Chapter Twelve--Winter at Rivermouth

  "I guess we're going to have a regular old-fashioned snowstorm,"said Captain Nutter, one bleak December morning, casting a peculiarlynautical glance skyward.

  The Captain was always hazarding prophecies about the weather, whichsomehow never turned out according to his prediction. The vanes on thechurch-steeples seemed to take fiendish pleasure in humiliating thedear old gentleman. If he said it was going to be a clear day, a densesea-fog was pretty certain to set in before noon. Once he caused aprotracted drought by assuring us every morning, for six consecutiveweeks, that it would rain in a few hours. But, sure enough, thatafternoon it began snowing.

  Now I had not seen a snow-storm since I was eighteen months old, and ofcourse remembered nothing about it. A boy familiar from his infancy withthe rigors of our New England winters can form no idea of the impressionmade on me by this natural phenomenon. My delight and surprise were asboundless as if the heavy gray sky had let down a shower of pondlilies and white roses, instead of snow-flakes. It happened to be ahalf-holiday, so I had nothing to do but watch the feathery crystalswhirling hither and thither through the air. I stood by the sitting-roomwindow gazing at the wonder until twilight shut out the novel scene.

  We had had several slight flurries of hail and snow before, but this wasa regular nor'easter.

  Several inches of snow had already fallen. The rose-bushes at the doordrooped with the weight of their magical blossoms, and the two poststhat held the garden gate were transformed into stately Turks, withwhite turbans, guarding the entrance to the Nutter House.

  The storm increased at sundown, and continued with unabated violencethrough the night. The next morning, when I jumped out of bed, the sunwas shining brightly, the cloudless heavens wore the tender azure ofJune, and the whole earth lay muffled up to the eyes, as it were, in athick mantle of milk-white down.

  It was a very deep snow. The Oldest Inhabitant (what would become of aNew England town or village without its oldest Inhabitant?) overhauledhis almanacs, and pronounced it the deepest snow we had had for twentyyears. It couldn't have been much deeper without smothering us all.Our street was a sight to be seen, or, rather, it was a sight not tobe seen; for very little street was visible. One huge drift completelybanked up our front door and half covered my bedroom window.

  There was no school that day, for all the thoroughfares were impassable.By twelve o'clock, however, the great snowploughs, each drawn by fouryokes of oxen, broke a wagon-path through the principal streets; but thefoot-passengers had a hard time of it floundering in the arctic drifts.

  The Captain and I cut a tunnel, three feet wide and six feet high, fromour front door to the sidewalk opposite. It was a beautiful cavern, withits walls and roof inlaid with mother-of-pearl and diamonds. I am surethe ice palace of the Russian Empress, in Cowper's poem, was not a moresuperb piece of architecture.

  The thermometer began falling shortly before sunset and we had thebitterest cold night I ever experienced. This brought out the OldestInhabitant again the next day--and what a gay old boy he was for decidingeverything! Our tunnel was turned into solid ice. A crust thick enoughto bear men and horses had formed over the snow everywhere, and the airwas alive with merry sleigh-bells. Icy stalactites, a yard long, bungfrom the eaves of the house, and the Turkish sentinels at the gatelooked as if they had given up all hopes of ever being relieved fromduty.

  So the winter set in cold and glittering. Everything out-of-doors wassheathed in silver mail. To quote from Charley Marden, it was "coldenough to freeze the tail off a brass monkey,"--an observation whichseemed to me extremely happy, though I knew little or nothing concerningthe endurance of brass monkeys, having never seen one.

  I had looked forward to the advent of the season with graveapprehensions, nerving myself to meet dreary nights and monotonousdays; but summer itself was not more jolly than winter at Rivermouth.Snow-balling at school, skating on the Mill Pond, coasting by moonlight,long rides behind Gypsy in a brand-new little sleigh built expressly forher, were sports no less exhilarating than those which belonged to thesunny months. And then Thanksgiving! The nose of Memory--why shouldn'tMemory have a nose?--dilates with pleasure over the rich perfume of MissAbigail's forty mince-pies, each one more delightful than the other,like the Sultan's forty wives. Christmas was another red-letter day,though it was not so generally observed in New England as it is now.

  The great wood-fire in the tiled chimney-place made our sitting-roomvery cheerful of winter nights. When the north-wind howled aboutthe eaves, and the sharp fingers of the sleet tapped against thewindow-panes, it was nice to be so warmly sheltered from the storm. Adish of apples and a pitcher of chilly cider were always served duringthe evening. The Captain had a funny way of leaning back in the chair,and eating his apple with his eyes closed. Sometimes I played dominoswith him, and sometimes Miss Abigail read aloud to us, pronouncing "to"toe, and sounding all the eds.

  In a former chapter I alluded to Miss Abigail's managing propensities.She had affected many changes in the Nutter House before I came thereto live; but there was one thing against which she had long contendedwithout being able to overcome. This was the Captain's pipe. Onfirst taking command of the household, she prohibited smoking in thesitting-room, where it had been the old gentleman's custom to take awhiff or two of the fragrant weed after meals. The edict went forth--andso did the pipe. An excellent move, no doubt; but then the house washis, and if he saw fit to keep a tub of tobacco burning in the middle ofthe parlor floor, he had a perfect right to do so. However, he humoredher in this as in other matters, and smoked by stealth, like a guiltycreature, in the barn, or about the gardens. That was practicable insummer, but in winter the Captain was hard put to it. When he couldn'tstand it longer, he retreated to his bedroom and barricaded the door.Such was the position of affairs at the time of which I write.

  One morning, a few days after the great snow, as Miss Abigail wasdusting the chronometer in the ball, she beheld Captain Nutter slowlydescending the staircase, with a long clay pipe in his mouth. MissAbigail could hardly credit her own eyes.

  "Dan'el!" she gasped, retiring heavily on the hat-rack.

  The tone of reproach with which this word was uttered failed to producethe slightest effect on the Captain, who merely removed the pipe fromhis lips for an instant, and blew a cloud into the chilly air. Thethermometer stood at two degrees below zero in our hall.

  "Dan'el!" cried Miss Abigail, hysterically--"Dan'el, don't come near me!"Whereupon she fainted away; for the smell of tobacco-smoke always madeher deadly sick.

  Kitty Collins rushed from the kitchen with a basin of water, and set towork bathing Miss Abigail's temples and chafing her hands. I thoughtmy grandfather rather cruel, as he stood there with a half-smile on hiscountenance, complacently watching Miss Abigail's sufferings. When shewas "brought to," the Captain sat down beside her, and, with a lovelytwinkle in his eye, said softly:

  "Abigail, my dear, there wasn't any tobacco in that Pipe! It was a newpipe. I fetched it down for Tom to blow soap-bubbles with."

  At these words Kitty Collins hurried away, her features-workingstrangely. Several minutes later I came upon her in the scullery withthe greater portion of a crash towel stuffed into her mouth. "MissAbygil smelt the terbacca with her oi!" cried Kitty, partially removingthe cloth, and then immediately stopping herself up again.

  The Captain's joke furnished us--that is, Kitty and me--with mirth formany a day; as to Miss Abigail, I think she never wholly pardonedhim. After this, Captain Nutter gradually gave up smoking, which is anuntidy, injurious, disgraceful, and highly pleasant habit.

  A boy's life in a secluded New England town in winter does not affordmany points for illustration. Of course he gets his ears or toesfrost-bitten; of course he smashes his sled against another boy's; ofcourse be bangs his bead on the ice; and he's a lad of no enterprisewhatever, if he doesn't manage to skate into an eel-hole, and be broughthome half drowned. All these things happened to me; but, as they la
cknovelty, I pass them over, to tell you about the famous snow-fort whichwe built on Slatter's Hill.