the tiniest dry twigs

The man took a chew of tobacco and proceeded to start a new amber beard. Also, his moist breath quickly powdered with white his mustache, eyebrows, and lashes. There did not seem to be so many springs on the left fork of the Henderson, and for half an hour the man saw no signs of any. And then it happened. At a place where there were no signs, where the soft, unbroken snow seemed to advertise solidity beneath, tee man broke through. It was not deep. He wet himself halfway to the knees before he floundered out to the firm crust.
He was angry, and cursed his luck aloud. He had hoped to get into camp with the boys at six o'clock, and this would delay him an hour, for he would have to build a fire and dry out his foot-gear. This was imperative at that low temperature--he knew that much; and he turned aside to the bank, which he climbed. On top, tangled in the underbrush about the trunks of several small spruce trees, was a high-water deposit of dry firewood--sticks and twigs, principally, but also larger portions of seasoned branches and fine, dry, last-year's grasses. He threw down several large pieces on top of the snow. This served for a foundation and prevented the young flame from drowning itself in the snow it otherwise would melt. The flame he got by touching a match to a small shred of birch bark that he took from his pocket. This burned even more readily than paper. Placing it on the foundation, he fed the young flame with wisps of dry grass and with the tiniest dry twigs.

followed upon the striking

At twelve o'clock the day was at its brightest. Yet the sun was too; far south an its winter journey to clear the horizon. The bulge of the earth intervened between it arid Henderson Creek, where the man walked under a clear sky at noon and cast no shadow. At half-past twelve, to the minute, he arrived at the forks of the creek. He was. pleased at the speed he had made. If he kept it up, he would certainly be with the boys by six. He unbuttoned his jacket and shirt and drew forth his lunch. The action consumed no more than a quarter of a minute, yet in that brief moment the numbness laid hold of the exposed fingers. He did not put the mitten on, but, instead struck the fingers a dozen sharp smashes against his leg. Then he sat down on a snow-covered log to eat. The sting that followed upon the striking of his fingers against his leg ceased so quickly that he was startled. He had had no chance to take a bite of biscuit. He struck the fingers repeatedly and returned them to the mitten, baring the other hand for the purpose of eating, He tried to take a mouthful, but the ice-muzzle prevented. He had forgotten to build a fire and thaw out. He chuckled at his foolishness, and as he chuckled he noted the numbness creeping into the exposed fingers. Also, he noted that the stinging which had first come to his toes when he sat down was already passing away. He wandered whether the toes were warm or numb. He moved them inside the moccasins and decided that they were numb.

reached in his pocket

Such were his thoughts, but he did not sit and think them. He was busy all the time they
were passing through his mind. He made a new foundation for a fire, this time in the open,
where no treacherous tree could blot it out. Next, he gathered dry grasses and tiny twigs
from the high-water flotsam. He could not bring his fingers together to pull them out, but
he was able to gather them by the handful. In this way he got many rotten twigs and bits of
green moss that were undesirable, but it was the best he could do. He worked methodically,
even collecting an armful of the larger branches to be used later when the fire gathered
strength. And all the while the dog sat and watched him, a certain yearning wistfulness in
its eyes, for it looked upon him as the fire-provider, and the fire was slow in coming.
When all was ready, the man reached in his pocket for a second piece of birch bark. He knew
the bark was there, and, though he could not feel it with his fingers, he could hear its
crisp rustling as he fumbled for it. Try as he would, he could not clutch hold of it. And
all the time in his consciousness, was the knowledge that each instant his feet were
freezing. This thought tended to put him in a panic, but he fought against it and kept calm.
He pulled on his mittens with his teeth, and threshed his arms back and forth, beating his
hands with all his might against his sides. He did this sitting down, and he stood up to do
it; and all the while the do,g sat in the snow, its wolf-brush of a tail curled around
warmly over its forefeet, its sharp wolf-ears pricked forward intently as it watched the man
And the man, as he beat and threshed with his arms and hands, felt a great surge of envy as
he regarded the creature that was warm ant secure in its natural covering.

involving the whole tree

But before he could cut the strings, it happened. It was his own fault or, rather, his
mistake. He should not have built the fire under the spruce tree. He should have built it in
the open. But it had been easier to pull the twigs from the brush and drop them directly on
the fire. Now the tree under which he had done this carried a weight of snow on its boughs.
No wind had blown for weeks, and each bough was fully freighted. Each time he had pulled a
twig he had communicated a slight agitation to the tree--an imperceptible agitation, so far
as he was concerned, but an agitation sufficient to bring about the disaster. High up in the
tree one bough capsized its load of snow. This fell on the boughs beneath, capsizing them.
This process continued, spreading out and involving the whole tree. It grew like an
avalanche, and it descended without warning upon the man and the fire, and the fire was
blotted out! Where it had burned was a mantle of fresh and disordered snow.
The man was shocked. It was as though he had just heard his own sentence of death. For a
moment he sat and stared at the spot where the fire had been. Then he grew very calm.
Perhaps the old-timer on Sulphur Creek was right. If he had only had a trail-mate he would
have been in no danger now. The trail-mate could have built the fire. Well, it was up to him
to build the fire over again, and this second time there must be no failure. Even if he
succeeded, he would most likely lose some toes His feet must be badly frozen by now, and
there would be some time before the second fire Was ready.

his numb fingers

But he was safe. Toes and nose and cheeks would be only touched by the frost, for the fire
was beginning to burn with strength. He was feeding it with twigs the size of his finger. In
another minute he would be able to feed it with branches the size of his wrier, and then he
could remove his wet toot-gear, and, while it dried, he could keep his naked feet warm by
the fire, rubbing them at first, of course, with snow. The fire was a success. He was safe.
He remembered the advice of the old timer on Sulphur Creek, and smiled. The old-timer had
been very serious in laying down the law that no man must travel alone in the Klondike after
fifty below. Well, here he was; he had had the accident; he was alone; and he had saved
himself. Those old-timers were rather womanish, some of them, he thought. All a man had to
do was to keep his head, and he was all right. Any man who was a man could travel alone. But
it was surprising, the rapidity with which his cheeks and nose were freezing. And he had not
thought his fingers could go lifeless in so short a time. Lifeless they were, for he could
scarcely make them move together to grip a twig, and they seemed remote from his body and
from him. When he touched a twig, he had to look and see whether or not he had hold of it.
The wires were pretty well down between him and his finger-ends.
All of which counted for little. There was the fire, snapping and crackling and promising
life with every dancing flame. He started to untie his moccasins. They were coated with ice;
the thick German socks were like sheaths of iron halfway to the knees; and the moccasin
strings were like rods of steel all twisted and knotted as by some conflagration. For a
moment he tugged with his numb fingers, then, realizing the folly of it, he drew his sheath
-knife.

his body chilled

He worked slowly and carefully, keenly aware of his danger. Gradually, as the flame grew
stronger, he increased the size of the twigs with which he fed it. He squatted in the snow,
pulling the twigs out from their entanglement in the brush and feeding directly to the
flame. He knew there must be no failure. When it is seventy-five below zero, a man must not
fail in his first attempt to build a fire--that is, if his feet are wet. If his feet are
dry, and he fails, he can run along the trail for half a mile and restore his circulation.
But the circulation of wet and freezing feet cannot be restored by running when it is
seventy-five below. No matter how fast he runs, the wet feet will freeze the harder.
All this the man knew. The old-timer on Sulphur Creek had told him about it the previous
fall, and now he was appreciating the advice. Already all sensation had gone out of his
feet. To build the fire he had been forced to remove his mittens, and the fingers had
quickly gone numb. His pace of four miles an hour had kept his heart pumping blood to the
surface of his body and to all the extremities. But the instant he stopped, the action of
the pump eased down. The cold of space smote the unprotected tip of the planet, and he,
being on that unprotected tip, received the full force of the blow. The blood of his body
recoiled before it. The blood was alive, like the dog, and like the dog it wanted to hide
away and cover itself up from the fearful cold. So long as he walked four miles an hour, he
pumped that blood, willy-nilly, to the surface; but now it ebbed away and sank down into the
recesses of his body. The extremities were the first to feel its absence. His wet feet froze
the faster, and his exposed fingers numbed the faster, though they had not yet begun to
freeze. Nose and cheeks were already freezing, while the skin of all his body chilled as it
lost its blood.

FANTINE HAPPY

She made no movement of either surprise or of joy; she was joy itself. That simple question, "And Cosette?" was put with so profound a faith, with so much certainty, with such a complete absence of disquiet and of doubt, that he found not a word of reply. She continued:--

"I knew that you were there. I was asleep, but I saw you. I have seen you for a long, long time. I have been following you with my eyes all night long. You were in a glory, and you had around you all sorts of celestial forms."

He raised his glance to the crucifix.

"But," she resumed, "tell me where Cosette is. Why did not you place her on my bed against the moment of my waking?"

He made some mechanical reply which he was never afterwards able to recall.

Fortunately, the doctor had been warned, and he now made his appearance. He came to the aid of M. Madeleine.

"Calm yourself, my child," said the doctor; "your child is here."