As he solemnly wiped his drenched face he sniffed the fragrance of
Babe’s breath and stared with a feeling of envy at the clean, glowing
hair. When he had finished his inspection and left the stable, it was
evident that he was wrestling with some laborious problem. His whole
face was tense with a terrific frown; his memory groped among the
shadows of some distant happening; he scratched his sides vigorously
and breathed deeply of the air, sweet with the odors of washed earth.
The purity of the spring weather, the fresh cleanliness it gave the
world, and the aroma and sleekness of the blue ox, had brought the
Big Swede to face his own sore need of a washing. He dreaded it as
an ordeal, an exceptional and hazardous undertaking, and for that
reason he wished that he might accomplish it immediately. He wandered
aimlessly on, tormented by an unaccustomed conflict of the soul and
the flesh, and at last he came to the edge of a cliff. He stared in
surprise at the appearance of a lake below. He could not remember so
large a body of water near the camp. But the Big Swede had no room for
more than one emotion at a time, and a violent resolve now smothered
his surprise.
“Yah, aye do him noo,” he muttered.
He disrobed swiftly and ran to a rock that jutted from the cliff.
Swinging his fists he leaped twice into the air; the second time he
flung himself outward in a magnificent dive, his body made a great
curve, and then, head first, he plunged downward. But there was no
tumultuous surge and splash of waters as a climax of this splendid
dive. Instead, the Big Swede’s head struck white canvas with a dull,
rending impact. For he had mistaken Paul Bunyan’s tarpaulin for a lake!
The force of his plunge drove him through the canvas and half-buried
him in the soft earth underneath. His arms were imprisoned, but his
legs waved wildly, and his muffled bellows shook the earth. A prowling
logger saw what seemed to be shining marble columns dancing in the
moonlight and felt the ground trembling under his feet.
“It can’t be,” he thought bravely.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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