at least as much of it as remained unburied, was a
mere speck on the edge of the white plain at the mountain's foot, scarce
distinguishable, at a short distance, from the straggling black pines
and willow bushes that seemed thrust out into the waste from the ravines
above and below the fort. But on a nearer approach, the fort assumed an
air of greater importance; the influences, too, of the cold, cheerless
scene we have described, were broken and dissipated by the sights of
comfort and sounds of cheerfulness within. The shout of the
water-drawer, as he roused the dogs and went forth with his empty cask,
hauled on a little sledge, to draw from the bubbling spring behind the
fort; the sounds of the hammer, the chisel, and the axe, in the
carpenter's shop; the merry clank of Bryan's hammer, and the bright
flame that gleamed from the window of the forge,--all bore evidence of
the fact, that however powerful the influence of winter might be
without, it had little power within the wooden walls of Fort Chimo, and
could not check the life, or heart, or industry of man.

The only other human being visible in the open air, besides the
water-drawer, was La Roche, who, with a fur cap covering his head and
ears, and leathern mittens on his hands, hewed and hacked the billets
with which he purposed to replenish the fire for cooking the mid-day
meal.

Pausing in his labour, and dusting off the hoar-frost that covered his
eyebrows and whiskers, he looked at the edge of his hatchet for a few
seconds with an expression of contempt. Then, throwing the implement on
his shoulder, he crossed the yard and entered the blacksmith's shop.

"Bryan," said he, seating himself on the edge of the forge and filling
his pipe, while Vulcan's votary scattered a shower of gems from a
white-hot bar of iron at every blow of his hammer--"Bryan, you no fit
for not'ing. Dat axe is blont encore. Oui, c'est vrai. Now dat is
tres mal. How you not can temper him edge better?"

"Timper it better, is it?" answered Bryan, putting the iron bar in the
fire, and regarding his companion earnestly while he blew the bellows.
"Faix, 'tis mysilf I'd need to timper better, in order to put up wi' the
likes o' you, ye wretched crature. How can ye expict it to kape its
idge when ye lave it for iver lyin' among yer pots and kittles?"

"Dat is not it," replied La Roche, applying a glowing coal to his pipe.
"'Tis de mauvais steel. But I not com for to fight wid you. Y