n, I
suppose, by every writer who has occupied his pen at all with the life
of the lumber-camps. But to the daring backwoodsman there seldom falls a
task more hazardous than that of cutting loose a brow of logs when the
logs have been piled in the form of what is called a "rough-and-tumble
landing." Such a landing is constructed by driving long timbers into the
mud at the water's edge, below a steep piece of bank. Along the inner
side of these are laid horizontally a certain number of logs, to form a
water front; and into the space behind are tumbled helter-skelter from
the tops of the bank the logs of the winter's chopping. It is a very
simple and expeditious way of storing the logs. But when the ice has run
out, and it is time to start the lumber down-stream, then comes trouble.
The piles sustaining the whole vast weight of the brow have to be cut
away, and the problem that confronts the chopper is how to escape the
terrific rush of the falling logs.

Hughey McElvey, the boss of the Aspohegan camp, swinging an axe (rather
as a badge of office than because he thought he might want to chop
anything), sauntered down to the water's edge and took a final official
glance at the brow of logs. Its foundations had been laid while McElvey
was down with a touch of fever, and he was ill satisfied with them. For
perhaps the fiftieth time, he shook his head and grumbled, "It's goin'
to be a resky job gittin' them logs clear." Then he rejoined the little
cluster of men on top of the bank.

As he did so, a tall girl with splendid red hair came out of the camp
and stepped up to his side. This was Laurette, the boss's only daughter,
who had that morning driven over from the settlements in the back
country, to bring him some comforts of mended woollens and to bid "the
drive" God-speed. From McElvey the girl inherited her vivid hair and her
superb proportions; and from her mother, who had been one Laurette
Beaulieu, of Grande Anse, she got her mirthful black eyes and her
smooth, dusky complexion, which formed so striking a contrast to her
radiant tresses. A little conscious of all the eyes that centred upon
her with varying degrees of admiration, love, desire, or self-abasing
devotion, she felt the soft color deepen in her cheeks as she playfully
took possession of McElvey's axe.

"_You're_ not goin' to do it, father, I reckon!" she exclaimed.

"No, sis," answered the boss, smiling down at her, "leastways, not
unless the hands is all