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Updated: May 21, 2025
On the second morning the storm was still raging, with the snow two feet deep between the store and the barn. The west wall still held, and between glances at it we stoked the monkey-stove. Stoked it while the coal dwindled. When the last chunk had been swallowed up we hunted around for something else to burn.
Ma Wagor and Kathryn, our typesetter, had gone home and we were alone, Ida Mary and I. We built up a hot fire in the monkey-stove, which sat in the middle of the store building and was used for heating both store and print shop. From canned goods on the shelf, baked beans and corned beef, we prepared a sketchy supper, and ate on the counter.
"Hey, whata you goin' to do," exclaimed the young neighbor boy who had taken us to the dinner. "You can't live in your shack through the storm that's comin' without a fire." "We have a monkey-stove in the store," Ida Mary told him.
How you goin' to manage? No fire in your shack? No fuel for the monkey-stove?" "We'll be all right," we assured him. He was not convinced, but he dared not linger. He had to get home while he could still find the way. In thirty minutes we were completely shut in by the lashing force of wind and snow that swept across the plains in a blinding rage.
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