Rex E. Beach, The Scourge (1905)
“ Now the air is dead under a smother of falling flakes that fluff up ankle-deep, knee-deep, till the sled plunges along behind, half buried, while the men wallow and invent ingenious oaths. Again the wind whirls the snow by in grotesque shapes, wonderful storm beings, writhing, whipping, biting as they pass, erasing bank and mountain. Yet, always there is that aching, steady tug of the shoulder-rope, stopping circulation till the arms depend numbly; and always the weary effort of trail-breaking. ”
