BookRix

Engine Number 206, Narrow Gauge, Was Pushing, Or Rather Failing To Push,
The Old-Fashioned Box-Plow Through The Crusted Drifts On The Uptilted
Shoulder Of Plug Mountain, At Altitude Ten Thousand Feet, With The
Mercury At Twelve Below Zero. There Was A Wind--The Winter Day Above
Timber-Line Without Its Wind Is As Rare As A Thawing Christmas--And It
Cut Like Knives Through Any Garmenting Lighter Than Fur Or Leather. The
Cab Of The 206 Was Old And Weather-Shaken, And Ford Pulled The Collar Of
His Buffalo Coat About His Ears When The Grunting Of The Exhaust And The
Shrilling Of The Wheels On The Snow-Shod Rails Stopped Abruptly.