Book account

Some day, when they could really afford it,
they were going away for a month's fishing-trip in the wilds of Maine,
but all that could wait. It was something to look forward to, and
there is a lot in that.
Neither of them had ever dreamed that Syracuse was so near to the
North Pole, nor had they the remotest idea that the weather could be
so cold anywhere on earth as it was in the upper part of New York
State. The coldest days they had ever known in New York City--and they
had always believed that nothing could be colder--were balmy when
compared with that awful day on the outskirts of Syracuse--that bleak,
blighting day in the wind-swept graveyard where the mother of Thomas
Bingle slept.
They fairly shrivelled in their skins as they stood beside the open
grave and saw, through blurred eyes, the last of Uncle Joe. Both of
Mr. Bingle's ears were frozen quite stiff. A much be-furred
undertaker's assistant rubbed snow on them with what seemed to be
unnecessary vigour and told him to have 'em looked after when he got
back to New York.


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