We had along a sharp axe and several good woodchoppers. At first fuel for the fire was gleaned from old dead tree tops lying on the ground—tops of blackoaks my father had cut some years before for the tanbark to be used in his tannery. But as the snow became deeper, and the puzzling voices in the woods persisted, the men—including yours truly — somehow did not seem to want to venture beyond the circle of light. They fetched fuel from a close-in rick of cordwood—four-foot lengths. Without leave, we burned Anna Buzan’s wood, a full cord, that night. It was wood my brother and I had cut on shares. Adjustment could be—and was—made later. Back there on the ridge high above us, in the thick of that blizzard, a woman was singing, as it were, for her life. Let me explain. Three people—a woman and two men enroute to the old English colony, from somewhere farther south, had bogged down in the storm two miles from home, and were desperately in need of help. The old road in those days, coming in from the prairie lands on the south, followed the ridge approximately on the line between the John Wolfley timber on the east and the Anna Buzan timber on the west, to a crossing on Spring creek. The road was first used in bringing out cross-ties for use in building the railroad which now skirts the woods on the north side of the creek. Back on the ridge several old wagon trails led into the forest. The team those Colonists were driving, to a ramshackle old spring wagon, had wandered off the road and had floundered in one of those side leads, upsetting the wagon. This had been the cause of that first scream. Having broken harness which they could not repair in the dark, they had started on foot to where, in passing, they had seen the light of our bonfire, hoping it would lead them to the home of a settler. But when close enough to see it was only a bonfire, misgivings began to assail them. What if it should prove to be an Indian camp, or maybe horse-thieves in hiding? These facts were made known to us after they had reached our fire. When Van’s “Angel” had come in the flesh—her long skirt, held up in front, trailing atop the snow as she moved in—we could see that she was not garbed in the traditional folds of flowing gauze-like fabric, as becomes an angel. It would have been all out of place on a night like that. As it was, I thought she was dressed rather too thinly. Bob Graham said, “If you wouldn’t be offended, young lady, I’d offer you a swig of my whisky.” “Liquor,” she said, “I can take it,” Bob passed the bottle to her. “O-oo, so little,” she complained. “I ‘opes it will ‘elp.” Their names were Bill and Teddy and Minerva. Bill led off as spokesman. He said, “When we sawer men walking around the fire we knew there would be no ‘ouse ‘ere. And I asked Teddy wot shall we do now?”