University of Virginia Library

18. CHAPTER XVIII.
THE JUNE FRESHET.

So it was denominated, because it commonly happened
in that month; but it sometimes anticipated its period. In
this instance, it was announced about the middle of May.

This flood was both spring-time and harvest for log-drivers,
boom-gatherers, and lumber-men generally. The gates
of the Lake were opened, and vast deposits of logs that
had been accumulating on that inwooded realm of ice
during the winter were turned into the River. Gangs of
men were despatched to break up the jams that formed
on shoals and rips. Others scoured the banks of tributaries,
and launched whatever logs they could find into the
current.

A portion of these logs, unlike their predecessor, the ice,
were retained above the Dam; yet many thousands must
attempt that pass, and be hurried across the Harbor, and
through the Narrows.

Now little boats are seen darting out from the shore, sylvan
buccaneers, in chase of their prey; each manned by two
men — one to row, the other to strike the picaroon. Where
was Chuk? What should poor Chuk do, all alone? The
water was very smooth and still where he operated, and his
boom was sheltered in as quiet a little nook as the whole
stream afforded; indeed, it was generally conceded by those
whose habits would render them competent to form an opinion
in the premises, that Bill Stonners' privilege was one of
the best in the County.

The Boy made his picaroon fast to his boat with a rope,

and then put into the stream, with the double office of rowing
and striking. He cried when he did so, — cried like a
spoiled child. He had nobody to swear at, and nobody to
swear at him, — and he cried. There, under the shadow of
the rock that formed the shoulder of the Point, and of the
great trees that overhang it, and under the blue sky, and
over the clear sky-and-rock-and-tree-embosoming deep, he
wept while he worked; and there Mysie, whose broad,
gaunt form stood folded and calm on the high shore, saw
him weep as he paddled in and out, and never looked up;
striking and trailing all alone, without Bill, and with nothing
in the wide world to comfort him.

The logs swept over the Dam just as the ice had done,
and people came to the Saw-mills, and stood on the shores
to see the feat, just as they did before. The logs, with the
bark bruised off and the ends “broomed” up, by reason of the
roughness of their passage, — some of them discolored and
black, from long exposure in the shallows, — many of them
large, now and then one six feet in diameter, — were the
monsters of this deep. They slid tranquilly and gracefully
down the swift, limpid fall. But now their danger commenced.
They must seethe in the “boil,” and be absorbed
by the undertow. Descending to the bed of the stream,
they rebounded, and leaped into the air. Some, forty feet
long, and weighing four or five tons, were tossed like candles;
the water played with them on the ends of its fingers,
as a juggler manœuvres with a broom-stick. They thrashed
about as if they were the arms of a giant, who was strangling
underneath. They would be piled one upon another,
drawn under the fall, and then spurned into the hideous
regions below. Still afloat, — still struggling to escape.
One, that had got away, as it supposes, into clear water, is
deliberately drawn back; a second one tumbles upon it from

above; a third, rising from beneath, forces their groaning,
aching, battered bodies into fresh catastrophes. In this
commotion hundreds are engaged at the same moment. In
a light mood, you would imagine them whales or porpoises
at their gambols, or beach-bathers rolling in the surf.
They might seem to you instinct with a certain life, which
was to be acted out in that spot. A more terrific suggestion
is that of humanity arrested in its progress, and Faith, Hope
and Charity, writhing in the cataract of evil, — springing to
regain a serener surface, and yet at every instant overpowered
by a relentless destiny; or of a single heart, stricken
by calamity, panting, pleading to be free, yet doomed to an
irrevocable anguish.

But this did not propose to be a dramatic spectacle of admiration
or of terror; it had more serious matter in hand.
There was a weak spot in the Dam. So the Man of Mind
in the city said. He whispered it to newspaper editors; he
wrote information to the Dam Corporation about it; he
nudged it to the Sawyers and the Log-drivers; he nodded
it to himself, as he walked past the Dam. Some people believed
him. It got to the ears of the logs, and they would
see if it were so. In their submergence, like prisoners in a
dungeon, they found out the defect in the walls, and matured
a plan for breaking through. Certain of the stoutest
of them, rearing concertedly their enormous shafts, fell,
battering-ram fashion, on the structure that detained them.
One broke the cross-ties; another dislodged the ballast-stones;
several, diving out of sight, unearthed the foundations; and,
before any one but the Man of Mind saw it, the erection
gave way — the bulwark of the River fell. These resolute
logs did not enter the breach they made, but, having effected
their object, they sailed tauntingly away. In an hour the
entire pond was drained to the natural level of the stream.

One way, it seemed, to get out of difficulty; one way for
Hopes and Hearts to liberate themselves, — turn, full-butt,
on the evil that beleaguers them!

The Man of Mind stood immovable and frowning, and
pointed to the spot; and as they ran from all quarters to
see what had happened, he seemed to have the entire population
of the city on his finger's end, and they went just
where his finger directed, and believed just what his finger
indicated; and as he stood, immovable and frowning, everybody
was abashed by him, as a man of mind, and gave it
up that he was a man of mind.

But the Mill-owners and the Factory-companies cared
nothing for minds; they wanted water. Their canal was
emptied, and their wheels were silent in the pit. The
work-folk were dismissed. It would take three weeks or a
month to effect repairs.

But the people, whose employment failed so suddenly,
did not grumble, so far as we heard. The girls would have
a vacation, and visit their friends; Mr. Gouch and his family
would not starve, for he had a little laid by for a rainy or an
idle day. More than all, the indomitableness of “our people”
would be exhibited. The wounds of Young America
heal quick. A breach in a mill-dam, — fie! it is no more
than a bird-track through our incalculable sky. Then there
were repairs in the Mills that would occupy a number of
hands. Tunny felt bad, because such an event dispersed
his customers. But Chuk was as large a sufferer as any.
His boom was ruined; the sudden cessation of the water
carried it off, logs and all. He and Mysie held on to the
guys, and retarded the catastrophe, by main strength, as
long as they could; but when nought availed, and the fabric
of his heart and hope was being swept into the rapid current,
he flung his paddles into the boat, and sent that down

too. Mysie was only afraid he would follow suit himself,
and clenched his arm to prevent such a piece of folly.

Richard was at work in the Mill when these things took
place. There were ladies there, and Melicent and Barbara.
Richard, cant-dog in hand, would now and then go to the
door and look at the logs, and exchange a syllable with his
new acquaintance. But Captain Creamer, who, however
he might behave at the Grotto, was, reasonably, master on
his own premises, deemed Richard too young to have much
to do with the ladies, kept him engaged in fresh tasks, and,
as if he himself was of an age when such conversation
would be harmless, he monopolized it altogether.

When the accident was announced, it appeared that even
this sort of intimacy had not softened the Captain; he
stormed at his men. The saw was half through the middle
run, and it seemed as if he would make them urge it to the
foot by their own strength of arm.

Of course, Richard and all hands were afloat, as well as
Chuk's boom. The Captain said they would not expect
wages to go on when nothing was doing, and when he, perhaps,
might find himself a ruined man to-morrow. Of
course they would not. They put on their coats, and went
home.

Munk had employment for Richard at the stable; in fact,
his brother-in-law could be of real use to him. The steamboats
and rail-roads were running, and people were hastening
to overtake them, and these people must have horses;
so that Munk & St. John's business was good. Their
business depended on that of the world at large, and this
was good. The stable was neat as a penny, with its whitewashed
walls and well-swept floor. Each horse had his
name fairly inscribed above his stall; there were Fly, Black
Maria, Beau Savage, Belle Fanny, and many more. A

small office was attached to the establishment, where hung
the harnesses and whips, all in Primlico style. Here, also,
was a stove, and a bunk where the boy, Simon, slept. Into
this office a newspaper was dropped every morning. Mr. St.
John, the partner, was a nice man, and Simon was a clever
boy. Simon had an interesting peculiarity. It was the
snatch of a song he sung, that went thus: “O, the break
down, oh; O, the break down!” He sung this when he
groomed the horses, and when he swept the stable; when
the carriages came in, and when they went out; indeed, at
all times. What it meant, nobody could tell. It passed as
a mystery of human nature. Moreover, Winkle appeared
every other afternoon, with his four horses all a-reek with
perspiration, and his face a-reek with good-nature.

There was in the stable a rare animal, Belle Fanny:
so sleek a skin, so arched a neck, so bright and cheerful
a countenance, such fleetness of foot, and gentleness of
spirit, were not often the perquisites of a single horse; but
they were hers. How readily she started; how freely she
moved; how quick to stop; how easy to turn! — and with
her never shying or stumbling, she was a wonder. Then the
little wagon that belonged to her, — what an equipage
was that! Ho! Memmy and Bebby will ride to-day.
Queen Elizabeth, when she started on her Progresses, — the
green and blue Chariot-races of ancient Byzantium, — are
nothing compared with the excitement got up when these
young Imperialnesses went abroad.

We forbear to describe the ride. We can only say, the
weather was pleasant; the roads were good; the grass was
green; the birds were songful; and Uncle Richard never
was happier, nor the children either.

Sometimes Richard drove the hack to the wharves and

the depot; sometimes he went on family and social excursions
with the omnibus.

Munk had a garden, which Richard spaded and sowed.
Munk's lot extended from the street to the River, and comprised
a quarter of an acre. This Richard resolved to ornament
and improve. He applied to the woods in the
neighborhood, where were all varieties of evergreen and
perdifoil. He knew how to dig deeply round the trees, to
sever the roots carefully, and prune the tops judiciously. He
was thoughtful enough, also, to choose a humid day for
this operation. He studied grouping and curves in the
arrangement of the trees. He supplied their roots with
well-rotted manure. Against the kitchen window, where
was the sink, and Roxy did her work, and the summer sun
burned like an oven, he planted a good-sized maple. He
ploughed and graded the rear portion of the lot, and laid
it down to grass. He induced his brother to purchase a
quantity of fruit-trees, for which he discovered an abundance
of suitable locations. On the River-side of the estate was a
gully tufted with willows and alders, and vocal with birds,
where also flourished a willow of remarkable size. Hence
he called the place Willow Croft.

Was Richard in advance of his age and rank in this?
He may have been: but he was not in advance of the newspapers,
nor of Pastor Harold, to say nothing of his own
taste.

Then, as if he had purposely designed that we should
write his history, how much prettier it is to say Willow
Croft, than Munk's, or his Brother-in-law's. I think there
is no person of refinement who will not rejoice in the new
terminology.

He had assistance; — Mysie and Chuk volunteered their
services. There was not, probably a clean-bodied, fair-topped

staddle within six miles, that Mysie had not taken
particular note of. Then she recollected a thorn that she had
seen in its full snow-bloom, and when it dripped with red
apples; and she thought there was nothing so handsome in
the whole world, and Richard must have it. Chuk dug,
and pulled, and lifted, with amazing good-will.

But the Boy would take no pay. He seemed to recognize
no other currency than that of the River; he made all
his drafts with the picaroon; the use of the spade was real
bankruptcy to him; and Richard had behaved so wickedly
at the Point, Chuk deemed his tender of money a sacrilege
on the memory of Bill and the boom; and even his thanks
he rejected as a device of the adversary.

But Chuk got his pay, and Richard took his receipt, in
the children, who applauded what was done, and condescended
to disport amid the trees; Bebby indicated her
royal interest in the scene by upsetting one of the shrubs.

Chuk, as if he had inhaled magic gas, began to frolic
with the children; he acted as if he were a mere child, and
had never been anything else. He keeled over on the grass,
peeked through the trees, cock-a-whooped to Uncle Richard,
strutted behind Bebby. “This,” said he, “is it; it was just
so, then — there was toddling and skirling; it huv stones, it
rolled in the dirt. But where is the woman with the blue
tire and the lasses cake?” He repeated this question, and
turned towards the door of the house a wild, haggard stare.
He presented a comical, not to say pitiable picture; —
bare-headed, with long, tangled black hair, in the native luxuriance
of which neither comb nor shears had interfered
for many a month, and a voluminous pepper-and-salt shirt,
that flared wide in the neck.

Roxy appeared in the door with a dry lunch in either
hand for the children. “That is the woman with the blue

tire and the lasses cake!” shouted Chuk, and ran forward
with the children, flapping his arms like a new-fledged
chicken, to receive what the good dame would bestow.

Richard noticed, during this metamorphosis of the Boy,
that he dropped his customary oaths, and that his tone was
milder, and his language less rough and churlish, than at
other times.