ittle square windows gleamed
softly through the dust and cobwebs of unwashen years. For all the
cold that snapped and bit through the stillness of the forest night,
the door of the camp was thrown wide open, and from it a long sheet of
light spread out across the trodden and chip-littered snow. Around the
doorway crowded the rough-shirted woodsmen, loafing and smoking after
their prodigious dinner of boiled pork, boiled beans, and steaming-hot
molasses cake. The big box-stove behind them, which heated the camp,
was wearing itself to a dull red glow; and the air that rushed out
with the light from the open door was heavy with the smell of wet
woollens, wet larrigans, and wet leather. Many of the men were wearing
nothing on their feet but their heavy, home-knit socks of country
yarn; but in these they did not hesitate to come out upon the dry
snow, rather than trouble themselves to resume their massive
foot-gear.

Before the door, in the spread of the light, stood a pair of sturdy,
rough-coated gray horses, hitched to a strong box sled, or "pung." The
bottom of the pung was covered thick with straw, and over the broad,
low seat were blankets, with one heavy bearskin robe. Into the space
behind the seat a gaunt, big-shouldered man was stowing a haunch of
frozen moose-meat. A lanky, tow-haired boy of fifteen was tucking
himself up carefully among the blankets on the left-hand side of the
seat. The horses stood patient, but with drooping heads, aggrieved at
being taken from the stable at this unwonted hour. In the pale-blue,
kindly, woods-wise eyes of both the man and the boy shone the light of
happy anticipation. They seemed too occupied and excited to make much
response to the good-natured banter of their comrades, but grinned
contentedly as they hastened their preparations for departure. The man
was Steve Williams, best axe-man and stream-driver in the camp; the
boy, young Steve, his eldest son, who was serving as "cookee," or
assistant to the camp cook. The two were setting out on a long night
drive through the forest to spend Christmas with their family, on the
edge of the lonely little settlement of Brine's Brook.

When all was ready, the big-shouldered woodsman slipped into the seat
beside his son, pulled the blankets and the bearskin all about him,
and picked up the reins from the square dashboard. A sharp _tchk_
started the horses, and, amid a chorus of shouts,--good nights and
Merry Christmases, and well-worn rus