And I would take up the rifle in anticipation of the wind opening the door and admitting the marauder.

We were snowbound the whole month of February.

I had to shovel a path to the brook.

But it was out of the question for any one to go to town, or for any one to come to us.
And of course during these bitter days nothing was done on my new house.
The logs were all cut.

They stood piled under the snow, except for a few that had been put in place.
One brilliant morning in the last of February I had gone to the brook for water.