The snow-plow, even with extra teams, could hardly force its path through.
Men with shovels helped.

Often but a few loads a day, and they small, could be forced to the banks by the utmost exertions of the entire crew.
Esprit de corps awoke.

The men sprang to their tasks with alacrity, gave more than an hour's exertion to each of the twenty-four, took a pride in repulsing the assaults of the great enemy, whom they personified under the generic "She." Mike McGovern raked up a saint somewhere whom he apostrophized in a personal and familiar manner.
He hit his head against an overhanging branch.
"You're a nice wan, now ain't ye ?" he cried angrily at the unfortunate guardian of his soul.

"Dom if Oi don't quit ye! Ye see!" "Be the gate of Hivin!" he shouted, when he opened the door of mornings and discovered another six inches of snow, "Ye're a burrd! If Oi couldn't make out to be more of a saint than that, Oi'd quit the biznis! Move yor pull, an' get us some dacint weather! Ye awt t' be road monkeyin' on th' golden streets, thot's what ye awt to be doin'!" Jackson Hines was righteously indignant, but with the shrewdness of the old man, put the blame partly where it belonged.
"I ain't sayin'," he observed judicially, "that this weather ain't hell.
It's hell and repeat.

But a man sort've got to expec' weather.