"I Guess You Can Give Me A
Piece Of Silk For A Hood," Said She, "The Weather Is Growing
Considerable Cold."
"Surely it cannot well be colder than it is at present," said I,
giving her the rocking-chair by the fire.
"Wait a while; you know nothing of a Canadian winter. This is only
November; after the Christmas thaw, you'll know something about the
cold. It is seven-and-thirty years ago since I and my man left the
U-ni-ted States. It was called the year of the great winter. I tell
you, woman, that the snow lay so deep on the earth, that it blocked
up all the roads, and we could drive a sleigh whither we pleased,
right over the snake fences. All the cleared land was one wide white
level plain; it was a year of scarcity, and we were half starved;
but the severe cold was far worse nor the want of provisions. A long
and bitter journey we had of it; but I was young then, and pretty
well used to trouble and fatigue; my man stuck to the British
government. More fool he! I was an American born, and my heart was
with the true cause. But his father was English, and, says he, 'I'll
live and die under their flag.' So he dragged me from my comfortable
fireside to seek a home in the far Canadian wilderness. Trouble! I
guess you think you have your troubles; but what are they to mine?"
She paused, took a pinch of snuff, offered me the box, sighed
painfully, pushed the red handkerchief from her high, narrow,
wrinkled brow, and continued:
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