When the logs reach the falls they are meat for the mills. Nothing can
stop them then. One after another they rise on end to take the final
plunge. Some twist and writhe as if in agony, as if conscious that the
river and forest shall know them no more. Thousands have travelled the
self-same way; not one has ever returned. The lower rapid of the Coho
hardly deserves its name. Half a mile farther on it is an estuary
across which stretches the boom.
The crews assembled on each side of the pool. The logs were pricked
into slow movement. This being duffers' work was assigned to the less
experienced. The picked river-drivers stood upon the rocks of the
upper rapid, pole in hand. And here, watching them with a lack-lustre
eye, stood Mamie in the shade of a dogwood tree in full blossom. Now
and again a soft white petal would fall upon the water and be swept
away. Above the hemlocks soughed softly. At her feet the giant
maidenhair raised its delicate fronds till they touched her cheek.
She watched the logs go by in a never-ending procession. The scene
fascinated her, although, in a sense, she was singularly devoid of
either imagination or perception.
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