It had begun to fall softly and steadily at
the beginning of the week, and now for days it had covered the
ground deeper and deeper, drifting about the little red brick
house on the hilltop, banking up against the barn, and shrouding
the sheds and the smaller buildings. There had been two cold,
still nights; the windows were covered with silvery landscapes
whose delicate foliage made every pane of glass a leafy bower,
while a dazzling crust bediamonded the hillsides, so that no eye
could rest on them long without becoming snow-blinded.
Town-House Hill was not as well travelled as many others, and
Deacon Baxter had often to break his own road down to the store,
without waiting for the help of the village snow-plough to make
things easier for him. Many a path had Waitstill broken in her
time, and it was by no means one of her most distasteful
tasks--that of shovelling into the drifts of heaped-up whiteness,
tossing them to one side or the other, and cutting a narrow,
clean-edged track that would pack down into the hardness of
marble.
There were many "chores" to be done these cold mornings before
any household could draw a breath of comfort. The Baxters kept
but one cow in winter, killed the pig,--not to eat, but to
sell,--and reduced the flock of hens and turkeys; but Waitstill
was always as busy in the barn as in her own proper domain.
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