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SELDOM get to hatin' men, nor had much cause to hate; To me, it's just a foolish game to play, at any rate. But it kills the hard thought in you, an' forgiveness is complete, To see the man you hated once a maimed thing at your feet.

We'd had a meetin' at the mill; the boss had said his say— The good old boss, who stints himself to find the men their pay— He told us, fair an' honest, he was up against the game Unless he got the timber out before the Winter came.

I'll say this much for decent men—an' decent men they were— They saw the game that Murray played to give the boss a scare. We saw he'd pay near anything and Ben would do him brown; But a fair thing is a fair thing; so we turned Ben Murray down.

A truck was waitin' in the yard, full-loaded for the trip. Just an easin' of the brake-rope was enough to let her rip For half a mile or more down-hill along a track, rough-made. To where the horses wait to haul her up the other grade.

The talk was done, the numbers up, the boss had won the day. An' we were ready to get back an' earn our bit of pay;