270 AT THE NORTH OF BEARCAMP WATER. 
piled high with “fried holes,” as doughnuts are 
graphically termed. Baked beans are a staple 
dish, but I noticed a barrel of pork at the door, 
and lying on the woodpile a big bundle of cod¬ 
fish and a side of beef certified as good by the 
Hon. Jere. Busk. 
The sleeping-room of the camp was not at¬ 
tractive. It was dark, hot, stuffy in odor, and 
overcrowded. Bude bunks, three tiers deep, 
lined the side walls. The men turn into these 
pens with their clothes on, often wet with rain 
or snow. Teamsters are roused at four A. M.; 
the rest of a “crew” somewhat later. In win¬ 
ter, four A. M. and midnight are equally 
gloomy, and if either is colder it is the morning 
hour. The cook said he could remember but 
one case of serious illness in his logging camps. 
The grip, he said, seldom kept a man from 
work more than one or two days. He expressed 
great fondness for birds, and spoke of the daily 
visits of crossbills, and in some years of moose- 
birds. “They know their friends, as most 
dumb beasts do,” he declared, and went on to 
tell of a terrible storm of snow and sleet which 
came one winter, threatening death to his pets. 
“I just opened my camp doors and called and 
whistled to my birds, and in they came, dozens 
of ’em, until every beam and perch in the camp 
was full of ’em.” 
