Waterbury evening Democrat., 1893-09-25
THE BOOMHOUSE MAN.

| d winter or two ago in a little lumber hamlet of the hill region of Kentucky. | For a moment at least it was quite | thrilling-rather too thrilling indeed to be useful as material to me with my straight and simple art standards. have q groveling fondness for reproduc- | ing only the usual features of life, and this little episode, though it was pitiful- l ly commonplace in its setting, had about it something that was not only unusual, but nearly sublime.
 had gone down to the village in ques- ton with the ambitious design of seeing tide" in the river. Tides are peculiar to wintry months. They are useful to lumbermen and incidentally to writers, but they have their unpleasant features. My little hill hamlet. having doffed its | green livery, was cowled in dark mud Rain sheeted the air. The inn seemed to be saturated. and the roar of the river on the skirts of the town corroborated the innkeeper's assurance concerning the magnitude of the special tide" which | was in progress
 She's booming for all that's in her." declared the innkeeper, an elderly man. | who had enjoyed during the previous summer the happy privilege of being useful to me in many ways. They look for the boom to bust tonight Thou sands of dollars afioat You see that man by the stove? He's one of the big timber fellers from up north. Just come down. He'll lose heavy if she busts. Say, miss, take a look at that feller! You remember me telling you about the boomhouse mans daughter? We'll, that | fa1l l,a T.l beau.'
 1 remembered the story. On a certain day in the previous June I was standing at the head of a mill chute looking down at the sunken river. Suddenly dug out shot round the bend. The man in the rude thing seemed only half human. He was bent and shrunken, with clay colored skin, matted red hair and such a woebegone vacuity of face as startled one. The innkeeper had related that this poor creature lived alone in the boomhouse, a shed on the river cliff, and that his duty was to cook for the log gers in time of tides.
 | He's seen trouble" said the innkeep- CT. Used to own nice little farm up wonder and live well. He had an only daughter. Pretty as a peach, Idy was. Slim waisted, with kinky red hair and big eyes. He sat store by Idly. Moth ing was too good for her. And one sum- mer a son of one of the mill owners was down here settling up the mill books, and he took a fancy to Idy, and folks said it'd be q match. The boomhouse man was proud as a peafowl. And aft CT the young feller went north again, why, Idy's paw he narrated around that the wedding was to come off on Christ mas day and how't Idy was going up north to live in great style. But the young feller never came back. He never came back" repeated the innkeeper, with graphic sort of pause. And Idy well, I always said if she'd of had a mother things would have been differ ent. I always said she took the best way out of it. For bout the time tongues was beginning to wag Idly was missing one day, and they found her tangled up in the river drift wonder where the sand bar reaches across the shallows." And what did her father do!'
 Do? Oh, he acted like he'd got it be tween the eyes. Kind of daft. Ain't been just right ever since"
 , This tragic narrative. which the inn keeper related with the equanimity of an epic poet, recurred tn me vividly as | ODSeTNeu the man DN the stove.
 He was middle aged. The story lay lJ years behind him. but he had chin which made me believe the innkceper an honest chronicler.
 i He was stolid and well fed. Apparent ly life had laid no heavy penalty upon him.
 He seemed too vulgar and heavy a type of humanity to invite exceptional | Of fat vet I h hot . night in rather a notable situation.
 Just after dark the inkeeper and his , daughter and 1 set out across the cliff 3 path to see the river in active operation.
 We walked in the winds teeth, with a . splitting rain in our faces. It was cold and bleak. Then in an instant the river , flashed in sight. Its whole freshet swollen current famed with red from | countless fire baskets and lanterns. Long . shafts of vermilion stabbed the packed
 timber in the boom, struck acro$ the climbing banks and made fiery lances of
 the pike poles in the loggers's hands. 2 Men were leaping about on the logs ! In a flare of crimson 1 saw on the . wedged in float the man who had been < Ida's lover. He was working sturdily | as any logman about, handling the , heavy cables and shouting directions. e It was worth seeing. that mountain s | stream as it mouthed a: the straining e timber in the boom. It was worth seeing, l but the air was cold and wet, and in the second hour of our watching the inn 5 keepers daughter, being upheld by ' neither hospitality nor ambition, be sought me to accompany her to the
 hoomhouse for the purpose of getting
 ''th"red out"
 The boomhouse showed its little red
 window just below us on the rocks.
 The two tiny rooms of the place
 looked warm and bright as we opened
 the door.
 Half dozen men were drinking coffee from tin cups at table. The boom
 house man, apathetic as ever, with his
 resinous looking hair in his pale eyes
 was frying bacon in great skillet.
 The innkeeper joined the throng al
 the board. His daughter and sat by
 the stove in the inner room. shall never forget that room. Th' pattern of the homespun coverlet on thu
 boomhouse mans pallet is indehbly witl
 me.
 Soothed by the heat, the innkeeper'
 daughter dozed of. with her feet on tn
 hearth. I remember observing wit
 dreamy interest the yellowness of tn
 teeth exhibited in the graceful abando of her slumber. thought of snuff. aken after Dinner or Supper, DYSpEpsIA.