AT THE FOOT OF FASSACONAWAY. 269 
bare ground. While he chatted with us he fed 
his nigh horse on pieces of chewing tobacco, 
which the horse took from his fingers or bit 
from the plug. We were told later that this is 
a common form of attention for the drivers to 
show their favorite horses. The horse swallowed 
the tobacco. About half a mile above the mill 
we came to the logging camp. There was a 
compact log stable, a log smithy manned by a 
sturdy Frenchman in moccasins who spoke very 
little English, and a living-house made of slabs 
covered with tarred paper well battened down. 
The house stood on a ribbon of ground between 
the road and the steep edge of the torrent. 
Entering through a low shed at the southern or 
upper end of the shanty, we found ourselves in 
the kitchen and dining-room. The room con¬ 
tained two cook-stoves and three long, narrow 
board tables with benches facing them. The 
tables were set for thirty-five men, allowing 
about twenty inches of space for each man. 
We were welcomed by the cook, a New Eng¬ 
lander, who boasted of having cooked in lumber 
camps for twenty years. He prided himself on 
his bread, and cut a loaf to show its quality. 
I never ate better bread anywhere. The dishes 
on the table were simple, — tin plates, tin cups, 
bottles of vinegar, pitchers of maple syrup, tins 
holding mountains of yellow butter, and plates 
