third full of water. Two
Swedes had fell out of that bucket once, and hit the water, feet down.
If you'll believe it, they went to work the next day. You can't kill
a Swede. But in my time a little Eyetalian tried the high dive, and it
turned out different with him. We was snowed in then, like we are now,
and I happened to be the only man in camp that could make a coffin for
him. It's a handy thing to know, when you knock about like I've done.'

'We'd be hard put to it now, if you didn't know, Otto,' grandmother
said.

'Yes, 'm,' Fuchs admitted with modest pride. 'So few folks does know
how to make a good tight box that'll turn water. I sometimes wonder
if there'll be anybody about to do it for me. However, I'm not at all
particular that way.'

All afternoon, wherever one went in the house, one could hear the
panting wheeze of the saw or the pleasant purring of the plane. They
were such cheerful noises, seeming to promise new things for living
people: it was a pity that those freshly planed pine boards were to be
put underground so soon. The lumber was hard to work because it was full
of frost, and the boards gave off a sweet smell of pine woods, as the
heap of yellow shavings grew higher and higher. I wondered why Fuchs
had not stuck to cabinet-work, he settled down to it with such ease and
content. He handled the tools as if he liked the feel of them; and when
he planed, his hands went back and forth over the boards in an eager,
beneficent way as if he were blessing them. He broke out now and then
into German hymns, as if this occupation brought back old times to him.

At four o'clock Mr. Bushy, the postmaster, with another neighbour who
lived east of us, stopped in to get warm. They were on their way to the
Shimerdas'. The news of what had happened over there had somehow got
abroad through the snow-blocked country. Grandmother gave the visitors
sugar-cakes and hot coffee. Before these callers were gone, the brother
of the Widow Steavens, who lived on the Black Hawk road, drew up at our
door, and after him came the father of the German family, our
nearest neighbours on the south. They dismounted and joined us in the
dining-room. They were all eager for any details about the suicide, and
they were greatly concerned as to where Mr. Shimerda would be buried.
The nearest Catholic cemetery was at Black Hawk, and it might be weeks
before a wagon could get so far. Besides, Mr. Bushy and grandmother were
sure that a ma