THE START OF THE TRAIL 7 



The closing of a door woke me from my reverie, 

 and there beside me stood a tall, meek-looking in- 

 dividual, as yet but partly dressed. He was clothed 

 above in a thick red flannel shirt, and he stood in 

 an attitude of supplication, with his long arms 

 outstretched toward the genial stove. 



"Jim," he wailed, "didn't yer get my writing 

 telling yer to have hot water in my room at six 

 o'clock?" 



"Yep, I got yer letter," the boy replied indig- 

 nantly, "but yer didn't say whether yer wanted 

 it at six o'clock last night, this mornin', or ter- 

 night." 



"Wai, can I have it now? I want to shave," 

 said the countryman. 



"Yep, yer can if it ain't friz," said Jim. 



At breakfast-time, day was just coming, but as 

 yet no steps had been taken to outfit me for my 

 journey into the woods. Life slows down in back- 

 woods New England towns in the winter, and to 

 get along with comfort one must accept conditions 

 as one finds them. Manners and customs cannot 

 be changed for the moment. 



When I returned from the dining-room, half a 

 dozen villagers were gathered round the hospitable 

 office-stove, discussing the stranger within their 

 gates. A violent argument was in progress. It 

 seemed that there were three lumber-camps in 



