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IV. W I N T E R Endlessly, day after day, the journal goes on recording a dreary monotony of rain and cloud. Who has ever dwelt so entirely alone that the most living things in all the universe about are wind and rain and snow? Where the elements dominate and control your life, where at getting up and bedtime and many an hour of night and day between, you question helplessly , as a poor slave his master, the will of the mighty forces of the sky? Dawn breaks, you jump from bed, stand barefoot on the threshold of the door, look through the straight trunked spruces at the brightening world, and read at sight God's will for one more whole, long day of life. "Ah God! it rains again!' And sitting on the bed you wearily draw on your heavy boots, and rainy-spirited begin the special labors of a rainy day. Or maybe, at the sight of clouds again, you laugh at the dull-minded weather man or curse at him good naturedly. Still you must do those rainy-weather chores and all the other daily chores in hot wet-weather garments. That isdestiny. Most of the time, to do ourselves real justice, we met the worst of weather with a battle cry, worked hard,—and then made up for outdoor deariness and wet by heaping on the comforts of indoors,—dry, cozy warmth, good things to eat, and lots to do. We have reached late fall—for northern latitudes. The sky is brooding ominously, heavy, dull, and raw. Winter seems to be closing in upon us. We're driven to work as if in fear. Hurry, hurry! Saw the great drums of 63 spruce, roll them over the ground and stack them high. Calk tight with hemp the cabin's windward eaves so that no breath of wind can enter there and freeze the food inside upon the shelf. Set up the far-famed airtight stove where it will keep you warm,—warm feet in bed and a warm back while painting. Patch up the poor, storm-battered paper roof,—two or three holes we find and we are sure it leaks from twenty. About the cabin pile the hemlock boughs, dense-leafed and warm, making a green slope almost to the caves. Now it looks cozy! Outside and in, the last is done to make us ready for the winter's worst, and just in time! It is the evening of October twenty-second and the feathery snow has just begun to fall. Olson comes stamping in. "Well, well" he cries, "how's this! How does our winter suit you?" It suits us perfectly. The house is warm, Rockwell 's in bed, and I am reading "Treasure Island" to him. "What are you going to make of him?" asked Olson that night speaking of Rockwell. I was at that moment pouring beans into the pot for baking. I slowed the stream and dropped them one by one: " 'Rich-man, poor-man, beggar-man, thief, Doctor, lawyer, merchant, chief! How in the world can anyone lay plans for a youngster's life?" Rockwell lay in his bed dreaming, maybe, of an existence lovelier far than anything the poor, discouraged imagination of a man could reach. A child could make a paradise of earth. Life is so simple! Unerringly he follows his desires making the greatest choices first, then onward into a narrowing pathway until the true goal is reached. How can one preach of beauty or teach another wisdom. These things are of an infinite nature, and in every one of us in just proportion. There is no priesthood of the truth. We live in many worlds, Rockwell and I,—the world of the books we read,—an always changing one, "Robinson Crusoe^' "Treasure Island" the visionaryworld of William Blake, the Saga Age, "Water Babies," and the glorious Celtic past,—Rockwell's own world of fancy, kingdom of beasts, the world he dreams about and draws,—and my created land of striding heroes and poor fatebound men—real as I have painted them or to me nothing is,—and then all round about our common daily, islandworld , itself more wonderful than we have half a notion of. Is it to be believed that we are here alone, this boy and I, far north out on an island wilderness, seagirt on a terrific coast! It's as we pictured it and wanted it a year and more...

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