The Edgewood "Drive"

by Kate Douglas Wiggin

　　Just where the bridge knits together the two little villages ofPleasant River and Edgewood, the glassy mirror of the Sacobroadens suddenly, sweeping over the dam in a luminous torrent.Gushes of pure amber mark the middle of the dam, with crystal andsilver at the sides, and from the seething vortex beneath thegolden cascade the white spray dashes up in fountains. In thecrevices and hollows of the rocks the mad water churns itselfinto snowy froth, while the foam-decked torrent, deep, strong,and troubled to its heart, sweeps majestically under the bridge,then dashes between wooded shores piled high with steep masses ofrock, or torn and riven by great gorges.

　　There had been much rain during the summer, and the Saco was veryhigh, so on the third day of the Edgewood drive there wasconsiderable excitement at the bridge, and a goodly audience ofvillagers from both sides of the river. There were some whonever came, some who had no fancy for the sight, some to whom itwas an old story, some who were too busy, but there were many towhom- it was the event of events, a never-ending source ofinterest.

　　Above the fall, covering the placid surface of the river,thousands of logs lay quietly "in boom" until the "turning out"process, on the last day of the drive, should release them andgive them their chance of display, their brief moment ofnotoriety, their opportunity of interesting, amusing, exciting,and exasperating the onlookers by their antics.

　　Heaps of logs had been cast up on the rocks below the dam, wherethey lay in hopeless confusion, adding nothing, however, to theproblem of the moment, for they too bided their time. If theyhad possessed wisdom, discretion, and caution, they might haveslipped gracefully over the falls and, steering clear of thehidden ledges (about which it would seem they must have heardwhispers from the old pine trees along the river), have kept astraight course and reached their destination without costing theEdgewood Lumber Company a small fortune. Or, if they hadinclined toward a jolly and adventurous career, they could havejoined one of the various jams or "bungs," stimulated by thethought that any one of them might be a key-log, holding for atime the entire mass in its despotic power. But they had beenstranded early in the game, and, after lying high and dry forweeks, would be picked off one by one and sent down-stream.

　　In the tumultuous boil, the foaming hubbub and flurry at the footof the falls, one enormous peeled log wallowed up and down like ahuge rhinoceros, greatly pleasing the children by its clumsycavortings. Some conflict of opposing forces kept it ever inmotion, yet never set it free. Below the bridge were always thereal battle-grounds, the scenes of the first and the fiercestconflicts. A ragged ledge of rock, standing well above theyeasty torrent, marked the middle of the river. Stephen had beenstranded there once, just at dusk, on a stormy afternoon inspring. A jam had broken under the men, and Stephen, havingtaken too great risks, had been caught on the moving mass, and,leaping from log to log, his only chance for life had been tofind a footing on Gray Rock, which was nearer than the shore.

　　Rufus was ill at the time, and Mrs. Waterman so anxious andnervous that processions of boys had to be sent up to the RiverFarm, giving the frightened mother the latest bulletins of herson's welfare. Luckily, the river was narrow just at the GrayRock, and it was a quite possible task, though no easy one, tolash two ladders together and make a narrow bridge on which thedrenched and shivering man could reach the shore. There wereloud cheers when Stephen ran lightly across the slender pathwaythat led to safety--ran so fast that the ladders had scarce timeto bend beneath his weight. He had certainly "taken chances," butwhen did he not do that? The logger's life is one of "movingaccidents by flood and field," and Stephen welcomed with wildexhilaration every hazard that came in his path. To him therewas never a dull hour from the moment that the first notch wascut in the tree (for he sometimes joined the boys in the lumbercamp just for a frolic) till the later one when the hewn logreached its final destination. He knew nothing of "tooling" afour-in-hand through narrow lanes or crowded thoroughfares,--nothing of guiding a horse over the hedges and through thepitfalls of a stiff bit of hunting country; his steed was therearing, plunging, kicking log, and he rode it like a river god.

　　The crowd loves daring, and so it welcomed Stephen with braves,but it knew, as he knew, that he was only doing his duty by theCompany, only showing the Saco that man was master, only keepingthe old Waterman name in good repute.

　　"Ye can't drownd some folks," Old Kennebec had said, as he stoodin a group on the shore; "not without you tie sand-bags to'em an'drop 'em in the Great Eddy. I'm the same kind; I remember when Iwas stranded on jest sech a rock in the Kennebec, only they leftme there all night for dead, an' I had to swim the rapids when itcome daylight."

　　"We're well acquainted with that rock and them rapids," exclaimedone of the river-drivers, to the delight of the company.

　　Rose had reason to remember Stephen's adventure, for he hadclambered up the bank, smiling and blushing under the hurrahs ofthe boys, and, coming to the wagon where she sat waiting for hergrandfather, had seized a moment to whisper: "Did you carewhether I came across safe, Rose? Say you did!"

　　Stephen recalled that question, too, on this August morning;perhaps because this was to be a red-letter day, and sometime,when he had a free moment,--sometime before supper, when he andRose were sitting apart from the others, watching the logs,--heintended again to ask her to marry him. This thought trembled inhim, stirring the deeps of his heart like a great wave, almostsweeping him off his feet when he held it too close and let ithave full sway. It would be the fourth time that he had askedRose this question of all questions, but there was no perceptibledifference in his excitement, for there was always the possiblechance that she might change her mind and say yes, if only forvariety. Wanting a thing continuously, unchangingly, unceasingly,year after year, he thought,--longing to reach it as the riverlonged to reach the sea,--such wanting might, in course oftime, mean having.

　　Rose drove up to the bridge with the men's luncheon, and theunder boss came up to take the baskets and boxes from the back ofthe wagon.

　　"We've had a reg'lar tussle this mornin', Rose," he said. "Thelogs are determined not to move. Ike Billings, that's thehan'somest and fluentest all-round swearer on the Saco, has triedhis best on the side jam. He's all out o' cuss-words and therehain't a log budged. Now, stid o' dogwarpin' this afternoon, an'lettin' the oxen haul off all them stubborn logs by main force,we're goin' to ask you to set up on the bank and smile at thejam. 'Land! she can do it!' says Ike a minute ago. 'When Rosestarts smilin',' he says, 'there ain't a jam nor a bung in methat don't melt like wax and jest float right off same as thelogs do when they get into quiet, sunny water.'"

　　Rose blushed and laughed, and drove up the hill to MiteShapley's, where she put up the horse and waited till the men hadeaten their luncheon. The drivers slept and had breakfast andsupper at the Billings house, a mile down river, but for severalyears Mrs. Wiley had furnished the noon meal, sending it downpiping hot on the stroke of twelve. The boys always said that upor down the whole length of the Saco there was no such cooking asthe Wileys', and much of this praise was earned by Rose'sserving. It was the old grandmother who burnished the tin platesand dippers till they looked like silver; for crotchety andsharp-tongued as she was--she never allowed Rose to spoil herhands with soft soap and sand: but it was Rose who planned andpacked, Rose who hemmed squares of old white tablecloths andsheets to line the baskets and keep things daintily separate,Rose, also, whose tarts and cakes were the pride and admirationof church sociables and sewing societies.

　　Where could such smoking pots of beans be found? A murmur ofecstatic approval ran through the crowd when the covers wereremoved. Pieces of sweet home-fed pork glistened like varnishedmahogany on the top of the beans, and underneath were such deepsof fragrant juice as come only from slow fires and long, quiethours in brick ovens. Who else could steam and bake such mealyleaves of brown bread, brown as plum-pudding, yet with nosuspicion of sogginess? Who such soda-biscuits, big, feathery,tasting of cream, and hardly needing butter? And green-applepies! Could such candied lower crusts be found elsewhere,or moredelectable filling? Or such rich, nutty doughnuts?--doughnutsthat had spurned the hot fat which is the ruin of so many, andrisen from its waves like golden-brown Venuses.

　　"By the great seleckmen!" ejaculated Jed Towle, as he swallowedhis fourth, "I'd like to hev a wife, two daughters, and foursisters like them Wileys, and jest set still on the river-bankan' hev 'em cook victuals for me. I'd hev nothin' to wish forthen but a mouth as big as the Saco's."

　　"And I wish this custard pie was the size o' Bonnie Eagle Pond,"said Ike Billings. "I'd like to fall into the middle of it andeat my way out!"

　　"Look at that bunch o' Chiny asters tied on t' the bail o' thatbiscuit-pail!" said Ivory Dunn. "That's the girl's doin's, youbet women-folks don't seem to make no bo'quets after they gitmarried. Let's divide 'em up an' wear 'em drivin' thisafternoon; mebbe they'll ketch the eye so't our rags won't showso bad. Land! it's lucky my hundred days is about up! If Idon't git home soon, I shall be arrested for goin' withoutclo'es. I set up'bout all night puttin' these blue patches in mypants an' tryin' to piece together a couple of old red-flannelshirts to make one whole one. That's the worst o' drivin' inthese places where the pretty girls make a habit of comin' downto the bridge to see the fun. You hev to keep rigged up jest sostylish; you can't git no chance at the rum bottle, an' you evenhev to go a leetle mite light on swearin'."