Neal thought of
other work for his fingers. Getting hold of Herb's axe when the owner
was not using it, he felled one of the dwarf white birches. Out of its
light, delicate wood, with the help of his big pocket-knife and a ball
of twine that was hidden somewhere about him, he made a very presentable
cross, to point out to future hunters on Katahdin the otherwise unmarked
grave.
He was a bit of a genius at wood-carving, and surveyed his work with
satisfaction when he considered it finished, having neatly cut upon it
the name, "Chris Kemp," with the date, "October 20th, 1891."
"Couldn't you add a text or motto of some kind?" suggested Dol, glancing
over his shoulder. "Twould make it more like the things one sees in
cemeteries. You're such a dab at that sort of work."
"Can't think of anything," answered the elder brother.
Then, with a sudden lighting of his face, he seized the knife again, and
worked in, in fine lettering, the frightened prayer he had heard on the
half-breed's lips:--
"God, I am weak; pity me!"
Herb and Cyrus lowered the body into its resting-place, and covered it
with the green spruces.
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