THE DEEP COLD
“Tar-nation,” uttered Paul Bunyan as he saw the geese flying backwards in the morning sky. “Dag-nabbit!” He knew by the smell of the air and the taste of the clouds that the deep cold was on its way. “We’d best prepare.”
Paul combed his hair with a field disk harrow, jumped into his boots, and set off for the camp kitchen.
The camp cookery was a hurricane of action. Paul was the calm eye of the storm as he ate his breakfast—sloshing, slurping, crunching,
