s of New England has a community
lived as sternly as did that winter of 1888 the six camps under Thorpe's
management. There was something a little inspiring about it. The men
fronted their daily work with the same grim-faced, clear-eyed steadiness
of veterans going into battle;--with the same confidence, the same sure
patience that disposes effectively of one thing before going on to
the next. There was little merely excitable bustle; there was no rest.
Nothing could stand against such a spirit. Nothing did. The skirmishers
which the wilderness threw out, were brushed away. Even the inevitable
delays seemed not so much stoppages as the instant's pause of a heavy
vehicle in a snow drift, succeeded by the momentary acceleration as the
plunge carried it through. In the main, and by large, the machine moved
steadily and inexorably.

And yet one possessed of the finer spiritual intuitions could not have
shaken off the belief in an impending struggle. The feel of it was in
the air. Nature's forces were too mighty to be so slightly overcome; the
splendid energy developed in these camps too vast to be wasted on facile
success. Over against each other were two great powers, alike in their
calm confidence, animated with the loftiest and most dignified spirit
of enmity. Slowly they were moving toward each other. The air was
surcharged with the electricity of their opposition. Just how the
struggle would begin was uncertain; but its inevitability was as assured
as its magnitude. Thorpe knew it, and shut his teeth, looking keenly
about him. The Fighting Forty knew it, and longed for the grapple to
come. The other camps knew it, and followed their leader with perfect
trust. The affair was an epitome of the historic combats begun with
David and Goliath. It was an affair of Titans. The little courageous men
watched their enemy with cat's eyes.

The last month of hauling was also one of snow. In this condition
were few severe storms, but each day a little fell. By and by the
accumulation amounted to much. In the woods where the wind could not
get at it, it lay deep and soft above the tops of bushes. The grouse
ate browse from the slender hardwood tips like a lot of goldfinches, or
precipitated themselves headlong down through five feet of snow to reach
the ground. Often Thorpe would come across the irregular holes of their
entrance. Then if he took the trouble to stamp about a little in the
vicinity with his snowshoes, the bird would s