I had to shovel a path to the brook. But it was out
of the question for any one to go to town, or for any one to come to us.
And of course during these bitter days nothing was done on my new house.
The logs were all cut. They stood piled under the snow, except for a few
that had been put in place.
One brilliant morning in the last of February I had gone to the brook
for water. The cold had moderated to some extent. But the snow remained
deep in the woods and on the fields. For though the sun shone, the sky
was nevertheless hazed with innumerable particles of frozen mist, having
the appearance of illuminated dust, or powdered mica. Somewhere in the
depths of this screen I heard the joyous cry of a jay. And Zoe, who was
by my side, said that spring was at hand.
The next day the air was milder. Soon the snow began to melt. We heard
musical droppings from our eaves. The brook broke from its manacles. I
could see patches of dead grass and dark earth between the disappearing
snow on the fields. At break of day we heard the chirrup of the
chickadee, the sparrow. I now resumed my plunge at the brook. And as we
were depleted of cornmeal and other provisions, Zoe and I went to town,
riding one of the horses which Engle had brought over to me. Bad news
waited us here. Mrs. Spurgeon had died during the bitter weather, about
three weeks before.
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