Middlebury register. (Middlebury, Vt.) 1886-1937, 1904-12-09
Mrs. Cott1e's
E1opemert-% 80
BY JOHN ALEXANDER BOYLE
Copyright, 1904, by Daily Story Pub. Col

the hills of redwood that rolled away
to the sea, reluctantly concluded that
the morrow would be the most dismal
thought brought a film of tears to her
eyes. She brushed them across her
cheek hurriedly with the hem of a cal
leo apron and turned back into the
kitchen, whose rough board walls had
become the boundaries of her world.
Christmas was the one holiday in
the year to which she looked forward.
Bald mountain is probably the most
beautiful and the loneliest spot in Cab
ifornia. For three years Mrs. Cottle
had risen daily to take up her endless
round of household tasks and looked
across the virgin redwood forests that
stretched away for 20 miles to the
ocean, that lay white and shining on
the horizen Three years before on
the day that the last turn in the road
at the summit of the peak revealed the
beauties of the landscape to her for the
first time Mrs. Cottle cried out in de-
light as the man beside her pointed out
tiny cabin nesting half afraid on the
edge of a clearing beneath them.
That's our home, Anna. my dear"
he had said. How well she remembered
the tones of his voice and the firm,
tender pressure of his hand when she
laid hers in it. How different now.
George Cottle was a poor man MAX
ing an ambitious struggle to rise above
the hand-to-mouth existence most of
his neighbors lived. He put his heart
into his work and was out on his
homestead claim from dawn until dark,
while the little bride III the cabin tried
bravely to hide her loneliness and dis
appointment even from herself. When
her husband returned at night he was
tired and often worried Bit by bit he
neglected the tender little attentions
that meant so much to the wife who
waited anXiously through the long
days, only to find another disappoint-
ment when the man she loved returned
at night.
He did not understand her unhappi-
ness or even know that she was I'M
happy, and thought she realized that
the arduous tasks he set himself on
the homestead were daily tests Of his
affection.
Then came the unprecedented winter
that almost beggared the ranchers and
stockmen of Mendocino county. Snow
fell early in December. More fell on
the 10th and by the 18th George Cot
ties land lay hidden two feet beneath
the hard snow crust. The stock
trapsed in from the hills gaunt and
hungry, and hogs with hollow sides
and razor backs began to gather near
the cabin. Cottle parceled out his
scanty supply of grain to the stock
! charity. For the hogs he could do lit
tie. Their food was the acorns and
wild potatoes that lay far out of reach
beneath the snow. Forty miles of i'm
passable roads lay between Bald
mountain and Willis, the nearest
town. The hogs began to die; then
the cattle, and still there was no sign
Of a thaw. George Cottle depended on
his herds for his income. and in the
bitterness of his blasted hopes he be-
came harder, sterner. more taciturn.
Two days before Christmas Mrs Cot
tie laid her hand on her husbands
shoulder as he gulped his breakfast.
George, dear" she said, "Mr. Smith
all writes that there is to be a dance
at their place on Christmas Eve. Let's
go and forget our troubles in a real
jolly Christmas"
Dance! Christmas, There'll be no
dancing or Christmasing for us this
year We have our work here, with the
hogs dying a dozen a day." he an
swered with a harsh attempt at a
laugh.
Her lip quivered as she turned to-
ward him, but his downcast eyes saw
nothing.
ooh, George, think" she protested,
tremblingly, 81, l haven't seen a soul
but you and Mr. Osborn since the
Smells were here eight months ago.
haven't been away from the peak for
over Is months. You can't help the
hogs and cattle by being here. Please
let's go, just for that one night
Christmas Eve"
Are you so tired of me and your
homer" he asked, irritably. Home is
the place for us, and that's where we'll
stay. Do you think I want to dance
while the bones of half my herd are
lying out there on the lower clearing?"
He pushed back his chair and went out.
Mrs. Cottle didn't cry. The hurt was
too deep and her disappointment too
bitter to be relieved by tears. In a life
composed so entirely of commonplace
as was hers, small things assume
terribly exaggerated Importance, and
the loss Of the hope upon which she
had buoyed herself for months was
too great blow. She was only a child,
Notwithstanding her 20 years.
On the afternoon before Christmas
George Cottle. far down in the forest,
met Chris Nelson, his nearest neighbor,
whose cabin was eight miles away.
Both men were rounding up starving
hogs. There was the usual exchange
of civilities, the possibility of thaw
md rannnpfinU of hn Ineeoe ooal.