he that
the heavy February snows would block traffic beyond hope of extrication.

As it was, several times an especially heavy fall clogged the way. The
snow-plow, even with extra teams, could hardly force its path through.
Men with shovels helped. Often but a few loads a day, and they small,
could be forced to the banks by the utmost exertions of the entire crew.
Esprit de corps awoke. The men sprang to their tasks with alacrity, gave
more than an hour's exertion to each of the twenty-four, took a pride in
repulsing the assaults of the great enemy, whom they personified under
the generic "She." Mike McGovern raked up a saint somewhere whom he
apostrophized in a personal and familiar manner.

He hit his head against an overhanging branch.

"You're a nice wan, now ain't ye?" he cried angrily at the unfortunate
guardian of his soul. "Dom if Oi don't quit ye! Ye see!"

"Be the gate of Hivin!" he shouted, when he opened the door of mornings
and discovered another six inches of snow, "Ye're a burrd! If Oi
couldn't make out to be more of a saint than that, Oi'd quit the
biznis! Move yor pull, an' get us some dacint weather! Ye awt t' be road
monkeyin' on th' golden streets, thot's what ye awt to be doin'!"

Jackson Hines was righteously indignant, but with the shrewdness of the
old man, put the blame partly where it belonged.

"I ain't sayin'," he observed judicially, "that this weather ain't hell.
It's hell and repeat. But a man sort've got to expec' weather. He looks
for it, and he oughta be ready for it. The trouble is we got behind
Christmas. It's that Dyer. He's about as mean as they make 'em. The only
reason he didn't die long ago is becuz th' Devil's thought him too mean
to pay any 'tention to. If ever he should die an' go to Heaven he'd pry
up th' golden streets an' use the infernal pit for a smelter."

With this magnificent bit of invective, Jackson seized a lantern and
stumped out to see that the teamsters fed their horses properly.

"Didn't know you were a miner, Jackson," called Thorpe, laughing.

"Young feller," replied Jackson at the door, "it's a lot easier to tell
what I AIN'T been."

So floundering, battling, making a little progress every day, the strife
continued.

One morning in February, Thorpe was helping load a big butt log. He was
engaged in "sending up"; that is, he was one of the two men who stand
at either side of the skids to help the ascending log keep straight and
true to its bed on t