The gloom of a blustering, snowy February day was thickening into the gloom of night, when a traveller and his jaded horse appeared at the door of the little log house.
“I’ve somehow missed my way on the lake,” said he to Job, when the door was opened. “I’m bound for Bennington. Can you give me and my poor beast shelter till morning and then set me on the right road?”
“Sartainly, come in, come in,” was answered, heartily. “You’re welcome to such as I’ve got of bed an’ board, an’ your hoss’ll be better off in the shed wi’ corn fodder’n he’d be a browsin’ in the woods.”
When the stranger had seen his jaded horse cared for and had come in, the firelight revealed a man in the prime of life, of fine face and figure and of military bearing, though he was clad in the plain dress of a civilian. He proved a genial guest, and amused his companions with stories of his recent journey to Canada, and of his home in Connecticut, and with relations of the stirring events in that and the other colonies that portended a revolt against the mother country. In turn he was interested in everything pertaining to the New Hampshire Grants, the progress of the quarrel with New York claimants, the temper of the inhabitants toward England, but, particularly, was he curious about the condition of the adjacent fortress. Concerning its garrison and the plans of the fortification he found Nathan well informed.
“I like to remember such things about a place that has been so famous,” the stranger observed, as he made notes in a memorandum book.
“I would like to visit the fort sometime. How many men did you count the last time you saw them parade, did you say?”
It was well into the night when the precious embers were covered and the three betook themselves to sleep, with the wind roaring in the woods and the snow driving gustily against the oiled-paper windows of the cabin. When they awoke the storm was spent. Beneath the cloudless morning sky the forest stood silent as the army of spectres that its snow-powdered trunks resembled. After breakfast Job put on his snowshoes and led his guest to the desired road to the southward settlements. This break in the winter monotony was often dwelt upon by the fireside in the little log house. A chance visit, if aught occurs by chance, yet it proved of vast importance.
[CHAPTER XIII—FOREBODINGS OF STORM]
After many days of fair promises tardily fulfilled, spring had come. The soft air was full of its sounds and odors, the medley of harsh and liquid notes of the myriad blackbirds that swarmed in the trees along the creek, the crackling croak of the frogs, the whimpering call of the muskrats, the booming of bitterns, the splashing and quacking of wild ducks, and the murmur of running waters. There were the spicy fragrance of pine and hemlock, and the fresh smell of warming mould and bursting buds, while the perfume of wild flowers added a moiety to the spring time odor. The shad trees shone like snowdrifts in the gray woods, and the yellow catkins were alive with humming bees.
Amid the pleasant sights of nature’s progress, Nathan and his friend sat near the door, taking off and stretching on pliant bows the skins of the last catch of muskrats.