THIRLWELL GETS A LETTER A dreary wind wailed about the shack, and now and then the iron roof cracked as it shrank and wrenched its fastenings in the bitter cold.

The room was not warm, although the front of the stove glowed a bright red, and after supper Thirlwell pulled his chair between it and the wall.

He had been out for some hours with snowshoe and rifle, but had seen nothing to shoot.

The white desolation was empty of life, and silent except for the wind among the pine-tops.
"I'd meant to look into the Snake Creek muskegs, but the cold drove me back," he said.

"In summer one's bitten by sand-flies and mosquitoes; in winter one runs some risk of freezing to death.