"See Barney Thayer goin' cross lots with his axe as I come by," one
said to another, rolling the tobacco well back into his grizzled
cheek.
"Works as if he was possessed," was the reply, in a
half-inarticulate, gruff murmur.
"Well, he can if he wants to," said still another. "I ain't goin' to
work out-doors in any such weather as this for nobody, not if I know
it, an' I've got a wife an' eight children, an' he ain't got nobody."
And the man cast defiant eyes at the great store-windows, dim with
thick blue sheaves of frost.
On a day like that Barney seemed to be hewing asunder not only the
sturdy fibres of oak and hemlock, but the terrible sinews of frost
and winter, and many a tree seemed to rear itself over him
threatening stiffly like an old man of death. Only by fierce contest,
as it were, could he keep himself alive, but he had a certain delight
in working in the swamp during those awful arctic days. The sense
that he could still fight and conquer something, were it only the
simple destructive force of nature, aroused in him new self-respect.
Through snow-storms Barney plunged forth to the swamp, and worked all
day in the thick white slant of the storm, with the snow heaping
itself upon his bowed shoulders.
People prophesied that he would kill himself; but he kept on day
after day, and had not even a cold until February.
Pages:
290
291
292
293
294
295
296
297
298
299
300
301
302
303
304
305
306
307
308
309
310
311
312
313
314