It’s slick down under the snow, and it would be easy to twist an ankle or break a leg.”
I told him I would and that I wasn’t going far, just down back of our fields in the bottoms.
“Well, anyway,” he said, “be careful. There’ll be no moon tonight and you’re going to see some fog next to the river.”
Walking through our fields I saw my father was right about it being slick and dark.
Several times I slipped and sat down. I couldn’t see anything beyond the glow of my lantern, but I wasn’t worried.
My light was a good one, and Mama had insisted that I make two little leather pouches to cover the blades of my ax.
Just before I reached the timber, Old Dan shook the snow from the underbrush with his deep voice. I stopped and listened. He bawled again.
The deep bass tones rolled around under the tall sycamores, tore their way out of the thick timber,
traveled out over the fields, and slammed up against the foothills.
There they seemed to break up and die away in the mountains.
Old Dan was working the trail slowly and I knew why. He would never line out until Little Ann was running by his side.
I thought she would never get there. When she did, her beautiful voice made the blood pound in my temples.
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