In one town I visited, before the wells were dug, the water for drinking was brought in barrels on flat cars, while melted snow answered for washing. "But what did you do when that was gone?" I asked. "Well, the maple-sap begun to run, and then the birch, which was better; but lor! you couldn't iron nothin'." I passed a little log house standing out of line with the street; and I thought it was a chicken-coop, and asked why it was built that way. "My!" said the woman with a laugh, "that ain't a chicken-coop; that's our first meeting-house. Us women built that. We had one or two old men to help, and the children; and we women did the rest. We were quite proud of it too. It cost fourteen dollars complete. For the minister's chair we cut down a barrel, and covered it with green baize." A minister writes, "My room is one end of the garret of a log house, where I can barely stand erect under the ridgepole. My study-table and bookcase I made from rough boards. As I sit writing, I look forth from a window two by three, upon a field dotted with stumps, log huts, and charcoal kilns, and skirted with dense forests." While I was visiting this section, a woman showed me her hands cracked with the frost. The tears came to her eyes as she said, "I tell ye it's pretty hard lines to have to milk cows when it is forty below zero." No man can imagine the arduous work and the awfulness of life in a northern winter. What is a joy to the well-dressed, well-fed man, with his warm house and the comforts of a civilized community, is often death to the poor minute-man and settler on the frontier. I have sat by the side of the minute-man, and heard from him a story that would bring tears to the eyes of the most cynical. One man I shall never forget, a good hardy Scotchman, with a brave little wife and four children. His field was near Lake Superior; his flock poor homesteaders and Indians. The winters have a hundred and fifty days' sleighing; the frost sometimes reaches 50° below zero, and is often for days together 30° below; so that when it suddenly rises to zero, one can hardly believe it is freezing. Here is his story:-- "We were twelve miles from a doctor; and towards spring two of our children complained of sore throats. It proved to be diphtheria. We used all the remedies we had, and also some herbs given us by an old squaw; but the children grew worse, and we determined to go back to the old settlement. My wife carried the youngest, and I the next one. The other children walked behind, their little legs getting scratched with the briers. We had twelve miles to go to reach the steamer. When we got there, one of the little ones died; and before we reached home the other expired. We buried our two treasures among the friends in the cemetery; and after a while I said to my wife,-- "'Shall we go back to the field? Ought we to go?' "Her answer was, 'Yes.'