A Little Norsk | Page 8

or leaped across the waste of glittering crust; day after day the
sun shone in dazzling splendor, but so white and cold that the
thermometer still kept down among the thirties. They were absolutely
alone on the plain, except that now and then a desperate wolf or
inquisitive owl came by.
These were long days for the settlers. They would have been longer had
it not been for little Elga, or "Flaxen," as they took to calling her. They
racked their brains to amuse her, and in the intervals of tending the
cattle and of cooking, or of washing dishes, rummaged through all their
books and pictures, taught her "cat's cradle," played "jack-straws" with
her, and with all their resources of song and pantomime strove to fill up
the little one's lonely days, happy when they succeeded in making her
laugh.
"That settles it!" said Bert one day, whanging the basin back into the
empty flour-barrel.
"What's the matter?"

"Matter is, we've reached the bottom o' the flour-barrel, an' it's got to be
filled; no two ways about that. We can get along on biscuit an'
pancakes in place o' meat, but we can't put anythin' in the place o' bread.
If it looks favorable to-morrow, we've got to make a break for Summit
an' see if we can't stock up."
Early the next morning they brought out the shivering team and piled
into the box all the quilts and robes they had, and bundling little Flaxen
in, started across the trackless plain toward the low line of hills to the
east, twenty-five or thirty miles. From four o'clock in the morning till
nearly noon they toiled across the sod, now ploughing through the deep
snow where the unburned grass had held it, now scraping across the
bare, burned earth, now wandering up or down the swales, seeking the
shallowest places, now shovelling a pathway through.
The sun rose unobscured as usual, and shone down with unusual
warmth, which afforded the men the satisfaction of seeing little Flaxen
warm and merry. She chattered away in her own tongue, and clapped
her little hands in glee at sight of the snowbirds running and fluttering
about. As they approached the low hills the swales got deeper and more
difficult to cross, but about eleven o'clock they came to Burdon's Ranch,
a sort of half-way haven between their own claim and Summit, the end
of the railway.
Captain Burdon was away, but Mrs. Burdon, a big, slatternly
Missourian, with all the kindliness of a universal mother in her swarthy
face and flaccid bosom, ushered them into the cave-like dwelling set in
the sunny side of Water Moccasin.
"Set down, set right down. Young uns, git out some o' them cheers an'
let the strangers set. Purty tol'able tough weather? A feller don't git out
much such weather as this 'ere 'thout he's jes' naturally 'bleeged to. Suse,
heave in another twist, an' help the little un to take off her shawl."
After Mrs. Burdon's little flurry of hospitality was over, Anson found
time to tell briefly the history of the child.
"Heavens to Betsey! I wan' to know!" she cried, her fat hands on her

knees and her eyes bulging. "Wal! wal! I declare, it beats the Dutch! So
that woman jest frizzed right burside the babe! Wal, I never! An' the ol'
man he ain't showed up? Wal, now, he ain't likely to. I reckon I saw
that Norsk go by here that very day, an' I says to Cap'n, says I, 'If that
feller don't reach home inside an hour, he'll go through heaven a-gittin'
home,' says I to the Cap'n."
"Well, now," said Anson, stopping the old woman's garrulous flow,
"I've got to be off f'r Summit, but I wish you'd jest look after this little
one here till we git back. It's purty hard weather f'r her to be out, an' I
don't think she ought to."
"Yaas; leave her, o' course. She'll enjoy playin' with the young uns. I
reckon y' did all y' could for that woman. Y' can't burry her now; the
ground's like linkum-vity."
But as Anson turned to leave, the little creature sprang up with a torrent
of wild words, catching him by the coat, and pleading strenuously to go
with him. Her accent was unmistakable.
"You wan' to go with Ans?" he inquired, looking down into the little
tearful face with a strange stirring in his bachelor heart. "I believe on
my soul she does."
"Sure's y're born!" replied Mrs. Burdon. "She'd rather go with you than
to stay an' fool with the young uns; that's what she's tryin' to say."
"Do y' wan' to go?" asked Ans again, opening his arms. She sprang
toward him, raising her eager little hands as high as she