CHAPTER XII. 



RUNNING A SAWMILL AND A STORE UP COUNTRY. 



MY millwright, though one of the most objectionable Canadian 

 bounders I have ever had anything to do with, was a splendid 

 worker, and ten days after we had unloaded the boiler and 

 machinery at the Flat our small force of eight men had completed 

 the foundations of the mill out of hand-squared logs, and the first 

 shrill blast of the mill whistle sounded the death knell for many 

 of the giant yellow pines (P. pondcrosa] growing in stately groves 

 within handy distance from the mill. 



From that day boards lumber they are called in America 

 flowed freely from that gleaming blade revolving at lightning 

 speed through ponderous logs 3ft. or 4ft. through. Soon we had 

 the mill housed, and had put up some shelter shanties, for winter 

 came early that year, and our flimsy tents were in the habit of 

 collapsing in the most uncomfortable manner under the pressure 

 of the sleet and snow-laden gales by which winter heralds itself 

 in that region. 



Man is born and man dies, and these two principal incidents 

 of our existence the new sawmill accentuated rather oddly. The 

 'first slab* which that circle of bright steel sliced from a bulky log 

 I happened to present to an Indian squaw standing by, in mute 

 amazement watching the invisible power first drag the great 

 tree, nearly twenty feet long, up to the saw, which then bit its 

 \vay through it as were it so much cheese. She evidently prized 

 the relic, for next day she showed me part of it turned into 



* The technical term for the first and last longitudinal piece cut from the log. 



