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“made a swift, graceful leap that carried it clear of the inclining log and into the brush beyond” 
Dreaming Back 
In Which I Meet 
AM back in my room after my busy 
day in the Big City. Being an “in- 
side” room it has one redeeming fea- 
ture—the noises of the city are subdued. 
It is a relief to get away from the 
rattle and bang of the “elevated,” the 
honk and screech of auto horns, the 
rumble of the subway and the clatter 
of the surface cars. Noise upon noise, 
clamor and clangor, until one’s ears, 
providentially, become numbed. 
When I left my room this morning 
the cedar sprig lay on the red blotter. 
I see it is now poking out from a volume 
lying on the desk. The book contains 
the poems of the Scottish poet Robert 
Burns—a somewhat shabby appearing 
volume lent me by the Scotch fiddler. 
Evidently my landlord has been clean- 
ing, and placed the cedar sprig in the 
book. I believe she tidies up the desk 
oftener than the room. Perhaps she 
finds the desk more interesting. I have 
a suspicion, maybe an unjust one, that 
the spoiled paper I throw in the waste- 
paper basket is scanned by inquisitive 
eyes. I know I’m accused of being a 
literary person—-and that with a cer- 
tain amount of pride---by my landlady. 
138 
the Mysterious Axeman and Get a Glimpse of 
the Yellow Devil—Part III 
By FRED A. BARROW 
1 heard her telling a prospective roomer 
that one of her “guests” was a profes- 
sional musician, anotner a literary man, 
and a third an artist. The prospect, 
despite these seeming inducements, 
didn’t take the room. 
T’ll take a peep into this volume of 
the Scottish poet and see where the 
cedar sprig marks the page. I laugh— 
the tip of the sprig rests on a verse of 
“Johnnie Lad, Cock Up Your Beaver.” 
“When first my brave Johnnie lad 
came to the town, 
He had a blue bonnet that wanted a 
crown; 
But now he has gotten a hat and a 
feather, 
Hey, brave Johnnie lad, cock up your 
beaver!” 
ND that verse swiftly carries me 
back to the day when, trail-cutting, 
I met the mysterious axeman and 
glimpsed the “yellow devil.” Blessings 
on that sprig of cedar! 
It is early morning. Through the 
dark greens of the forest foliage the 
sun comes filtering and dancing on a 
group of alders upon which I am medi- 
tating an attack with my axe. It is 
a morning made rather for meditation 
than for labor. There is a stillness in 
the air, there is a lotus-like fragrance 
from the woods that drugs ones physi- 
cal energy but sets the mind and imagi- 
nation hard at work. As I stand there, 
undecided as to whether to go ahead 
and cut or whether to take spade and 
mattock and do some filling-in, there 
comes an unmistakable summons from 
Peter. It is a frightened call, accom- 
panied by sounds of plunging and 
stamping. 
AN, how I went scampering down 
the trail, axe in hand! When I 
reached my pony’s shelter, Peter had 
almost pulled his halter rope asunder, 
and was stamping around in a way un- 
becoming to his mature years. 
“What’s the matter, Peter Pony?” 
I cried, as I approached. 
Peter stamped the ground again, and 
gave a terrified snort, then yanked 
once more on his rope. 
I spoke to him soothingly, although 
his evident terror had communicated 
itself somewhat to me. What had 
scared him? He must have sensed some 
sinister thing lurking near! What? 
ke oe 
