But the Big Swede had no soul, and the loggers’ abandonment of labor puzzled and angered him. He yelled at them until some were shaken from the trees. But not one lost his pencil and paper. Johnny Inkslinger, hearing the uproar, left off his figuring and delivered an oration; but the loggers went on writing dreamily, paying no heed to the timekeeper. “You will have to give them up,” he said to the Big Swede. “It’s a case which only Mr. Bunyan can handle.” He went back to his ledgers, and the foreman reluctantly set out for the Tall Timber country. The Big Swede found Paul Bunyan in such happiness over his labor that it seemed evil to tell him disturbing news. The great logger had all the tall trees felled by now and he was grubbing out the stumps. He was at work on the last row of them when the Big Swede found him. “Needing me already?” he asked jovially. “Well, first help me drag out these stumps, then tell me your difficulties.” He said this, seeing the embarrassment of the Big Swede and hoping to make him easy in mind. The two mighty men then tackled the row of stumps, and in a short time they were uprooted, leaving an enormous chasm, the chasm which in this day is called Yosemite. “Now, there is a historical accomplishment for all to read about,” said Paul Bunyan, with great satisfaction. Followed by his foreman, he then strode over to the Bay and washed away the stains of toil. This done, he sat down and began to brush his beard with a young redwood tree. “Now I will listen to you,” he said. The Big Swede’s account of the loggers’ strange doings astonished him. The foreman had said nothing about their writing, for he had never heard of poetry and had hardly noticed the papers and pencils in the loggers’ hands. “Aye tank dey yoost gat lazy noo,” he said, nodding sagely. “I hope it is nothing worse,” said Paul Bunyan. “Laziness I can cure. But come; we must reach New Iowa before sundown.” The two great men traveled swiftly, and they reached the orange palm forests just as the sun was touching fluffy clouds on the Western horizon. The loggers, gathered in the meadows around the camp, were reading aloud from pages which they held in their hands. They did not observe the approach of their leaders, and when Paul Bunyan got within hearing distance of them he stopped and listened. “Blossoms, white blossoms! Oh, orange palm blossoms! My heart is afloat on a sea of white blossoms; My heart is a-cry with the calls of canaries; My heart is a-swoon with the odor of clover” This was the shouting of one logger. Another’s roar sounded above the many: “A snow of daisies on the hill, White drifts all starred with gold. But, ah, such snow wilt never chill-- It never makes thee cold.”