iness. It sort of educates.

Mother was worse than silent. There was something about her that scared
me more than anything outdoors. In the morning her eye kep' following me
as if to say, "Go find your father." Surely it was up to me, and if I
wasn't big enough to drive the huskies or pack father's gun, I thought I
could manage afoot to tote his four-pound ax. She beckoned me to her and
kissed me--just that once in ten years, and I was quick through the
door, out of reach, lest she should see me mighty near to cryin'.

It was all very well showing off brave before mother, but when I got
outside, any excuse would have been enough for going back. I wished I'd
left the matches behind, but I hadn't. I wished the snow would be too
soft, but it was hard as sand. I wished I wasn't a coward, and the bush
didn't look so wolfy, and what if I met up with the Eskimo devil! Oh, I
was surely the scaredest lil' boy, and dead certain I'd get lost. There
was nobody to see if I sat down and cried under father's lob-stick, but
I was too durned frightened, because the upper branches looked like
arms with claws. Then I went on because I was going, and there was
father's trail blazed on past Bake-apple Marsh. The little trees, a cut
here, a slash there, the top of a tree lopped and hanging, then Big
Boulder, Johnny Boulder, Small Boulder, cross the crick, first deadfall,
more lops, a number-one trap empty--how well I remember even now. The
way was as plain as streets, and the sun shining warm as he looked over
into the valley.

Then I saw a man's mitt, an old buckskin mitt sticking up out of the
snow. Father had dropped his mitt, and without that his hand would be
froze. When I found him, how glad he'd be to get it!

But when I tried to pick it up, it was heavy. Then it came away, and
there was father's hand sticking up. It was dead.

Of course I know I'd ought to have dug down through the snow, but I
didn't. I ran for all I was worth. Then I got out of breath and come
back shamed.

It wasn't for love of father. No. I hated to touch that hand, and when I
did I was sick. Still that was better than being scared to touch. It's
not so bad when you dare.

I dug, with a snow-shoe for a shovel. There was the buckskin shirt
smelling good, and the long fringes I'd used to tickle his nose
with--then I found his face. I just couldn't bear that, but turned my
back and dug until I came to the great, big, number-four trap he used
for wolf and beav