“Well, I was prowling about in the woods by myself one Sunday afternoon, when an awful snow-storm come on, a big blizzard which staggered the stripped trees like as if ’twould tumble ’em all down, and end our work for us. I was bolting for camp as fast as I was able, when I tripped over something which was a’most covered over in a heavy drift. ‘Great Scott!’ says I, ‘it’s a man!’ And ’twas too. He was near dead. I hauled him out, and set him on his legs; but he couldn’t walk. So I threw him across my shoulders, same way as I carry a deer. He didn’t weigh near as much as a good buck, for he was little more’n a kid and awful lean. But ’twas dreadful travelling, with the snow half blinding and burying you. I was plumb blowed when I struck the camp, and pitched in head foremost.