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Poo, poo! just enough to swear by a flea bite never mind it; so here goes" and he read aloud what is detailed in the "Launching of the Log," making his remarks with so much naivete, that I daresay the reader will be glad to hear a few of them.
As the young boys lay in the log they could hear the whistle of the Indians and the barking of dogs upon their track. It was a trying moment; and even the stout heart of the elder boy sank within him as the dogs came up to the log and set up a loud bark of discovery. But his presence of mind saved him.
Then he picked up dead and fallen wood, and broke it into the right length over the log. You can see where he broke places in the bark at the same time. Then he heaped them all in the little hollow, where he has left the pile of ashes. But, before he lighted a fire, with his flint and steel, he made a wide circle all about to see if any enemy might be near.
She buried one ear deep in the pillow and covered the other with her hair and her hand. The parrot's voice receded to a distance, but a still smaller voice began to call to her. She was squirming deeper for a long snooze when her foot struck another. Her husband! King Log, audibly a-slumber.
This he had begun to fell with considerable skill, but for some strange reason, perhaps because alone, he had made a miscalculation, and when the tree came crashing down, it had fallen across his back, killed him, and pinned him to the ground. It was an easy matter for the hunters to remove the log and secure his pelt, so they left the beaver pond, richer than they had expected.
He did not answer. He was not going to sit there to be dragooned and insulted! His helplessness had never so weighed on him before. It was like a revelation. A log that had to put up with anything! A log! And, waiting for his valet to return, he cunningly took up his fork. In that saintly voice of hers she said: "I suppose you don't realise that it's a shock to me.
In that log hut, hidden in the deep gorge, in the wild Cold Water country, Sibyl Andrés sat before the dying fire, waiting for the dawn. On a high, wind-swept ledge in the Galena mountains, Aaron King grimly walked his weary beat. In Clear Creek Canyon, Myra Willard and Conrad Lagrange waited, and Brian Oakley planned for the morrow.
Like a flash Duane saw the luck of this report. He pretended not to have heard. In the early twilight at an opportune moment he called Fletcher to him, and, linking his arm within the outlaw's, he drew him off in a stroll to a log bridge spanning a little gully. Here after gazing around, he took out a roll of bills, spread it out, split it equally, and without a word handed one half to Fletcher.
Some again were on shore gnawing away at young trees with their sharp teeth, and two fell directly over the stream while we were watching them. Instantly the whole community hurried forward to assist in cutting off the branches and reducing the log to a more manageable size. Unwilling to disturb them, we remained perfectly silent.
Lawrence, and had worn down the precipitous bank of earth. It was a wild picture. The gable of the cot was stained Indian red down to the eaves, and a stone chimney was embedded irregularly in its log side.
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