Mose rested on his ax and listened. It was a boy's voice, loud and clear, though it slurred over difficult notes, and filled in uncertain words with a whistle. And it startled the woods, rising above the thunder of the cataract, and rang a hundred echoes from cliff and spur.
"So rollin' my grub in my blanket, an' leavin' my
tools on ther ground,
I started one mornin' to shank it, fur a country
they call Puget Sound.
Fur a country they call Puget So-ou-ound—"
"Saprie, dat ees Lem Myers." Mose lifted his ax and lopped off a branch which trailed over the rustic table he had completed. All the space around him was filled with building material; straight logs cut into even lengths, rows of cedar shakes, piles of hewn flooring, posts and rafters, newly made by hand from the felled timber of the small clearing, and surrounded by a resinous litter of boughs and chips.
"'Arrivin' dead broke in mid-winter, I found it
enveloped in fog,
An' covered all over 'ith timber, thick as hair on
ther back of er dog.
Thick as hair on ther back of er do-o-g, thick as hair
on ther back of er dog,—'
Aw, git up ther, Ginger, git up, I tell you."
Lem rounded a fallen hemlock, tugging at the halter of the reluctant pony, who, heavily laden with hampers, tinware and sundries, sidled this way and that at the obstructions which culminated at the end of the new trail. He lunged back from the long table, and rolling his eyes, came to an immovable standstill.
Mose laid down his ax and walked over to the pony, "Saprie, it ees not'ing to tek dese t'ings 'cross." And he waved his hand with pardonable pride towards a small pavilion roofed in fir boughs.
"Guess we'll hev ter," answered Lem, surveying the scene with evident satisfaction. "This here no 'count cayuse knows he ain't erlowed in nobody's front room. No, sir, ther ain't no use tryin' ter make him budge." And he lifted his bare foot and gave the horse a resentful thrust, which was received with a slight flinching of the flanks, and increased exhibition of the whites of his eyes.
"Hams?" enquired Mose, inhaling a deep breath while he unbuckled the straps of a hamper.
"You bet," answered Lem. "Hams and chickuns. Ole Mother Girard cooked 'em."