The Cobbler In The Devils Kitchen

The Cobbler In The Devil's
Kitchen, by

Mary Hartwell Catherwood This eBook is for the use of anyone
anywhere at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You
may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project
Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at
www.gutenberg.org
Title: The Cobbler In The Devil's Kitchen From "Mackinac And Lake
Stories", 1899
Author: Mary Hartwell Catherwood
Release Date: October 30, 2007 [EBook #23254]
Language: English
Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1
*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE
COBBLER IN THE DEVIL'S KITCHEN ***

Produced by David Widger

THE COBBLER IN THE DEVIL'S KITCHEN
From "Mackinac And Lake Stories", 1899

By Mary Hartwell Catherwood
Early in the Mackinac summer Owen Cunning took his shoemaker's
bench and all his belongings to that open cavern on the beach called the
Devil's Kitchen, which was said to derive its name from former
practices of the Indians. They roasted prisoners there. The inner rock
retained old smoke-stains.
Though appearing a mere hole in the cliff to passing canoe-men, the
Devil's Kitchen was really as large as a small cabin, rising at least
seven feet from a floor which sloped down towards the water.
Overhead, through an opening which admitted his body, Owen could
reach a natural attic, just large enough for his bed if he contented
himself with blankets. And an Irishman prided himself on being tough
as any French voyageur who slept blanketed on snow in the winter
wilderness.
The rock was full of pockets, enclosing pebbles and fragments. By
knocking out the contents of these, Owen made cupboards for his food.
As for clothes, what Mackinac-Islander of the working-class, in those
days of the Fur Company's prosperity, needed more than he had on?
When his clothes wore out, Owen could go to the traders' and buy more.
He washed his other shirt in the lake at his feet, and hung it on the
cedars to dry by his door. Warm evenings, when the sun had soaked
itself in limpid ripples until its crimson spread through them afar, Owen
stripped himself and went bathing, with strong snorts of enjoyment as
he rose from his plunge. The narrow lake rim was littered with
fragments which had once filled the cavern. Two large pieces afforded
him a table and a seat for his visitors.
Owen had a choice of water for his drinking. Not thirty feet away on
his right a spring burst from the cliff and gushed through its little pool
down the beach. It was cold and delicious.
In the east side of the Kitchen was a natural tiny fireplace a couple of
feet high, screened by cedar foliage from the lake wind. Here Owen
cooked his meals, and the smoke was generally carried out from his
flueless hearth. The straits were then full of fish, and he had not far to

throw his lines to reach deep water.
Dependent on the patronage of Mackinac village, the Irishman had
chosen the very shop which would draw notice upon himself. His
customers tramped out to him along a rough beach under the heights,
which helped to wear away the foot-gear Owen mended. They stood
grinning amiably at his snug quarters. It was told as far as Drummond
Island and the Sault that a cobbler lived in the Devil's Kitchen on
Mackinac.
He was a happy fellow, his clean Irish skin growing rosier in air pure as
the air of mid-ocean. The lake spread in variegated copper lights almost
at his feet. He did not like Mackinac village in summer, when the
engagés were all back, and Indians camped tribes strong on the beach,
to receive their money from the government. French and savages
shouldered one another, the multitude of them making a great hubbub
and a gay show of clothes like a fair. Every voyageur was sparring with
every other voyageur. A challenge by the poke of a fist, and lo! a ring is
formed and two are fighting. The whipped one gets up, shakes hands
with his conqueror, and off they go to drink together. Owen despised
such fighting. His way was to take a club and break heads, and see
some blood run on the ground. It was better for him to dwell alone than
to be stirred up and left unsatisfied.
It was late in the afternoon, and the fresh smell of the water cheered
him as he sat stitching on a pair of deer-hide shoes for one Léon
Baudette, an engagé, who was homesick for Montreal. The lowering
sun smote an hour-glass of light across the strait which separated him
from St. Ignace on the north shore, the old Jesuit station.
Mother-of-pearl clouds hung over the southern mainland, and the wash
of the lake, which