268 AT THE NORTH OF BE ARC AMP WATER. 
Americans, some French Canadians, and some 
Irishmen. One young Frenchman was a pic¬ 
ture of dirty beauty and health. His jet-black 
hair, reeking with oil, was plastered in a curve 
over his forehead. His mustache was curling, 
and his snapping eyes, dark skin, rosy cheeks, 
and powerful but rather gross body made a 
striking picture for a day laborer. 
Leaving the mill with its distracting noise, 
we ascended the main logging road towards 
Passaconaway. It follows Downes Brook south¬ 
ward, now clinging to one hillside, then cross¬ 
ing the ice-bound torrent by a rude but massive 
bridge of spruce logs to stay for a while on the 
opposite bank. On each side the timber had 
been cut and hauled away. The survival of the 
unfittest is the rule in the forest after the lum¬ 
ber thief has been through it. He leaves the 
crooked, the feeble, and the diseased trees, and 
packs around their roots the fertilizing branches 
and tops of the logs which he hauls away. On 
our way up we met several teams coming down 
the slippery, sloppy road. Two strong Cana¬ 
dian horses, low sleds, three great logs chained 
together and to the sleds, and an oily, tobacco- 
chewing French Canadian made up a team. 
We stopped and talked to one driver, who said 
that if the snow went off they would keep on 
with their hauling, using the runners on the 
