The Morris County chronicle. [volume] (Morristown, N.J.) 1877-1915, 1909-01-05

now close together, now spread out,
but surely coming, and with but the
desire to kill.
Pausing only for a moment the
deer leaves the open, and dashes up
the logging road into the dark and
! silent forest. After a short run he
comes to a fork in the road; here he
hesitates; il he turns to the right it
is toward the logging camp, so north
he goes. Just around sharp bend he
comes to the end of the road. No use
to stop, and worse than useless to-
turn back now, SO bounding into the
thick brush and deep snow he makes
all possible speed poor speed at
best Suddenly his enemies appear
on all sides. He can see their shad-
owy forms and bright eyes, and hear
their whimpering and whining and
the clacking of their ivory-set jaws.
They have taken the straight course
while he followed the road. In very
few minutes it is all over except the
feast
j You no longer hear the wildering
chorus of the wolf-pack, so sleep
comes to you at last And in the
course Of few hours you awake with
a start, wondering if you have really
been asleep. The unIoveIy music of
five-foot tin horn, blown by an early
rising cookie, is not the most pleas
ant awakening tired man can inn
agine. The men tumble owt of their
hunks with scarcely a word. Dress
ing is but short task, for the lum-
berjack removes but few articles of
clothing upon retiring. AS soon as
dressed they dip tin wash basin full
of warm water from a large can on
the stove, place it in the long wooden
sink, and their toilet is soon COM
/ pleted. About o'clock, or half an
hour after the first @horn," Games
| another--the call to breakfast. The
first man to the door throws it wide
! open, and they pour out into the crisp
morning air, to be greeted by the
light Of many lamps, streaming
through cloud of steam from the
open door Of the cook camp Sus-
pended from the roof are lamps with
large tin refiectors, shedding an
abundance of light on long tables
| covered with oil-cloth, and set with
tin dishes, tin spoons and iron knives
and forks
Sitting in places assigned them by
a cookie upon their first entrance to
camp, they Immediately proceed to
devour coffee, fiapjacks, beefsteak,
/ fried potatoes and pastry in silence,
| except for the iclatter of the dishes.
This morning, as every other morn
| ing, you read the two signs: @No
Talking at Meals" and "Oleomar-
garine Used Here" and whimsically
you imagine another fitting notice
which might also be pertinent, post
ed on this backwoods bulletin board:
God Help Those Who Don't Help
Themselves. And this you proceed
to do.
In about fifteen minutes most of
the men are back in the bunk shanty.
Caps are drawn down over ears, nit
/ tens pulled on, and out they go, UNI
der the bright stars, their breath Civ
ing forth little puffs of white steam
and their boots sQueaking on the
frosty snow. Many are axmen and
carry their bright two-bladed tools,
sharpened the evening before on large
grindstones in the bunk shanty. There
is no conversation, for the lumberjack
does but little talking in the morning.
When the sun peeps over the tree
tops at the camp, almost deserted,
the men are far away in the timber,
hard at work
Going north from the camp, about
two miles along the main logging
road you turn into short branch
road on your left, and with four or
five men begin cutting brush and
trees to extend the road farther into
the tall pines. The men begin where
they quit the night before, and you
go ahead, wading through the deep
snow to see which way the road is to
go. You notice the fresh track of a
deer; that is not unusual, for when
the snow is deep they often travel on
the roads. A few rods in you come to
place where the crust is broken
and the snow trampled as though
some animal had been digging; you
kick about and up comes a bone,
stripped of every particle of flesh.
| Wolves, you say to yourself; there
are his tracks. You follow two or
three rods through the thick brush,
and suddenly you come upon sight
not often seen even in this north
country.
The snow is tramped down hard
and smeared with blood and<hair, all
that is left to tell of the tragedy en-
acted here but few hours ago. Sin
gle trails lead off in every direction:
you follow some of them. They are
all short, and at the end of each you
kick out the bone buried there. Not
a bone was left where the killing was
made. Such is the custom of the
great gray timber wolf He buries
the bones for the same reason that
the dog does. cannot tell why. Can
you? There is nothing left on them
to eat, and anyway. he never returns
to dig them out.
So this is where the music stopped
last night, as you lay safe and snug
In your bunk, wondering, vainly
straining your ears to catch still an
other faint whisper of it from far
away across the forest, in the hope of
detecting a note of disappointment.
Cod9 TnAnoA H..