Weeks had passed since the death of the dark-visaged stranger, and the gloom which had hung over the camp had partially lifted, for the earth revolves and man must live. The “deacon’s chair” was once more called into service.
    This evening, the occupant of the honored place was a philosopher and a man familiar with wood lore, who had promised the boys a treat. Knowing this to be in store for them, each of the woodsmen had been anxious to complete his task so that he might be on time to hear this great man of the world. “There’s many a flower that’s born to blush and bloom unseen, and waste its fragrance on the desert air.“
    He had traveled far, since early morning, through the silent forest, wading through drifts three and four feet high, with only his compass to guide him. He had passed over windfalls, avoiding treacherous pot holes, covered with twigs and snow. He was careful not to break a snowshoe, for to do so would end his journey in the deep snow, abruptly.
    Trained in wood lore as he was, his mind was alert to everything he passed as he plodded wearily along. At times, his musings were broken by a sharp report like that of a rifle as a giant oak suddenly cracked when pierced by the intense cold. The late, winter sun had sunk behind the dense forest. There was a sprinkle of silvery particles of snow blowing here and there through the air. As the cold, silent night urged the wayfarer to seek shelter, he stumbled onto a tote road. The crunching sound of a sleigh, the clank of harness, then came a welcome invitation to ride, from the driver of a four horse team.
    The cruiser removed his ice-caked snow shoes and seated himself upon the bunk of the wide logging sled, enjoying the comfort which those with tired leg muscles can enjoy, when a journey on foot is ended.
    Reaching the bunkhouse after a three mile ride through the cold air, tainted by the sweat of the horses, which is an odor pleasing to those who love horse flesh, the cruiser enjoyed seeing the glimmer of lanterns from the horse barns and the welcome lights from the shanties. There was a bustling preparation for the evening meal.
    As he jostled with members of the crew in washing up for the evening meal, a fragrant odor of cooking meat and vegetables greeted him. All took their places at the long table. Supper over, they trooped to the bunkhouse to await the stories of the evening. In all ages, there have been those whose natural gifts singled them out as performers. William Allen, the cruiser, the man now in the “deacon’s chair”, was one of these.
    Mr. Allen had a serious face, square and strong, with firm chin and lips well set. The blue gray eyes, a little weary at the corners, were honest and fearless. He wore a blue shirt, open at the throat, corduroy trousers and high, laced boots. With a smile and a sweep of his hands, he began :
    “Boys, I am not going to speak on the beauties of nature, tonight, but will relate an experience that may be of some value to my fellowmen. Tradition is said to be the mother of history. During my career as a cruiser, I have seen many strange things that are not to be found in books. I have learned of the prehistoric animals that inhabited this world back at the beginning, but the monstrosity I am about to mention, must be the missing nondescript. I will call it the hide-behind, because of its habit of hiding behind trees.
    This animal stands five feet and ten inches high and walks on its hind feet. It is of slender build and can easily hide behind a tree of medium size. Its body is completely covered with long hair so thick, that it is impossible to tell where the face is, if it has one, and it is a hopeless task to determine whether the animal is going or coming. It has a short forearm of great strength, with sharp, pointed talons able to pierce through heavy garments.
    Strange to relate, the meals of the hide-behind are composed of the bowels of human beings and the intestines of hell divers. After this vicious animal has partaken of a meal to his liking, he utters a demoniacal laugh. It disembowels its victim, bringing out the entrails, raising them to its head for the purpose of smelling them before eating. Should there be any scent of liquor in the entrails, the animal will throw them back into the face of the victim and with a horrible laugh, vanish into the forest.
    Crossing Lost River today, I found a disemboweled hell diver and the tracks of the peculiarly clawed feet of an animal, which is indisputable proof that a hide-behind had dined. Knowing that the animal had partaken of his meal, I lessened my watchfulness, because I have actual proof that he can go without eating for a period of seven or eight years.” Then Kelly, the silent one, spoke up, “If Murphy ever meets with a hide-behind, the gob that he gets in the face will be a-plenty.”
    Duncan McFay, with an ear frozen to almost twice its natural size, pushed his big frame past the men in the bunkhouse, near the great, red hot stove. The steaming socks and boot pacs hanging on wires strung across the room, sent out an odor, not easily described, in fact what it lacked in its resemblance to arbutus, it made up for as a disinfectant. Be that as it may, sickness is a rare thing in a logging camp, as a brisk walk through the balsam-scented air at five A. M. leaves no room for a microbe.
    McFay stopped to listen to a very animated argument in regard to heavy loads hauled by horses and oxen and lifting feats and strong men that the shanty boys had known. The conversation waxed hot and threatened to go farther than a mere discussion. But the rules of the camp had to be obeyed, as in rare cases, where an offense could not be settled by arbitration, the contestants were compelled to choose their own dueling site away from the camp, according to the code of honor prescribed by the censor board.
    This was a code far from the present day methods in the prize ring, and if followed at this date, would make less yellow journalism, but we seem to be in our dotage and must abide by the times.