IN A FISHING COUNTRY 



how they recrossed through the hours of 

 the night, falling exhausted where they 

 reached the land — lying where they fell. 

 And still the merciless north wind held, — 

 for one week, two weeks, three weeks. At 

 last, one night, the gale eased, and a band 

 of skeletons, paddling feebly and unsurely 

 as little children, made the slow traverse. 

 Quinsy, at the best, is a miserable 

 enough ailment. When next it afflicts you 

 try to discover solace in a contrast. From 

 the snugness of a warm bed and a tem- 

 pered room transport yourself to a narrow 

 couch of poles, strewn with branches, in a 

 six-by-eight cabane de chasseur — almost 

 buried under the snow. No doctor will 

 get on your nerves with his professional 

 cheerfulness and nicely calculated sym- 

 pathy; no nurse will annoy you with her 

 fussy ministrations. In place of carefully 

 prepared slops at carefully timed intervals 

 you will make yourself broth of melted 

 snow with a bit of flour, or the frozen leg 

 of a hare. The sheet-iron stove as big as 

 a hat-box must be kept red-hot or you 

 perish; beneath the drifts outside there 

 are dead trees a plenty. The chemist's 

 shop round the corner is represented in 

 this case by a pitiful half-inch of Tain- 

 186 



