There was scarce light enough to go by. He picked his logs from the
general pile by the feel of the bark; and having set his foot on
each, to hold it in place while he chopped, he struck rather by
habit than by sight. Loud and rapid the strokes resounded; for he
went at it with a youthful will, and with hunger gnawing him; and
though his arms were stiff and tired, the axe to him was always a
plaything--a plaything that he loved. At last, from under the
henhouse near by he drew out and split some pieces of kindling, and
then stored his axe in that dry place with fresh concern about soft
weather: for more raindrops were falling and the wind was rising.

Stooping down now, he piled the fagots in the hollow of his arm,
till the wood rose cold and damp against his hot neck, against his
ear, and carried first some to the kitchen; and then some to the
side porch of the house, where he arranged it carefully against the
wall, close to the door, and conveniently for a hand reaching
outward from within. As he was heaping up the last of it, having
taken three turns to the woodpile, the door was opened slowly, and
a slight, slender woman peered around at him.

"What makes you so late?"

Her tone betrayed minute curiosity rather than any large concern.

"I wanted to finish a shock, mother. But it isn't much later than
usual; it's the clouds. Here's some good kindling for you in the
morning and a basket of cobs," he added tenderly.

She received in silence the feed basket he held out to her, and
watched him as he kneeled, busily piling up the last of the fagots.