Clinton now turned his attention to the camps. These were built of logs, but in a style much inferior to Uncle Tim’s house, in the clearing. As they are but temporary affairs, the loggers only aim at making them habitable for one or two winters. There were three of these buildings, one of which was used by the oxen. They were each about twenty feet long by fifteen wide and were built of logs placed one on the top of another, and the whole sides and roof covered with bark. Each camp had one door, but no windows. A hole in the middle of the roof, three or four feet square, served both for a chimney and a window.
Clinton now returned to the camp, where his father and Mr. Jones were sitting, and began to inspect the interior. He found there were no partitions,—for the loggers have no occasion for more than one room. The principal feature of the interior was the fire-place. This was directly under the hole in the roof, and was about six feet in diameter. The ground had been dug out nearly two feet deep, to make a bed for the fire and ashes, and the space was surrounded by stones. Benches, made of split logs, were arranged around the fire, which served both as seats and tables. He noticed that the door had a wooden latch, which was very ingeniously whittled to resemble an iron one. The only other articles in the room were a pork barrel, water bucket, basin, dipper, towel, a few cooking and eating utensils, and a dozen greasy and well-worn books and newspapers. The floor was thickly strewn with leaves of arbor vitæ, especially under the eaves, which came down to within three feet of the ground. These formed the loggers’ beds.
Such was the rude house in which Clinton was to spend two or three nights. He afterwards found that it differed from the cattle hut only in having a fire-place, and an outlet through the roof. But that fire-place, with the “rousing fire” which it afforded at all hours of the day and night, made the hovel comparatively cheerful and comfortable. So far from feeling disappointed with his quarters, Clinton longed for bed-time to come, that he might enjoy the new sensation of sleeping in such a romantic place.
At sunset, the men began to return from their work. They all wore coarse but warm and durable clothing, and one article seemed universal among them, namely, red flannel shirts. Their beards and hair had not been trimmed since they left home. As they arrived at their quarters, they flocked around Mr. Davenport and Clinton, as if a strange face was a very unusual sight among them, as, indeed, it was. When they had all returned from their work, Clinton counted twenty men and six yoke of oxen.
Having washed their faces and hands, the men now commenced preparations for supper, in both camps. It was fast growing dark, but they had no lamps, the blazing fire lighting up their houses very brilliantly. Kettles of water were boiled, and tea was made. Presently, one of the men began to poke round in the ashes and coals, and soon drew forth a large baking-kettle, which had been buried there two hours before. On taking off the cover, a huge loaf of bread presented itself, which even an accomplished housewife might have been proud to own, so far as appearance was concerned. This, with a few slices of boiled salt pork, and tea sweetened with molasses and without milk, constituted their supper. They had no butter, but spread molasses on their bread, instead. Clinton ate heartily of the homely fare. The bread proved quite as nice as it looked, and even the tea tasted pleasantly to him. Mr. Davenport emptied what remained of the contents of the baskets which his wife had stowed away in the sleigh-box, saying that he would exchange his cakes and pies for a little of their bread, when he started for home. He and Clinton had consumed but a small part of their provisions, and this disposal of the surplus appeared to gratify the loggers very much, as they had not tasted of any luxuries of this kind for many a day.
After supper, the men gathered around the fire, on the benches, and talked, and told stories, until nearly ten o’clock, when one after another began to creep away to his bed of leaves, and stretch himself out, with his feet towards the fire. Clinton and his father soon followed their example, and extended themselves upon the soft leaves, without removing their clothing. The novelty of their position, the crackling and glare of the fire, and the breathing and snoring of a dozen strong men, did not permit either of them to sleep much during the first part of the night. Clinton lay for more than two hours, at times watching the stars through the opening in the roof, and then gazing steadfastly at the flickering fire and the curling smoke spangled with sparks. But at last he fell asleep, though he awoke again, several times, before morning. Occasionally, one of the men, who happened to awake, would get up and put a fresh log upon the fire, which is kept burning by night as well as by day.
By sunrise, the next morning, the men in both camps had despatched their breakfasts, and turned out the oxen, and were ready to commence the day’s work. Mr. Davenport and Clinton determined to accompany them to the scene of their operations, which was a short distance from the camp, and spread over a considerable extent of ground. The men did not all work together, but after proceeding a little way, they separated into three different gangs. The choppers, or those who cut down the trees, formed one party, and proceeded by themselves to their particular spot. Another gang were called swampers. It was their business to clear roads from the felled trees to the landing place on the banks of the river, where the logs remain until the breaking up of the ice in the spring, when they are rolled into the water. The third party were teamsters, whose business it was to haul the logs from the forest to the stream. These last had the assistance of the oxen, which were attached to little “bobsleds,” as they were called, upon which the heavy end of the log was placed, while the other dragged upon the snow.
Clinton had abundant time to witness the operations of all these gangs, during the day. He found there was not much of either novelty or variety, in their labors, which in fact differed but little from the routine of the wood-chopper, which he had often witnessed at home. The sturdy strokes of the choppers, followed by the falling of the noble tree,—the stripping of the prostrate trunk of its branches,—the clearing of a passage way for the oxen through the small growth, and the hauling of the log to the river’s bank, were by no means novel sights to him. At the landing-place he found hundreds of logs piled up, awaiting the opening of the river. Each log had a peculiar and uniform mark cut in the sap-wood, by an axe, somewhat resembling a crow’s foot, by which the owner would be enabled to know it when it should reach the great boom far away down the river, and become mixed up with thousands of other logs, belonging to many different persons. Each owner has his own private mark or device, which is bored or cut into all his logs, and thus he is always able to distinguish them from those of other lumber-men.
Clinton kept with the loggers all day, witnessing their operations, and asking questions about their business. Indeed, he did not dare to go far from them, for fear of getting lost in the woods. At sunset, he returned with them from their labors, and after the homely evening meal, he sat and listened to the stories of the loggers, until bed-time. These stories were mostly of encounters with bears and wolves in the wilderness, of hunting excursions, and of adventures and exploits in the logging-camp and upon the river. One of the oldest and most intelligent of the men related the following adventure, in answering some inquiries of Clinton concerning the manner of driving logs to mill:—