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FOREST AND STREAM 
When the shelter for the stock was complete 
Tim set about cutting logs for a shanty to shelter 
the family, and while so doing received a visit 
from his neighbor, he of the cleared farm with 
the fine buildings, for those days, and the abund¬ 
ant crops. When the self-made introduction was 
over Tim learned that the neighbor was David 
Campbell, familiarly known as “Deacon Camp¬ 
bell,” that he was originally from western New 
York, and that he had been a resident of Michi¬ 
gan seven years, and liked the country. 
“A man can get along here if he is indus¬ 
trious,” said the deacon. “The soil is good and 
you can plow right among the oak trees and sow 
wheat. The roots go down deep and they don’t 
bother much ’cept the little ones that cut off 
when you break up the ground. Then the next 
summer after you sow a crop of fall wheat you 
can girdle the trees and they’ll die, and you can 
chop ’em off the winter after you harvest your 
wheat. But what are you going to do for a 
house? You can’t live in that wagon all winter, 
not with that woman and them children.” 
“I thought I’d build a shanty first,” replied 
Tim. “I ain’t got no great amount of money, and 
I can't pay for buildin’ a house, not now, and 
Ill have to work out consid’able to git a start.” 
“Well,” said the deacon, “you’d better get up a 
house the first thing. They’s neighbors enough 
’round here to build a log house in a day, and it’s 
a pity if we can’t spare a day or two to help out 
a newcomer. We’ll have a bee and'put you up a 
house that’ll be comfortable, anyhow.” 
“Why, Mr. Campbell, I can’t even feed a crowd 
such as ’twould take to make a log house in a 
day And what’d they think to be ast here to a 
house raisin’ and git nothin’ to eat?” 
“Well have ’em bring their own grub,’ said the 
deacon. “Some of their women folks ’ll come, 
and they can do the cookin’ at my house, and 
we’ll go there to dinner. Make kind of a picnic 
of it, and your wife can get acquainted. There 
ain’t been a log house raised in quite a while 
round here, and we’ll enjoy it.” 
Tim’s objections had been overcome by the 
deacon's pleasant way of putting the obligation 
on the neighbors. At the log schoolhouse, which 
served the double purpose of the temple of 
learning and a place of worship for the com¬ 
munity, on the Sunday following the deacon’s 
conversation with Tim, after the close of wor¬ 
ship, when the farmers gathered around the 
schoolhouse door to discuss such matters as 
might be safely mentioned on the Lord’s Day 
without reproach, the deacon said: “How many 
of you want to come over to my place about 
Wednesday and put up a house for the folks 
that’s moved on to the eighty south of me? He’s 
bought the place and is likely to stay there. He’s 
got a wife and two children, and they’re livin’ in 
a covered wagon. They’re poor enough, but he’s 
an honest lookin’ chap, and a good worker. The 
woman and the children are neat and clean, and 
I guess we ought to help fix things so they’ll be 
comfortable this winter.” 
“I’ll come,” said Jehiel Martin, commonly called 
“Hi.” a tall, full-bearded giant. “We ain’t had a 
house raisin’ round here in so long that I’ve ’bout 
forgot how it’s done. I can git all the men up 
my way to turn out, ’cept Len Cleves maybe. He 
used to be too stingy to go to raisin’s and bees, 
and ain’t had a change of heart that anybody’s 
heard of.” 
“You can count on me and Albert,” said Daniel 
Bacon, “and I’ll fetch my carpenter tools along 
so we can put on a roof and lay a floor. I guess 
Crane and his boys ’ll come and split out the 
shakes for the roof if we let ’em know ’bout it. 
They ain’t busy in the cooper shop now, and I’ll 
see they know what’s goin’ on." 
“Well, now, some of you that take your teams 
along, come past the mill and git a load of slabs 
for the gable ends, and some boards for door and 
winder frames, and to make the doors of. We’ll 
want to put in two, and fix it up proper,” declared 
Lucius Llart. the owner of the sawmill. "We’ll 
have tO’ use puncheons for floor. There ain’t 
enough boards in the mill yard to floor a hen 
house, ’less we take some that belong to Cleves. 
He’s got some that he hadn’t hauled home yet, 
and wouldn’t it be a joke on him if we took ’em!” 
So in hearty, generous fashion all responded, 
deeming it a privilege to help the newcomer, and 
showing the spirit of true manhood, ever ready 
to hear the cry for assistance, so common among 
the settlers of a new country. 
The word being passed by those who were 
present at the meeting, it was found that the set¬ 
tlers for miles around were not only willing but 
anxious to turn out, and on the day fixed for 
the raising they were seen coming from all direc¬ 
tions in the early light of an August morning, 
some with ox teams attached to lumber wagons, 
others walking beside their plodding teams draw¬ 
ing nothing but the log chain trailing from the 
clanking yoke ring. Others came “cross-lots,” 
singly and in groups of two or three, ax in hand, 
or crosscut saw teetering and balancing on the 
shoulder of the carrier. The day was yet young 
and the red August sun scarcely above the hori¬ 
zon, when twenty or more accomplished woods¬ 
men, to whom felling trees, sawing the fallen 
giants into logs, and rolling these up to form the 
walls of a house, was but the sport of a pleasant 
summer day. 
Down the road from the meeting place at Dea¬ 
con Compbell’s they came, to where Tim’s wagon 
home was planted. The site for the new house 
having been selected on a sightly knoll a few 
rods back from the road, the corners were 
marked by stakes driven into the ground, with 
due regard for the points of the compass, so that 
the house should stand “square with the world,” 
and with its side to the road. The choppers se¬ 
lected their trees, tall straight white oaks, which 
soon came crashing to earth, prostrate giants 
whose heads were in the sky before the white 
man’s foot touched the soil of the New World. 
The rasping ring of the saws as the lengths 
were marked and severed, mingled .with the sound 
of the ax, the shouts of the teamsters as the oxen 
were urged forward, and the loud “whoas” as 
the logs were snaked to the building place, all 
combined in a medley of sound pleasant to the 
ears of Coleman and his family, who saw with 
pride the logs walls of their new house rising 
where a short time before was wilderness. Work 
progressed rapidly, and before the sun had 
reached the meridian the walls of the house were 
up the required height, the corners neatly notched 
down so that the logs lay closely together. Small 
black ash logs were cut in the neighboring swale, 
hauled to the house, cut into eight-foot lengths, 
split through the center, each half faced with the 
broad ax, and “edged up” with the same tool to 
form a floor. The puncheons were gained into 
the lower logs of the floor at each side, and then 
the whole surface was smoothed with the adze. 
Meanwhile some of the choppers had cut 
enough tamarack poles in the swamp near by to 
form rafters, and these were snaked out to dry 
land, the oxen wallowing through the mud at the 
edge of the swamp with a bundle of the long- 
poles ploughing through the marsh behind them. 
When the noon hour arrived all went to Dea¬ 
con Campbell’s house, where a bountiful dinner 
had been prepared by such of the women as had 
accompanied their husbands to the raising, and 
each of whom had contributed her share to the 
feast. 
It was while the house builders were filling 
pipes for an after-dinner smoke that Tim Cole¬ 
man first heard of the Big Bear of Nixon’s 
swamp. 
“There’s a neighbor over here in the big 
swamp,” said Jehiel Martin, as he cleared his 
pipe bowl with the blade of his jack-knife, and 
indicated the swamp by a backward toss of his 
head, “that you'll likely git acquainted with, and 
won’t like. He’s a thief and a robber, and a 
coward to boot. And he’s as black as he is 
mean. You want to look out for him.” 
“What is he,” asked Tim in some alarm, “an 
Injun ?” 
“No, 'taint an Injun; if it was we'd soon run 
him out. It’s the worst old cuss of a bear we 
ever was plagued with ’round here.” 
“Is he dangerous? Will he take after a feller 
if you meet him in the woods?” asked Tim, with 
a quick look toward his two youngsters as they 
were deep in the delights of the “second table,” 
where the women and children were regaling 
themselves after the men had been served. 
“Pshaw! He won't tackle nothin’, ’cept a stray 
pig or a sheep, or maybe a calf when the old cow 
ain’t ’round. He’s just a sneakin’ old thief, and 
as cunning as a fox,” said Martin. 
“Ask Hi how he comes to know so much ’bout 
the old bear,” suggested a pleasant faced, wiry 
built man of about thirty, with a bright brown 
eye, and quick, alert movements. “He ’pears to 
know all about his character.” 
“Well, Jim,” said Hi, “I dunno as I’m much 
better ’quainted with the old rip than you be. 
Maybe he’s paid me more visits, but I’ve never 
been so dost to him as you have. You see,” he ex¬ 
plained to the listeners in general, “Jim had the 
best chance of anybody ’round here to nail the 
old bear’s hide on his barn, and when he didn’t 
do it. it kinder looks as if he and the bear was 
friends. How is it, Jim?” 
“Well,” answered Bryson, “I don’t mind own¬ 
ing up that I was pretty dost to the old feller 
once, but if the old rifle hadn’t missed fire that 
bear wouldn’t be plaguin’ anybody these days. 
These fellers round here,” indicating the audi¬ 
ence, “know what Hi’s drivin’ at, but you don’t; 
so I’ll tell ye. I was over here, west of your 
place, huntin’. It was in the fall, and there was 
a deer that used to come into the widder Corey’s 
turnip patch, right dost to the edge of the 
swamp. I come along there about sundown and 
thought I’d wait a spell and see if I couldn't get 
a shot at him. I was leanin’ up in the corner of 
the fence an’ I heard the brush crack in the 
swamp. I cocked my gun and laid it over the 
top rail so I wouldn’t have to move to shoot, and 
by Jiminy, when I was just ready to see that 
(Continued on page 398.) 
