The Girl From Tim's Place

by Charles Clark Munn

Not for worlds would he hint this to Angie or Martin. Full well he knew how soon this “weavin’ o’ the threads o’ affection,” would be frowned upon by them; but he loved children as few men do.

This summer-day budding of romance would end in a few weeks, these two were happy now–let them remain so, and perhaps in Chip’s case it might prove the one best incentive to her own improvement.

And now as he watched them day by day, came another feeling. Homeless all his life so far, and for many years a wanderer, these two had awakened the home-building impulse in his. He could not have a home himself, he could only help them to one in the future, and to that end and purpose he now bent his thought.

The weeks there with Ray had opened Old Cy’s heart to him. Even sooner, and with greater force, had Chip’s helpless condition made the same appeal, and as he watched her wistful eyes and willing ways, in spite of her speech and in spite of her origin, he saw in her the making of a good wife and mother. Her heritage, as he now guessed, was of the worst, her education was yet to be obtained; but for all that, a girl–no, a child–of sixteen who would dare sixty miles of wilderness alone to save herself from a shameful fate, was of the metal and fibre to win, and more than that, deserved the best that life afforded.

How he could at present aid her, he saw not. A few years of help and time to study must be given her, and as Old Cy realized how much must be done for her and how uncertain it was whether Angie would find time, or be willing to do it, then and there he determined to share that duty with her.

It was midsummer when Martin and his party returned to the lake with Chip. In two weeks the new log cabin–a large one, divided into three compartments–was erected and ready for occupation, and so convenient and picturesque a wildwood dwelling was it that a brief description may be tolerated.

All log cabins are much alike–a square enclosure of unhewn logs thatched with saplings and chinked with mud and moss. A low door of boards or split poles is the usual entrance, with one small window for light; its floor may be of small split logs or mother earth, and at best it is a cramped, cheerless hovel.

But Martin’s was a more pretentious creation. Its location, well out on the birch-clad point, back of which stood the hermit’s hut, commanded a view of the lake. A group of tall-stemmed spruce, amid which it stood, gave shade, yet allowed observation. It was of oblong shape, with a wide piazza of white birch poles and roof of same; two four-pane windows to each room gave ample light; a small Franklin stove had been brought for the sitting room, and a cook stove occupied the “lean-to” cook room back of the main cabin. Beds, chairs, and benches were fashioned from the plentiful white birch stems, and floor and doors were of planed boards.

It was but a crude structure, compared to even the humblest of civilized dwellings; and yet with all its fittings conveyed into this wilderness in one bateau, and with only axes, a saw, and hammer for tools, as was the case, it was a marvel.

Working as all the men had done from dawn until dark to complete this cabin, no recreation had been taken by any one except Ray and Chip; and now Martin, a keen sportsman, felt that his turn had come. The trout were rising night and morn all over the lake, partridges so tame that they would scarce fly were as plenty as sparrows, a half-dozen deer could be seen any time along the lake shore–in fact, one had already furnished them venison–and so Martin now anticipated some relaxation and sport.