The neighbors rallied around as country people do when one of theirs is up against it. There was a meeting, a collection taken, pledges made, a date set, and Francis had a new house. It was a small house, much smaller than the old Hildreth homestead which Francis's great-great-grandfather had built before Confederation, but it was tight and would prove easy to heat. One of the notable features of the old house was the never-failing spring in the cellar. The water was always ice cold and sweet, if somewhat on the hard side, and there had been a handpump at the kitchen sink for his mother's convenience.

When the neighbors had convened at the Hildreth farm for the house-raising party there had some discussion of trying to rebuild using the old foundation of dry-laid rock, but it was decided to build a smaller structure next to the old site. "It's good enough," said Pincher Langdon. "I'm sorry for what happened to Cooch but I didn't come to build him a mansion."

They cleaned out the foundation hole so Francis would have access to good water and built the new house beside it. Except he was alone, life went on much as before. He looked after the stock, did chores, and occasionally worked out for a neighboring farm family who always had him over for Christmas dinner. When he was ill the neighbor's wife looked in on him. When they brought the hydro to the country, he bought a radio and a light to read by. And late each summer there was the County Fair. Francis was content with the new arrangements.

Francis couldn't remember a winter with so much snow. Every time he turned around it seemed he had to shovel the path leading to the spring box down in the old cellar hole. And the ice seemed thicker and harder to chop out this year. He would pant and gasp with the effort, and lately his chest felt tight and he often got a stitch in his side and left arm. Last night had been wild, the wind howling down the valley, blowing snow into deep sculpted drifts. Francis, snugged up in his tight little house, his stock warm and secure in the barn, felt concern for the deer he knew were yarded up in the cedars out beyond the back pasture. This'll be hard on 'em, poor buggers. Maybe I'll snowshoe out there later and have a look. Have to dig out the spring hole first, 'though. He reached for his red plaid mackinaw on the hook behind the door and felt a twinge of pain in his shoulder. Gettin' stiff. Got to rub some Bag Balm on it. He shrugged into the jacket and pulled an old blue tuque over his ears.

Outside, the cold air knifed into his lungs. The moisture in his breathe froze, stiffening his scraggly mustache. A dribble of snot leaking from one nostril turned to ice. He stepped off the porch and sank into new snow that was over his knees. Shit! I've got my work cut out for me this morning. The light was glarey, made him squint. He grunted as he tossed the first shovel of snow to the side. It was so cold that the snow was light. Not too bad. He started toward the barn, working steadily, tossing the snow to his right. On his way back he'd widen the path, work his way to the woodshed, then finish up in the spring hole. He went into the barn, fed the stock, scraped the shit into the gutters and put down fresh bedding straw. By then he was sweating and the pain in his arm was more insistent. I'll clean the gutter later. Better get the spring hole cleaned out. He widened the path to the house and cleaned a walkway to the woodshed.

Now he was sweating freely and breathing through his mouth in short, shallow puffs. Sweat trickled into his eyes, stinging them, and he removed his toque and wiped his forehead. Fuckin' snow. Fuckin' winter. He thrust his shovel into the snow, lifted, tossed, grunted. He was at the edge of the old cellar hole now. The force of the wind last night had formed a deep drift over the spring box, and Francis found himself up to his waist in snow. He started shoveling faster, trying to throw the snow farther away from the still-covered hole. The pain in his arm was more intense now, his breathing was becoming labored. Despite the cold he continued to sweat heavily, his hair limp under the toque, his eyes smarting from the salt.

The snow had insulated the water so that only a thin crust of ice had formed, and this he broke easily with his shovel. His tongue felt thick in his mouth, his throat dry. Drink. I need a drink. Fuck, no dipper. Too cold to put your hands in there. He leaned on the shovel for a minute, waiting for his breathing to slow, then jabbed the shovel into the snow. He hung his toque on the handle, and ran both hands over his face. He broke the frozen snot from his nose and combed the ice from his mustache. He knelt to drink.

His coat bunched at the throat and shoulders; he undid the buttons. That's better. He bent from the waist, his lips touched the water, he sipped. God, that's cold. He shuddered, his throat numb from the water. He spread his arms a bit to better spread his weight, then lowered his face to the water. He inhaled sharply as the pain shot down his left arm; the icy water numbed his throat; he choked as it went down the wrong way. His chest felt tight. He coughed as his left arm gave out and he felt himself falling into the spring box. He gasped and water filled his mouth, his lungs. His shoulders wedged into the hemlock box. The water was up to the small of his back now. His eyes felt frozen. God how his teeth ached. Bells were ringing in his head. Oh Momma it's cold help me Momma help me help me Momma Momma Momma.