To drive Paul out of any lumber camp All that was needed was to say to him, “How is the wife, Paul?”—and he’d disappear. Some said it was because he had no wife, And hated to be twitted on the subject. Others because he’d come within a day Or so of having one, and then been jilted. Others because he’d had one once, a good one, Who’d run away with some one else and left him. And others still because he had one now He only had to be reminded of,— He was all duty to her in a minute: He had to run right off to look her up, As if to say, “That’s so, how is my wife? I hope she isn’t getting into mischief.” No one was anxious to get rid of Paul. He’d been the hero of the mountain camps Ever since, just to show them, he had slipped The bark of a whole tamarack off whole, As clean as boys do off a willow twig To make a willow whistle on a Sunday In April by subsiding meadow brooks. They seemed to ask him just to see him go, “How is the wife, Paul?” and he always went. He never stopped to murder anyone Who asked the question. He just disappeared— Nobody knew in what direction, Although it wasn’t usually long Before they heard of him in some new camp, The same Paul at the same old feats of logging. The question everywhere was why should Paul Object to being asked a civil question— A man you could say almost anything to Short of a fighting word. You have the answers. And there was one more not so fair to Paul: That Paul had married a wife not his equal. Paul was ashamed of her. To match a hero, She would have had to be a heroine; Instead of which she was some half-breed squaw. But if the story Murphy told was true, She wasn’t anything to be ashamed of.