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She paused before the desk and idly read the titles of the books; there were a logger's manual, a few text-books on surveying and timber estimating, several of the latest novels, apparently unread and a well-thumbed copy of Browning. "Browning! Of all things in a log camp! Now I know there is a girl poor thing!"
In two minutes more one end of it had been rolled on the little flat wooden sledge and, the other end dragging, it was winding majestically down through the ancient forest. The little Frenchman stood high on the forward end. Molly stepped ahead carefully, with the strange intelligence of the logger's horse.
But the tall, grey column of stone will still be there a monument to one man's fidelity to a generation yet unborn and will endure from everlasting to everlasting. Journeying toward the upper course of the Capilano River, about a mile citywards from the dam, you will pass a disused logger's shack.
They are the natural consequence of what art and refinement we as a people have, the common which each village possesses, its true paradise, in comparison with which all elaborately and wilfully wealth-constructed parks and gardens are paltry imitations. Or, I would rather say, such were our groves twenty years ago. The poet's, commonly, is not a logger's path, but a woodman's.
The chief spoke again, "It was here, on this spot we are sitting, that he built his lodge: here he dwelt those ten years alone, alone." I nodded silently. The legend was too beautiful to mar with comments, and as the twilight fell, we threaded our way through the underbrush, past the disused logger's camp and into the trail that leads citywards. The Lost Salmon Run
Upon them rested half a dozen donkey engines, thick-bellied, upright machines, blown down, dead on their skids. About these in great coils lay piled the gear of logging, miles of steel cable, blocks, the varied tools of the logger's trade. The Panther lay between the scows, with lines from each passed over her towing bitts. Stella could see the outline of the white bungalow on its grassy knoll.
But the tall, grey column of stone will still be there a monument to one man's fidelity to a generation yet unborn and will endure from everlasting to everlasting. The Recluse Journeying toward the upper course of the Capilano River, about a mile citywards from the dam, you will pass a disused logger's shack.
There were loud cheers when Stephen ran lightly across the slender pathway that led to safety ran so fast that the ladders had scarce time to bend beneath his weight. He had certainly "taken chances," but when did he not do that? The logger's life is one of "moving accidents by flood and field," and Stephen welcomed with wildqq exhilaration every hazard that came in his path.
In its upward beginnings the trail follows the course of an old logging chute for a distance of some two miles, the lake terminus of which is now buried in a nursery of white fir and masses of white lilac. There are a few cedars and pines left untouched by the logger's ax, but they are not prime lumber trees, or not one of them would now be standing.
These remind us, that, not only for strength, but for beauty, the poet must, from time to time, travel the logger's path and the Indian's trail, to drink at some new and more bracing fountain of the Muses, far in the recesses of the wilderness.
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