttered.\nThe next day the temperature rose, but the words remained frozen, and\nmany a logger bumped his mouth by walking into the HELLOS and DAMNS\nwhich were solid in the air. But the hardy victims only laughed through\ntheir split lips at such accidents. These words all thawed out at once\non a warmer day; they melted in one long-drawn-out, mournful echoing\nshout so unhumanly humorous in sound that the loggers rolled with\nlaughter to hear it.\n\nCold as the winter was, Paul Bunyan and his men were reluctant to\nsee it go, for every day had brought some tickling incident. But at\nlast the gray frost crystals began to glitter occasionally from rays\nof sunshine which filtered through the white winter mists. Then Paul\nBunyan began to plan for the hazardous historical drive down Moron\nRiver. Spring was at hand, and the great logger remembered his old\nwhimsical query:\n\n\u201cIf Springtime comes can Drives be far behind?\u201d\n\nThe loggers, too, sensed the approach of the driving season, and every\nnight the bunkhouses rang with sounds of filing, as the rivermen\nsharpened calks, pike poles and peavies. They bellowed the old driving\nsongs as never before, and the floors shook as they leaped and pranced\nto show the marvelous springiness of their legs. They got so comradely\nin their merriment and exuberance that the last poet among them\nventured a poem which began:\n\n   \u201cIt\u2019s all very well to be profane,\n    When life is as dark as night;\n    But the man worth a fuss is the man who can cuss\n    When everything \u2019round him is bright.\u201d\n\nHe got no further, for in an instant one bully had him down, chewing\nsavagely on his ear, while others raked his ribs with their calks. It\nwas the last sigh of poetry in the camp. Paul Bunyan heard about it and\nhad one of the happiest hours of his life as he rejoiced over the good\nnews.\n\n\u201cBut every silver cloud has its shadows,\u201d he said sensibly, when\nhis exaltation had passed. \u201cI still expect great troubles and\ndifficulties.\u201d He was wise indeed in this thought, for he got a\ntroublous problem at once.\n\nSure as the great logger had been that the powerful buffalo milk hot\ncakes could only do good for his loggers, sure as he was they could\nnot give his men too much red blood or make them too hellishly He,\nPaul Bunyan had yet failed to reckon on the dire effects that the\nvirile food might have on weaker men. He had given no thought to the\nscissor-bills who herded and milked the buffalos. Throughout the fall\nthese men had shown nothing but their usual tameness and amiability;\nduring the Hard Winter they had shivered silently by their camp fires;\nbut now they began to show that the powerful food was having a terrific\neffect on them. Many of the buffalos had died during the cold spell,\nand the scissor-bills had made pants from the shaggy hides. Some of\nthe high-behinds had frozen also, and the scissor-bills had taken\ntheir skins and made tall, flapping hats of them. Colds had afflicted\nthem during the winter, and for convenience they had tied their\nhandkerchiefs around their necks. They took a fancy to this fashion\nand let the handkerchiefs remain after their colds were gone. Their\nnext outbreak of virility was to unravel one of Babe\u2019s halter ropes and\narrange a long little rope with a noose-end from each thread of it.\nThey practiced throwing nooses over the posts of the buffalo corral\nfence until they became quite expert in casting them. The scissor-bills\nthen caught wild horses with their ropes and broke them for riding.\nThey got to be a crazy, noisy gang after this, and Paul Bunyan began to\nnotice them as they rode through the sage trees, yipping shrilly. And\nthen one morning they came to the hero-leader and requested that they\nbe called \u201cscissor-bills\u201d no longer, but \u201cbuffalo boys\u201d instead. Paul\nBunyan admired their shaggy pants, their necker-chiefs and their tall\nhats, and he thoughtlessly consented to their wishes. He did not feel\nthat the scissor-bills had it in them to become real He Men, but he was\nnot a man to discourage worthy ambitions.\n\nBut Paul Bunyan soon had reason to remember one of his old sayings,\nthat the road from the palace of generosity leads through a forest of\nperils. His one kindly gesture towards the lowly scissor-bills made\nthem a powerful faction in the He Man country, and a fierce rivalry\nbetween them and the loggers soon developed. For they insisted on being\ncalled \u201cbuffalo boys,\u201d and Paul Bunyan\u2019s best men saw an intolerable\ndignity in the title. The buffalo boys painted large B. B\u2019s. on their\nhats, they painted the letters on the buffalos and on their horses\nalso. At calving time they devised some irons in the shape of double\nB\u2019s., and they branded the buffalo calves with them. The buffalo boys\ngrew even bolder; they began to ride among the bunkhouses in the\nevenings, yipping and yelling at the men who were earnestly preparing\nfor the greatest drive of history.\n\nSuch impudence was not long tolerated, of course, and it got so that\nevery morning found buffalo boys mourning for lost ears and doctoring\nthe wounds made by sharp calks. But buffalo milk was running hot in\ntheir veins, and their new courage carried them to still greater\nextremes. One morning when the loggers came to work they found that\nevery sage tree had B.\u00a0B. burned into its bark. That day the drive was\nnot talked about, for the loggers plotted vengeance as they toiled.\nThis night they turned the buffalos out of the corral, and the buffalo\nboys were out until morning rounding up the herd. The following night\nthey, in turn, galloped past the bunkhouses and roped every stovepipe\nthat stuck above a roof. They dragged them into the timber and hid\nthem, and the loggers had to dress by cold stoves the next morning.\nThat evening, during milking time, the loggers slipped into the buffalo\nboys\u2019 tents and poured water into their blankets; the next morning the\nloggers found their boots all filled with ice, for the buffalo boys had\nplayed such an evil trick on them during the night. The astonishing\naudacity of these lowly creatures was not to be longer endured.\n\nMark Beaucoup and his followers would not listen to the pleas of the\nmoderates that the punishment of the buffalo boys be left until the\ndrive was finished. The bunkhouse cranks had grown savage in the He Man\ncountry, and they now threw aside all restraint. They yelled their rage\nuntil all the loggers got excited; and in a short time the bunkhouses\nwere empty, and the loggers were marching on the buffalo boys\u2019 camp.\nThey closed in silently and attacked with lion-like ferocity. The\nbuffalo boys, their timidity vanished now, stood up and gave vigorous\nbattle. When Paul Bunyan stepped into camp and called, \u201cRoll out, my\nbullies! Roll out for the big drive!\u201d he got no answer. Then he looked\ntoward the buffalo corral and saw a sea of dust surging over miles of\nthe valley. All over the gray surface of this sea fists were flashing\nup as whitecaps jump and fall on wind-blown waters. Paul Bunyan leaped\ntowards the scene of conflict.\n\nBut the great logger\u2019s endeavors to separate the fighters were vain.\nWhen he got among them he had to stand still for fear of trampling\nthem; the buffalo boys and the loggers crowded against his feet as\nthey clinched and punched, and some of them rolled under the arches of\nhis boots. He ordered the factions to their camps, but they would not\nhear. Then Paul Bunyan bellowed. The battlers were all thrown down,\nbut they bounced up fighting. Ears and fingers were now flying up\neverywhere in the dust, and the leader was alarmed by the thought that\na more fearful condition was in sight than even poetry had threatened\nto bring about. The ferocious masculinity that his two gangs of men had\ngot from the virile hot cakes would leave him with camps of earless and\nfingerless cripples. Disaster loomed over the logging industry once\nmore.\n\nHis brain racing like a dynamo as it conceived desperate ideas, Paul\nBunyan failed to notice at first that the dust sea had mysteriously\nvanished, though the struggle still raged. Not until he saw all the\nloggers and buffalo boys stop fighting and throw themselves on the\nground, each man clutching at his own legs and howling with fear,\ndid he realize that an unnatural happening was saving his men from\nexterminating each other. Every frantic fighter was howling, \u201cMy boots\nis runnin\u2019 over with blood! I\u2019m a goner sure!\u201d\n\nPaul Bunyan heard them with amazement, and with amazement he gazed\non the valleys and hills. A thin mist was rising from the ground. It\nvanished soon; then Paul Bunyan saw that rain was springing from the\nearth, falling up--if the term may be used--for many feet, and then\ndropping back again. The first shower had rained up the legs of the\nbuffalo boys and the loggers, and they had mistaken it for blood.\nNow they were still rolling, moaning and bellowing. Paul Bunyan\u2019s\namazement soon passed, for he was accustomed to unnatural seasons,\nclimates and happenings. He was all delight that the unusual rain had\nstopped the battle, and he saw no harm in it yet; he did not know that\nthis was a rain of such tremendous force that it had poured through the\nearth....\n\nFor this was the Spring That the Rain Came Up From China....\n\nHarder and harder the rain came up, and it was not long before the\nloggers and the buffalo boys opened their eyes and stopped their\nyelling. They were soaked all over now, and they knew that the sudden\nwarm wetness of their legs had not been from blood. Paul Bunyan laughed\nthrough his beard, which was high and dry, when he saw his men begin\nto run for the camp to get out of the strange rain. The fight was\nforgotten, and the logging industry was saved.\n\nThe ground hissed as the rain came up with new violence. The drops\nbecame streams ... the streams doubled ... trebled ... and in an hour\nthere were ten streams where only one had come up before. The rain\nbecame a downpour--or an up-pour, rather. It got the proportions of a\ncloudburst--or, perhaps it should be said, an earthburst. The hillocks\nand hummocks had forests of small fountains. In the low places pools\nwere forming, and these boiled with muddy foam as myriads of miniature\ngeysers spurted up from them.\n\nPaul Bunyan, feeling great satisfaction over the happy ending the rain\nhad given to the conflict between his two tribes, did not at first\nrealize the danger to his recent logging operations from the unnatural\nrain. When he did think of the logs piled along the river he ran\nswiftly to look after them. He was too late. Moron River had already\nrisen far over its banks, and all of the brown, peeled sage logs, the\nfruit of a season\u2019s labor, were now tossing on a muddy flood. The rain\nwas coming up through the river in sheets; torrents were pouring into\nthe stream from every small gully. The water was rising at the rate of\na foot a minute. It would soon be in the camp grounds. Paul Bunyan made\nno attempt to retrieve his lost logs; he now rushed to save his camp.\n\nThe loggers had turned their bunkhouses upside down, because the rain\nhad come up through the floors. They had then set their bunks on the\nrafters, and they were now snug and dry, for the rain could not pour\nup through the tight roofs. The loggers left their cozy quarters\nreluctantly when they heard Paul Bunyan call, \u201cRoll out or roll Up!\u201d\nThey could imagine nothing more disagreeable than its raining up their\npants\u2019 legs, rough He Men though they were. But when they saw the river\nrising in rushing waves they did not need Paul Bunyan\u2019s orders to make\nthem run for the cookhouse. Johnny Inkslinger was wiring the camp\noffice and Babe\u2019s stable to the mammoth building, and the Big Swede\nwas making his fastest moves since the Dakota days as he hitched up\nthe blue ox. Paul Bunyan roared, \u201cYay, Babe!\u201d just as the river waters\nthundered into camp. The blue ox plunged towards the Cascade Hills. He\ndragged the three greatest buildings of the camp and all the loggers\nto safety. But the bunkhouses were rolling over and over in the flood.\n\nPaul Bunyan and his two aides saved two of the buffalo boys, two\nbuffalos, two high-behinds, two tigermunks, two blond wolves, and two\nwild horses, from the raging waters, but all other life perished.\n\nFor forty days and forty nights it rained up from China, and then the\nflood receded. Paul Bunyan and his men looked down from the Cascades\nand saw that all of the old He Man country had been washed away. It was\nnow a low valley. There was sage in it still, but this sage was only\nbrush. Ridges and buttes of gray rock were all of the old land that\nremained. There was no longer any logging in the greater part of it.\nBut here on the new slopes of the Cascades was a more cheering sight.\nFor the old land over these slopes had covered a magnificent forest of\nwhite pine which was even finer than that around the old home camp.\nThe loggers shouted when they saw it. And was it a tear, that gleam of\nmoisture in Paul Bunyan\u2019s beard? If so, it was from his new happiness.\n\n\u201cIt\u2019s an ill rain,\u201d he chuckled, \u201cthat brings no logger wood.\u201d\n\nThe two buffalo boys, like the loggers, still heroic from their virile\nwinter\u2019s diet, had come through their ordeal in good shape and the\nbuffalos had slept all the forty days and nights. But the other poor\nanimals! The wild horses were wild no longer; they had become tame and\nwould now eat sugar out of any man\u2019s hand. The buffalo boys nick-named\nthem bronchos. The high-behinds, the blond wolves and the tigermunks\nwere all cowards at heart, and they had been scared out of twenty\nyears\u2019 growth. Not one of them was knee-high to a logger now. The Big\nSwede made his first and only joke about the tigermunks, who had been\nscared into the size of chips.\n\n\u201cTigermunks!\u201d he grinned. \u201cAye tank these har ban chipmunks!\u201d\n\nAnd chipmunks they have been called ever since. Paul Bunyan\u2019s history\ndoes not tell how the high-behinds came to be named jack rabbits, or\nhow the blond wolves came to be named coyotes. No doubt they were also\nnamed humorously, for the loggers were gay when the rain no longer came\nup from China. Anyhow, the old names are no longer used in the He Man\ncountry.\n\n\n\n\nEVIL INVENTIONS\n\n\nPaul Bunyan knew nothing about women, but he had heard of them with\nlittle liking for the stories he heard. History, industry, invention\nand oratory were, to his mind, the four grand elements of human life.\nAnd women, as they were revealed in the loggers\u2019 stories, cared little\nabout these elements. Women seemed to lack inventiveness especially,\nand this was man\u2019s greatest quality. Women, the great logger had heard,\nwere often marvelous cooks; but men had invented both can-openers\nand doughnuts. Women were excellent makers of garments; but men\nhad invented calked boots, mackinaws and stagged pants. Women were\nassiduous readers of poetry; but men had invented most of the poetry\nthat these creatures cared about. Even in the writing of history, where\ninventiveness is not allowed (or _was_ not, rather; for nowadays,\nsuch is progress, many historians are good inventors also), women had\napparently done nothing. Paul Bunyan, in the early days of his camp,\noften marveled when he heard his loggers hurrahing and stamping as they\ntalked about the people called pretty women. He himself could not see\ntheir use in the grand parts of life. But when he knew his men better\nhe decided that women were creations of the loggers\u2019 fancies, that they\nwere incredible and fabulous.\n\nFor Paul Bunyan\u2019s loggers only cared to feel effects; they had no wish\nto think about causes. They would make a reality out of any fancy that\ndelighted them; they never inquired beyond their pleasures. When they\nwere told that they were making history they heard the statement with\na thrill, but they did not pretend to know what it was all about. As\nfor inventions, they used them joyfully, but they thought that Paul\nBunyan\u2019s new devices just happened. \u201cWe always sharpened our axes by\nrollin\u2019 rocks down-hill,\u201d the loggers would say. \u201cWe\u2019d run alongside,\nholdin\u2019 the ax blades on the stones as they rolled. But in the Big Dust\ncountry they was no rocks an\u2019 no hills, so ol\u2019 Paul made grindstones.\u201d\nThat was their story of the invention of the grindstone, an invention\nto which Paul Bunyan had given weeks of intense thought. And as for\nindustry, why, a man just went out and did what old Paul told him to\ndo. Oratory was great stuff; it made a man feel powerful good to listen\nto it; but, holy mackinaw! how was a man to remember all the things\nthat old Paul said? But they did like oratory; yes, they liked it right\nwell.\n\nNow Paul Bunyan came to know that his men were great only in the\nperformance of their work. They were not comprehenders and creators.\nThey could hardly distinguish between knowledge and fancy. Thus the\ngreat logger came to doubt the existence of women. He came to consider\nall the loggers\u2019 ideas as fancies and drolleries, little men\u2019s\nnonsense. He seldom listened to them; and as time went on he forgot\nwomen along with the other notions with which the loggers amused\nthemselves. In oration after oration Paul Bunyan emphasized the fact\nthat logging was the greatest industry, and that loggers, therefore,\nwere the greatest laborers; they should have no pride or thought\noutside the operations of Paul Bunyan. They believed this finally; and\nthen their bunkhouse songs and stories were all about work in the woods\nand the river drives, and women were very seldom thought about. Johnny\nInkslinger\u2019s oratorical medicine swamped them with ideas one time; and\nlater they were seduced into poetry; but they had become bully loggers\nagain in the He Man country.\n\nThey would have kept the new innocency of their souls, no doubt, had\nthe forty-day flood been a week shorter. During the first week of\nthe flood the loggers were excited about the strange rain which was\nstreaming up from China, then the muddy foaming waters which filled the\nvalley below their place of refuge became a monotonous sight. Some of\nthem began to tease the buffalo boys, and others played with the blond\nwolves, the high-behinds, the tigermunks and the other animals which\nPaul Bunyan had brought into the cookhouse. But these wild creatures\nhad been so frightened by the flood that they would not learn tricks.\nPaul Bunyan invented picture cards for his men and the games of poker,\nrummy and cribbage; but the bunkhouse cranks were so violent at play\nthat it had to be given up. Then the loggers could only tell stories,\nand sing and jig for amusement. During the last week of the flood, camp\nstories being told out, the loggers remembered women; and they became\nso interested in songs and stories about them that they were sorry\nwhen the flood was over and a spring day dawned on a new green land.\nThis morning Paul Bunyan called, \u201cRoll out or roll up!\u201d but he got no\nanswer. The surprised leader stopped and looked into the cookhouse. He\nsaw Shanty Boy and three other bards standing with their arms over each\nother\u2019s shoulders. The quartet was singing:\n\n   \u201cHere I sit in jail, with my back to the wall;\n    And a red-headed woman was the cause of it all!\u201d\n\n\u201cRed-headed woman?\u201d Paul Bunyan stroked his beard in perplexity.\n\u201cWoman? I think I have heard that word before. Woman ... m-m-m-hmm\n... now I remember. Those creatures so strangely fascinating to plain\nmen. I doubted their existence. At any rate, I hope we never meet with\nany. I have had difficulties enough from ideas, poetry and floods.\nMy loggers shall now have hard work again and forget these tempting\nmemories.\u201d\n\nOnce more he roared the noble call to labor. The loggers heeded it this\ntime, and they came out smiling blushingly. Thereupon Paul Bunyan made\nthem a straightforward speech, beguiling phrased, however; and when\nit was done the loggers thought only of their work tools and of the\nhandsome, odorous timber which covered the new slopes below them.\n\nThey got new tools from the camp office; and when the sunlight made\ngolden trails among the pine trees the loggers were already wet with\nhonest sweat, and many trees had dropped from their cutting. They\nworked without great exertion, for they were soft from their long rest,\nand Paul Bunyan had warned them against sore muscles and exhaustion. As\nthe sun rose higher the spring air got warm and drowsy, and it breathed\na troublous languor into their beings. The loggers went to extremes\nin heeding Paul Bunyan\u2019s cautionary advice; and in the afternoon they\ntoiled listlessly whenever they worked at all; but most of the time\nthey leaned on their axes, or against trees, and expressed unusual\nwonderings. When the Big Swede remonstrated with them they replied that\nthey felt weary and sore from their labor even now; old Paul would\nroar, they said, if they did not take care of their selves. They went\non arguing loudly, neglecting their work, but the Big Swede had little\ntime for argument. Babe, the blue ox, was now so exuberantly frisky in\nall his motions that the foreman had to watch him constantly. During\nthis one short argument Babe had knocked down ten acres of trees with\ngay swings of his horns and had trampled them into splinters.\n\n\u201cHar noo!\u201d yelled the Big Swede, hastily leaving the lazy loggers. And\nas Babe jerked him this way and that way, lashing the foreman with his\nlively tail and making playful pokes at him with his horns, the Big\nSwede grumbled, \u201cBy yeeminy! Aye tank dese crazy t\u2019ings lak rain fall\noop play hal with may yob!\u201d\n\nThe Big Swede was easily discouraged, but Paul Bunyan had his usual\nhopefulness as he planned the reorganization of his camp. Johnny\nInkslinger had left for the old home camp to discover how John Shears\nand the great farm had fared in the flood and to get Shagline Bill\u2019s\nendless freight team started with loads of new supplies. The great\nlogger himself had brought his workbench out of the camp office and set\nit up at the edge of the new pine forest. Then he planned a sawmill. It\nwas not to be such a grand mill as he had erected on Round River in the\nLeaning Pine country; but he wanted a good one that would cut at least\n10,000,000 feet of lumber in twelve hours. In six months he should have\nenough lumber to make a fair set of temporary bunkhouses for his men.\nIn the meantime, it was good that the spring nights were so cheerful\nand warm, as the loggers could sleep in the open air without injury or\neven discomfort.\n\nIn a week the plans were finished, and, for a millhouse Paul Bunyan\nmoved the back room of his camp office over to the banks of the Moron\nRiver, which had become a mature, decent, dependable stream since the\nflood; and he put a big crew of his loggers to work, making concrete\nbeds for the saws and edgers and installing the mill machinery. Work\ndropped to nearly nothing in the woods. Paul Bunyan left the mill\nconstruction under the supervision of Ford Fordsen, camp tinker and the\nonly bunkhouse inventor, and he went into the woods to make his men get\nout logs for the new mill.\n\nNow Paul Bunyan was astonished and puzzled when he heard his loggers\nre-telling the stories with which they had amused themselves during\nthe last week of the flood. Instead of working, one logger would lean\nagainst a tree and remark that he had always liked a little flesh on\nthem himself; and his partner would reply that every man had his own\ntaste, but as for him, give him the cute little kind that a burly could\ntuck under one arm. Then a swamper would come up and say that he didn\u2019t\ncare much about shape, but he did like red hair and a wide mouth. And\na limber would join the group and say that he guessed he was peculiar,\nbut he didn\u2019t have much use for the frolicksome ones, but he liked them\nquiet and sort of dreamy-eyed. Each man would argue at length for his\nown inclinations, carefully respecting, however, the preferences of the\nothers.\n\nPaul Bunyan lost patience upon hearing such nonsense; and he gave\nsharp orders that there was to be no more talking in the woods. Logs\nwere needed for the new mill; his men were to get down to business and\nforget their vain imaginings; for it was doubtful if such fantastic\ncreatures as they talked about really existed.\n\nFor the first time in camp history Paul Bunyan\u2019s loggers felt that\ntheir leader was driving them, and they worked sullenly. Their aroused\nmemories troubled them greatly as the spring got more of languorous\nwarmth, and it was torment for them to keep their thoughts to\nthemselves as they worked. But at night they were free to speak; and\nas they lay in their blankets among the trees they talked for hours\nin soft voices, gazing dreamily at the moon and stars, and sighingly\nbreathing the warm, odorous air of the spring night. And in their\nsleep, memories gave them perilous dreams; and they rolled and tossed\nand pulled covers and talked tenderly between snores.\n\nBut these memories--if they were _not_ fancies--were not so hurtful\nas poetry and ideas, for they allowed the loggers to work, once Paul\nBunyan had stopped conversation about them. When the new mill was\ncompleted, the mill pond was black with logs. Paul Bunyan came in from\nthe woods, and Ford Fordsen showed him his finished work with pride.\nThe boilers were loaded with steam, said the bunkhouse genius; the\nrollers were in their oiled boxes, the chains were over the sprockets,\nand the belts were tight around the pulleys; and the great shining\nbandsaw was waiting with sharp teeth for its first bite from a pine log.\n\nPaul Bunyan heard his fellow inventor with admiration, for there was no\nroom for envy in the great logger\u2019s soul. He had an honest comradely\nsmile for Ford Fordsen as he lifted his hand and gave the signal for\nthe sawing to begin. Now the exhausts roared, the main shaft began to\nrevolve, the chains rattled and squeaked, and the rolls and pulleys\nwhirled. But the great bandsaw did not move. Ford Fordsen ran into the\nmill to discover the trouble; he returned at once, frowning a little,\nbut not disconcerted.\n\n\u201cA slight mistake, Mr. Bunyan,\u201d he said crisply.\n\n\u201cYes? Explain this slight mistake, Ford Fordsen.\u201d\n\n\u201cIt is only a _slight_ mistake. But we will have to rebuild the mill.\u201d\n\n\u201cWell; I am happy to hear that it is only a _slight_ mistake,\u201d said\nPaul Bunyan. \u201cYou can rebuild the mill at once, I suppose.\u201d\n\n\u201cIn six months perhaps. I prefer to make my own plans and invent some\nnew machines that match my own ideas. I am rather glad of this _slight_\nmistake.\u201d\n\n\u201cImpudence!\u201d roared Paul Bunyan. \u201cTell me at once what is wrong.\u201d\n\nFord Fordsen was thrown from his feet, but he got up with dignity.\n\n\u201cYou have the advantage of me in size,\u201d he said pounding wrathfully\nwith his fist on the great logger\u2019s toe. \u201cBut I, too, am an inventor\nnow, and I claim equal rights with you in invention. You may have\nhistory, for history is bunk; you may have oratory, for your voice is\nlarger than mine; and you may have industry, for you possess the blue\nox. But as for invention----\u201d\n\n\u201cBefore you become an orator in spite of yourself tell me, as inventor\nto inventor, if you like, about this slight mistake,\u201d said Paul Bunyan\ncalmly.\n\n\u201cBut I have told you that the mill must be rebuilt!\u201d said Ford Fordsen\nimpatiently. \u201cHowever, if you must know, the slight mistake is this:\nThe men who put in the concrete base for the headrig got to talking\nabout women, and their minds left their job. They ran concrete around\nthe saw, and now the lower part of this hundred foot band is frozen as\nin solid rock. The mill, you see, must be rebuilt; and I must be about\nit.\u201d\n\n\u201cWomen again!\u201d grumbled Paul Bunyan. \u201cIf they do not exist my men soon\nwill have invented them. If they do exist in other lands it is easy\nto see why there is no great industry, no marvelous inventions and no\nmaking of history in any place but my camp. Even as memories or fancies\nthey are nuisances. But here: I must attend to this cocky little\nfellow.\u201d\n\nHe reached down and seized Ford Fordsen between his thumb and\nforefinger and then raised him to a level with his eyes.\n\n\u201cYour grand and exceptional notions trouble my poor head,\u201d said Paul\nBunyan, \u201cso I must work with my own simple ideas. You shall be at work\nwith your felling ax once more this afternoon.\u201d\n\n\u201cI warn you that I\u2019ll not do foul, sweaty labor again, Mr. Bunyan,\u201d\nsaid Ford Fordsen composedly. \u201cIf you put me back in the woods I\u2019ll\npreach the ten-hour day to the loggers. And I ask you to return me to\nthe ground. I find this high altitude uncomfortable.\u201d\n\n\u201cAudacity!\u201d exclaimed Paul Bunyan, so astonished that he nearly dropped\nthis astonishing bunkhouse genius. \u201cThe ten-hour day! Thunderation!\nWhat an unheard of thing! Is the sun shining? Do I wear whiskers? Do\nmen chew with their teeth? Is Babe a blue ox? And--do loggers work\ntwelve hours a day? What devils do trail me! Ideas; poetry; floods;\nwomen; the ten-hour day--what next? By the holy old, roaring old, oily\nold----\u201d\n\nWhat would certainly have been the grandest curse of history was\ninterrupted by the appearance of Johnny Inkslinger on the summits of\nthe Cascades. Paul Bunyan\u2019s wrath and chagrin vanished and the light\nshone once more into his eyes as his interested gaze followed the\ntimekeeper\u2019s progress. Shagline Bill\u2019s endless freight team circled\ndown the mountains behind Johnny Inkslinger. Paul Bunyan dropped Ford\nFordsen carelessly into his pocket and stepped up the slopes to hear\nthe news.\n\nJohnny Inkslinger had a condensed report of fifteen thousand, seven\nhundred and twenty-one pages which dealt with the destruction of the\ngreat farm and the transformation of the Smiling River country in the\nunnatural rain. But he gave a more cheerful account of a new country\nwhich he had discovered. It was just over the mountains, he said, in\nthe region called Nowaday Valley. There he had procured a good load of\ncamp supplies. There were people in that country, the timekeeper went\non to say, people of a very strange sort. He described them, and he\nended his description by doubting if even one out of a hundred of these\npeople could become a logger. Some were too ponderous, others were\nmarvelously fragile, and everyone held an ax awkwardly.\n\n\u201cI have heard of such creatures,\u201d said Paul Bunyan. \u201cThey are real,\nthen. But not another word must be spoken about them. If my loggers\nwere to hear that some of this species which they remember so ardently\nwere at hand, I\u2019d have more trouble than poetry gave me. We must keep\nthis a secret, Johnny Inkslinger.\u201d\n\nThen they rose and walked over to the cookhouse, where the kitchen\ncrew was unloading the freight wagons. Paul Bunyan had forgotten Ford\nFordsen. But the impertinent bunkhouse genius had escaped from the\npocket during the conversation. He now journeyed towards the woods,\nwhere the loggers were doing little but talk over their memories. And\nit is not difficult to imagine how much work was done after the enraged\ninventor arrived with his news of Johnny Inkslinger\u2019s discovery.\n\nPaul Bunyan, with energy that was unusual even for him, at once began\nto put the mill in a condition to operate. It was a good mill as it\nstood, outside of the solid saw, and he did not intend to rebuild it.\nThat would take time, and he wanted to have new bunkhouses and the\nold camp routine as soon as possible. In order to keep his men from\nthinking about their troublesome memories it was necessary to have\nmost of them in the woods again and to be with them himself. Then the\nbunkhouse bards would start the camp stories and songs once more, and\nthe loggers would be protected at night also. So, to work.\n\nExperienced as he was with inventing, Paul Bunyan was not long in\ngetting an idea which solved his problem. First, he had the loggers who\nwere detailed on mill construction build blocks of concrete under the\nfloor beams of the millhouse. While they were completing this labor\nhe got one of his old inventions and made many new models of it. This\ninvention was the steam-drive potato masher, which he had devised for\nHot Biscuit Slim, after the chief cook had originated mashed potatoes.\nIn this invention Paul Bunyan had made the first known use of the steam\ncylinder. He now took a battery of steam-drive potato mashers and\ninstalled them on the new concrete blocks under the mill. Steam pipes\nwere connected between them; and the new mill system was ready for a\ntrial.\n\nPaul Bunyan wiped the sweat from his dripping eyebrows and wrung out\nhis beard; then he gave the signal to turn on steam. The potato mashers\npumped up and down perfectly at the rate of five hundred strokes a\nminute. Each stroke thrust the mill building up forty feet and down\nforty feet. The big carriage moved forward, carrying a pine log; the\nsolid saw met its bark and grain; then the log carriage, flashing\nup and down with the millhouse, moved swiftly ahead, and the first\ncant dropped on the rolls. The new mill was a success! Paul Bunyan\u2019s\ninventive mind had triumphed again! True, the mill men got a little\nseasick from going forty feet up and forty feet down five hundred times\na minute; but they soon got accustomed to this and declared that they\npreferred the bouncing saw mill to the ordinary quiet kind.\n\nNow Paul Bunyan remembered Ford Fordsen.\n\n\u201cYou would rebuild a mill because of a slight mistake,\u201d he chuckled,\nreaching into his pocket for the bunkhouse genius. \u201cCome now; I will\nshow you how really simple it was to solve the problem of the solid\nsaw.\u201d\n\nBut Ford Fordsen was not in Paul Bunyan\u2019s pocket, of course. He had\nnot been there for a long time. Paul Bunyan quickly guessed that the\nbunkhouse genius had escaped while his leader was seated. The great\nlogger\u2019s last sitting had happened just one month ago, when he heard\nhis returning timekeeper\u2019s report. Certainly Ford Fordsen had gone to\nthe woods with news of Johnny Inkslinger\u2019s discovery.\n\nKnowing the difficulties which the Big Swede had been having with the\nblue ox, knowing also the foreman\u2019s lack of oratorical powers, Paul\nBunyan feared greatly for his loggers. He ran at once for the timber\nwhere they were supposed to be working. The loggers were gone, and\ntheir felling tools also. And neither the Big Swede nor the blue ox was\nanywhere in the woods. The boughs of the last felled trees were already\ndead and dry and the stumps of these trees were browned by the suns\nof many days. The woods were still but for the wind whispers, and the\nbreathing silence of the deserted timberland was mournful to the great\nlogger. His was a somber, frowning countenance as he returned to camp.\nHe looked in Babe\u2019s empty stable before he passed, and two dark objects\nin the manger attracted him curiously. They were strange engines, and\nnot of his devising. He had not seen their like before. He could lift\none in his two hands; and he did so, turning it around and around,\nobserving its upright boiler, its drums and cables, and the hewn logs\nto which it was bolted. Wondering how the engines had come to the\nmanger, Paul Bunyan put them in his two mackinaw pockets and tramped on\nover the mountain towards Nowaday Valley, knowing that there he would\nfind his loggers.\n\nIt was late afternoon when the leader-hero reached the Big Fir timber\nwhich covered the slopes around Nowaday Valley. Through the trees he\nsaw a blue that was bluer than the sky. Babe mooed gently as his\nmaster approached, but his gaze remained fixed on the border where the\ngreen valley floor met the timber. Smoke was rising there; and now Paul\nBunyan saw roofs and people among the firs.\n\n\u201cMy loggers and the women folks,\u201d said Paul Bunyan, not very cheerfully.\n\nHe strode on through the forest, and ere long he saw that smoke was\ncoming from such an engine as he had in his pockets. Ford Fordsen was\nat the levers; now he jerked one, and a drum revolved swiftly, winding\na cable which whipped and slashed underbrush as it was hauled from the\ntimber. Then a big log to which the cable was fastened crashed through\nthe small trees, plowing a deep furrow as it was dragged on. Now Ford\nFordsen jerked another lever, the big log was lifted, and then it\nwas lowered easily to a car which was standing on two shining steel\nrails....\n\nA whistle shrilled. Paul Bunyan saw his loggers coming in droves from\nthe woods. Ford Fordsen left his engine and approached the great logger.\n\n\u201cSo the inventor has become the industrialist also,\u201d said Paul Bunyan\ngrimly. \u201cI suppose you will now compete with me in oratory----\u201d\n\n\u201cThat is my affair.\u201d Ford Fordsen interrupted his old leader coolly.\n\u201cMy only business with you, Mr. Bunyan, is to inform you that you must\nkeep your ox away from my donkeys.\u201d\n\n\u201cDonkeys?\u201d\n\n\u201cI have named my skidding machines donkey engines. Your ox, your\nskidding machine, made cunning and conscienceless from jealousy, has\nescaped from your foreman; he waits until night; then he plunges out\nof the woods, seizes my engine in his teeth and makes away with it. He\nhas stolen two of them. I demand their return.\u201d\n\nPaul Bunyan drew them from his pocket and dropped them to the ground.\n\n\u201cI do not care about your donkeys, your engines, your skidding\nmachines,\u201d said the great logger. \u201cI have come for my men.\u201d\n\n\u201cTry and get them,\u201d said Ford Fordsen amiably.\n\n\u201cYou may have learned inventing and industry,\u201d said Paul Bunyan. \u201cAnd\nyou despise history. But I shall now teach you the worth of oratory.\u201d\n\n\u201cI grant you the privilege of attempting it,\u201d said Ford Fordsen\npleasantly. \u201cInstead of giving the loggers oratory I have given them\nthe ten-hour day. And they have found other things.\u201d\n\nPaul Bunyan would not argue the merits of the ten-hour day with Ford\nFordsen. Regretting that he had ever encouraged this man by praising\nhis one noble invention, stagged pants, the great logger said no more,\nbut went on into Nowaday Valley. He stopped at a place where there were\nmany cottages. They were evidently used for bunkhouses by his loggers,\nas the men had come this way after leaving the woods. They were curious\nbunkhouses indeed, for the walls of each one were painted in bright\ncolors; there were curtains in the windows, and every bunkhouse had\na neat and pretty yard of grass and flowers. Paul Bunyan thought it\nstrange that his bully loggers should tolerate this; but he did not\nallow the thought to trouble him. He began to speak with his rarest\neloquence.\n\nIf he had delivered such an oration in the old home camp his men would\nhave listened to him for days without thinking of eating or sleep. They\nwould have been moved continuously by whatever emotions the sounds of\nthe orator\u2019s rich phrases evoked; and at the end they would have obeyed\nhis most extravagant wish.\n\nBut now the loggers did not even come out of their bright bunkhouses to\nhear him. Now and again a face appeared at a window or in a doorway,\nbut it was always the face of one of the women folk, seeming hostile\nor curious, but otherwise unmoved. Knowing that his oratorical powers\nhad never been greater, Paul Bunyan was at last affected by a fear that\nthe loggers were now ruled by a force stronger than his own. He put\neven more vigor and color into his oration, but he now spoke with less\nconfidence....\n\nThen one of the women folk came out of the bunkhouse. She stopped and\nlooked up at the great logger with brave curiosity; and he in turn was\nso perplexed by the strange sight of this creature, who had something\nof the appearance of a logger, but was yet so unlike one, that he\nstudied her and abandoned his oration. Was it possible that such frail\nand useless-seeming creatures could have powers surpassing his own?\n\nThen Paul Bunyan did what every true man, whether ditch-digger or king,\nhas often longed painfully to do. He now did that which men are forever\nattempting in their imaginings. He lifted the woman person in his hand\nand observed her as a naturalist observes a small kitten or a mouse.\n\nThis specimen of the women folk did not seem to mind the liberty which\nPaul Bunyan took with her. She sat comfortably in his hand, with her\nankles crossed, and opened a case which hung from her arm; she gazed\nunconcernedly into a mirror which was in the lid of this case; then she\npatted powder on her nose and cheeks, turning her head first this way\nand then that way.\n\nPaul Bunyan could not understand this woman person. She could not be\nexplained by any of his ideas. She looked even less like a logger, now\nthat he saw her closely. Her feet, for one thing, were ridiculously\nsmall, and the thin-soled slippers on them would not last a day at work\nin the woods. Her socks were of transparent, shimmering stuff, and they\nwere pink, like the New Iowa clover. He had never seen anything except\na cook\u2019s apron which was like the garment she wore, and he had never\nseen anything at all compared with the curving soft shapes revealed\nin this garment. Her face was something like a boy logger\u2019s face, but\nher eyes were not boy\u2019s eyes; for some different spirit shone in their\nbrown lights. Her strangely cut hair was combed straight down over her\nforehead and its clipped ends made an even line above eyebrows which\nwere no greater than threads. Her arms were round and white and firmly\nfleshed, but they seemed to have little muscle. Her small hands surely\ncould not reach around an ax handle; nevertheless she was proud of\nthem, for she now polished her fingernails on her pink socks and then\nadmired the new glitter of them.\n\n\u201cI still do not understand this woman person,\u201d whispered Paul Bunyan\nto himself. \u201cI have observed her closely, but the secret of her power\nis not yet known to me. Surely my bully loggers will yet prefer my\noratory to these weak women folk. I must try again.\u201d\n\nThe woman person looked up at the gusty murmur; and on her small red\nmouth, and in her sunny brown eyes, was a smile. And Paul Bunyan saw\nalso the tiniest of cups in each of her powdered cheeks. These, too,\nwere marvelous and new to him.\n\n\u201cI have had an adventure which I can talk about for a long time,\u201d said\nthe woman person. \u201cNow put me down.\u201d\n\nPaul Bunyan marveled still more at the imperiousness of this voice,\nwhich was yet so soft, so gentle and low. He had seen one logger chew\noff another\u2019s ear for less arrogant words. And now that he looked\nfor them he did not discover ears on this woman person. But she had\ncertainly not profited by the lesson.\n\n\u201cYou have not yet learned bunkhouse courtesy?\u201d asked Paul Bunyan\nconversationally.\n\nThe woman person shrugged her shoulders and wrinkled her nose. She\nseemed to consider this a good enough answer, for she did not speak.\nPaul Bunyan wanted to chide her, and he was surprised that he found no\nwords for it. He felt embarrassment.\n\n\u201cTell me, please,\u201d he said bashfully, \u201chow you women folk won my\nloggers.\u201d\n\n\u201cOh!\u201d she replied, blushing a little, \u201cwe wanted husbands and babies.\u201d\n\nMore mysteries! More words without meaning to him! This was an\nexplanation perhaps, but it explained nothing.\n\nNow the woman person grasped two hairs of Paul Bunyan\u2019s beard, one in\neach small hand, and pulled them playfully, smiling such a smile as he\nhad never seen on any logger\u2019s face.\n\n\u201cYou must go away, you know,\u201d she said softly. \u201cWe are all so happy\nhere.\u201d\n\nPaul Bunyan heard a pleading strain in her strange singing voice, but\nhe could not interpret this sound. He saw her wistfully smiling eyes\nand mouth, but he could not read what he saw on her face. He felt the\nsoftness of the woman person in his hand--and he understood her a\nlittle. He learned something of her strength, alien as it was to any\nstrength he had known. And he thought: I have lost my loggers; for\nneither history, invention, industry nor oratory can prevail with them\nagainst this woman person.\n\nGently Paul Bunyan put her on the ground. The woman person\u2019s walk was\nlike a dance as she left him. In the door of her bright bunkhouse she\nturned and blew him a kiss. And was gone. Paul Bunyan waved his hand.\nThe gesture was not for the woman person; it was a farewell to his\nloggers.\n\nPaul Bunyan spoke no more; but he returned to his camp at once, taking\nthe blue ox with him over the mountains. He told his remaining men of\nthe women folk and let them go. Soon or late he would lose them, and\nhe let them go now, that they might not be held too long from their\ndesire....\n\nThe sinking sun flashed its last blaze of red over a camp that was\ndeserted of all save the great heroes and the mighty blue ox. The\nBig Swede had returned and he slept; Johnny Inkslinger figured; and\nBabe mooed dolorously as the shadows clouded the silent timber. And\nPaul Bunyan, the supreme inventor, the noble historian, the master\norator, the grand field marshal of industry, mused in sad resignation\non the vanity of man\u2019s enterprises. The logging industry, which he\nhad invented, would go on as long as trees grew from the earth, and\nhis name would be heard forever on the tongues of men. He would have\npower, but it would be only the power of a vast spirit breathing in the\ndark, deep woods. He would have the glory he had dreamed about in his\nbeginnings ... but glory was a poor consolation ... his life work was\ndone....\n\nThe shadows got dense ... the shapes of the heroes, and the shape of\nBabe, the blue ox, and the shapes of buildings, mountains and trees\nmerged in the darkness. And there history leaves them.\n\n[Illustration]\n\n\n\n\nTranscriber\u2019s Notes\n\n\nPunctuation and hyphenation were made consistent when a predominant\npreference was found in the original book; otherwise they were not\nchanged.\n\nSimple typographical and spelling errors were corrected; unbalanced\nquotation marks were remedied when the change was obvious, and\notherwise left unbalanced.\n\nIllustrations in this eBook have been positioned between paragraphs\nand outside quotations. In versions of this eBook that support\nhyperlinks, the page references in the List of Illustrations lead to\nthe corresponding illustrations.\n\nPage 83: \u201cwreck\u201d was printed that way.\n\nPage 186: \u201cPugent Sound\u201d was printed that way.\n\nPage 209: \u201cvigorously he in every action\u201d was printed that way.","title":"Paul Bunyan","tradition":"myth-cosmogony","translated_text":null,"word_count":63590}