A Little Norsk | Page 5

got to look after this child till some relative turns up. An' that
woman's got to be buried."
"All right. What's got to be done had better be done right off. We've
only one bed, Ans, an' a cradle hasn't appeared necessary before. How
about the sleepin' to-night? If you're goin' into the orphan-asylum
business, you'll have to open up correspondence with a furniture store."
Ans reddened a little. "It ain't mine any more'n yours. We're pardners in
this job."
"No: I guess not. You look more like a dad, an' I guess I'll shift the
responsibility of this thing off onto you. I'll bunk here on the floor, an'
you take the child an' occupy the bed."
"Well, all right," answered Anson, going over in his turn and looking
down at the white face and tow-coloured hair of the little stranger. "But
say, we ain't got no night-clothes f'r the little chap. What'll we do? Put
her to sleep jes' as she is?"
"I reckon we'll have to to-night. Maybe you'll find some more clothes
over to the shanty."
"Say, Bert," said Ans later.
"Well?"
"It's too darn cold f'r you to sleep on the floor there. You git in here on
the back side, an' I'll take the child on the front. She'd be smashed
flatter'n a pancake if she was in the middle. She ain't bigger'n a pint o'
cider, anyway."

"No, ol' man. I'll lay here on the floor, an' kind o' heave a twist in once
in a while. It's goin' to be cold enough to freeze the tail off a brass bull
by daylight."
Ans bashfully crept in beside the sleeping child, taking care not to
waken her, and lay there thinking of his new responsibility. At every
shiver of the cowering cabin and rising shriek of the wind, his heart
went out in love toward the helpless little creature whose dead mother
lay in the cold and deserted shanty, and whose father was wandering
perhaps breathless and despairing on the plain, or lying buried in the
snow in some deep ravine beside his patient oxen. He tucked the
clothing in carefully about the child, felt to see if her little feet were
cold, and covered her head with her shawl, patting her lightly with his
great paw.
"Say, Bert!"
"Well, Ans, what now?"
"If this little chap should wake up an' cry f'r its mother, what in thunder
would I do?"
"Give it up, ol' boy," was the reply from the depths of the buffalo-robes
before the fire. "Pat her on the back, an' tell her not to cry, or somethin'
like that."
"But she can't tell what I say."
"Oh, she'll understand if y' kind o' chuckle an' gurgle like a fam'ly
man." But the little one slept on, and when, about midnight, Bert got up
to feed the fire, he left the stove door open to give light, and went softly
over to the sleepers. Ans was sleeping with the little form close to his
breast, and the poor, troubled face safe under his shaggy beard.
* * * * *
And all night long the blasting wind, sweeping the sea of icy sands,
hissed and howled round the little sod cabin like surf beating on a

half-sunken rock. The wind and the snow and the darkness possessed
the plain; and Cold (whose other name is Death) was king of the
horrible carnival. It seemed as though morning and sunlight could not
come again, so absolute was the sway of night and death.
CHAPTER III.
THE BURIAL OF HER DEAD MOTHER.
When Anson woke the next morning, he found the great flower-like
eyes of the little waif staring straight into his face with a surprise too
great for words or cries. She stared steadily and solemnly into his open
eyes for a while, and when he smiled she smiled back; but when he
lifted his large hand and tried to brush her hair she grew frightened,
pushing her little fists against him, and began to cry "Mor! Mor Kom!"
This roused Gearheart, who said:
"Well, Ans, what are y' goin' to do with that child? This is your mornin'
to git breakfast. Come, roll out. I've got the fire goin' good. I can't let y'
off; it'll break up our system."
Anson rolled out of the bunk and dressed hurriedly in the cold room.
The only sound was the roar of the stove devouring the hay-twist.
Anson danced about.
"Thunder an' black cats, ain't it cold! The wind has died down, or we'd
be froze stiffer'n a wedge. It was mighty good in you, ol' man, to keep
the stove goin' durin' the night. The child has opened her eyes brighter'n
a dollar, but I tell you I don't like to let her