As Robert and Ed Allen had no elder sisters, and the health of their mother was far from robust, they were early trained to the simple duties of the home. Rob, especially, prided himself that “there was no woman who could beat him in plain cooking,” and, indeed, his bread was voted, even by Mr. Allen, to be “almost as good as Mother’s.”
As the frosts began to increase, and November clouds hung gray and heavy, tote teams, with their winter supplies for the camps in the big woods, would frequently stop at Mr. Thompson’s for the night. With one of these outfits there was a crew of twenty men with their cook, bound for the upper waters of the Wisconsin river to get out a special contract of “pumpkin pine,” a good sized tract of these forest giants having been located during the previous summer. This variety of pine was very white, exceedingly soft, and grainless, and not infrequently would yield three cuts of logs of sixteen feet each in length, entirely free from knots. These logs would saw into planks sixteen feet long, with a width of from three to six feet. Of course such timber was very valuable, even in those days of timber prodigality.
The Allen boys heard that the crew boss was young
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 Medford, whom they had met in Necedah. He was a clean, energetic young fellow, just out of college, and, destined to take his father’s place in the great lumbering operations of the state, was winning his way up in practical service. But this morning, while his greeting was pleasant, young Medford’s face showed a considerable anxiety to the boys. Pete Lateur, the cook, while wholly dependable once within the big woods, had broken faith with the boss, and had smuggled a flask of whiskey in with his dunnage. During this, their first night’s stop, the liquor had provoked a brawl in which the cook emerged with a broken arm. After the rude surgery that he was able to give, Mr. Thompson would take him back to the town for a month’s lay up. But there was no one else among the crew who could take his place, and no time to send a team back to hunt a cook in town.
“Rob,” said Ed, “you’re always bragging about your cooking, why don’t you take the job?”
“What’s that?” exclaimed Medford, overhearing what had been spoken in jest, “Can you cook, Rob?”
“He certainly can, Mr. Medford,” replied Ed, not waiting for Rob to reply, “He can beat Mother baking beans, and as for bread—”
“Stop your foolishness, Ed,” broke in Rob, blushing red.
“But see here, boys, I must have a cook, and if you will take the place, Rob, I will give you forty-five dollars a month for four months, and your wages will begin today.”
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Rob gasped at the thought of so much money. “I’ll see father” he replied.
Mrs. Allen was averse to allowing her boy to spend the winter among such rough men as the woods crews were known to be, but Mr. Allen said it would “toughen the fiber of the lad” and gave his consent.
Alas, how many parents mistakenly think that association with evil, and even evil experiences are a necessary part of the education of youth. Nothing can be further from the truth. Instead of a benefit, such association can but result in harm. If, in after life, the youth should come into clean ways, the deep scars of evil will remain, and he will carry with him to the grave that which he would fain forget.
For the first fifty miles the crew were able to get their meals at least twice a day at rough wayside taverns, themselves but little better than camps, but which afforded shelter and an abundance of food, such as it was. Then the trail led up into the unbroken wilderness of forest, where camps must needs be made at night, and there Rob’s winter work began.
There was something solemn and majestic about the big woods. There was little undergrowth, and the ground was covered deep with the rich, brown carpet of needles. The tall trunks of the great pines rose straight to the dark canopy above, like the pillars of some vast cathedral. The very silence was suggestive of worship—the low moaning of the high-up tops came to the ears as a soft, opening, minor strain from some grand organ.
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A dead, dry pine was felled, logs sawed from it and split, a fire built, and soon a bed of glowing coals was ready for the great pans of frying salt pork. Two crotched sticks were driven into the ground a few feet apart, and a pole laid across them, upon which the big coffee kettle was swung, and under it a good fire was soon going. Then biscuit dough was mixed—not with milk, but with clear, cold water from the river—and placed in the baker. This arrangement was something like a three-leaved book made of tin, with folding legs for the upper and lower leaves. When opened before the bed of glowing coals—the bread being placed upon the middle leaf—it was a no mean substitute for an oven.
Tin plates and cups, iron knives and forks and spoons, were distributed; a jug of molasses and a bowl of brown sugar were placed handy, and the cry of “Chuck’s ready!” was given. Not very appetizing!—perhaps not to you, my reader, but with these hardy men, living out of doors, at strenuous labor, bread and meat and strong coffee, with plenty of fats and sweets to fortify against the bitter cold, were eagerly consumed, especially when on the march. Later, when in permanent camp, a greater variety of food would be prepared.
Wearied though he was with the long day’s tramp, and with his efforts to satisfy the ravenous appetites of the score of men, Rob could not roll up in his blanket before the fire with the rest, as they finished their meal. In a little hollow scooped out near the log fire,
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 were to be placed a half bushel of Irish potatoes, with a jab of his knife through the skin of each one to let out the steam. Over them the hot ashes were raked and packed down tight, then a few coals, and here they would bake slowly through the night, to be eaten in their mealy whiteness, cold, with salt, at the hasty noon meal the next day. The coffee kettle was replaced by another containing great chunks of corned beef, and from the baker came several batches of delicately browned biscuit to be packed away in a box for the morrow. There would be no time allowed at the noon rest for more than the preparing of the hot coffee.
It seemed to the lad that he had no more than closed his eyes, as he finally rolled himself into his blanket—his boots under his head for pillow—than he found himself sitting up, panting for breath, as though exhausted by running, and trembling all over. Clearly he had been frightened in his sleep; but by what? The horses, securely tied near by, were snorting and frantically trying to break away. The men, here and there, were rising upon elbows. Then, from the tall pine, seemingly right over their heads, came the scream as of a woman in such agony, despair, and heart-breaking entreaty, that it seemed to Rob nothing in all the world could express more hopeless misery. With a “Sh-h, keep quiet, boys,” Mr. Medford grasped his winchester and slipped around to quiet the horses, peering up into the thick branches as he went. Again
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 that hideous cry—and Mr. Medford fired at the place from which the sound seemed to come.
“What is it?” whispered Rob to teamster Jackson, next him.
“A panther. There is no danger. Lie still.”
There was the noise of something bounding from limb to limb, high up in the pines, then all was still.
Exhausted, though he was, with the day’s march and labor, Rob was so thoroughly awakened, that long after the quieted teams were again munching their corn, and the men were snoring, he lay, looking up at the one far-away star peeping through the boughs, and starting up now and then as a soft pad-pad, or sniff-sniff, or low growl, or bark, announced the presence of some other visiting woods-folk.
When at last they had reached the timber tract, a little knoll not far back from the river, was selected as the site for the permanent camps. These would be three in number—the main building where the men would sleep and eat, and one end of which would serve as kitchen; a second for the snug stable for the teams; and the third to be used as repair shop and storehouse.
All hands went to work at once putting up the houses. It was now the second week of November, and the fierce winter storms might be looked for at any time. The buildings were constructed of logs, about twelve inches in diameter, the cracks between chinked in with moss and clay. The roof was made of split logs, the split faces being laid together, breaking the
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 joints. There was always plenty of chance for ventilation. After the roaring fires in the sheet iron stoves should finally succeed in drying them out, these rooms would be warm and comfortable.
For nearly a week, during the house-building, the men slept in tents which opened one end toward the big log fire. At this fire also, with its undiminished abundance of live coals, Rob baked and boiled and roasted. Now that there was to be no more traveling, the supplies were overhauled, and great dishes of dried fruit—prunes, peaches, and apples, were stewed. Later, Mr. Medford would have a team bring in fresh beef and pork. Pea soup, hot, and rich with pork fat, was an almost daily ration, and then the great staple—baked beans! Lucky for Rob, indeed, was that accomplishment of which Ed had boasted for him. Surely even Boston itself never knew such appetizing dish as that Rob brought forth from the “bean hole.”
This is the way in which the delicacy was prepared: First, a hole two feet in depth, filled with live coals; the big pot with just the right amount of beans—(be careful to not put in too many, or you will duplicate Mark Twain’s experience with dried apples), molasses, a chunk of fat pork, salt and pepper to season—then water enough to swell the dish full when done (a few disastrous experiments will teach you the right amount), then the coals raked out and the pot, tightly covered, placed in the hole; ashes packed around and over; more live coa............