The Roanoke times. [volume] (Roanoke, Va.) 1890-1895, 1893-10-03
THE BOOl[HOUSE MAN.

winter or two ago i'll Il little lumber
hamlet of the hill region of Kentucky.
For n 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 groveling fondness for reproduce
ing only the usual features of life, and
this little episode, though it was pitiful-
ly commonplace in its setting, had about
1t something that was not only unusual,
but nearly sublime
l had gone down to the village in cues
ton with the ambitious design of seeing
a "tide" in the river. Tides are peculiar
to wintry months. They are useful to
lumbermen and incidentally to writer's,
but they have their unpleasant features.
My little hill hamlet, having dotted 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 afloat. 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 Mt that feller
You remember me telling you about the
boomhouse mans daughter? Well, that
feller-he was the mamie was Idy's
beau"
remembered the story. On certain
day in the previous June 1 was standing
at the head of 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 a clay
colored skin, matted red hair and such
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.
Hes seen trouble" said the innkeep-
er. FUSED to own nice little farm ND
yonder and live well. He had an only
daughter. Pretty as peach, Idly was.
Slim wasted, with kinky red hair and
big eyes. He sat store by Idly. Moth
ing was too good for her. And one sum-
mer son of one of the mill owners was
down here settling up the mill books,
and he took fancy to Idly, and folks
said it'd be a match. The boomhouse
man was proud as peafowl. And aft
er the young Teller went north again,
why, Idy's paw he narrated around that
the wedding was to come off on Christ
mas day and how't Idly was going up
north to live in great style. But the
young Teller never came back. He never
came back" repeated the innkeeper,
with a graphic sort of pause. "And Idly
well, l always said if she'd of had
mother things would have been differ
ent. l 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 yonder where the sand
bar reaches across the shadows"
''And what did her father do:'
"Do? Oh, he aosad like he'd got it be-
tween the eyes. Kind of daft. Amt
been just right ever since"
This tragic narrative, which the inn
keeper related with the equanimity of
an epic poet, required to Inc wildly as l
observed the man by the stove.
He was middle aged. The story lay 10
years behind him, but he had chin
which made me believe the innkeeper an
honest chronicler.
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
treatment Of fate, yet 1 saw him that
night in rather notable situation.
Just after dark the inkeeper and his
daughter and l set out across the cliff
path to see the river in active operation.
We walked in the winds teeth, with q
splitting rain i'll our faces. 1t 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 hacked
timber in the boom, struck across the
climbing banks and made fiery lances of
the pike poles in the loggers's hands.
Men were leaping about on the logs.
In flare of crimson 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.
1t was worth seeing, that mountain
stream as it mouthed at the strainine
timber in the boom. twas worth seeing.
but the air was cold and wet, and in the
second hour of our watching the inn.