Midnight
Night brought no cessation of the wind , no lessening of the banks of snow which now were drifting high against the first-story windows ; the door was only kept in working order through constant sallies of the bent old boarding-house keeper , with his snow shovel . Windows banged and rattled , with a muffled , eerie sound ; snow sifted through the tiniest cracks , spraying upon those who sat near them . The old cannon-ball stove , crammed with coal , reached the point where dull red spots enlivened its bulging belly ; yet the big room was cold with non-detectable drafts , the men shivered in spite of their heavy clothing , and the region outside the immediate radius of the heater was barn-like with frigidity . Midnight came , and the group about the stove slept in their chairs , rather than undergo the discomfort and coldness of bed . Morning brought no relief . The storm was worse , if anything , and the boarding-house keeper faced drifts waist high at the doorway with his first shoveling expedition of the day . The telegrapher , at the frost-caked window , rubbed a spot with his hand and stared into the dimness of the flying snow , toward his station .