In
sheltered fence corners and nooks in the wood, the grass lifted
new, green blades, and queer little Margaret Llewellen showed Nan
where the first anemones and violets hid under last year's
drifted leaves.
The river ice went out with a rush after it had rained a few
hours; after that the "drives" of logs were soon started. Nan
went down to the long, high bridge which spanned the river and
watched the flood carry the logs through.
At first they came scatteringly, riding the foaming waves end-on,
and sometimes colliding with the stone piers of the bridge with
sufficient force to split the unhewn timbers from end to end,
some being laid open as neatly as though done with axe and wedge.
When the main body of the drive arrived, however, the logs were
like herded cattle, milling in the eddies, stampeded by a cross-
current, bunching under the bridge arches like frightened steers
in a chute. And the drivers herded the logs with all the skill
of cowboys on the range.
Each drive was attended by its own crew, who guarded the logs on
either bank, launching those that shoaled on the numerous
sandbars or in the shallows, keeping them from piling up in coves
and in the mouths of estuaries, or creeks, some going ahead at
the bends to fend off and break up any formation of the drifting
timbers that promised to become a jam.
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