Life was coming back to revel and riot in the big woods, and the men passing through were not untouched by its tide.
While the main drive passed down the river rapidly, it was inevitable that the slower work of the sackers would leave many logs hung upon the banks by the failing waters. These would be more slowly worked to the river bed, in some cases with ox teams, and then, a good deal of water having been stored up above the dams to augment the later rains, a “sack drive” would bring the stragglers down to the big boom at Necedah.
By the time the Allen boys reached the half-mile stretch of straight river which marked one boundary of their home place, there was not much need of their services as polers longer, as the river banks were high, and there was little work save for the jam breakers at the head of the drive. So it was, that as the familiar buildings came into view, they bade farewell to their river companions and were welcomed at home.
CHAPTER XVI
THE GIFT OF THE FLOOD
The wages from Ed’s winter’s work at the logging camp, together with the sixty dollars each had earned on the drive in the spring, enabled the Allen boys to purchase a fine span of half-blood, two-years-old Norman colts, from “Old Man” LaDauger, a half-woodsman, half-farmer, whose capacious cabin was a stopping place for rivermen, and for teamsters going to and from the lumber camps. The colts, though huge fellows, were as gentle, if as playful, as kittens, and Ed soon had them well broken to such tasks as were suitable to their age and strength.
Several acres of the rich, level land had been cleared of willow bushes, and the larger bunches of their roots dug out. Now, with the sprightly yoke of young oxen hitched in front of the colts, the boys had a breaking team not to be despised.
It had been a busy summer for the lads, and the toil was severe, but they had a goal ahead, and to them hardship and weariness were but milestones on the road to its realization. By the time November snows were heralded by the “honk, honk” of wild geese, there had been a large field of well-plowed land ready for the mellowing frosts, and later planting of corn.
Uncle Henry Thompson pronounced the white oak leaves to be “as large as squirrel ears,” which marked corn planting time. Now the days were hardly long enough for the boys. From gray dawn to twilight of evening they “dropped and covered” (modern machinery was unknown to that time and country) until the last hill in the last row was planted with a shout.