It was full of snow when she
ran in and tore the wrappings off my neck and began to rub my
ears and cheeks with the cold snow, calling loudly for Grandma
Bisnette. She came in a moment and helped at the stripping of our
feet and legs. I remember that she slit my trousers with the shears
as I lay on the floor, while the others rubbed my feet with the
snow. Our hands and ears were badly frosted, but in an hour the
whiteness had gone out of them and the returning blood burnt like
a fire.
'How queer he stares!' I heard them say when Uncle Eb first came
to, and in a moment a roar of laughter broke from him.
'I'll never fergit,' said he presently, 'if I live a thousan' years, the
lickin' I gin thet boy; but it hurt me worse'n it hurt him.'
Then he told the story of the blue beech.
The next day was that 'cold Friday' long remembered by those who
felt its deadly chill - a day when water thrown in the magic air
came down in clinking crystals, and sheaths of frost lay thick upon
the windows. But that and the one before it were among the few
days in that early period that lie, like a rock, under my character.
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