A Slip of the Axe

Mr. Thompson gradually became aware of a change in the season. The
calendar lost a good deal of its significance up there, partly because
he had no calendar and partly because one day was so much a duplicate of
another that the flitting of time escaped his notice. But he became
conscious that the days grew shorter, the nights a shade more cool, and
that the atmosphere was taking on that hazy, mellow stillness which
makes Indian Summer a period of rare beauty in the North. He took
serious stock of elapsed time then, and found to his surprise that it
was September the fifteenth.

He had not accomplished much. The walls of his church stood about the
level of his head. It grew increasingly difficult for him alone to hoist
the logs into place. The door and window spaces were out of square.
Without help he did not see how he was going to rectify these small
errors and get the roof on. Even after it should be roofed, the cracks
chinked and daubed with mud, the doors and windows in place--what then?

He would still lack hearers for the message which he daily grew a little
more doubtful of his ability to deliver. A native streak of stubbornness
kept him studying the language along with his daily tussle with the axe
and saw. But the rate of his progress was such that he pessimistically
calculated that it would take him at least two years before he could
preach with any degree of understanding in the Athabascan tongue.