A Lost Moose 



Sheathe thy impatience. 



— Merry Wives op Windsoe. 



Out in the Maine wilderness and some eight miles 

 from where we had located our cabin is an old logging 

 camp which is rapidly tumbling to the ground. In 

 the days of its prime it had housed nearly sixty men, 

 but now it is merely a harbor for hedgehogs and 

 legions of field-mice. The portion of the structure 

 which was used for sleeping berths is stripped of the 

 roof, every passing guide and hunter taking a share of 

 the cedar splits to build a fire or sheathe his little 

 cabin. The ends and sides of the building still stand, 

 but they are all that remain to give one an inkling of 

 its former glory. 



Within its walls the weary choppers, drivers and 

 sawyers were used to take their rest, smoke their pipes, 

 tell their yarns, sing songs, and dry their wet clothes. 

 The shanty, when I saw it last, was damp and mouldy, 

 and smelt very loudly of rotten wood, old clothes and 

 dilapidated rubber boots. A collection of empty 

 medicine bottles and salve boxes had been left in the 

 bunks, telling most plainly that the lumbermen had 

 not escaped their share of the pains and aches and 



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