Down the river came the sawlogs in the early spring when the water was
high, to be caught and held by a "boom" in a pond from which they were
hauled up a tramway to the saw. A quarter of a mile up stream a mill
race, tapping the river, led the water to an "overshot wheel" in the
early days, later to a turbine, thus creating the power necessary to
drive the mill machinery. When the saw was still the water overflowed
the "stop-logs" by the "spillway" into the pond below.

But that mill race furnished more than power to the mill. It furnished
besides much colourful romance to the life of the village youth of those
early days. For down the mill race they ran their racing craft, jostling
and screaming, urging with long poles their laggard flotillas to
victory. The pond by the mill was to the boys "swimming hole" and
fishing pool, where, during the long summer evenings and through the
sunny summer days, they spent amphibious hours in high and serene
content. But in springtime when the pond was black with floating logs
it became the scene of thrilling deeds of daring. For thither came the
lumber-jacks, fresh from "the shanties," in their dashing, multi-colored
garb, to "show off" before admiring friends and sweethearts their skill
in "log-running" and "log-rolling" contests which as the spirit of
venture grew would end like as not in the icy waters of the pond.

Here, too, on brilliant winter days the life of the village found its
centre of vivid interest and activity. For then the pond would be a
black and glittering surface whereon wheeled and curved the ringing,
gleaming blades of "fancy" skaters or whereon in sterner hours opposing
"shinny" teams sought glory in Homeric and often gory contest.

But those days and those scenes were now long since gone. The old mill
stood a picturesque ruin, the water wheel had given place to the
steam engine, the pond had shrunk to an insignificant pool where only
pollywogs and minnows passed unadventurous lives, the mill race had
dwindled to a trickling stream grown thick with watercress and yellow
lilies, and what had once been the centre of vigorous and romantic life
was now a back water eddy devoid alike of movement and of colour.

A single bit of life remained--the little log cottage, once the
Manager's house a quarter of a century ago, still stood away up among
the pines behind the old mill ruin and remote from the streets and homes
of the present town. At the end of a little grassy