A Little Norsk | Page 6

know what's happened to
her relatives."
The little one began to wail in a frightened way, being alone in the dim
corner.
"There she goes now; she's wantin' to go home! That's what she's askin',
jes' like's not. Say, Bert, what the devil can I do?"

"Talk to her, Ans; chuckle to her."
"Talk! She'll think I'm threatenin' to knock her head off, or somethin'.
There there, don't ee cry! We'll go see papa soon.--Confound it, man, I
can't go on with this thing! There, there! See, child, we're goin' to have
some nice hot pancakes now; goin' to have breakfast now. See, ol' pap's
goin' to fry some pancakes. Whoop--see!" He took down the saucepan,
and flourished it in order to make his meaning plainer. Bert laughed.
"That's as bad as your fist. Put that down, Ans. You'll scare the young
one into a fit; you ain't built f'r a jumpin'-jack."
The child did indeed set up a louder and more distracting yell. Getting
desperate, Anson seized her in his arms, and, despite her struggles,
began tossing her on his shoulder. The child understood him and ceased
to cry, especially as Gearheart began to set the table, making a pleasant
clatter, whistling the while.
The glorious light of the morning made its way only dimly through the
thickly frosted window-panes; the boards snapped in the horrible cold;
out in the barn the cattle were bellowing and kicking with pain.
"Do you know," said Bert, impressively, "I couldn't keep that woman
out o' my mind. I could see her layin' there without any quilts on her,
an' the mice a-runnin' over her. God! it's tough, this bein' alone on a
prairie on such a night."
"I knew I'd feel so, an' I jest naturally covered her up an' tucked the
covers in, the child a-lookin' on. I thought she'd feel better, seein' her
ma tucked in good an' warm. Poor little rat!"
"Did you do that, ol' man?"
"You bet I did! I couldn't have slep' a wink if I hadn't."
"Well, why didn't y' tell me, so't I could sleep?"
"I didn't think you'd think of it that way, not havin' seen her."

The child now consented to sit in one of the chairs and put her feet
down by the stove. She wept silently now, with that infrequent,
indrawn sob, more touching than wails. She felt that these strangers
were her friends, but she wanted her mother. She ate well, and soon
grew more resigned. She looked first at one and then at the other of the
men as they talked, trying to understand their strange language. Then
she fell to watching a mouse that stole out from behind the flour-barrels,
snatching a crumb occasionally and darting back, and laughed gleefully
once, and clapped her hands.
"Now, the first thing after the chores, Ans, is that woman over there. Of
course it's out o' the question buryin' her, but we'd better go over an' git
what things there is left o' the girl's, an' fasten up the shanty to keep the
wolves out."
"But then----"
"What?"
"The mice. You can't shut them out."
"That's so, I never thought o' that. We've got to make a box, I guess; but
it's goin' to be an awful job for me, Ans, to git her into it. I thought I
wouldn't have to touch her."
"Le' me go; I've seen her once an' you hain't. I'd just as soon."
"Heaven an' earth! what could I do with the babe? She'd howl like a
coyote, an' drive me plumb wild. No: you're elected to take care o' the
child. I ain't worth a picayune at it. Besides, you had your share
yesterday."
And so, in the brilliant sunshine of that bitterly cold morning,
Gearheart crunched away over the spotless snow, which burned under
his feet--a land mocking, glorious, pitiless. Far off some slender
columns of smoke told of two or three hearth-fires, but mainly the plain
was level and lifeless as the Polar Ocean, appallingly silent, no cry or
stir in the whole expanse, no tree to creak nor bell to ring.

It required strong effort on the part of the young man to open the door
of the cottage, and he stood for some time with his hand on the latch,
looking about. There was perfect silence without and within, no trace of
feet or hands anywhere. All was as peaceful and unbroken as a
sepulchre.
Finally, as if angry with himself, Gearheart shook himself and pushed
open the door, letting the morning sun stream in. It lighted the bare
little room and fell on the frozen face and rigid, half-open eyes of the
dead woman with a strong, white glare. The thin face and worn,
large-jointed hands lying outside the quilt told of