But Winter proceeded about his business with majestic deliberateness. He patted down the duff under the big trees with beating, sleety rains; and when the ground was ready for the sowing of the mighty crop, he piled his banks of clouds up from the south, and, though he gave the coast folk rain, he brought the men of the north woods what they were longing for—snow a-plenty; snow that heaped the arms of the spruces, filled all the air with smothering clouds, and blanketed the ground.
Wade, blinking the big flakes out of his eyes as he breasted the swirling storm, came across to the main camp from the wangan, his pipe and tobacco-pouch in hand. He rejoiced in his heart to see the snow driving so thickly that the camp window was only a blur of yellow light smudging the whiteness. This first real storm of the winter promised two feet on a level, and guaranteed the slipping on ram-downs and twitch-roads.
The cheer of the storm permeated all the camp on Enchanted. The cook beamed on Wade with floury face. The bare ground had meant bare shelves. He predicted the first supply-team for the morrow. He had been thriftily “making a mitten out of a mouse’s ear” for several weeks. Tommy Eye, ploughing back from his good-night visit to the horse-hovel, proclaimed his general pleasure for two reasons: No more bare-ground dragging for the bob-sleds; no more too liberal dosing of bread dough with soap to make the flour “spend” in lighter loaves. “Eats like wind and tastes like a laundry,” Tommy had grumbled.
The boss of the choppers moved along to give Wade the end of the “deacon seat,” and grinned amiably.
“That’s a cheerful old song she’s singing overhead to-night,” he remarked.
It needed a lumberman’s interpretation to give it cheer.
There were far groanings, there were near sighs; there were silences, when the soft rustle of the snow against the window-glass made all the sound; there were sudden, tempestuous descents of the wind that rattled the panes and made the throat of the open stove “whummle” like a neighing horse.
Wade lighted his pipe with deep content. He enjoyed the rude fraternity of the big camp. There was but little garrulity. Those who talked did so in a drawling monotone that was keyed properly to the monotone of the soughing trees outside—elbows on knees and eyes on the pole floor. Clamor would not have suited that little patch of light niched in the black, brooding night of the forest. But there was comfort within. The blue smoke from pipe bowls curled up and mingled with the shadows dancing against the low roof. The woollens, hung to dry on the long poles, draped the dim openings of the bunks. The “spruce feathers” within were still fresh, and resinous odors struggled against the more athletic fragrance of the pipes.
Most of the men loafed along the “deacon seat,” relaxed in the luxury of laziness for that precious three hours between supper and nine o’clock. A few, bending forward to catch the light from the bracket-lamp, whittled patiently at what lumbermen call “doodahs”—odd little toys destined for some best girl or admiring youngster at home. “Windy” McPheters regaled those with an ear for music by cheerful efforts on his mouth-harp, coming out strong on the tremolo, and jigging the heel of his moccasined foot for time. And when “Windy” had no more breath left, “Hitchbiddy” Wagg sang, after protracted persuasion, the only song he knew—though one song of that character ought to suffice for any man’s musical attainments.