Beadle's Dime Novels No. 96: Little Moccasin — page 34: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

36 Ci LITTLE MOOCASIN. Putnam, leaves the plow in the furrow and the cattle a in the field—no matter where he is, nor what his qualifications may be—at the first cry of his country to arms! to arms! No,.no; the revolutionary type is not extinct, and wherever the New-England blood is found in the veins of men, there these. transfigurations happen every day, as at the Blast of a trumpet, East, West, North and South. All winter long, our friends have been out, piling up trees which they have trimmed. of their branches, and hauled into some dry gorge, at the head of some water-course; and then, says Thoreau, the lumberman “stands on the bank and whistles for rain and thaw, ready to wring the perspiration out of his shirt to swell the tide, till suddenly, with a whoop and halloo from him * * a fair proportion of his wihter’s work goes scrambling down thecountry toward the Orono mills.” “But how do they know their own logs ?” asked a visitor at camp Gage, “ when they get all mixed up together on their way to the mills?” “Kvery man has a private mark, which is cut into the sap- wood with an ax, or bored with an auger. These are belts, crosses, crow-fcet, girdles, etc.; as, for example, Y—cross— crowfoot. And these private marks are acknowledged, just as the letters ‘ LO. U! are on ’Change.”. “Are not many of these logs lost on the way ?” continued the stranger. “Yes, indeed—they are often left high and dry for years, and some are stranded for life, waiting for a still higher freshet; but all that escape are got together at the head of the lakes, and surrounded with a boom of floating logs, and then | towed like a flock of sheep across the lake, where there is no current, by &@ windlass or boom-head. Sometimes the logs are scattered for miles and milessupon. the lake and along the distant shores, where the driver can only pick them up, one or two at atime, and before he gets his flock well through Ambejijis or Pamudumcook, he makes many a wet and un-. confortable camp on the shore.” At this moment, the stranger looked up from his low seat before the bed of live coals, and. found Gage reading all this from a book—“ The Woods of Maine,’ by Thoreas. Both smiled, and Gage continued for a few minutes longer : a comiclbooks.com