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Show WASTEWOOD By . (p2rr. H E lusty voice of Fpy "3 tf-SS "Frenchy" Lujounna, Jrb d t Cr Jolllest note that ever Lf I CJ the great North woods had ht;ard, Jf seemed to be IouIhk mm - t,mbr. ae the long, biting, smiting winter began to wane. Time had been, and not long gone, when all day ho had sung as ho swung his terrible ax. And when Frenchy had warbled, tho thousand echoes had rocked the forests. Now ho sang seldom; and when he did tho singor seemed less than the joound giant of before. Had he heen anyone but tfio famously cheerful Frenchy one might even have traced a strain of sadness In his song. Over a circle of a hundred miles everybody knew Frenchy. Ho was a champion. Ho could outwrestle an ox, he could outeat a bear, he could outpull a team. He could and he did go singing sing-ing as ho clambered over tangled trunks to tho knotty gnarl of a complicated logjam, log-jam, and jab and wrench and got from under as the huge timbers opened and hurrlcaned down the cataract. Nothing made him hesitato, nothing made him take water. No cold, no depth of snow, no strotch of hardship and no stress ofttoll taxed him. And laugh! He always could. If he chopped, his arm he shook with merriment at the surgeon's solicitude. If the bacon was burned he roared at the grumblings of the other woodsmen. If the pay was late he howled because Ole Claussen couldn't get drunk till next day. If the Ice softened he screamed with amusement because the boys had to trudge ten slushy miles overland to camp. Ilia own mishaps hadn't happened. hap-pened. Ills own hardships woren't hard. He was hnppy whatever was what. Frenchy was looked to for the elephant's ele-phant's share of the work, and he delivered. de-livered. Frenchy was looked to for entertainment en-tertainment and cheer, and he came across. Frenchy was looked to for the pace, the encouragement, the beacon, the pitchnote and he produced. But now, with spring coming to kill the year, with the bulk of the chopping done and the exhilarating rafting and sluicing near, the boys talked it over in whispers: something was eating Frenchy. His ax still clove as deeply and still as willingly he shouldered the work of many men. Hut his chin had dropped and his voice had drooped. At nights he sat for hours by the fire, packing his pipe, poking Us smolder, thinking. Thinking makes one conspicuous in a woodcutters' camp. And sigtting projects pro-jects one In strong relief. And there were those who said they had caught Frenchy sighing. So they had. The great emotion had befallen him. And its great sorrow had bowed him. Ha had looked down into the eyes of a girl. And the eyes of her as they had looked up Into his were glinted with a fcneer. Many was the lass In that region who would have dipped her colors at the salute sa-lute of Frenchy, the dreadnaught. He wore his mackinaw and his shin-boots and his chinchilla cap jauntily. He wore his glorious shoulders and his limber limbs rakishly. Ho wore the mirth of his heart fascinatingly upon the features fea-tures of a man, lighted by the smile of willing Hps and the glow of friendly eyes. And he was famous famous for all those intoxicating virtues of the strong. He was a men's man and a women's boy. Tho backwoods have their roues and their coxcombs and their gentlemen no less than the too civilized avenues of sham and show. Frenchy had no scandal scan-dal at his threshold. He had been to the girls what he had been to their brothers, a big playmate, a singing workmate, always al-ways how do you do, God "bless you and good night. So all tho women loved him. All but one. And that one was the only one that counted. FRENCHY had never seen her before she had come back that winter from high school at the county seat. She was 17. Her name was Clara Jackson. Her father fa-ther was a farmer in struggling circumstances. circum-stances. Her education was finished. The Jaeksons were a hard lot, mostly the men. Clara's father had been a bootlegger and remained a drunkard. Clara's mother had good stock back of her. She was the daughter of a fool who had once owned many acres but had traded it to the corporation that now owned the spreading woods traded it for a ten-year jag that killed him. Clara took after her mother. She had a longing long-ing for gentle things, a craving for ease, an ambition toward position. For this t-he was to feed the pigs, haul the slops, wash the dishes, bring home the cows and, some day not far away, marry a sweaty logger, cook sow-belly and smelly i-abhace for him and raise him putty-faced putty-faced children at his bovine will. Clara's mother, reared in plenty, was strong and courageous. She had regret ted her ' marriage to the yuZ- ! ::'!:. '.'L"l ::!;!;;r;i;X;Tjr:;T!:;':;!:!::,::!:'li;i:1? .:h;';!;' c:ri i L.iJ1 ; : 5 I; .iiLl : '.1 wild Jackson from almost Ky--' t t T7 i .1 . , ra t, v Ah TL rich young city man, the pretty the first nour. But she WY -1 . . h played out her string, she filSk ?A I country girl, the giant lumberman, and was serving her life sen- $W&$ &k r& I Love out of these Jack Lait weaves an tc-nce und standing by the J- II 1 h rules. But Clara was re- ifeK jM$h, 3 UnUSUally powerful Story. - a belllous. In her heart she B EKTO Ilill loathed her father, detest- ItfTNN ' , . , . . . VYA Wv simp and try to civilize that pretty veg- a her home, challenged j& V ' . ' . . , , l& etable. M hat would hie mother shriek? her future to make her VJLOviY WW V , . , O -""afW V M i. What would society snicker? .When take It. &Ysr U v M3" w&r "would she wake up and he tumble? Woodsmen will tell you . TR ' Chandler's fishing ceased. Everyday that second growth timber tyff TO W may be pretty, but it luSfctlk 1 )J hasn't the quality. Thou- wVfSI il Jfe X Sie had a craving for sands of acres of it stand , vsllTO v v VAf ease, an ambition toward JMvC position. For this she rWm V had to eed lthe pis' 1 fltfijvA L7A wash dishes and bring and you or anyone can have it f J Ji WlHlnffW - for the cutting and carting. Vf III Mj V ' They call it pencil-lumber to be J ! 14 N J MJ (fflu slangy and wastewood to be ac- j jVjfll ' - curate- n, il'f b,..rt4 -p""1" " Clara Jackson, second growth 1 of the pith of the pine country, . was mighty pretty. We who read novels and live in cities will easily believe she was, for we nurse a myth that country girls are beautiful. The novelists have taken us in. They have stood on plausible premises and deceived us. It Is logical that girls raised on fresh air, plain food, regular habits, early rising and early crawling to a garret rest should be plump and roBy and naive and beatific. It is logical, but it Isn't so. The sun of a strange truth reveals that they grow clumsy, beefy, dull of eye, stooped of physique, narrow-browed and pudgy-faced. Thoir manners are pitiful. Their gestures are grotesque. They gallop or they drag; they never glide. They giggle and they grin. They haven't the punctuating freckles of poetry, but wear the brown blotches of reality. They haven't seen anything, read anything or heard much. But Clara Jackson was pretty. Hers was but the second' generation of the blight of farm life. Her mother's mother had been a city beauty. Clara was small and blonde and elastic. She was as pretty pret-ty as a shopgirl. AND Frenchy had felt a rumbling In his bosom and an effervescence in his head when first he stopped his fleeting, fleet-ing, impersonal eye upon this gazelle among the cattle. He asked her to marry him next time he found her. She flushed, she fumed, she gulped and she snapped at him: "Marry you? Why, you overgrown, ignorant, Impudent chip-chopper! You take my message back to all those swine in the timbers Clara Jackson isn't marrying mar-rying any lumberjacks, or any yokels either. Get that straight, because It goes." And that was where Frenchy's song lost Its quality, and that massive, hairy chest learned to sigh. Spring came and Frenchy went. There were as many conjoined lakes in that section as there are links on a plumber's watch chain. The fishing season was nearing and Frenchy was a favorite guide. This time he chose the most distant dis-tant of the lakes. He had made his offer of-fer and taken his "No." There was to be no whimpering or hanging around. The warm weather brought something for Clara, too. Not far from where she lived there was a summer hotel. Dining-room girls were needed. Clara was sent for. Serving Serv-ing table for fussy city lubbers was far from her notion of grandeur. But it was better than staying at home with the pigs and her father. And It was worth $4 a week. And she would see people people who had their hair cut and who walked on carpets. She went. In an ingenuous middy blouse the fragile Clara drew eyes and comments. The men saw her in a minute. The women held out for a while, but had to admit that she was pretty. Her manner was not servile, though she knew the place that was for her, even if she would not have yielded that It was her place. She served deftly, she tripped fleecily, ehe,passed tho butter deferentially, she did nothing obsequiously. And no one was more Impressed than Hal Chandler. Chandler had driven his big car from town to cast a fly at the wily bass and the ferocious mujskellunge. But he had fallen upon more alluring eport. Clara, the baby-faced dining-room girl, had flashed her golden scales. And he was a fisherman of deep sea tastes and salt water experience. Not even an American jury could have mistaken the looks he aimed at her. His amorous admiration was scandalous. On the porch it was the headline topic. Rpvpiral of the men sDoke to him about It in clubby fashion. They said it wasn't N wise men out in the wilderness did murder over such as that. And it wasn't right, either he, a rich bachelor who had crossed forks with the beauties of the live centers, to angle for an undersized, under-sized, in strange inland waters, out of season, contrary to the game laws and the laws of the game. Then. Chandler knocked them all a twister. He said his intentions were . "serious." Yes, Hal was paved with good intentions. It was a dining-room bombshell, a hammock sensation. Somebody Some-body wrote to Chandler's mother, an Irreproachable, Ir-reproachable, unapproachable dowager who lived on a drive. The boys led Hal aside and asked him if he had lost his mind. He gave them their answer right out at dinner, when he arose, bowed, and invited in-vited Clara for a drive with him that afternoon (dinner takes place at 1 in the country), and she, agitated but not embarrassed, em-barrassed, accepted. The assembled week-enders saw him drive to the "rear door, where servants emerged, raise Ms hat to Clara, help her Into his snug roadster, and go whirling down the road with her. Tongues clattered clat-tered that afternoon. Before sundown the machine was back. Hal was alone. He walked bravely toward his town folks, pulling down his cap, straightening straighten-ing his collar. A dozen windpipes craned, two dozen ears strained. "She's accepted me," said Chandler Into the composite gasp. After supper Chandler's car spun off again. He had gone to ask her people's consent. The busybodies sat up till almost al-most midnight, but he had not returned. He showed himself at breakfast next morning, though. "We're to be married in September," he replied replied to the eyes and the silence. So he wns going to marry that rural a now he called for Clara In his car and took her for long daylight rides. They stopped at most of the scattered houses on .the way, for every one In the township town-ship was her relative or Intimate acquaintance, ac-quaintance, and she wanted to show off her trophy. He even brought her to the very dining-room where she had served him, his guest for dinner. She had asked that. And she met with the same assurance assur-ance the shrugs of the resorterB as she did the boorish congratulations of the Reubs. A few weeks of devoted attentions, and Chandler whizzed baok to town to arrange his affairs, return, marry the girl and take her abroad. Clara, now the most envied and talked-about glri between the courthouse court-house and the rim of the woods, curtly refused to tend the animals and separate sep-arate the cream. She took her beauty sleep, she visited, she queened about and. told how she was going to run society out of gas. The aging summer went into a decline. de-cline. September tore August off the calendar. cal-endar. Tho countrysldo grow restive, for the marriage was to bo an adventure adven-ture more thrilling than a county fair or a barn dance. The girl heard from Chandler every day the postmaster kept them posted on that. But why the delay? Clara walked each afternoon to the village to get her letters In person. It was on. Sept. 13 that she got that day's missive, tore It open In view of several bulb-eyed observers who were lounging about, read It dropped it and staggered against the wainscoting. . One man Jumped forward to support the girl and eight women jumped forward for-ward to grab the letter. Here is what they read: ."Dear Child: This will come to you like a thunder-clap. My mother toda set her foot down upon our marriage finally. " I did not want to alarm you, but she was against It from the first. Since she controls me in every way I am bound hand and foot. Forgive me and forget me. Lovingly, ' Hal." Clara recovered her breath and recovered recov-ered her letter. But two of the hens were already scampering off to cackle the rich news. It takes a buggy three hours to travel thirteen miles. But In one hour the story had covered a county. Clara crawled home. HER tipsy father howled anathemas upon Chandler and flung filthy Irony at the girl. Her mother bore It with silent sympathy. But from every corner of the woods came the jackal jeers. The lowly hate those better than themselves. Most of all do they hate those of themselves who grow better than themselves. And Clara had put it on so glarljngly, so vain- , gloriously, so unreservedly. And now she had collapsed and was one of them again the least of them. And she was to taste the knout like the fugitive slave who has been In freedom and who has been dragged back In disgrace to resume the..shackles and expiate escape. Never 'would she raise her pretty head that Insolent- blond head in that community again. Everybody suspected the worst. The grocery whittlers chortled chor-tled blunt jests over her. The backyard fences were tennis nets for shuttlecocks shuttle-cocks of aromatic conjectures and acidulous acid-ulous deductions. , So Clara Jackson wouldn't feed pigs, wouldn't she? She'd go to town and ride in limousines, would she? She'd do mighty well If the devil didn't come up from where he hung out and take her right where she belonged, the snippy little lit-tle upstart. . Around the sawdust-Uttered floor of the barroom of the Pine Grove Hotel In the village sat the tobacco-spitting natives na-tives over their redeye, talking it over. "It was like it always Is," mouthed Mike Dyer, who had been a guide attached at-tached to the resort where the romance was born, and who was therefore an authority on the whole business. "This dude filled her full o' city talk ud she, like a dum country fool, fell for it. "What do you mean, she fell?" blithered blith-ered Heinle Holtz. winking to let them all know that his query was for further particulars, not to be particular. "I mean just what I say," howled Dyer, walloping his fist upon the drinking drink-ing table. "I say r.ho fell " Dyer fell his head in a spittoon three yards away, and over him tho biggest man In Chippewa County, Frenchy La-jeunne. La-jeunne. No one had seen him enter: they had all been so preoccupied. "Listen, boys," said Frenchy. "The next man who he open his face for one word against the lectio girl and I hear It or I hear about it, I tear his hoad off from the shoulders wit' my two hand. Do I ever beforo lie to you? Get that straight it go!" And he spat on Dyer and walked out. He walked out into the woods. His strides were long and fierce. He was going, though he had no destination. Ho had just come back. He had come back when he heard the story.. Now he wanted want-ed to go somewhere In the vast quietude to think and be alone and and pray. At tho foot of a big cliff that towered sheer and dark above him at the edge of the water in the twilight he stopped. He stood with hl3 massive head bent. Big tears there is nothing so tragic as a giant weeping bubbled to his eyes. Frenchy Lajeunne dropped to his knees. He bowed his forehead and he flung forth his hands those kindly, powerful pow-erful hands upon those animated trunks of quivering arms and he mumbled through his sobs: "Oh, God! She too good for me, the leetle girl. But she not too good for he. I don ask to you you punish he. But I ask to you you save she, God, and make she happy. Jus' save her " Onto those outstretched arms from above, -with staggering Impact, fell a hurtling bulk, Frenchy's head flew up. And there he saw in his hold, against his breast, Clara, the golden-haired scandal scan-dal of the countryside. Breathless with astonishment, he laid her gently down upon the sanded slope. Reluctantly, as though afraid, she opened her eyes. She saw where she was. She saw who knelt beside her. She looked up the side of the bluff and she shuddered. shud-dered. "Pardon you fall Into my arms from from heaven," he stuttered. She shook her head. "No from heaven, Frenchy," she whispered. "From the top of that cliff. I I didn't fall. I J-jumped!" "Oh, girl. No! You want die?" "I thought I did," she sighed. "It's been mighty hard to live, lately. Everybody's Every-body's down on me. Everybody " "Not evereebody, girl. Not Frenchy. Oh, nc not Frenchy." She crawled to her feet and she looked - up Into his eyes. She saw there a wonderful won-derful thing that she hadn't seen that other time because she hadn't looked. And he looked down Into hers. And he saw there a wonderful thing that he had not seen there before because it hadn't been there. Copyright, 1916, by J. Kceley |