OLD BILL. 



With a neigh so faint and feeble that it touched me like a 

 groan, 

 "Farewell, "he seemed to murmur, "ere I die;" 

 Then set his teeth and stretched his limbs, and so I stood 

 alone, 

 While the merry chase went heedless sweeping by, 



Am I womanly and weak 



If the tear was on my cheek 

 For a brotherhood that death could thus divide? 



If, sickened and amazed, 



Through a woful mist I gazed, 

 On the place where the old horse died. — Melville. 



Carey was the life of the shanty. When I first 

 met him he was a man of about twenty-four, standing 

 six foot in his shoes, as strong as an ox, and ready to 

 fight his weight in wild cats. That winter — it was 

 in the latter part of the sixties — he was the boss of the 

 log gang. For some reason or other, the men under 

 him were always on the jump and the books showed 

 that they did more work than any in the bush. From 

 morning until night Carey always had a good word 

 for the men, and there never was a time when he 

 would not take hold with a cant hook or handspike to 

 help out. Later on in the spring it would have done 

 your heart good to have seen him step about on the 

 logs in a jam or ride a stick of timber over the water 

 as high and dry as if he were in the cabin of a steam- 

 boat. Carey was a dream in shanty life, sure enough. 



