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Rh 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.

You know Paul could do wonders. Everyone's Heard how he thrashed the horses on a load That wouldn't budge until they simply stretched Their rawhide harness from the load to camp. Paul told the boss the load would be all right, "The sun will bring your load in"—and it did— By shrinking the rawhide to natural length. That's what is called a stretcher. But I guess The one about his jumping so's to land With both his feet at once against the ceiling, And then land safely right side up again, Back on the floor, is fact or pretty near fact. Well this is such a yam. Paul sawed his wife Out of a white-pine log. Murphy was there, And, as you might say, saw the lady born. Paul worked at anything in lumbering. He'd been hard at it taking boards away For—I forget—the last ambitious sawyer To want to find out if he couldn't pile