University of Virginia Library

8. IN THE GRAY GOTH.

If the wick of the big oil lamp had been cut straight,
I don't believe it would ever have happened.

Where is the poker, Johnny? Can't you push back
that for'ard log a little? Dear, dear! Well, it does n't
make much difference, does it? Something always
seems to ail your Massachusetts fires; your hickory
is green, and your maple is gnarly, and the worms eat
out your oak like a sponge. I have n't seen anything
like what I call a fire, — not since Mary Ann was married,
and I came here to stay. “As long as you live,
father,” she said; and in that very letter she told
me I should always have an open fire, and how she
would n't let Jacob put in the air-tight in the sitting-room,
but had the fireplace kept on purpose. Mary
Ann was a good girl always, if I remember straight,
and I 'm sure I don't complain. Is n't that a pineknot
at the bottom of the basket? There! that 's
better.

Let me see; I began to tell you something, did n't
I? O yes; about that winter of '41. I remember
now. I declare, I can't get over it, to think you never
heard about it, and you twenty-four year old come

Christmas. You don't know much more, either, about
Maine folks and Maine fashions than you do about
China, — though it 's small wonder, for the matter of
that, you were such a little shaver when Uncle Jed
took you. There were a great many of us, it seems
to me, that year, I 'most forget how many; — we
buried the twins next summer, did n't we? — then
there was Mary Ann, and little Nancy, and — well,
coffee was dearer than ever I 'd seen it, I know, about
that time, and butter selling for nothing; we just
threw our milk away, and there was n't any market
for eggs; besides doctor's bills and Isaac to be sent to
school; so it seemed to be the best thing, though your
mother took on pretty badly about it at first. Jedediah
has been good to you, I 'm sure, and brought you
up religious, — though you 've cost him a sight, spending
three hundred and fifty dollars a year at Amherst
College.

But, as I was going to say, when I started to talk
about '41, — to tell the truth, Johnny, I 'm always a
long while coming to it, I believe. I 'm getting to be
an old man, — a little of a coward, maybe, and sometimes,
when I sit alone here nights, and think it over,
it 's just like the toothache, Johnny. As I was saying,
if she had cut that wick straight, I do believe it
would n't have happened, — though it is n't that I
mean to lay the blame on her now.

I 'd been out at work all day about the place, slicking
things up for to-morrow; there was a gap in the

barn-yard fence to mend, — I left that till the last
thing, I remember, — I remember everything, some
way or other, that happened that day, — and there was
a new roof to put on the pig-pen, and the grape-vine
needed an extra layer of straw, and the latch was loose
on the south barn-door; then I had to go round and
take a last look at the sheep, and toss down an extra
forkful for the cows, and go into the stall to have a
talk with Ben, and unbutton the coop-door to see if
the hens looked warm, — just to tuck 'em up, as you
might say. I always felt sort of homesick — though
I would n't have owned up to it, not even to Nancy
— saying good-by to the creeturs the night before I
went in. There, now! it beats all, to think, you don't
know what I 'm talking about, and you a lumberman's
son. “Going in” is going up into the woods, you
know, to cut and haul for the winter, — up, sometimes,
a hundred miles deep, — in in the fall and out in the
spring; whole gangs of us shut up there sometimes
for six months, then down with the freshets on the
logs, and all summer to work the farm, — a merry sort
of life when you get used to it, Johnny; but it was a
great while ago, and it seems to me as if it must have
been very cold. — Is n't there a little draft coming in
at the pantry door?

So when I 'd said good-by to the creeturs, — I remember
just as plain how Ben put his great neck on
my shoulder and whinnied like a baby, — that horse
knew when the season came round and I was going

in, just as well as I did, — I tinkered up the barn-yard
fence, and locked the doors, and went in to supper.

I gave my finger a knock with the hammer, which
may have had something to do with it, for a man
does n't feel very good-natured when he 's been green
enough to do a thing like that, and he does n't like to
say it aches either. But if there is anything I can't
bear it is lamp-smoke; it always did put me out, and
I expect it always will. Nancy knew what a fuss I
made about it, and she was always very careful not to
hector me with it. I ought to have remembered that,
but I did n't. She had lighted the company lamp on
purpose, too, because it was my last night. I liked it
better than the tallow candle.

So I came in, stamping off the snow, and they were
all in there about the fire, — the twins, and Mary
Ann, and the rest; baby was sick, and Nancy was
walking back and forth with him, with little Nancy
pulling at her gown. You were the baby then, I believe,
Johnny; but there always was a baby, and I
don't rightly remember. The room was so black with
smoke, that they all looked as if they were swimming
round and round in it. I guess coming in from the
cold, and the pain in my finger and all, it made me a
bit sick. At any rate, I threw open the window and
blew out the light, as mad as a hornet.

“Nancy,” said I, “this room would strangle a dog,
and you might have known it, if you 'd had two eyes
to see what you were about. There, now! I 've tipped

the lamp over, and you just get a cloth and wipe up
the oil.”

“Dear me!” said she, lighting a candle, and she
spoke up very soft, too. “Please, Aaron, don't let
the cold in on baby. I 'm sorry it was smoking, but
I never knew a thing about it; he 's been fretting and
taking on so the last hour, I did n't notice anyway.”

“That 's just what you ought to have done,” says
I, madder than ever. “You know how I hate the
stuff, and you ought to have cared more about me
than to choke me up with it this way the last night
before going in.”

Nancy was a patient, gentle-spoken sort of woman,
and would bear a good deal from a fellow; but she
used to fire up sometimes, and that was more than she
could stand. “You don't deserve to be cared about,
for speaking like that!” says she, with her cheeks as
red as peat-coals.

That was right before the children. Mary Ann's
eyes were as big as saucers, and little Nancy was crying
at the top of her lungs, with the baby tuning in,
so we knew it was time to stop. But stopping was n't
ending; and folks can look things that they don't say.

We sat down to supper as glum as pump-handles,
there were some fritters — I never knew anybody beat
your mother at fritters — smoking hot off the stove,
and some maple molasses in one of the best chiny tea-cups;
I knew well enough it was just on purpose for
my last night, but I never had a word to say, and

Nancy crumbed up the children's bread with a jerk.
Her cheeks did n't grow any whiter; it seemed as if
they would blaze right up, — I could n't help looking
at them, for all I pretended not to, for she looked just
like a pictur. Some women always are pretty when
they are put out, — and then again, some ain't; it
appears to me there 's a great difference in women,
very much as there is in hens; now, there was your
aunt Deborah, — but there, I won't get on that track
now, only so far as to say that when she was flustered
up she used to go red all over, something like a piny,
which did n't seem to have just the same effect.

That supper was a very dreary sort of supper, with
the baby crying, and Nancy getting up between the
mouthfuls to walk up and down the room with him;
he was a heavy little chap for a ten-month-old, and I
think she must have been tuckered out with him all
day. I did n't think about it then; a man does n't
notice such things when he 's angry, — it is n't in
him. I can't say but she would if I 'd been in her
place. I just eat up the fritters and the maple molasses,
— seems to me I told her she ought not to use
the best chiny cup, but I 'm not just sure, — and then
I took my pipe, and sat down in the corner.

I watched her putting the children to bed; they
made her a great deal of bother, squirming off of her
lap and running round barefoot. Sometimes I used to
hold them and talk to them and help her a bit, when
I felt good-natured, but I just sat and smoked, and let

them alone. I was all worked up about that lamp-wick,
and I thought, you see, if she had n't had any
feelings for me there was no need of my having any
for her, — if she had cut the wick, I 'd have taken the
babies; she had n't cut the wick, and I would n't take
the babies; she might see it if she wanted to, and think
what she pleased. I had been badly treated, and I
meant to show it.

It is strange, Johnny, it really does seem to me
very strange, how easy it is in this world to be always
taking care of our rights. I 've thought a great deal
about it since I 've been growing old, and there seems
to me a good many things we 'd better look after
fust.

But you see I had n't found that out in '41, and so
I sat in the corner, and felt very much abused. I
can't say but what Nancy had pretty much the same
idea; for when the young ones were all in bed at last,
she took her knitting and sat down the other side of
the fire, sort of turning her head round and looking
up at the ceiling, as if she were trying her best to
forget I was there. That was a way she had when I
was courting, and we went along to huskings together,
with the moon shining round.

Well, I kept on smoking, and she kept on looking
at the ceiling, and nobody said a word for a while, till
by and by the fire burnt down, and she got up and
put on a fresh log.

“You 're dreadful wasteful with the wood, Nancy,”

says I, bound to say something cross, and that was all
I could think of.

“Take care of your own fire, then,” says she,
throwing the log down and standing up as straight as
she could stand. “I think it 's a pity if you have n't
anything better to do, the last night before going in,
than to pick everything I do to pieces this way, and I
tired enough to drop, carrying that great crying child
in my arms all day. You ought to be ashamed of
yourself, Aaron Hollis!”

Now if she had cried a little, very like I should have
given up, and that would have been the end of it, for
I never could bear to see a woman cry; it goes
against the grain. But your mother was n't one of
the crying sort, and she did n't feel like it that night.

She just stood up there by the fireplace, as proud
as Queen Victory, — I don't blame her, Johnny, — O
no, I don't blame her; she had the right of it there, I
ought to have been ashamed of myself; but a man
never likes to hear that from other folks, and I put my
pipe down on the chimney-shelf so hard I heard it
snap like ice, and I stood up too, and said — but no
matter what I said, I guess. A man's quarrels with
his wife always make me think of what the Scripture
says about other folks not intermeddling. They 're
things, in my opinion, that don't concern anybody else
as a general thing, and I could n't tell what I said
without telling what she said, and I 'd rather not do
that. Your mother was as good and patient-tempered

a woman as ever lived, Johnny, and she did n't mean
it, and it was I that set her on. Besides, my words
were worst of the two.

Well, well, I 'll hurry along just here, for it 's not a
time I like to think about; but we had it back and
forth there for half an hour, till we had angered each
other up so I could n't stand it, and I lifted up my
hand, — I would have struck her if she had n't been
a woman.

“Well,” says I, “Nancy Hollis, I 'm sorry for the
day I married you, and that 's the truth, if ever I
spoke a true word in my life!”

I would n't have told you that now if you could
understand the rest without. I 'd give the world,
Johnny, — I 'd give the world and all those coupon
bonds Jedediah invested for me if I could anyway
forget it; but I said it, and I can't.

Well, I 've seen your mother look 'most all sorts of
ways in the course of her life, but I never saw her before,
and I never saw her since, look as she looked
that minute. All the blaze went out in her cheeks, as
if somebody had thrown cold water on it, and she
stood there stock still, so white I thought she would
drop.

“Aaron — ” she began, and stopped to catch her
breath, — “Aaron — ” but she could n't get any
further; she just caught hold of a little shawl she had
on with both her hands, as if she thought she could
hold herself up by it, and walked right out of the

room. I knew she had gone to bed, for I heard her
go up and shut the door. I stood there a few minutes
with my hands in my pockets, whistling Yankee
Doodle. Your mother used to say men were queer
folks, Johnny; they always whistled up the gayest
when they felt the wust. Then I went to the closet
and got another pipe, and I did n't go upstairs till it
was smoked out.

When I was a young man, Johnny, I used to be
that sort of fellow that could n't bear to give up beat.
I 'd acted like a brute, and I knew it, but I was too
spunky to say so. So I says to myself, “If she won't
make up first, I won't, and that 's the end on 't.”
Very likely she said the same thing, for your mother
was a spirited sort of woman when her temper was
up; so there we were, more like enemies sworn
against each other than man and wife who had loved
each other true for fifteen years, — a whole winter,
and danger, and death perhaps, coming between us,
too.

It may seem very queer to you, Johnny, — it did
to me when I was your age, and did n't know any
more than you do, — how folks can work themselves
up into great quarrels out of such little things; but
they do, and into worse, if it 's a man who likes his
own way, and a woman that knows how to talk. It 's
my opinion, two thirds of all the divorce cases in the
law-books just grow up out of things no bigger than
that lamp-wick.

But how people that ever loved each other could
come to hard words like that, you don't see? Well,
ha, ha! Johnny, that amuses me, that really does
amuse me, for I never saw a young man nor a young
woman either, — and young men and young women
in general are very much like fresh-hatched chickens,
to my mind, and know just about as much of the
world, Johnny, — well, I never saw one yet who
did n't say that very thing. And what 's more, I
never saw one who could get it into his head that old
folks knew better.

But I say I had loved your mother true, Johnny,
and she had loved me true, for more than fifteen
years; and I loved her more the fifteenth year than I
did the first, and we could n't have got along without
each other, any more than you could get along if
somebody cut your heart right out. We had laughed
together and cried together; we had been sick, and
we 'd been well together; we 'd had our hard times
and our pleasant times right along, side by side; we 'd
baptized the babies, and we 'd buried 'm, holding on
to each other's hand; we had grown along year after
year, through ups and downs and downs and ups, just
like one person, and there was n't any more dividing
of us. But for all that we 'd been put out, and we 'd
had our two ways, and we had spoken our sharp words
like any other two folks, and this was n't our first
quarrel by any means.

I tell you, Johnny, young folks they start in life

with very pretty ideas, — very pretty. But take it as
a general thing, they don't know any more what
they 're talking about than they do about each other,
and they don't know any more about each other than
they do about the man in the moon. They begin
very nice, with their new carpets and teaspoons, and
a little mending to do, and coming home early evenings
to talk; but by and by the shine wears off. Then
come the babies, and worry and wear and temper.
About that time they begin to be a little acquainted,
and to find out that there are two wills and two sets
of habits to be fitted somehow. It takes them anywhere
along from one year to three to get jostled
down together. As for smoothing off, there 's more
or less of that to be done always.

Well, I did n't sleep very well that night, dropping
into naps and waking up. The baby was worrying
over his teeth every half-hour, and Nancy getting up
to walk him off to sleep in her arms, — it was the only
way you would be hushed up, and you 'd lie and yell
till somebody did it.

Now, it was n't many times since we 'd been married
that I had let her do that thing all night long. I
used to have a way of getting up to take my turn, and
sending her off to sleep. It is n't a man's business,
some folks say. I don't know anything about that;
maybe, if I 'd been broiling my brain in book learning
all day till come night, and I was hard put to it to get
my sleep anyhow, like the parson there, it would n't;

but all I know is, what if I had been breaking my back
in the potato-patch since morning? so she 'd broken
her's over the oven; and what if I did need nine
hours' sound sleep? I could chop and saw without it
next day, just as well as she could do the ironing,
to say nothing of my being a great stout fellow, —
there was n't a chap for ten miles round with my
muscle, — and she with those blue veins on her forehead.
Howsomever that may be, I was n't used to
letting her do it by herself, and so I lay with my eyes
shut, and pretended that I was asleep; for I did n't
feel like giving in, and speaking up gentle, not about
that nor anything else.

I could see her though, between my eyelashes, and
I lay there, every time I woke up, and watched her
walking back and forth, back and forth, up and down,
with the heavy little fellow in her arms, all night
long.

Sometimes, Johnny, when I 'm gone to bed now of
a winter night, I think I see her in her white nightgown
with her red-plaid shawl pinned over her shoulders
and over the baby, walking up and down, and up
and down. I shut my eyes, but there she is, and I
open them again, but I see her all the same.

I was off very early in the morning; I don't think
it could have been much after three o'clock when I
woke up. Nancy had my breakfast all laid out overnight,
except the coffee, and we had fixed it that I was
to make up the fire, and get off without waking her,

if the baby was very bad. At least, that was the way
I wanted it; but she stuck to it she should be up, —
that was before there 'd been any words between us.

The room was very gray and still, — I remember
just how it looked, with Nancy's clothes on a chair,
and the baby's shoes lying round. She had got him
off to sleep in his cradle, and had dropped into a nap,
poor thing! with her face as white as the sheet, from
watching.

I stopped when I was dressed, half-way out of
the room, and looked round at it, — it was so white,
Johnny! It would be a long time before I should see
it again, — five months were a long time; then there
was the risk, coming down in the freshets, and the
words I 'd said last night. I thought, you see, if I
should kiss it once, — I need n't wake her up, —
maybe I should go off feeling better. So I stood there
looking: she was lying so still, I could n't see any
more stir to her than if she had her breath held in. I
wish I had done it, Johnny, — I can't get over wishing
I 'd done it, yet. But I was just too proud, and I
turned round and went out, and shut the door.

We were going to meet down at the post-office, the
whole gang of us, and I had quite a spell to walk. I
was going in on Bob Stokes's team. I remember how
fast I walked with my hands in my pockets, looking
along up at the stars, — the sun was putting them out
pretty fast, — and trying not to think of Nancy. But
I did n't think of anything else.

It was so early, that there was n't many folks about
to see us off; but Bob Stokes's wife, — she lived nigh
the office, just across the road, — she was there to say
good-by, kissing of him, and crying on his shoulder.
I don't know what difference that should make with
Bob Stokes, but I snapped him up well, when he came
along, and said good morning.

There were twenty-one of us just, on that gang, in
on contract for Dove and Beadle. Dove and Beadle
did about the heaviest thing on woodland of anybody,
about that time. Good, steady men we were, most of
us, — none of your blundering Irish, that would n't
know a maple from a hickory, with their gin-bottles
in their pockets, — but our solid, Down-East Yankee
heads, owning their farms all along the river, with
schooling enough to know what they were about
'lection day. You did n't catch any of us voting
your new-fangled tickets when he had meant to go up
on Whig, for want of knowing the difference, nor visa
vussy. To say nothing of Bob Stokes, and Holt, and
me, and another fellow, — I forget his name, — being
members in good and reg'lar standing, and paying in
our five dollars to the parson every quarter, charitable.

Yes, though I say it that should n't say it, we were
as fine a looking gang as any in the county, starting
off that morning in our red uniform, — Nancy took a
sight of pains with my shirt, sewing it up stout, for fear
it should bother me ripping, and I with nobody to take
a stitch for me all winter. The boys went off in good

spirits, singing till they were out of sight of town, and
waving their caps at their wives and babies standing
in the window along on the way. I did n't sing. I
thought the wind blew too hard, — seems to me that
was the reason, — I 'm sure there must have been a
reason, for I had a voice of my own in those days, and
had led the choir perpetual for five years.

We were n't going in very deep; Dove and Beadle's
lots lay about thirty miles from the nearest house; and
a straggling, lonely sort of place that was too, five miles
out of the village, with nobody but a dog and a deaf
old woman in it. Sometimes, as I was telling you, we
had been in a hundred miles from any human creature
but ourselves.

It took us two days to get there though, with the
oxen; and the teams were loaded down well, with
so many axes and the pork-barrels; — I don't know
anything like pork for hefting down more than you
expect it to, reasonable. It was one of your ugly
gray days, growing dark at four o'clock, with snow in
the air, when we hauled up in the lonely place. The
trees were blazed pretty thick, I remember, especially
the pines; Dove and Beadle always had that done up
prompt in October. It 's pretty work going in blazing
while the sun is warm, and the woods like a great
bonfire with the maples. I used to like it, but your
mother would n't hear of it when she could help herself,
it kept me away so long.

It 's queer, Johnny, how we do remember things

that ain't of no account; but I remember, as plainly
as if it were yesterday morning, just how everything
looked that night, when the teams came up, one by
one, and we went to work spry to get to rights before
the sun went down.

There were three shanties, — they don't often have
more than two or three in one place, — they were
empty, and the snow had drifted in; Bob Stokes's
oxen were fagged out with their heads hanging down,
and the horses were whinnying for their supper. Holt
had one of his great brush-fires going, — there was
nobody like Holt for making fires, — and the boys
were hurrying round in their red shirts, shouting at
the oxen, and singing a little, some of them low, under
their breath, to keep their spirits up. There was snow
as far as you could see, — down the cart-path, and all
around, and away into the woods; and there was snow
in the sky now, setting in for a regular nor'easter.
The trees stood up straight all around without any
leaves, and under the bushes it was as black as pitch.

“Five months,” said I to myself, — “five months!”

“What in time 's the matter with you, Hollis?”
says Bob Stokes, with a great slap on my arm;
“you 're giving that 'ere ox molasses on his hay!”

Sure enough I was, and he said I acted like a dazed
creatur, and very likely I did. But I could n't have
told Bob the reason. You see, I knew Nancy was
just drawing up her little rocking-chair — the one
with the red cushion — close by the fire, sitting there

with the children to wait for the tea to boil. And I
knew — I could n't help knowing, if I 'd tried hard
for it — how she was crying away softly in the dark,
so that none of them could see her, to think of the
words we 'd said, and I gone in without ever making
of them up. I was sorry for them then. O Johnny, I
was sorry, and she was thirty miles away. I 'd got to
be sorry five months, thirty miles away, and could n't
let her know.

The boys said I was poor company that first week,
and I should n't wonder if I was. I could n't seem
to get over it any way, to think I could n't let her
know.

If I could have sent her a scrap of a letter, or a
message, or something, I should have felt better. But
there was n't any chance of that this long time, unless
we got out of pork or fodder, and had to send down,
— which we did n't expect to, for we 'd laid in more
than usual.

We had two pretty rough weeks' work to begin
with, for the worst storms of the season set in, and
kept in, and I never saw their like, before or since.
It seemed as if there 'd never be an end to them.
Storm after storm, blow after blow, freeze after freeze;
half a day's sunshine, and then at it again! We were
well tired of it before they stopped; it made the boys
homesick.

However, we kept at work pretty brisk, — lumbermen
are n't the fellows to be put out for a snow-storm,

— cutting and hauling and sawing, out in the sleet
and wind. Bob Stokes froze his left foot that second
week, and I was frost-bitten pretty badly myself.
Cullen — he was the boss — he was well out of sorts,
I tell you, before the sun came out, and cross enough
to bite a tenpenny nail in two.

But when the sun is out, it is n't so bad a kind of
life, after all. At work all day, with a good hot
dinner in the middle; then back to the shanties at
dark, to as rousing a fire and tiptop swagan as anybody
could ask for. Holt was cook that season, and
Holt could n't be beaten on his swagan.

Now you don't mean to say you don't know what
swagan is? Well, well! To think of it! All I have
to say is, you don't know what 's good then. Beans
and pork and bread and molasses, — that 's swagan,
— all stirred up in a great kettle, and boiled together;
and I don't know anything — not even your mother's
fritters — I 'd give more for a taste of now. We just
about lived on that; there 's nothing you can cut and
haul all day on like swagan. Besides that, we used to
have doughnuts, — you don't know what doughnuts are
here in Massachusetts; as big as a dinner-plate those
doughnuts were, and — well, a little hard, perhaps.
They used to have it about in Bangor that we used
them for clock pendulums, but I don't know about
that.

I used to think a great deal about Nancy nights,
when we were sitting up by the fire, — we had our

fire right in the middle of the hut, you know, with a
hole in the roof to let the smoke out. When supper
was eaten, the boys all sat up around it, and told
stories, and sang, and cracked their jokes; then they
had their backgammon and cards; we got sleepy early,
along about nine or ten o'clock, and turned in under
the roof with our blankets. The roof sloped down,
you know, to the ground; so we lay with our heads
in under the little eaves, and our feet to the fire, —
ten or twelve of us to a shanty, all round in a row.
They built the huts up like a baby's cob-house, with
the logs fitted in together. I used to think a great
deal about your mother, as I was saying; sometimes I
would lie awake when the rest were off as sound as a
top, and think about her. Maybe it was foolish, and
I 'm sure I would n't have told anybody of it; but I
could n't get rid of the notion that something might
happen to her or to me before five months were out,
and I with those words unforgiven.

Then, perhaps, when I went to sleep, I would
dream about her, walking back and forth, up and
down, in her nightgown and little red shawl, with the
great heavy baby in her arms.

So it went along till come the last of January, when
one day I saw the boys all standing round in a heap,
and talking.

“What 's the matter?” says I.

“Pork 's given out,” says Bob, with a whistle.
“Beadle got that last lot from Jenkins there, his son-in-law,

and it 's sp'ilt. I could have told him that beforehand.
Never knew Jenkins to do the fair thing
by anybody yet.”

“Who 's going down?” said I, stopping short. I
felt the blood run all over my face, like a woman's.

“Cullen has n't made up his mind yet,” says Bob,
walking off.

Now you see there was n't a man on the ground
who would n't jump at the chance to go; it broke up
the winter for them, and sometimes they could run in
home for half an hour, driving by; so there was n't
much of a hope for me. But I went straight to Mr.
Cullen.

“Too late! Just promised Jim Jacobs,” said he,
speaking up quick; it was just business to him, you
know.

I turned off, and I did n't say a word. I would n't
have believed it, I never would have believed it, that
I could have felt so cut up about such a little thing.
Cullen looked round at me sharp.

“Hilloa, Hollis!” said he. “What 's to pay?”

“Nothing, thank you, sir,” says I, and walked off,
whistling.

I had a little talk with Jim alone. He said he
would take good care of anything I 'd give him, and
carry it straight. So when night came I went and
borrowed Mr. Cullen's pencil, and Holt tore me off a
bit of clean brown paper he found in the flour-barrel,
and I went off among the trees with it alone. I built

a little fire for myself out of a huckleberry-bush, and
sat down there on the snow to write. I could n't do
it in the shanty, with the noise and singing. The
little brown paper would n't hold much; but these
were the words I wrote, — I remember every one of
them, — it is curious now I should, and that more than
twenty years ago: —

“Dear Nancy,” — that was it, — “Dear Nancy, I
can't get over it, and I take them all back. And if
anything happens coming down on the logs —”

I could n't finish that anyhow, so I just wrote
“Aaron” down in the corner, and folded the brown
paper up. It did n't look any more like “Aaron”
than it did like “Abimelech,” though; for I did n't
see a single letter I wrote, — not one.

After that I went to bed, and wished I was Jim
Jacobs.

Next morning somebody woke me up with a push,
and there was the boss.

“Why, Mr. Cullen!” says I, with a jump,

“Hurry up, man, and eat your breakfast,” said he;
“Jacobs is down sick with his cold.”

“Oh!” said I.

“You and the pork must be back here day after to-morrow,
— so be spry,” said he.

I rather think I was, Johnny.

It was just eight o'clock when I started; it took
some time to get breakfast, and feed the nags, and get
orders. I stood there, slapping the snow with my

whip, crazy to be off, hearing the last of what Mr.
Cullen had to say.

They gave me the two horses, — we had n't but
two, — oxen are tougher for going in, as a general
thing, — and the lightest team on the ground; it was
considerably lighter than Bob Stokes's. If it had n't
been for the snow, I might have put the thing through
in two days, but the snow was up to the creatures'
knees in the shady places all along; off from the road,
in among the gullies, you could stick a four-foot measure
down anywhere. So they did n't look for me back
before Wednesday night.

“I must have that pork Wednesday night sure,”
says Cullen.

“Well, sir,” says I, “you shall have it Wednesday
noon, Providence permitting; and you shall have it
Wednesday night anyway.”

“You will have a storm to do it in, I 'm afraid,”
said he, looking at the clouds, just as I was whipping
up. “You 're all right on the road, I suppose?”

“All right,” said I; and I 'm sure I ought to have
been, for the times I 'd been over it.

Bess and Beauty — they were the horses, and of
all the ugly nags that ever I saw Beauty was the
ugliest — started off on a round trot, slewing along
down the hill; they knew they were going home just
as well as I did. I looked back, as we turned the corner,
to see the boys standing round in their red shirts,
with the snow behind them, and the fire and the shanties.

I felt a mite lonely when I could n't see them
any more; the snow was so dead still, and there were
thirty miles of it to cross before I could see human
face again.

The clouds had an ugly look, — a few flakes had
fallen already, — and the snow was purple, deep in as
far as you could see under the trees. Something made
me think of Ben Gurnell, as I drove on, looking along
down the road to keep it straight. You never heard
about it? Poor Ben! Poor Ben! It was in '37,
that was; he had been out hunting up blazed trees,
they said, and wandered away somehow into the Gray
Goth, and went over, — it was two hundred feet;
they did n't find him not till spring, — just a little
heap of bones; his wife had them taken home and
buried, and by and by they had to take her away to
a hospital in Portland, — she talked so horribly, and
thought she saw bones round everywhere.

There is no place like the woods for bringing a
storm down on you quick; the trees are so thick you
don't mind the first few flakes, till, first you know,
there 's a whirl of 'em, and the wind is up.

I was minding less about it than usual, for I was
thinking of Nannie, — that 's what I used to call her,
Johnny, when she was a girl, but it seems a long time
ago, that does. I was thinking how surprised she 'd
be, and pleased. I knew she would be pleased. I
did n't think so poorly of her as to suppose she was n't
just as sorry now as I was for what had happened. I

knew well enough how she would jump and throw
down her sewing with a little scream, and run and
put her arms about my neck and cry, and could n't
help herself.

So I did n't mind about the snow, for planning it all
out, till all at once I looked up, and something slashed
into my eyes and stung me, — it was sleet.

“Oho!” said I to myself, with a whistle, — it was
a very long whistle, Johnny; I knew well enough
then it was no play-work I had before me till the sun
went down, nor till morning either.

That was about noon, — it could n't have been half
an hour since I 'd eaten my dinner; I eat it driving,
for I could n't bear to waste time.

The road was n't broken there an inch, and the
trees were thin; there 'd been a clearing there years
ago, and wide, white, level places wound off among the
trees; one looked as much like a road as another, for
the matter of that. I pulled my visor down over my
eyes to keep the sleet out, — after they 're stung too
much they 're good for nothing to see with, and I must
see, if I meant to keep that road.

It began to be cold. You don't know what it is to
be cold, you don't, Johnny, in the warm gentleman's
life you 've lived. I was used to Maine forests, and I
was used to January, but that was what I call cold.

The wind blew from the ocean, straight as an arrow.
The sleet blew every way, — into your eyes, down
your neck, in like a knife into your cheeks. I could

feel the snow crunching in under the runners, crisp,
turned to ice in a minute. I reached out to give
Bess a cut on the neck, and the sleeve of my coat
was stiff as pasteboard before I bent my elbow up
again.

If you looked up at the sky, your eyes were shut
with a snap as if somebody 'd shot them. If you
looked in under the trees, you could see the icicles
a minute, and the purple shadows. If you looked
straight ahead, you could n't see a thing.

By and by I thought I had dropped the reins, I
looked at my hands, and there I was holding them
tight. I knew then that it was time to get out and
walk.

I did n't try much after that to look ahead; it
was of no use, for the sleet was fine, like needles,
twenty of 'em in your eye at a wink; then it was
growing dark. Bess and Beauty knew the road as
well as I did, so I had to trust to them. I thought
I must be coming near the clearing where I 'd counted
on putting up overnight, in case I could n't reach the
dēaf old woman's.

There was a man just out of Bangor the winter before,
walking just so beside his team, and he kept on
walking, some folks said, after the breath was gone,
and they found him frozen up against the sleigh-poles.
I would have given a good deal if I need n't have
thought of that just then. But I did, and I kept
walking on.

Pretty soon Bess stopped short. Beauty was pulling
on, — Beauty always did pull on, — but she stopped
too. I could n't stop so easily, so I walked along like
a machine, up on a line with the creaturs' ears. I
did stop then, or you never would have heard this
story, Johnny.

Two paces, — and those two hundred feet shot
down like a plummet. A great cloud of snow-flakes
puffed up over the edge. There were rocks at my
right hand, and rocks at my left. There was the sky
overhead. I was in the Gray Goth!

I sat down as weak as a baby. If I did n't think
of Ben Gurnell then, I never thought of him. It
roused me up a bit, perhaps, for I had the sense left
to know that I could n't afford to sit down just yet,
and I remembered a shanty that I must have passed
without seeing; it was just at the opening of the place
where the rocks narrowed, built, as they build their
light-houses, to warn folks to one side. There was a
log or something put up after Gurnell went over, but
it was of no account, coming on it suddenly. There
was no going any farther that night, that was clear;
so I put about into the hut, and got my fire going,
and Bess and Beauty and I, we slept together.

It was an outlandish name to give it, seems to me,
anyway. I don't know what a Goth is, Johnny;
maybe you do. There was a great figger up on the
rock, about eight feet high; some folks thought it
looked like a man. I never thought so before, but

that night it did kind of stare in through the door as
natural as life.

When I woke up in the morning I thought I was on
fire. I stirred and turned over, and I was ice. My
tongue was swollen up so I could n't swallow without
strangling. I crawled up to my feet, and every bone
in me was stiff as a shingle.

Bess was looking hard at me, whinnying for her
breakfast. “Bess,” says I, very slow, “we must
get home — to-night — any — how.”

I pushed open the door. It creaked out into a
great drift, and slammed back. I squeezed through
and limped out. The shanty stood up a little, in the
highest part of the Goth. I went down a little, — I
went as far as I could go. There was a pole lying
there, blown down in the night; it came about up to
my head. I sunk it into the snow, and drew it up.

Just six feet.

I went back to Bess and Beauty, and I shut the
door. I told them I could n't help it, — something
ailed my arms, — I could n't shovel them out to-day.
I must lie down and wait till to-morrow.

I waited till to-morrow. It snowed all day, and it
snowed all night. It was snowing when I pushed the
door out again into the drift. I went back and lay
down. I did n't seem to care.

The third day the sun came out, and I thought
about Nannie. I was going to surprise her. She
would jump up and run and put her arms about my

neck. I took the shovel, and crawled out on my
hands and knees. I dug it down, and fell over on it
like a baby.

After that, I understood. I 'd never had a fever in
my life, and it 's not strange that I should n't have
known before.

It came all over me in a minute, I think. I could
n't shovel through. Nobody could hear. I might call,
and I might shout. By and by the fire would go
out. Nancy would not come. Nancy did not know.
Nancy and I should never kiss and make up now.

I struck my arm out into the air, and shouted out
her name, and yelled it out. Then I crawled out
once more into the drift.

I tell you, Johnny, I was a stout-hearted man, who 'd
never known a fear. I could freeze. I could burn up
there alone in the horrid place with fever. I could starve.
It was n't death nor awfulness I could n't face, — not
that, not that; but I loved her true, I say, — I loved
her true, and I 'd spoken my last words to her, my
very last; I had left her those to remember, day in and
day out, and year upon year, as long as she remembered
her husband, as long as she remembered anything.

I think I must have gone pretty nearly mad with
the fever and the thinking. I fell down there like a
log, and lay groaning. “God Almighty! God Almighty!”
over and over, not knowing what it was that
I was saying, till the words strangled in my throat.

Next day, I was too weak so much as to push open
the door. I crawled around the hut on my knees,
with my hands up over my head, shouting out as I did
before, and fell, a helpless heap, into the corner; after
that I never stirred.

How many days had gone, or how many nights, I
had no more notion than the dead. I knew afterwards;
when I knew how they waited and expected
and talked and grew anxious, and sent down home to
see if I was there, and how she — But no matter, no
matter about that.

I used to scoop up a little snow when I woke up
from the stupors. The bread was the other side of
the fire; I could n't reach round. Beauty eat it up
one day; I saw her. Then the wood was used up.
I clawed out chips with my nails from the old rotten
logs the shanty was made of, and kept up a little
blaze. By and by I could n't pull any more. Then
there were only some coals, — then a little spark. I
blew at that spark a long while, — I had n't much
breath. One night it went out, and the wind blew in.
One day I opened my eyes, and Bess had fallen down
in the corner, dead and stiff. Beauty had pushed out
of the door somehow and gone. I shut up my eyes.
I don't think I cared about seeing Bess, — I can't remember
very well.

Sometimes I thought Nancy was there in the plaid
shawl, walking round the ashes where the spark went
out. Then again I thought Mary Ann was there,

and Isaac, and the baby. But they never were. I
used to wonder if I was n't dead, and had n't made a
mistake about the place that I was going to.

One day there was a noise. I had heard a great
many noises, so I did n't take much notice. It came
up crunching on the snow, and I did n't know but it
was Gabriel or somebody with his chariot. Then I
thought more likely it was a wolf.

Pretty soon I looked up, and the door was open;
some men were coming in, and a woman. She was
ahead of them all, she was; she came in with a
great spring, and had my head against her neck, and
her arm holding me up, and her cheek down to
mine, with her dear, sweet, warm breath all over me;
and that was all I knew.

Well, there was brandy, and there was a fire, and
there were blankets, and there was hot water, and I
don't know what; but warmer than all the rest I
felt her breath against my cheek, and her arms
about my neck, and her long hair, which she had
wrapped all in, about my hands.

So by and by my voice came. “Nannie!” said I.

“O don't!” said she, and first I knew she was
crying.

“But I will,” says I, “for I 'm sorry.”

“Well, so am I,” says she.

Said I, “I thought I was dead, and had n't made
up, Nannie.”

“O dear!” said she; and down fell a great hot
splash right on my face.

Says I, “It was all me, for I ought to have gone
back and kissed you.”

“No, it was me,” said she, “for I was n't asleep,
not any such thing. I peeked out, this way, through
my lashes, to see if you would n't come back. I
meant to wake up then. Dear me!” says she, “to
think what a couple of fools we were, now!”

“Nannie,” says I, “you can let the lamp smoke
all you want to!”

“Aaron — ” she began, just as she had begun that
other night, — “Aaron —” but she did n't finish,
and — Well, well, no matter; I guess you don't
want to hear any more, do you?

But sometimes I think, Johnny, when it comes my
time to go, — if ever it does, — I 've waited a good
while for it, — the first thing I shall see will be her
face, looking as it looked at me just then.