The air was crisp and nipping, the frost crackled under his feet, the smoke from his pipe seemed no thicker than the steam from his breath, the ax rang on the hard aspens.

Wade swung this implement like a born woodsman.
The chips flew and the dead wood smelled sweet.

Some logs he chopped into three-foot pieces; others he chopped and split.

When he tired a little of swinging the ax he carried the cut pieces to the cabin and stacked them near the door.

Now and then he would halt a moment to gaze away across the whitened slopes and rolling hills.