
“As I looked, a four-pronged ee walked leisurely to a roadside, not 
fifty yards away. 
a X YELL, my friend, the Scotch 
Fiddler has found work. This 
good news is conveyed to me 
by a note which he left on the red blot- 
ter, and which I have just finished 
reading. The note has a great deal 
in it, for my friend is not niggardly 
in the use of words, or of currency of 
a more tangible form. But I will give 
you just the close of the note. 
Says he, “I regret that the job I 
have secured is of such a nature that 
it will deprive me of the pleasure of 
your companionship. It is out of town, 
and consequently I shall be unable to 
reach my room until ‘the wee sma’ 
hours,’ when even scribblers should be 
in bed. But—the job’s the thing.” 
Now there’s more in that last sen- 
tence than at first appears, for my 
friend loves to fiddle for the joy of 
making music. In other words, he 
gets more than United States currency 
out of his profession—which is as it 
should be. “The job’s the thing,” as 
he puts it. And if we all could feel 
that way about our daily labors how 
much better would be our contentment 
and happiness. 
It was old Tom McGregor who used 
to remark to me, when he saw me la- 
boring in the woods in those grand 
old days: 
“Laddie, you’re working harder for 
pleasure than man ever did for lucre. 
I hope your pleasure in work will aye 
continue.” Which was the Fiddler’s 
idea expressed a bit differently. 
Of course I worked hard! What 
man, young or old, with the pioneer 
spirit in his heart, will not work hard 
when, immediately before him is the 
prospect of erecting his first fixed habi- 
tation in the virgin forest. 
274 
My, that was a grand day when, the 
trail cut through, I went up to the 
main road to wait for and to direct 
the driver of the lumber wagon to my 
small clearing! 
It was more than a grand morn- 
ing—it was a wonderful, glorious 
morning: it was such a morning as 
God must make only when He is 
pleased with mankind. The sun was 
drowsily warm, the sky was clear, 
there was no wind. From the earth 
and from the green leaves of the shrub- 
bery came the warm, intoxicating fra- 
grance that I believe comes only from 
the forest lands. 
High, high above me, as I sat upon 
a mossy log waiting for the lumber 
wagon, there circled two eagles—a 
pair. I watched them as I had done 
many times before, floating, spiraling 
higher and higher into the pale-blue, 
sun-warmed air. And that I might 
watch them easier I lay down on my 
back amongst the fern, my head rest- 
ing on the log. 
They had assumed the size of birds 
no larger than robins, and I was won- 
dering whether they would ascend be- 
yond my vision, when, transmitted to 
me through the earth, I heard the 
grind of wagon wheels and the steady 
clump of a team’s heavy hoofs. 
I WAS up in an instant, and gazing 
expectantly down the sunlit road. 
As I looked, a four-pronged buck 
walked leisurely to the roadside, not 
fifty yards away. His proud head 
turned toward the sound of the ap- 
proaching wagon; then he slowly 
wheeled and trotted back into a grove 
of young pines. 
The wagon came into view. It was 
Dreaming Back 
In Which the Lumber for 
My Cabin Arrives and the 
Corner Stone Is Laid With 
Ceremony—Part Five 
By FRED A. BARROW 
loaded with lumber. It was my lum- 
ber wagon! I hurried forward to 
meet it. 
“Hello, Bob Young! Looking for 
my place?” (I recognized the driver.) 
“Hello, young fellow! Guess it’s 
your place this lumber’s for, all right. 
Where do I turn in?” 
“The trail starts just the other side 
of that dead cedar. It’s a pretty good 
trail; but I hope your brakes are good, 
for there’s one or two steep little hol-— 
lows.” 
OB YOUNG bit off a piece of to- 
bacco from a large plug, clucked 
gently to the big, gray horses, and fol- 
lowed me to the beginning of the Mc- 
Gregor trail. There he dismounted 
from his seat on the lumber. 
“Ain’t no brakes on this wagon, son. 
Guess the horses can hold her back if 
the hills ain’t too long.” 
Bob was a big fellow, with a face 
pretty well covered with a growth of 
black stubble. He wore a somewhat 
tattered mackinaw that had once had 
a pattern. His trousers were of blue 
denim. 
“See that buck walk out to the road? 
Offered a dandy shot. Ain’t you got 
a rifle?” 
“Tt’s down at the ree Bob. Hope 
you'll get the load down all right.” 
“Well, I’ve navigated some pretty 
bad roads with this team.” He took 
the reins in his hand, shook them, and 
called to the horses. “Up there, Char- 
lie! Easy there, Billy! Steady now!” 
The load of lumber was on the trail 
to my clearing! I tried to look sober: 
I felt like whooping. 
I had told the driver the trail was 
a good one, but as the wagon bumped 
