Monday morning came, and in the little cove, abreast of Captain Rhines’s door, lay moored a “gundelow,” containing some hay, an ox cart, plough, scraper, pot and tea-kettle, and provisions, raw and cooked. Just as the sun rose, Ben came down the hill with a yoke of oxen, and an axe on his shoulder weighing fourteen pounds. Joe Griffin made his appearance on foot, and Isaac Murch on horseback, with his wife (who had come to take the beast back) riding behind him on a pillion. It was a bright October morning; the fields were white with frost, which was just beginning to melt as the sun rose.

“Halloa!” cried Joe, as he caught sight of Ben’s head over the rising ground; “this is the weather for the woods; the frost puts the grit in.”

Hannah Murch, saying that she was going to see Sally Rhines, that is to be, and would meet them at four o’clock Saturday afternoon, rode off. They put up a boat’s sail in the forward part of the “gundelow,” and, as the wind was fair, made good progress. Ben steered, while the others stretched themselves at full length upon the hay.

Joe was half asleep, when he felt his leg grasped by Ben, who motioned him to crawl to him as easily as possible.

“There’s a flock of coots to leeward; steer her right down on them, and when they rise I’ll give it to them.”

He carefully lifted a board, under which lay a gun, with an old flint lock, with a stocking leg over it to keep off the damp of the sea and the mist of the morning. Ben crawled forward behind the hay, where he lay with his finger on the trigger. The unsuspicious fowl kept diving and chasing each other over the water: at length they seemed to take alarm, and began to huddle together.

“They’re going to rise, Ben,” whispered Joe.

“Well, let them rise.”

Coots, when they are fat, cannot well rise from the water, except against the wind. As they rose and flew towards the “gundelow,” exposing their most vital parts to a shot, five fell dead, and four wounded.

“There’s our supper to-night, at any rate,” said Ben; “and were we in anything else than this scow, I’d have those wounded ones.”

They reached the island, and luffing round its eastern point, ran the “gundelow” on the beach at the mouth of the cove. Joe, making a leaping-pole of an oar, sprang ashore. “Throw us a rope, and you go astern, and I’ll haul her in.” While Joe pulled on the rope, Ben stepping overboard, put his little shoulders to the stern of the “gundelow,” and shoved her so high up on the beach that Isaac Murch stepped out without wetting his feet.

“I say, Ben,” exclaimed Joe, “suppose you take an ox under each arm, and bring them out. I never was here before, but if this ain’t just the handsomest place I ever set eyes on. Such a nice little harbor to keep a craft; and a brook, and this little green spot in the lee of the woods; then such a master growth of timber; there’s a pine that’ll run seventy feet without a limb. I say it’s great, I do.”

Let us glance a moment at the character and capacities of these three men, as they stand together on the beach of this little gem of the wild Atlantic coast.

They represent the yeomanry of the nation. They are of the old stock; not technically religious men, and yet no word of profanity, or disrespect to religion, finds utterance or countenance from them. That which, in their estimation, is of the greatest importance, is to have something which they have earned with their own hands. Look at them, as they stand there at the water’s edge, and know them. Physically considered, they are noble specimens of manly vigor and power.

What would some of the effeminate dandies that throng our streets, or the scions of nobility in the old world, be good for on that wild sea-beach? But these men can live there, and cause others to live, and turn the wilderness into a garden.

Isaac Murch is five feet eleven inches in height, fifty-three years of age, without a gray hair on his head, of powerful, compact frame, with a world of intelligence and kindness in his face, and something about him that, without the least assumption, caused his neighbors to respect his opinion, and look up to him as a leader. His early advantages for learning were very slight; but since he has been in easy circumstances, he has improved strong natural capacities by reading and observation.

Joe Griffin was twenty-two—a boy, as Isaac Murch called him; and a great red-cheeked, corn-fed boy he was, too; six feet in his stockings, and weighing a hundred and eighty pounds; loose-jointed, big-boned, thin in the flanks, not long-legged, but getting his length between his shoulders and his hips. He is of less capacity, and more interested in physical matters. He can read and write, cipher as far as the “rule of three,” and cast interest; but he has a knack of handling tools that comes by nature. As the neighbors say, he has an eye,—that is, he can judge of proportions, and, with his great clumsy fingers, do anything with wood that he likes; but his great ambition is, to go ahead and do the work. He’s smart, and knows it, and likes to have other people know it. He don’t calculate to let anybody go ahead of him with a scythe, or chop into the side of a tree, or put hay on to a cart, quicker than himself. Indeed there were very few that could; for he was not only strong, but tough, and possessed infinite tact, laying out his strength to the best advantage.

Let us consider the type of labor presented to us. Here are three live Yankees, in whom all the shrewd, inventive genius of the race has been stimulated by necessity,—all of them, from early life, having been flung upon their own resources.

They are helping one of their number to build a house for himself and his young wife to live in. One of them has already passed through that experience of life which their employer is about to enter. The other expects to, for he also intends to be married, and have a home and land of his own. They therefore go about their work with interest and sympathy.

How different are these men from what is generally termed help! They are hired, to be sure; but the sentiment which inspires their labor is entirely different from that feeling of drudgery, under the influence of which the tenantry of Europe, or even the Irish servants in this country, perform their work.

Isaac Murch is an independent, wealthy farmer,—a mechanic by nature,—who has acquired the property he holds with his own hands, and would scorn to be a hired servant, like an Irish navvy; but for accommodation, he will hire some one to get in his own harvest, and in the cold, frosty nights, when he might be comfortable at home in the blankets, he will go on to Elm Island, sweat and work, live rough, and sleep on the ground, to build a house for his neighbor; for neighbor meant something in those days.

As for Joe Griffin, he’s counting every dollar, and looking forward to the day when he shall have a home of his own, and plough his own acres, and is ambitious to earn his wages.

How superior are the results of such labor, to that of the man who has no ambition of ever being anything more than a servant, and only exercises his ingenuity in getting through the day, and shirking all the work he can! They knew that Ben had nothing but his hands to help himself with, and couldn’t afford to pay them for watching the shadows; besides, they had a reputation to sustain, of which they were sufficiently proud. They knew very well that everybody within a circle of ten miles would know what they were about before night, and what remarks would be made about them at the blacksmith’s shop, the grist-mill, and around the firesides.

“Well, now, if there ain’t a team—Isaac Murch, Ben Rhines, and Joe Griffin! Pine trees’ll have to take it now, if they’ve got Isaac Murch to lay out the work, and Ben and Joe to back him up. Won’t they have a good time, though, seeing which is the smartest?”

“Wal, sartainly,” exclaimed old Aunt Molly Bradish, “Joe Griffin has met his match for once; he can’t do anything with Ben Rhines; he’d pull up a pine tree by the roots, if he took a notion.”

“Joe can’t, of course, take hold of a log to lift with Ben, nor anybody else in this world,” said Seth Warren; “but I’ll bet he’ll chop into the side of a tree as quick; he strikes so true, he wouldn’t miss a clip once in a fortnight. I saw him cut a pig of lead in two, down at the mill; and though he struck ten times, he hit so true that you could see but one mark of the axe.”

“Wal,” replied Aunt Molly, “there’s this to be said of Ben Rhines, that is not to be said of everybody: I took him in my arms when he was born, and have lived a near neighbor to him from that day to this, and I never knew or heard of his using his strength to harm a fellow-critter, except they desarved it most outrageously. I’ve seen little snipper-snappers impose upon him, and all the same as spit in his face, and he never let on that he heard them. Sally’s my own niece, and I set my eyes by her; but I couldn’t wish her better luck than to marry Ben. He’s helped everybody; I should think somebody might have sprawl enough to get up a ‘bee’ and help him.”

They also knew that, when they went to meeting, Sunday, everybody would want to know how much they’d done. Added to this was the pride of emulation, which leads men of any pluck to exert themselves in the presence of each other. This is a kind of labor that can exist nowhere but in a free country, is the result of its institutions, from which proceed the motives, and a thousand subtle influences which beget it.

The island well merited Joe’s encomium. On the eastern side, adjoining the brook, was a large space, having a slight elevation, covered with green grass, extending back to the middle ridge, which, at its extremity, terminated in a perpendicular ledge, which, sloping gradually on the eastern side, and disappearing, crossed the brook, where it again came to the surface, forming a natural dam, about two feet in height, with a little fissure in the middle, worn by the passage of the water. Over this the stream fell with a pleasant murmur, mingling very sweetly with the deeper tone of the breakers. On either side of the brook were two enormous elm trees, united by a great root, flat on the surface, which bridged the brook a very little above the fall. Under this root, which was as large as a man’s body, the water had a free passage, except in the spring and autumn, when the brook was swollen by melting snows and rains. Then the old root was half buried in water. The high tides came over this natural dam; and in the brackish water were great quantities of smelts and frost fish; and eels also ran up through the fissure in the ledge. The summit of the high ledge was covered with white birches, the great forked roots, rough and black with whorls and blisters, running along the very edge of the rocks, while their limbs, stretching themselves towards the sun, fell in great masses over its edge.

They are very much mistaken who suppose that no one can appreciate natural beauty, or hold communion with the beautiful forms of nature, and grow by it, who has not graduated at a university and read Homer.

Joe Griffin appreciated the beauty of this spot, and felt it to his heart’s core; and so did big Ben, though they could not express it in artistic language.

Ben, in consultation with uncle Isaac, had determined to hew his logs for their whole length only on two sides, which, as it was late in the year, and they were pressed for time, would save much labor; but at the ends, and where the doors and windows were to be, to hew them to a “proud edge.” This would give good joints at the ends, and make the house as tight as though it was all square timber.

“Where are you going to set your house?” inquired Uncle Isaac.

“Here,” said Ben, walking up to the slope above some elms that grew close together, and sticking down a crowbar; “I want my house under the lee of the woods and the hill, and my garden under that warm ledge.”

“How large will you have it on the ground?”

“Thirty-six by thirty-nine.”

“Jerusalem!” exclaimed Joe; “that’s a big house for two people, and a little yellow dog with white on the end of his tail, to live in; hope you won’t be crowded.”

“Log houses,” said Uncle Isaac, “last some time; perhaps he thinks there’ll be more of them before it rots down.”

“At first,” said Ben, “and perhaps for some years, it’ll have to be house, barn, corn-house, workshop, and everything.”

“You’ll have your cellar under half of it; how high will you have it?”

“I never have thought anything about that.”

“Well, I’d drop the beams down, and have it a story and a half; that great chamber’ll be the best part of the house; ’twill make you a splendid corn-house; that’s the way your grandfather’s was, and many a bushel of corn I’ve shelled in it. If I’m boss, as you, Ben, are strong enough to hold the scraper alone, you and Joe can take the plough, and go to ploughing and scraping out the cellar, and I’ll go to the woods and pick out and cut the trees.”

“The sun is getting low,” said Ben; “it is time we were making calculations for sleeping to-night, whether in the ‘gundelow,’ with a sail over us, or in a bush camp.”

“I go in for the bush camp,” said Uncle Isaac.

“And I’m the boy to build it,” said Joe; “takes me to do that.”

“Go ahead, Joe, and build it, and we’ll get the wood for the fire.”

Without a moment’s hesitation, Joe went into the edge of a little clump of bushes, and in a few minutes cut out a space about twelve feet square, leaving an opening between two trees, where he went in, of about three feet. As fast as he cut the trees, he thrust them back, and jammed them in among the others, making a thick wall; he then wove two or three small trees in on the side to keep them from falling in. He then cut three or four small beech limbs, twisted them into withes, bent down the tops of three or four trees on the sides, tied them together with the withes, thus forming the roof; then getting the boat’s sail, threw it over the top, and a little brush over that, to break the force of the rain. He then strewed some hemlock brush on the floor to sleep on.

“I’ll risk any rain-storm driving us out of that,” said Joe, contemplating his edifice with great satisfaction.

“I must have a door,” said Joe, “or these plaguy oxen and sheep’ll be in there when we ain’t, and bother us.”

You may think this a difficult matter, but Joe never wasted a thought on’t. He took three spruce poles, as long as the height of the opening, drove them into the ground, and wattled them with birch limbs; he then fastened a pole across each end, and one in the middle, leaving the middle one protruding about four inches on the right side; that was a latch. He now took a little hemlock, peeled the bark off, and drove it into the ground on the left side; this was the door-post. He made hinges of withes, which slipped easily round the smooth pole. On the right hand tree grew a limb, slanting upwards; this he cut off about three inches from the tree; then lifting the door, he threw it into the angle, and it was shut and latched.

He drove two crotch-poles into the ground, just before the door, and put another across; he then cut a limb with a side branch growing out of it, and hooked it over the pole; cut a deep notch in the lower end of it, to receive the bail of the pot, and hung it on.

Uncle Isaac and Ben now came with a whole cart full of dry wood, which they had picked up, and a fire was kindled. It was not long before the flavor of the coot stew saluted their nostrils.

“O, that smells good,” said Joe; “I’m savage hungry.” Seizing his axe, he cut some great chips out of the side of a tree, which he hollowed out, and giving one to each, said, “There’s the plates; they don’t need any washing; you can shie them into the fire when you’re done; there’s enough more where they come from.”

The stew was now taken from the fire, and these hardy men, who had shown so much capacity for labor during the day, manifested no less for eating. When the solid contents of the stew had disappeared, Joe exclaimed, “I think it’s too bad to lose all this good gravy in the pot.” He went to the beach and got three clam-shells; these they stuck in the end of split sticks, and soon despatched the contents of the pot.

“Well,” said Uncle Isaac, as they stretched themselves around the blazing fire, “we’ve got on here, made a beginning, and got to housekeeping; and that will do pretty well for one day. We couldn’t expect to make much show to-day; but to-morrow we shall get to work betimes, and bring more to pass.”

“I’m sorry I forgot to bring a drag,” said Ben; “we’ve nothing to haul the rocks on.”

“That’s a thing we must have,” said Uncle Isaac; “I’ll make one right off.”

“You can’t make it to-night,” said Ben.

“The dogs I can’t. Joe, cut that little red oak; you can do it in three minutes. Make a blaze, Ben, to see to work by; then run to the ‘gundelow,’ and bring up that plank I saw there.”

By the time Ben returned with the plank the tree was down.

“Now, Joe,” said Uncle Isaac, “you can take one side of the tree, and I will the other, and see if you can keep up with your grandfather. You, Ben, may saw up that plank into pieces three feet long, and make some wooden pins.”

By nine o’clock the drag was made. “There,” said Uncle Isaac, “that hasn’t killed anybody; ’twould have been an awful waste to have taken good daylight for that. I’m not sure but ’twould have been a sin; and we’ve plenty of time left to sleep.”

Thursday was occupied in framing together the sills, and laying the lower floor, in order that they might have it to stand on while rolling up the logs. It was left rough, because Uncle Isaac said it would wear smoother than if ’twas planed.

“I hope,” said Joe, “it won’t be like old Uncle Yelf’s floor. He had a floor of hemlock boards, rough from the saw; they had a heap of grandchildren, every one of them barefoot. Go in there when you would, for a fortnight, there’d be old granny with her darning-needle, and a great young one’s foot up in her lap, a-picking out the splinters, while the young one, with both hands on the floor, was screaming bloody murder. By the time she’d picked the splinters out of his feet, there’d be as many more in his hands.”

Saturday forenoon was spent in hauling logs, and rolling them up on skids, preparatory to hewing.

Just as they had finished dinner, Joe suddenly cried, “What’s that in that bushy spruce on the edge of the bank?” “I don’t see anything,” said Ben.

“Nor I, now; but I know there was something there, and I believe it’s there now.”

“Perhaps it’s a coon,” said Uncle Isaac.

“A coon? How could a coon get on to this island?”

“How could he get here? How could the squirrels and woodchucks get here? God Almighty put ’em here.”

Going to the tree, Joe peered a long time among the branches; at length he exclaimed, “Here he is: get your gun, Ben!”

“I shot away the last powder I had to kindle fire this morning; but we’ll stone him down.”

They pelted him with stones in vain, the thick limbs causing them all to glance.

“Climb up and get him, Joe.”

“Climb up yourself, Ben; they say their bite’s rank ‘pizen.’”

“I’ll have that coon,” said Ben, “if it takes all day. Cut the tree down, Joe.”

As it fell, the coon leaped from it; and though the stones fell thick and fast around him, he ran up the bank and under the logs. Then began a most exciting race, the men rolling the logs here and there, and striking at him between them, till finally he broke cover, and ran for the woods, with the whole scout at his heels. Ben overtook him just as he was running up a tree, and, catching him by the tail, flung him over his head: he landed on Joe’s back, who, having a mortal terror of the bite of a coon, roared with agony; but the creature, too frightened to bite, rolled off his back to the ground, and passing Uncle Isaac, who was so full of tickle that he could not lift a finger to stop him, ran under the timber again. As he was now too far gone to try another race for the woods, he hid under a log, one end of which lay upon a block, and the other on the ground.

Ben saw his eyes shine, and kicked the log off the block; as the coon attempted to run out, it fell on his tail and held him fast. There he sat, captive but undismayed, showing his white teeth, and frothing at his mouth with pain and rage.

“How are you, coonie?” said Joe, taking off his hat and making a low bow; “by the chances of war you are now our prisoner; we are cannibals, of the cannibal tribe, and eat all our captives; you must die for the good of the tribe;” and thus saying he knocked him on the head.

“I’ll get mother to bake him to-night,” said Ben; “come over to-morrow, Joe, and help eat him.” “Boys,” said Uncle Isaac, “don’t you think we look well skylarking at this rate? and to-day is Saturday, too; now we must put in hard enough to make up for it.”

They labored till dark, as if their lives depended on it.

“I thought you were going to leave off earlier Saturday night,” said Hannah Murch, as she met them at the landing. “I’ve been waiting here more’n two hours in the cold. I was afraid some accident had befallen you.”

Ben held up the raccoon.

“I see how it is; you’ve been cooning, and had to work later to make it up. Isaac, I do wish you would ever leave off being a boy.”

“Well, you’re the first woman I ever heard of that wanted her husband to grow old.”