Ray, more volatile and with implicit faith in his protector, soon returned to normal condition of mind and once more entered into the spirit of their work and sport with a keen zest.
The traps gave increased returns, the little bin where they stored their gum was filling slowly but surely, and their life at this wildwood home became enjoyable.
Neither was it all labor, for the ducks now migrating southward were alighting in the lake by thousands, a few hours’ shooting at them from ambush made glorious sport, and what with all the partridges they had secured and these additions, their ice-house was soon unable to hold another bird.
But the halcyon days of autumn were fast passing and signs of nearing winter were now visible. Ice began to form in little coves, the ducks ceased coming, soon the last of them had departed, the leaves of all hardwood trees were now joining in a hurry-scurry dance with every passing breeze, the days were of a suggestive shortness, and soon the grim and merciless snow–the White Spirit of Old Tomah–would be sweeping over the wilderness.
And then one night the Frost King silently touched that rippled lake with his wand and the next morning Old Cy and Ray looked out upon its motionless expanse of black ice. The sky was also leaden, an ominous stillness brooded over forest, lake, and mountain, and midway of that day, the first snowfall came.
Old Cy and Ray were a mile away from the cabin, busy at gum-gathering, when the first flakes sifted down through the canopied spruce tops. Soon the carpet of needles began to whiten, and by mid-afternoon they had to abandon work and return.
“I guess we come pretty clus to bein’ prisoners now,” Old Cy ejaculated when he shook himself free from the white coating on the cabin porch, “but we’ve got to make the best on’t. We’ll git warm fust ’n’ then go ’n’ fetch our canoe up ’n’ stow it in the shed. We ain’t like to want it ag’in ’fore spring. One thing is sartin,” he added, when the fire began to blaze in the open fireplace, “we are sure o’ keepin’ warm ’n’ ’nuff to eat this winter, ’n’ that’s all we really need in life, anyway. The rest on’t is mostly imagination.”
But in spite of his serene philosophy, Old Cy had dreaded the coming of winter more than Ray could guess, and all on account of that lad. He himself knew what a winter meant in this wilderness cabin, while Ray did not. Separated as they were from civilization by a full hundred miles, and from Tim’s place by forty, they were, as he stated, practically prisoners for the next five months.
To escape on snow-shoes was possible, of course, if the need arose, and yet it would be a pretty serious venture, after all.
They were in no particular danger, however. With plenty of food and fuel, they need not suffer. If the cabin burned, they could erect another shelter or use the old one. Something of diversion could be obtained from ice-fishing or gum-gathering on warm days; but not enough, as Old Cy feared, to keep Ray content and free from the megrims.