The Wanigan Read Free Page B

the dark woodland on the one side of the wanigan truly appeared mysterious.
    Mama was taking a moment to rest in the wanigan’s single chair. Her face was pale and I saw she had pinned up her long hair any which way. It hurt me to see her so worn out. “Mama,” I asked, “don’t you get awfully tired of all this cooking? Don’t you wish you were in a beautiful garden reading poetry with flowers all around you and servants to bring you a cool drink and little cakes with pink frosting?”
    Mama sighed. “Annabel, what’s the use of wishing for something that will never happen? It just makes you unhappy.”
    I wasn’t so sure. I had lots of daydreams. When I was unhappy with what was around me, I could close my eyes and go where I wanted to be.
    When I looked up, I saw Jimmy all dried off and standing at the doorway with a canvas sack of firewood. I wondered how much he had heard. Some of it, surely, for he said in a low, grudging voice, “If it’s flowers you want, the whole woods is full of them. I could show you, only you got those silly things on.” He pointed to my boots.
    Before I could come up with a response to put Jimmy in his place, Mama said, “Annabel has an old pair of rubber boots she could put on.” She gave me a meaningful look and said, “I’m sure it’s very kind of Jimmy to offer to show you the flowers. Only don’t go too far.”
    I loathed the old rubber boots. They made me feel ugly. Anyhow, the last thing in the world I wanted was to go wandering around in some desolate woods with Jimmy McGuire, but the look from Mama made me remember her scolding. I pulled on the boots while Jimmy stood there grinning. Jimmy has a wide mouth, so there was a lot of grin.
    The wanigan was anchored close to the shore. I held up my skirts and walked carefully through the shallow water so as not to get my hem wet. Jimmy splashed his way to shore, showering me with water. I was sure he did it on purpose and I bit my tongue to keep from saying so.
    Downstream we could see the men wrestling the huge logs that had been caught up on the shore. They would send the logs back into the river. After they had worked their way a few miles downstream, they would hike back to the wanigan. The next day they would move the wanigan and start all over again. I searched among the men, recognizing Papa by the black cap Mama had knitted for him.
    As we clambered over a great pine log that lay along the shore, I asked, “Why didn’t they push this log into the river?”
    Jimmy pointed to one end of the log. Cut into the log were two triangles. “That’s not our mark,” Jimmy said. “Every outfit’s got its own brand. Since that’s not our brand, the men leave it be.”
    I remembered seeing our lumberjacks using a marking hammer to hammer a star onto the ends of the logs before piling them up on the riverbank.
    â€œLots of lumber companies send their logs down the river, so that the logs are all mixed up,” Jimmy said. “When the logs get to the mouth of the river, they’ll be sorted according to their marks.” He was happy to show off knowing more about something than I did.
    Jimmy headed into the dark woods as if he knew exactly where he was going. I followed nervously, worrying about what was behind each tree. At last we escaped the woods and came to an open field. The May sun was as warm as a shawl on my shoulders. We had left the river smell behind, and what I smelled now was grass and earth, something I had not smelled since we had left our poor farm.
    There had been woods all around our farm, but I didn’t often venture into them. Mama had warned me not to go too far, reciting the poem about the babes in the woods who had gotten lost and died and the little birds who came and covered them with leaves. After hearing that poem, I was afraid of all the darkness in the woods and how one path looked like any