“We’ve got to guard against snow-blindness,” said Shif’less Sol, “an’ I’m thinkin’ o’ a plan that’ll keep us from sufferin’.”

He procured small pieces of wood, and fitted them together so there would be only a narrow slit between.  These were placed over the eyes like spectacles, and fastened with deerskin string, tied behind the head.  The range of vision was then very narrow, but all the glare from the snow was shut out.  Shif’less Sol unconsciously had imitated a device employed by the Esquimaux of the far north to protect their eyesight.  Sets were made for all, and they used them a few days until their eyes grew accustomed to the glare.

All had a great sense of coziness and warmth.  The snow pushed from the roof had gone to reinforce that on the ground, and it now lay heaped up beside the house to a depth of five or six feet, adding to the snugness and security of their walls.  They had gathered an ample supply of firewood, and a deep bed of coals always threw out a mellow and satisfying glow.

They did not spend their time in idleness.  The narrow confines of their house would soon grow irksome to five able-bodied boys and men, and every one of them knew it.  They went forth with rude wooden shovels, and began to clear paths in the snow—­one to a point among the trees where the fallen brushwood lay thickest, another to the edge of the lake, where they broke holes in the ice and caught pickerel, and two or three more to various points around their little domain.  This task gave them healthy occupation for two or three days, and on the fourth day, while Henry, Ross, and Jim Hart were fishing, Paul and Shif’less Sol sat together in the house.

“This snow is goin’ to last a long time, Paul,” said Sol, “an’ we’ve got to stay here till at least most o’ it’s gone.  The warriors won’t be movin’, nor will we.  While we’re idlin’, I wish we had three or four o’ them books that your father an’ Mr. Pennypacker brought over the mountains with ’em.”

“So do I,” said Paul, with a sigh.  He was thinking of an interminable romance, translated from the French of a certain Mademoiselle de Scudery, which his teacher, Mr. Pennypacker, had among his possessions, and which he had once secretly shown to Paul, who was his favorite pupil.  But he added, resignedly:  “You’d never find a book in all this region up here, Sol.  We’d better make up our minds to some monotonous days.”

Shif’less Sol had been leaning lazily against a heap of firewood, and suddenly he sat up with a look of interest in his eyes.  His acute ear had detected a sound on the hill above them—­a faint crunching in the snow.

“It’s one o’ the boys, I s’pose,” he said.  “Now, I wonder what he wants to be tramping around in the deep snow up thar fur.”

“Yes, I hear him,” said Paul, “and he’s lumbering about queerly.”

“He’s comin’ down toward the house,” said Shif’less Sol.  “Now, what in thunder is that?”