pennies and silver pieces, and he gave them liberally to the children and
to the poor, though, indeed, there were few suffering poor in Pontiac.
All had food enough to keep them from misery, though often it got no
further than sour milk and bread, with a dash of sugar in it of Sundays,
and now and then a little pork and molasses. As for homes, every man and
woman had a house of a kind, with its low, projecting roof and dormer
windows, according to the ability and prosperity of the owner. These
houses were whitewashed, or painted white and red, and had double glass
in winter, after the same measure. There was no question of warmth, for
in snow-time every house was banked up with earth above the foundations,
the cracks and intersections of windows and doors filled with cloth from
the village looms; and wood was for the chopping far and near. Within
these air-tight cubes these simple folk baked and were happy, content if
now and then the housewife opened the one pane of glass which hung on a
hinge, or the slit in the sash, to let in the cold air. As a rule, the
occasional opening of the outer door to admit some one sufficed, for out
rushed the hot blast, and in came the dry, frosty air to brace to their
tasks the cheerful story-teller and singer.

In summer the little fields were broken with wooden ploughs, followed by
the limb of a tree for harrow, and the sickle, the scythe, and the flail
to do their office in due course; and if the man were well-to-do, he
swung the cradle in his rye and wheat, rejoicing in the sweep of the
knife and the fulness of the swathe. Then, too, there was the driving of
the rivers, when the young men ran the logs from the backwoods to the
great mills near and far: red-shirted, sashed, knee-booted, with rings in
their ears, and wide hats on their heads, and a song in their mouths,
breaking a jamb, or steering a crib, or raft, down the rapids. And the
voyageur also, who brought furs out of the North down the great lakes,
came home again to Pontiac, singing in his patois: