'
While putting on its armour against the assaults of
the wind, this snow had neglected no coign of van-
tage. Snow pursued by the wind is not wholly unlike
a retreating army. In the open field it ranges itself
in ranks and battalions; where it can get a foothold
it makes a stand; where it can take cover it does
so. You may see whole platoons of snow cowering
behind a bit of broken wall. The devious old road,
hewn out of the mountainside, was full of it. Squad-
ron upon squadron had struggled to escape by this
line, when suddenly pursuit had ceased. A more
desolate and dreary spot than Deadman's Gulch in
a winter midnight it is impossible to imagine. Yet
Mr. Hiram Beeson elected to live there, the sole
inhabitant.
Away up the side of the North Mountain his little
pine-log shanty projected from its single pane of
glass a long, thin beam of light, and looked not
altogether unlike a black beetle fastened to the
hillside with a bright new pin. Within it sat Mr.
Beeson himself, before a roaring fire, staring into
its hot heart as if he had never before seen such a
thing in all his life. He was not a comely man. He
was grey; he was ragged and slovenly in his attire;
his face was wan and haggard; his eyes were too
bright. As to his age, if one had attempted to guess
it, one might have said forty-seven, then corrected
himself and said seventy-four. He was really twenty-
eight.
Pages:
122
123
124
125
126
127
128
129
130
131
132
133
134
135
136
137
138
139
140
141
142
143
144
145
146