I don't know how I reached the splitter's hut,
I only saw the ragin' fire—an' Nell.
My clothes were torn, my face an' hands were cut,
An' half a dozen times, at least, I fell.
I burst into the clearin' … an' I look. …
She's sittin' on a log there—with a book!
I seem to cross that clearin' in a stride.
Still sobbin' like a kid: "My Nell! My Nell!"
I was clean mad. But, as I reach her side,
I sort of wake, an' give that song a spell.
But, by her eyes, for all she seemed so cool,
I know she must have heard, an' feel a fool.
"Why, Mister Jim? You do look hot," says she.
(But still her eyes says oceans more than that).
"Did you come all the way up here for me?"
Coolness? I tell you straight, it knocked me flat.
By rights, she should fall sobbin' in my arms;
But no; there weren't no shrieks an' no alarms.
I pulls meself together with a jerk.
"Oh, just a stroll," I says. "Don't mention it.
The mill's half burnt, an' I am out of work;
They missed you, so I looked around a bit."
"Now, that was good of you," says she, reel bright.
"Wasn't the bush-fire just a splendid sight?"
