f 
11 
Ad erican Agriculturist, July 5, 1924 
Woods 
By E. J. Rath 
'{By arrangement with William Gerard Chapman) 
lost and frightened, Margaret stumbles in the 
heart of the woods upon Billy Lloyd, trapped 
with a broken leg. He tells her that she can save 
loth their lives, but that they are too far from 
hdp to get out of the woods that night. 
r ES,” she answered. 
‘But I’ve 
V ]—, 
stopped being afraid.’ 
“It’s a good twenty miles to the 
nearest place,” he added. 
“As far as that?” Her eyes showed 
surprise. 
“For purposes of travel, yes. xou ii 
find a map in my coat. If you’ll get it 
and poke up the fire a bit, 111 show you. 
She brought the map and they spread 
it out together. 
“Now. here’s us,” he said, laying a 
finger on a little point of land that thrust 
its way into a body of water. “This is 
Tramp Lake. Just below it is Little 
Tramp. That’s the way I came through. 
Your lake. Round Island, is here— ” and 
he showed her, while she nodded. “Your 
lake belongs to a different system en¬ 
tirely. It can be reached over this route, 
but 'you’ve got to go away above here to 
do it, and then there are three portages— 
hard ‘ones, too. This is the way you 
came.” He drew his finger across a strip 
of land, 
“But you’ve got to go out the way I 
came in. Can you paddle much? 
“I'm pretty strong,” she answered. 
“Here's your course, then. Afterward 
I'll write it out for you, so you can’t 
possibly lose it. You follow this shore 
until you reach this little river. That s 
about three miles. The river takes you 
straight into Little Tramp Lake; there s 
two miles of it. You’ll find a beaver dam 
about half-way down, but you can push 
over it without trouble. The current is 
with you. When you get to Little 
Tramp, you must take a straight course 
across it—south. I’ll mark it—so. 
You’ll have my compass, anyhow. It s 
a mile across and an easy paddle if the 
wind isn’t against you. If it is, you 11 
have to plug some. Now on the other side 
of the lake you hit a portage. You can’t 
miss it; there are two big logs in the 
water and you can see the path. Did you 
ever carrv a canoe?” 
Follow this creek three or four miles 
more and you’re at Joe Station. That s a 
sort of headquarters for guides; it’s two 
miles from the railroad. When you get 
to the station, ask for Jim McLean. 
Don’t expect to find a Scotchman; he’s 
a half-breed Indian. If he s out, get 
anybody else. There’s pretty sure to be 
somebody there. They’ll have to send 
two men. Tell them where I am, and 
any of the guides can find me. If they 
know of a doctor camped anywhere in 
the neighborhood, tell them to send for 
him and have him at Joe Station when I 
come out. 
“At Joe Station there’s a telephone, 
and you can get word to your party at 
Round Island. Then somebody can drive 
you out to the railroad, and you can get 
back to your camp. Will you be ready to 
start early to-morrow? I’m figuring you 
to make it by sundown easily.” 
S HE shook her head. 
“Never mind; you’ll have to drag it. 
My canoe doesn’t weigh more than fifty 
pounds; it’s new. Luckily the portage 
isn’t over two hundred yards, and it s not 
bad going-—almost level. That 11 be the 
hardest part you’ll have.” 
“I’ll get over it,” she said. ‘ But how 
about you?” „ 
“Why, I’m not going, you know, 
answered Lloyd. "I thought you under¬ 
stood; At least, I’m not going this trip. 
She looked dismayed, and he hastened 
to explain. “You wont mind it a bit. 
There won’t be the least danger of getting 
lost. It’s a straight road.” 
“I didn’t mean that,” she broke in. 
“I was thinking of leaving you.” 
“Listen, Margaret; you’ve got to get 
out of here. To put it selfishly, you ve 
got to do it for' me, if for no other reason. 
You’re my courier now. Let s get on 
with the map. When you get over this 
portage, you’re on West Deer River and 
(you go down with the stream. Remem¬ 
ber, all the time, you are working nearly 
‘due south. About four miles down the 
river there’s a rapid; you must drag 
around that, about a hundred yards. 
Don’t try to run it—the water is too low. 
The take-out for the portage is on your 
iright. You can t fail to see it, a big 
rock near the shore marks it. Below the 
rapid you follow the river for another four 
miles.' That lands you in Gray Trout 
Lake. Now, here’s your course by the 
map.” 
He drew a pencil line close to the eastei n 
shore. 
“You can’t get wind-bound here; 
there’s not enough open water. Tou go 
down Gray Trout three miles and then 
you’re at the mouth of a creek. There are 
a lot of rushes around the entrance. 
S HE sat silently studying the map when 
he had finished speaking,, and then 
made him go over the directions again, 
while she penciled them along the margin. 
He showed her how to use the compass, 
how to set the map on the thwart in front 
of her, how to fix a landmark on the shore 
ahead when she had laid her course, and 
keep the canoe pointed steadily toward it. 
“It's the only way, isn't it?” she com¬ 
mented. “I see it now.” 
“You’ll enjoy the trip,” said Lloyd. 
“Honestly. You’ll feel so free and inde¬ 
pendent and self-reliant. There s nothing 
like it.” 
And he fell to talking of the woods and 
the summers he had spent paddling 
through the still places of the forest. The 
girl presently divined his purpose and 
now and then she smiled, faintly and 
seriously. He was putting heart in her, 
explaining by simple stories the ease and 
safety of travel in the wilderness; giving 
her some of his own faith and courage. 
The littleness of her own view faded, and 
as he talked she began to sense something 
that even a summer in camp had been 
unable to make her feel. 
“You love the woods, don't you? she 
ventured. 
“I suppose I do; I guess it must be 
that. Somehow, I drift back every 
summer. I’ve been doing it ever since I 
was a kid.” . , 
“And do you come like this—alone? 
“Oh, no; only once before. I planned 
this trip with my side partner, but, as I 
said, he was called home. So I came 
ahead. I’ve just been loafing along. I 
was out three days when this happened. 
I was expecting to follow this chain up to 
White River, and then loop back by way 
of the Sister Lakes. You never got over 
there, I guess? You must, some time, 
they’re wonderful.” 
“ You said you were lost once; tell me 
about it,” she said. 
The firelight warmed his pale features 
as Lloyd plunged into a story of boyhood 
foolishness. He tried to make it funny, 
but her hand stole unconsciously into his 
as the simple, vivid tale went on, and 
at its close her fingers were gripping Ins 
tightly. 
“It’s imagination that bothers us, he 
was saying. “We don’t train it to help 
us; we imagine the wrong things. I was 
bothered with it yesterday and the day 
before, although I knew it was foolish.” 
“But suppose I hadn t come? she 
said, softly, staring into the flames. 
“Well, of course I figured some on that. 
But somebody was pretty sure. to be 
coming through, although it’s getting late 
for campers. Probably a ranger or a 
guide would have found me sooner or 
later. I’m pretty well fixed for grub. I’d 
have got out myself if it hadn t been for 
those two portages. I knew a guide who 
paddled over fifty miles after his leg was 
broken, and shot three rapids in the 
bargain. But they’d have been looking 
for me in a couple of weeks, anyhow. 
My clothes are at Joe Station, and I had 
to go out that way.” 
He smoked a while in silence, and then 
added, as if his thought had been unin¬ 
terrupted: “But I’m mighty glad you 
came, girl.” . « T 
“You found me, she said simply. 1 
should have died.” „ 
“Well, you were badly fixed, he 
answered, thoughtfully. \ou had no 
outfit at all, no grub.” 
“It wasn’t altogether that. I'm so 
incapable.” „ 
“You’ll forget that word to-morrow, 
said Lloyd. “And that reminds me that 
you need sleep—a good sleep. Crawl into 
the tent, for I shall get you out early, I 
promise you. ’ 
The girl demurred, but Lloyd shook his 
head. .. T ,„ , ‘ 
“The tent for you,” he said. 111 be 
right here alongside of it. Besides, I 
don’t want to move unless I have to. 
I'll be plenty warm. You’re dog-tired, 
Margaret. Turn in.” 
She brought fresh water to him, wet the 
bandages, and made him promise to 
summon her if he needed anything. A 
few minutes she called softly from the 
tent: 
“Billy!” 
“Yes?” 
“I’m going to learn to be brave in the 
woods.” 
“Good night, little girl,’ be answered. 
“And thank you.” 
“Good night, Billy.” 
at him as she looked up from her task. 
“The city isn’t everything,” she answered. 
“I used to think so.” 
“Well, you see you’ve been caught 
young enough. You’re saved,’ he said. 
But they fell silent during the meal, as 
if each read the other’s thoughts. Lloyd 
hated to send the girl, but there was no 
other way; it seemed brutal to leave a 
helpless man, yet she knew that he was 
right. 
He made her repeat her directions, and 
she went over them without a slip. Then 
he had her prepare two meals for herself 
to be taken in the canoe. She filled the 
water pails and set them beside him, gave 
him new bandages for his leg, and then, 
at his direction, dragged all of the camp 
belongings within his reach. When there 
was nothing more to do, she still lingered. 
H E slept after a while, and the fire died 
down to glowing coals. It was day¬ 
light when Lloyd glanced at his watch. 
He hated to wa'ke her, but she had much 
ahead of her before sundown, and time 
counted. Three times he called before 
she answered. 
“Did you sleep, at all? she asked 
anxiously, kneeling at his side and 
touching his forehead softly to see ll the 
fever had left him. 
“Actually, I slept well,” he answered. 
“And I know you did.” 
She laughed and ran briskly down to 
the lake, filling the big pail and bringing 
fresh water to him. Then, without a 
word, she gathered sticks and leaves, 
started a fire, and began to get breakfast. 
His eyes watched her approvingly. ^ 
“You’ll be a guide some day, he 
laughed. “You’re picking up fast.” 
That pleased'her—she smiled brightly 
TaVe you 
10 
I 3 * l+ i 7 . |8 .,g up®! a zV ^ 
To finish the question, draw through the dots from 1 on. 
T IME to start, Margaret,” he ad¬ 
monished. “Now, listen: don t pad¬ 
dle too hard. Take it easy, because you’ve 
got quite a road. Keep your eye on the 
map; remember that you’re moving south 
all the time. Don’t get rattled. It’s a 
straight course, but if you should get 
puzzled at any time, stop right where you 
are and think it over slowly. You’ll be at 
Joe Station before dark; don’t fret about 
that.” . 
“It isn’t about me I’m fretting, she 
said slowly. “It’s you.” 
“Oh, I’m fine,” he said, smiling. 
“Why, Jim McLean is likely to find me 
turning handsprings when he gets here. _ 
The men’ll come through to-night. They 
won’t lose any time. And if you're lucky 
about trains, you'll be back in your own 
camp to-night. Now go, sister.” 
She held both his hands for a minute 
and tried to force back the tears that 
threatened. • 
“I won’t be afraid, Billy,” she said. 
“I’ll get through before dark. And I’ll 
remember you saved me—always, and 
that you taught me something. Good-by.” 
“Good-by, Margaret.” 
He watched her wistfully as she pushed 
the canoe into the water. 
“Take both paddles,” he called. “And 
put a stone in the bow. Otherwise she’ll 
be too high in the head, and the breeze 
will spin you around like a top. Got 
everything now? Compass? Map? 
Lunch?” 
She took a last look around and 
nodded. Then, as she leaned over to 
push off, she hesitated, turned, and 
walked back to where he lay. Without a 
word Ae dropped to her knees, bent 
forward, and kissed him on the lips. 
Then she left him! 
“Good luck!” he called, when the 
canoe was a hundred yards off. She 
turned and waved her paddle, and said 
something he could not catch. A moment 
later the canoe was lost to sight around a 
wooded point, moving swiftly under her 
steady strokes. . 
Lloyd lay alone with his pain. Once or 
twice he ate a little, but his appetite 
seemed to have deserted him again. It 
was a friendly day, yet the woods seemed 
strangely lonely. That was a new sensa¬ 
tion to him, and he futilely tried to analyze 
it. Part of the day he worried about her, 
although he knew that was childish. It 
wasn’t a hard trip, yet she was such a 
pathetic tenderfoot. Game, though, he 
admitted—after she began to understand 
about things. “Poor kid!” he said, 
aloud, as he thought of her night alone m 
the forest. 
When the sun had passed the ridge 
opposite his camp and begun to sink 
among the pines, he wondered if she was 
at Joe Station. Darkness came slowly, 
•and Lloyd watched the stars appea.r. 
Now she must be on her way to the rail¬ 
road, he thought, and the men were 
coming for him. She would probably be 
in her ov\n camp by midnight. 
And then in a flash he realized that he 
did not even know who she was! Just 
Margaret! Just a chance comrade of the 
(<Continued on page IS) 
