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the woods or from the Indian village to load the boats waiting in at the docks. In the mornings the fires were banked, and the saloons with Indians filled up. On the doorsteps, in the summer, men in shirt sleeves smoked their pipes and discussed the day's cut while the children played on the boardwalk and the fireflies haunted the dark factories. By eleven the last watch houses were [[line illegible] and only the bells could be heard, as the cows cropped the dewy grass in the dockyards.

Life in that small and isolated lumbering village seemed very homelike and yet still full of interest and adventure. It was wonderful to go up in the woods on the logging train, standing on the cab of the engine beside the engineer or sitting up in the look out of the caboose or even dangling your legs from the flatcars. Wonderful to visit one of the camps at the bench house and see the loggers eating tremendous hunks of pork and bread, and tin plates of baked beans and corn