THE BEAN-POLE MAN. 77 



deserted and I cut off the tiny branch to which 

 it is attached in order to take it back to camp. 

 The owner of the other is at home, but not to 

 callers. I do not relish the greeting which it is 

 likely to give with its business end and so keep 

 away from its domicile. 



From where I recline I hear a sound, first 

 faint then gradually nearer, half of nature, half 

 of art. It is that of a hatchet cutting bean 

 poles. An old boyhood acquaintance I take it to 

 be, a so-called "ne'er do well," who comes out 

 from town, two miles and more, and carries in 

 a load of poles to sell to the people who have 

 gardens and raise lima beans. The poles are his 

 for the cutting and carrying, as the old farmer 

 would give away his last possession to oblige a 

 friend. Dealing in bean poles is not a high vo- 

 cation but it gets one out into the open. It is 

 akin to digging ginseng, picking wild berries, 

 trapping, etc., all honest ways of making a liv- 

 ing and so to be commended. 



I move down into the thicket to talk awhile 

 with the "bean-pole man." He does not offer 

 to shake hands with me, though I have not seen 

 him for fifteen years. Already this morning has 

 he cut a hundred and twenty-five poles and 

 carried them out to the road, and has fifty more 

 to cut to carry directly into town. He asks 

 about "sang," says he has found quite a quan- 

 tity of it while cutting poles. He traps some in 



