In the morning, as like as not, the boys would have to dig their way out.
He went straight to the horse shed for his snowshoes that hung on the wall there.

Ordinary snowshoes would not endure his ponderous weight, and Uncle Bill Campbell had fashioned these himself, heavy and uncomfortable articles, but capable of enduring the strain.
Fumbling his way down behind the stalls, Bill's roan lashed out at him with savage heels; but Maggie, the old draft horse, whinnied softly, greeting that familiar heavy step.

He tied the snowshoes on his back and then stopped for a last word to Maggie.

She raised her head and dropped it clumsily on his shoulder.

She was among the little, agile mountain ponies what he was among men, and their bulk had rendered each of them more or less helpless.