So fearful were we lest the fire should go out in the night that we gathered a huge heap of fuel, and we all agreed to get up and stuff the stove whenever we waked and found the fire abating.
Among the neighbors for whom we were cutting ice was Rufus Sylvester.

He was not a very careful or prosperous farmer, and not likely to be successful at dairying.

But because the old Squire and others were embarking in that business, Rufus wished to do so, too.

He had no ice-house, but thought he could keep ice buried in sawdust, in the shade of a large apple-tree near his barn; and I may add here that he tried it with indifferent success for three years, and that it killed the apple-tree.
On Saturday of that cold week he came to the lake with his lame old horse and a rickety sled, and wanted us to cut a hundred cakes of ice for him.

The prospect of our getting our pay was poor.