_Time: The evening of a day early in November in the present time._
Suppose a man could walk Over the mountains with a great big sack And pick two silver dollars from each stump. It's forty miles to where the trees begin, And on each side the river eight or ten. Think what he'd have.
I suppose he would. But where would this land be? There'd be no homes. And what are forests for but to cut down?
You wouldn't hear him say, 'Now, Harvey, you Go in and get your sack full; I'll stay out'; Or 'Now it's your turn, Cap.' Not on your life. He'd walk his legs off, but he'd have them all. Or what's more likely, he'd let others walk, And send his wagons out and get the sacks And have them brought in to him.
For myself I'd rather be out here though on the mountains Than live in his big mansion.
So would I. But that don't mean I'd rather tramp the flats Picking up dollars for some other man. And I suppose the mill-boys feel the same.
A fellow has to do the best he can. If he can stake himself, then off, I say, And pan for his own self. That's been my way. Sometimes I've struck pay dirt and sometimes not. And then I'd go and dig for a month or two For the other boys until I'd got my stake----
Here is another like the one back there; Goes half way round as clean as anything; And the bark seems the same; but on this side----
(_Who has left his cast and is hurrying forward excitedly_)
No, it don't fit, Cap. The same old finger width it's always been. When the curve matches, then there's some damn knot; And when the knot's not there, it's something else. No, you can't stretch it. Now it's this side; see? 'Twas best the way I had it. There you are. Might as well mark her.
It's a close miss, sure. It's like the one I found upon the ridge Week before last.
The place where it don't match Is always on the side that you don't see Until your heart's jumped up.
Ah! I keep forgetting that. When a man's heard her blow for years and years He can't be always thinking that she's stopped. I wonder how the strike is getting on.
As everything gets on that's Egerton's. He'll cut them down as he's cut down the trees.
(_Sits upon a stump and looks off up the valley, then turns and watches the old man busy with his cast_)