image010Christmas at Cedar Hill.
Christmas at Cedar Hill.
Christmas at Cedar Hill.
"We had crossed the canal about two miles back, and I now turned my footsteps towards it. I ran for quite a distance, till, finding myself unpursued, I slackened my steps and gained the bridge unperceived. I descended to the tow-path, and walked along through the gathering darkness, beginning to be aware that I was both tired and hungry, for I had eaten nothing since noon. I hoped I might encounter a boat before long, in which case, I meant to beg a ride and some supper."
"About nine o'clock, and just as I was beginning to think that I could walk no further, I saw before me a slowly moving light. I quickened my lagging steps, and, after nearly half an hour's walking, I came up with the light. The boat proved to be what was called a lake-boat, and I hailed the man at the stern and asked for a ride. He made no answer at first, but presently brought the boat alongside the tow-path, and took me aboard."
"'What are you doing on the tow-path at this time of night?' was his first not unnatural question."
"I made up some story which I do not now remember to account for myself, and told him I was anxious to get to Buffalo, where my friends lived."
"'Can you drive?' was the next question. 'Do you know anything about horses?'"
"'I should think so!' was my reply. And indeed I had learned to be very skilful and bold both as a rider and driver."
"'Then you had better take hold with me and work your way through,' said the boat captain. 'I want a driver. My last boy contrived to fall off his horse and break his clumsy neck a while ago; but you look as if you would have more sense. I will give you his place and his wages, if you choose to try.'"
"I had heard plenty of hard stories about canal boys and their captains, but my case seemed desperate, and I agreed to his terms, only stipulating that I should have some supper at once. A sufficiently plentiful and good meal was served up to me, and I went to bed, congratulating myself on my good luck. I little guessed into what a trap I had fallen. At three o'clock in the morning I was called, and told to turn out and relieve the man who had been driving, and, more asleep than awake, I obeyed. The morning air was damp and raw, and I had nothing to keep me warm but my thin summer clothes, for I had forgotten to take my overcoat. I shivered to my very bones. I was desperately sleepy too, and came near tumbling off my horse a dozen times before daylight."
"That was the very longest day that I ever spent in my life. As the sun came up it grew very hot, and there was no shade upon my path. The two old horses plodded along at a snail's pace, with their heads banging down, after the fashion of canal horses; so different from the beautiful grays I had been used to driving for the last few weeks. We were passing through one of the long marshes on the Erie canal, and the mosquitoes were so thick that I could hardly breathe for them. Long before night my head ached as though it would split, but it was not till nearly midnight that the boat was tied up and I got a chance to rest."
"It was now that my real troubles began. My companions in the menagerie, though a hard and graceless set enough, had always treated me with a degree of rough kindness, and indeed I was rather a favorite with them. I had my fair share of rest, food, and amusement, and the captain, though he would swear at me and abuse me terribly in words when he got angry, never ill-treated me in any other way, and would often give me a reward when I had performed particularly well. The men were honest in their dealings with each other, and, if one were sick or injured, his mates were ready to take care of him to the best of their ability. But now I found myself exposed to every sort of abuse. I was worked till I was ready to drop from fatigue, and allowed only such food as my companions did not want; and if I ventured to complain, a curse or a blow was all I gained by it. More than once I got a box in the ear which made me deaf for half a day, and once the captain struck me such a blow with a handspike that I lay senseless for half an hour, and they all thought I was dead."
"But even the abuse I received was not so distressing to me as the appalling wickedness of my companions. Every species of vice prevailed among them. Gambling was the amusement of every spare hour, and the game hardly ever concluded without a fight. Our table was almost entirely supplied from the spoils of the gardens and hen-roosts of the farms and villages by which we passed. Sunday brought me no rest, for we travelled all day long, and the hours were passed away in more than usually shameless vice."
"I do not mean to say that this is a true picture of all the boats' crews upon the canal by any means, but I know that it applied to far too many of them at that time. This state of things had just begun to excite the attention of Christian people, and some missionaries had been sent among the boatmen. After I heard of this, I began to hope I might encounter one of these good men, but our captain swore that he would duck within an inch of his life any parson who dared to set a foot on his boat."
"All this made me sick at heart, and I began to look back with regret and remorse to the advantages and comforts I had so recklessly cast away. On Sundays especially, as we passed within hearing of the bells of some country village calling the people to come up to the house of the Lord, I pictured to myself my father and his wife, with my little sister, walking slowly up the street to church, perhaps dressed in mourning for the graceless son they believed to be dead, and the bitter tears would flow in spite of myself. I began to think of things at home in a very different light."
"I reviewed the conduct of my step-mother from beginning to end without finding anything of which to complain. True, she had sometimes checked me, but never without just cause, and her reproofs were always tempered with kindness. My father had been most indulgent ever since I could remember, and had provided me not only with all the necessaries and comforts of life, but with every luxury which was proper for me and which his means could procure."
"I remembered my pretty, pleasant room, with its white bed and curtains, its book-shelves filled with pretty little volumes which made me the envy of half the boys and girls in the village; and the writing-table, whose pretty braided cloth had been made for my birthday by my step-mother. I thought of my beautiful dog, and my cat which slept on the foot of any bed every night. Such were some of the remembrances which passed through my mind as I drove on, past farm and village, all in their Sunday stillness, till the daylight faded and I was called in to eat my supper and take a little rest. Even in the menagerie we had always rested on the Sabbath-day, generally at some country village, and some of our number would now and then take a fancy to go to church, where I am bound to say, they always behaved with perfect propriety, if they were not much the better for their attendance; but with us Sunday was the worst day of the whole week."
"I suppose a more home-sick boy than myself at this time never lived in the world. I should certainly have tried to run away, but the captain suspected my design and watched me closely. He declared he would kill me in an instant if he found me trying to escape, and I fully believed him to be capable of that or any other wickedness. I would have written to my father, but I had no paper and no time. In short, I could see no way of escape from my tormentor but in death, and so desperate did I become that I had serious thoughts of drowning myself. I hated my captain with a perfect hatred, and I sometimes felt as though I would willingly die if I could only kill him first."
"But after a while better thoughts began to prevail. I had been religiously brought up, and had learned many chapters of Holy Scripture by heart, and, though I had neither opened a Bible nor said my prayers since I ran away from school, what I had learned staid by me in spite of myself. I was riding along, one moonlight night, trying to keep myself awake, that I should not fall off my horse. I was more than usually miserable. An accident had occurred at a lock that morning by which one of the horses had been thrown into the water and nearly drowned; and though I was entirely innocent in the matter, the captain chose to throw all the blame upon my shoulders. He beat me till some of the men interfered to save my life, and I had had nothing to eat since but an apple, which the cook, who sometimes stood my friend, had slipped into my pocket. I could hardly sit up, and every movement gave me pain; but my tormentor seemed determined to give me no rest, though it was long past the time when I should have been relieved."
"As we plodded along we passed another boat. The man at the helm was singing a hymn which had been a great favorite of my dear mother—'The Voice of Free Grace.' It was the first time I had ever heard such a sound on board a canal-boat. It seemed at once to bring home and all the blessings and privileges I had so wantonly cast away before my eyes in one view, and I burst into tears and cried bitterly."
"I had not gone much further when someone clapped his hand upon my knee, and a man's voice said, kindly enough:
"'Hallo, my boy, you seem to be in a good deal of trouble. What's the matter you?'"
"I turned round, and recognized the red shirt and black, bushy whiskers of the man I had heard singing a little while before. I could not answer directly, and he walked along by the side of the horse, still keeping his hand on my knee. It was so long since I had had a hand laid on me in kindness that the very pressure seemed somehow to comfort me."
"'I like to jump ashore and walk ahead sometimes, and so get a little time to myself,' said he, presently. 'You seem in great trouble, and I should like to help you. Are you sick or hungry?'"
"'Both,' I answered, 'and a great deal more than that!'"
"My companion put his hand into his pocket, and pulled out a handful of cakes and crackers. They were rather strongly scented with tobacco, but I was too hungry to mind trifles, and I thought nothing had ever tasted so good."
"'You don't look as though you had been brought up to such business as this,' said my new friend, scrutinizing me closely by the bright moonlight which shone in our faces. 'Are you sure now you didn't run away from home?'"
"'I did! I did!' I exclaimed, with a fresh burst of tears. 'And now I would give all the world to get home again!'"
"'Why don't you go, then?' was the natural question."
"'I have no money, and they watch me so closely that I have no chance to run away. They treat me dreadfully. I have not had anything to eat before, to-day.'"
"'What is your captain's name?' asked the stranger."
"I told him, and he shook his head."
"'You have got into a bad box, my lad. There is not a more desperate set on the whole canal.'"
"'Hallo, George!' shouted my tormentor from the boat. 'What are you about! Stop talking and mind your business!'"
"This admonition was accompanied with more threats and oaths than I care to repeat."
"'I dare not say any more now,' said I; 'but if you wish to save my life, write to Mr. George Stanton at H—, Massachusetts, and tell him that his son George is on the canal-boat Diamond, and cannot get away. Tell him I told you to say so; and oh! Do write at once, or it will be too late to do any good.'"
"'I will do it before I sleep,' said my companion. 'You may depend upon me. And one word more, my boy, before I leave you. You have done very wrong, but do not despair. Remember the Prodigal Son. Return to God, and He will return to you. He can hear you as well from your horse's back as anywhere else, and He will, too, if you truly seek Him.'"
"He jumped aboard his boat, which now came up, and I started up my horses. When I was released at last, the captain called me, and asked me what I had been talking about. I told him only that the man had asked me if I was hungry, and, when I said yes, he had given me some cakes and crackers."
"And you told him a fine parcel of lies about the way you were treated, I dare say. I'll teach you to go gossiping along and letting your horses get drowned, you young dog!'"
"He seized me by the collar as he spoke, and I verily thought my last hour was come, but one of the men interfered."
"'Let the boy alone!' said he. 'Do you mean to kill him?' Haven't you got enough on your hands already?'"
"'What is that to you?' asked the captain, fiercely."
"'It is so much to me that I won't stand by and see a child murdered. Come now, captain, there is no use in bullying. I know enough to hang you, and by— I'll do it, too, if you don't behave yourself better. Get away, George, and go to bed.'"
"I was only too glad to obey, and crept to my miserable bed. My new friend's words seemed to have thrown a little light on my dark path. He had promised to write to my father, and I believed he would keep his word; but that was not all. He had turned my thoughts to my Father in heaven—a Father forgotten, sinned against, outraged, but still my Father, pitying and caring for me through all. I repeated to myself the parable of the Prodigal Son, which I had learned by heart long ago. 'And while I was yet a great way oft; my Father saw me, and had compassion on me.'"
The clergyman stopped and cleared his throat.
"All the next day my head and limbs ached terribly, and I could hardly sit up, but I was happier than I had been for many day. I confessed my sins and sought earnestly for forgiveness, and it seemed to me as if I found it, for a wonderful peace and quietness appeared to descend on my heart. I believed that I was going to be very sick, and I thought I should probably die. Oh! How earnestly I did pray that I might be spared to see my dear father once more, if it were only for long enough to beg his forgiveness for all my undutiful conduct."
"My forebodings proved true, so far as the sickness was concerned. We were not far from Rochester, which was not then the busy little city it has since become, but only a pretty, thriving village. By the time we arrived at its outskirts, I was very ill indeed. I tried hard to sit up and drive, but it was impossible, and just as we reached the aqueduct, I fell from my horse and rolled into the water. A man who saw me fall, instantly jumped in after me and brought me to shore."
"'Let him alone, you fool!' shouted the captain. 'He is only shamming. He can help himself well enough.'"
"'Shamming!' said my preserver. 'He don't look much like it. There, take him on board and use him well, for he seems to need it.'"
"'Oh, don't let him take me!' I pleaded, feebly clinging to his arm as the captain approached. 'He will kill me, I know he will. He has almost done so already. Let me die in peace.'"
"'What does all this mean?' said an elderly, well-dressed man, approaching the spot, where quite a little crowd had gathered round me. 'What is the matter, my little fellow? Don't be afraid, no one shall hurt you. Tell me the whole story.'"
"'He has beaten and starved me,' I tried to explain. 'I know he means to kill me! He said he would. Oh, do please send me home to my father!'"
"My head again turned giddy as I spoke, and I should have fallen but for the supporting arm of my new friend, who sat down on step and took me on his knee."
"'Just look here, sir,' said he, turning down the collar of my shirt. 'Is that the way to treat a little child like this?'"
"I dimly remember the looks and tones of pity and indignation as the men gathered around me. I recollect the old gentleman's assuring me that I should be taken care of, and then putting me into a wagon, the motion of which distressed me exceedingly. After that, the time is really a blank. I knew sometimes that I was in a comfortable bed and kindly treated, and I have a dim remembrance of some ladies who came often to see me; but I could not speak clearly or give any distinct account of myself."
"But one night, after what seemed a very long and sound sleep, I woke, and found that I was better. I lay perfectly still, not moving a finger, but letting my eyes rove idly round the room. I looked at the whitewashed walls and the uncarpeted floor, and I guessed that I was in some almshouse or hospital. Presently my eyes fell upon a lady who was sitting by the foot of the bed. I looked at her a long time, as she sat reading by the light of the shaded lamp, and I seemed to remember that it was not the first time I had seen her near me. The tall figure and erect carriage seemed familiar, and carried my thoughts back to home. So did the somewhat large but noble and regular features, the clear, brown skin, and the abundant dark hair, a little streaked with gray."
"'Mother!' said I, at last, 'Is that you?' It was the first time that I had ever called her 'mother.' She did not start, but quietly laid down her book and came to my side."
"'You feel better, do you not, my dear boy?' said she, laying her hand on my forehead.
"Yes, mother, but very weak and faint.'"
"She gave me a little wine and then some nice broth, which seemed to refresh me, but she would not allow me to talk."
"'Is my father here?' I asked, after lying still a little longer."
"'He is here. He has been watching by you for two or three nights, and I persuaded him to lie down.'"
"I still felt very low and weak and it tired me to talk; so I lay still, and looked at my mother with a kind of peaceful enjoyment of her presence, till I fell asleep once more. The next morning I saw my father, but I was not allowed to speak to him, for my strength was so reduced that my recovery was considered a very doubtful matter. I well remember the pain it gave me to see how old he had grown, and how careworn and sad he looked. He assured me of his entire forgiveness, and bade me give all my thoughts to getting well, that I might go home once more."
"It was only by the best of nursing that I finally regained so much strength as to allow of my being removed from the asylum whither I had been carried by those who had rescued me from my tyrant, and it was more than two months before I was considered well enough to set out for home. During all this time my step-mother was unwearied in her kindness and attention to me, and I began to wonder how I could ever have disliked her. I do not think I should ever have done so, had not my mind been prejudiced against her beforehand by some of those unlucky people who are afflicted with an utter inability to mind their own business. I found out, too, that it is possible for a woman to understand Latin and Greek and yet be a good nurse, an excellent housekeeper, and the kindest of mothers."
"I learned after a while how my parents had finally found me. When Captain Stokes and Mr. Bangs came to read the advertisement at the tavern, they were convinced that I was the child described, and they were confirmed in their belief by my running away as I did. Captain Stokes immediately wrote to my father, saying that a boy answering in all respects to his description had joined the company at P—, and had been with them some months, but had suddenly disappeared, without leaving any trace of his whereabouts. He believed, however, that I might have taken to the canal. Advertisements were sent to all the towns upon the canal, and persons employed to look out for me among the drivers; but no news was obtained till my father received a letter from the man who had accosted me on the night I have mentioned, saying that I was on the canal-boat Diamond, and, the writer believed, very badly off. My incoherent talk had made the people who took charge of me think that I must be the child who had been so extensively advertised, and they wrote to my father immediately, but with little hope of his arriving in time to see me alive."
"Railroads, there were none in those days, and I made my journey homeward in a packet-boat on the canal. I seemed to recognize every stone and stump on the way, and I showed my mother the very spot where the steersman of the other boat jumped off and spoke to me. Many were the resolutions I made during that long journey, one of which was that if I was once spared to get well, I would devote my life to preaching that Gospel of repentance and salvation which had been so effectually preached to me by the kind Christian boatman. I kept my word; and the very first sermon that I ever preached was upon the Parable of the Prodigal Son. However, I am anticipating my story."
"I did not return to school that winter, but studied at home with my mother; and I must say I found her a more able and interesting teacher than my tutor at P—. Perhaps, however, my rapid progress was owing in part to the fact that I had now a motive for all I did. Be that as it might, when I returned to school in the spring, I was placed two classes in advance of that in which I had been before. I worked hard and gained great credit, and before the end of my stay I had established as good a character as any boy in the school."
"The menagerie to which I had been attached, visited our village the very next summer, and I went to see my old friends the lions and carry them some bread and cake. My mates received me with great kindness and congratulated me on my return home. Captain Stokes told me that he had some idea at the time that my story was not true, and had therefore kept his eye upon me, meaning, if his suspicions were justified, to return me safely to my friends."
"He looked worn and sickly, and Mr. Bangs told me privately that he was killing himself with drink. Bob and Polly knew me again directly, even without the aid of the cakes I had brought them, and showed as much pleasure at seeing me as a couple of dogs would have done. Captain Stokes gave me a beautiful parrot as a parting present, and I never saw him again. He died the next year, and the company was broken up. Mr. Bangs went to New York and set up a riding school, which he taught for many years, till he grew wealthy and retired from business. I was told afterwards that he became a member of the church in his old age, and lived and died a consistent Christian. I was glad to hear it, for he certainly had a great deal of good about him."
"Did you ever hear of the cruel captain again?" asked Agatha.
"Never. He may be living now, but it is not likely. The man who befriended me is now alive, though a very old man, and is a member of my congregation. He would accept of no reward for what he did for me, and my father sent him as a present a fine gold watch and chain, which he still wears."
image011
"I AM sure we are very much obliged to you, sir," said Herbert.
"Boys don't very often turn out well who run away from home," observed the squire. "You were very fortunate to escape as you did. Many a lad who has run away and gone on the canal has either been heard of no more, or, still worse, has grown-up into a ruffian and drunkard."
"If I were going to run away, I would not go on the canal," observed Harry. "I would go to sea."
"You might not fare very much better for that," returned the scholar, "and you would be still more powerless to help yourself if you chanced to fall into the hands of a brutal captain. Any resistance to the will of the captain on board ship is a mutiny, and liable to be punished with death. A seafaring life is hard enough, especially in the beginning, if begun under the most favorable circumstances; and the inevitable hardships of the position would not be lightened by an accusing conscience."
"There is no great danger of Harry's running away," said May, laughing. "Harry, do you remember when you and Tommy Baker set out to go to Bengal to hunt tigers?"
Harry blushed and laughed at the same time.
"What was that?" asked Ned.
"Shall I tell, Harry?" asked May.
"O yes, I don't care," replied Harry. "I was only eight years old, anyhow."
"When Harry was eight years old," May began, "he and Tommy Baker, a little friend of his, was visiting at the house of a lady who had a great many beautiful books, and among others one which had in it a great many pictures and stories about tiger hunting. It had beautiful colored plates, and the stories were very interesting. So we always asked for the tiger book whenever we went to see the lady."
"What was her name?" asked Ned, who always wanted all the particulars.
"Her name was Mrs. G—, but we always called her 'the lady.' All the children did. Well, Harry and Tommy got the tiger book, and looked at the pictures and read the stories, till they thought they would like to go and hunt tigers too. So after supper, instead of coming straight home, they set out to walk to Bengal. They had each for provisions an apple and a nice frosted cake, which the lady had given them. When it grew late and they did not come, mamma sent for them, but the lady said they had set out some time before. Of course, every one was alarmed, and papa and Uncle Henry went out to look for them. Before long Uncle Henry found them a long way from home, but trudging along back as fast as they could and looking very crestfallen."
"'Why, boys, where have you been?' asked Uncle Henry."
"'Almost to the toll-gate,' answered Harry."
"'To the toll-gate! And what took you there?'"
"'We wanted to go to India and hunt tigers,' said Harry, beginning to cry."
"'Well!' said Uncle Henry, laughing. 'What made you turn back?'"
"'Because there was a great big pig in the road,' sobbed Harry, 'and we were afraid to go past him.'"
Harry joined heartily in the laugh which followed, to the surprise of Edward, who never could see any fun in a joke against himself.
"Don't you hate to have such stories told about you?" he said to Harry, in a low tone.
"O no! I don't care! I have often laughed at it myself. I mean to go to India some time or other, for all that."
"Who else is going to tell a story?" asked Frank.
"I think it is this gentleman's turn next," said the squire, turning to the scholar, who sat looking at Agatha in an absent-minded way, as if he were thinking of something very far off. He started as the squire spoke, and expressed his willingness to contribute his share to the amusement of the evening.
"We have had two stories of early times-one in Michigan and one in New York State," said he. "I will tell you a story of early times in Vermont. It was related to me by the lady to whom the incident occurred, but as I cannot pretend to repeat her words, I will put the story in words of my own."
"It would be hard to find any place where people dwell at all lonelier than Bolt's Hill. You turn up the public road, broad and well-travelled, which leads from Whitehall to Rockville, and go up, and up, and up, till it seems as if you were going to the clouds. On one side of the road is a perpendicular wall of rock, from twenty to sixty feet high, covered with grim, black spruce-trees. On the other side, the land descends rapidly to a deep ravine, at the bottom of which runs a brawling stream, which in wet weather is increased to a roaring torrent."
"There is not a house or a sign of habitation for several miles, but after a while the precipice and the road turn away from the stream, and the ravine widens out into a valley, at the bottom of which is a little, bright green meadow. The traveller comes to an old mossy apple-orchard, and then to an old red house. The house is low and needs painting, and the roof, the stone walls which surround the yard and garden, and all the little buildings about the door are covered with green moss and whitish lichens, showing how long they have been standing. The view in front of the house is bounded by a narrow grove of spruce and other trees, and behind that rises again the gray wall of rocks. Back of the house, pale green rocky pasture-land runs down to the brook, with here and there a tree growing in the scanty soil and rooting itself deep in the rifts of the rock."
"In summer, Bolt's Hill is a pleasant place enough. But the autumnal and winter gales sweep over it with a sound which may be heard for miles away, and which seems like the roar of the sea on a sandy beach."
"But if Bolt's Hill be rather a dreary spot, the little girl who lived there did not think so. It would be hard to find anywhere a more cheerful, placid little maiden than Fanny Bolt, or one who enjoyed life any more. Though she was the only child at home, she did not want for playmates. She had the dog, the cat and kittens, the cosset lambs, of which there were every summer one or two, and she was on terms of intimacy with every horse, cow, and sheep about the place. In summer, she went across lots to the district school, about three-quarters of a mile away, and there she had plenty of friends, for all the school children were fond of the bright, good-natured little girl."
"Fanny had not a great many books of her own. She possessed two or three which had been her mother's. One called 'Examples for Young Ladies,' and containing histories of various girls, good and bad. The good girls invariably made happy marriages, and the bad ones always caught cold and died, or were thrown out of carriages and became cripples ever afterwards; the history always ending with the epitaph of the young lady in question. Then she had a large 'Book of Trades,' with a great many pictures, in which she took great delight. But her chief treasures were the 'Parents' Assistant' and four big volumes of Mrs. Sherwood's works, which her sailor brother had brought her from England the last time he came home. These tales took her into a different world from her own—a world over which Fanny pondered and dreamed as she rambled over the pastures or sat with her sewing or knitting on the flat stone before the kitchen door."
"Besides these peculiar treasures, Fanny, by the time she was twelve years old, had read nearly all the books in the house. There was quite a collection of voyages and travels in the corner cupboard, which she knew almost by heart, and she had read a great deal of English and American history. But the book she loved best of all was the Bible—the great Bible with pictures, which lay on a stand in the corner, and which she was allowed to look over and study as much as she pleased, on the single condition that she should always have clean hands when she touched it."
"Mrs. Bolt had family prayers every morning, and Fanny read her two verses in turn with the rest, looking over her father as she sat by his side. Then Fanny, ever since she could remember, had learned every day first one, then two, then three verses in the New Testament, which she repeated to her mother before she went to bed; so that she was very familiar with the sacred text."
"Fanny did not often go to Sunday-school. Her parents were 'Church people,' and there was no Episcopal church nearer than that at Rockville, twelve miles away. On the first Sunday of every month, Mr. and Mrs. Bolt drove over to Rockville to church, and these were Fanny's great holidays. Then she met her special friends, the rector's two little daughters. Then she went to Sunday-school, and in consideration of her living so far away, the teacher allowed her to take home two or three books at a time. One day, one of the other little girls in the class objected to this indulgence."
"'We can only have one book at a time, and she has three. I don't think it is fair.'"
"'Fanny can only come once in a month,' replied the teacher; 'and when she comes she has learned the lessons for the whole month. She never misses a lesson, and it is only fair that she should have the same privileges as you who are more favored.'"
"Fanny had not always been an only child. She had once had two brothers. The elder had gone to sea before Fanny was born. He had come home two or three times since she could remember, and had always brought her and her mother beautiful presents; but he had not been home now for five years. The ship in which he sailed had been lost, and though some of the sailors were saved, David Bolt was not among them. Every one but Fanny believed that he was drowned; but Fanny could not think so. She never talked about David now, because it seemed to grieve her mother, but she thought of him a great deal, and always prayed for him when she said her prayers."
"The other brother, John, had been injured by the fall of a tree he was cutting down, and after lingering some months, he too died, and was buried near the little church in Rockville. Fanny always went to see his grave when she went to church. She loved to think of John, too, and remember the talks she used to have with him as he lay on his bed in the little room opening out of the kitchen. But she felt very differently about John from what she did about David. John was safe in heaven, never to suffer any more. Fanny was sure of that."
"But poor David might be cast ashore on some desert island, or a slave among the savage Arabs, like the Captain Riley whose narrative was among the books in the corner cupboard; and most earnestly did the little girl pray that God would care for him and bring him safely home again."
"One November—the one in which our story begins—the winter had set in early, and very cold and stormy. There had been snowstorms already, and the sleighing was good, though the road between Bolt's Hill and Rockville was somewhat drifted. Fanny did not go to school now. She learned her lessons at home, and recited them to her father in the evening. She could not run about the fields any more, but she did not want either for work or amusement. She had her lessons to learn and her daily task of spinning to do, for Fanny had already learned to spin both on the great and little wheel. Then for amusement, she had the footstool she was working in worsted for a present to Mr. Henderson, the rector of the church at Rockville: she had her swing in the garret, her dolls and playhouse, and her books, which she loved the more the oftener she read them over."
"The day before Thanksgiving—that is to say, on the twenty-seventh day of November, Mrs. Bolt said to Fanny at the breakfast table:"
"'Now, Fanny, you are to be housekeeper to-day. Your father and myself are going to Rockville to do some business, and we want you to stay at home, keep up the fire, and have a comfortable house and a good supper for us when we come home.'"
"Fanny looked a little grave and disappointed when she heard that her parents were going to Rockville without her, but her face soon cleared up again. And she began to please herself with thinking of all the work she should do, and the nice supper she would have for her mother at night; for Fanny was already quite a good cook."
"'You will not be lonely,' continued Mrs. Bolt. 'Your father stopped at Mrs. Morrell's last evening, and invited Miss Gibson to come up and spend two or three weeks with us, and she is coming this morning.'"
"Fanny clapped her hands with joy. Miss Gibson was the lady who had taught the district school for the last two summers. She was very young, only eighteen; and though she well knew how to command obedience in school, out of school she was the best playfellow in the world. She knew heaps of stories and more plays than were ever heard of in the Bolt Hill district before, and all the children loved her. Miss Gibson was an orphan, and had no home of her own, but she was a welcome guest at every house in the district. Fanny loved her dearly, and nothing could please her more than the news that she was to have her darling Miss Gibson to herself for a whole day."
"'It looks like snow,' said Captain Bolt, as he came in after bringing the horse round to the door; 'but then it has looked so for two or three days. Mind and keep up good fires, Fanny. There is plenty of dry wood and pine-knots in the shed. I shall be home in time to milk.'"
"'Oh, father, let me milk!' said Fanny. 'I can do it just as well as not.'"
"'Very well, do as you please. And if anything should happen—mind, I don't see how anything can—but if anything should happen to prevent our coming home to-night, don't you be scared, but put your trust in God and go to bed in peace.'"
"'But, father, what could happen?' asked Fanny."
"Nothing that I know of, child, but it is way of mine to look at all sorts of possibilities. Come now, mother, if you are ready.'"
"Fanny stood at the door of the farm-house with her skirt thrown over her head, and watched the sleigh down the hill, till a turn in the road hid it from her eyes. Then, she turned the other way to see if Miss Gibson was coming, though it was rather early to expect her. Mr. Morrell lived five miles away by the road, but by the path, ''cross lots,' along which Fanny used to go to school and by which Miss Gibson would come, it was only about a mile. This path was almost always kept open in winter, for it was much the nearest way to the little village called Rockville Four Corners."
"As I said, it was early for Fanny to expect her friend, but Miss Gibson had said she should come as early as she could get away. Fanny gazed for some time across the pasture but saw nothing, and finally she went in, made up a bright fire, and occupied herself in washing up the breakfast dishes and putting the kitchen in nice order. She had done all this, got out her spinning wheel, and learned her Scripture verses, and still Miss Gibson did not make her appearance."
"'There is no use in this,' said Fanny, decidedly. 'The more I look for her the more she won't come. "A watched pot never boils," as father says. I will just set about my spinning and not go to the door again till she comes.'"
"As Fanny turned to go into the house, a few snow-flakes came drifting downwards through the air."
"'There!' said Fanny. 'It is going to snow, after all. I hope father and mother will not get caught in the storm.'"
"Fanny drew her wheel—her own pretty wheel, made expressly for her and given her on her last birthday—into its usual place, and applied herself sedulously to her task, stepping busily backwards and forwards and singing to herself. She was spinning some uncommonly fine stocking yarn, and she took great pride in making a smooth, even thread."
"'I will not even look out of the window,' said she to herself, 'till I have spun all these rolls.'"
"This was a very good plan of Fanny's. Nothing makes the time pass more quickly than setting oneself a certain task, and sticking to it steadily till it is finished. Fanny went on with her spinning, and soon became interested in her work, which she tried to do as well as she possibly could. As she took up the last roll, a fierce gust of wind shook the window so strongly that she turned, without thinking, and looked out. The air was full of snow-flakes whirling in all directions, as they were driven by the wind. Fanny went to the window. She could not even see the barn."
"'It is only a squall,' thought Fanny. 'It will be over presently. I only hope Miss Gibson has not got caught in it. I do wonder why she does not come. She told father she would be here directly after breakfast.'"
"Fanny was destined to wonder a great many times before the day closed, for Miss Gibson did not come at all, because she did not even set out. The truth of the matter was this. When Miss Gibson rose in the morning, she found she had a bad sore throat. She had taken cold in some way, and her throat was very much swollen and so sore that she could hardly swallow her breakfast."
"'You will never be able to go up to Bolt's Hill this morning,' said Mrs. Morrell."
"'I don't like to disappoint Fanny,' said Miss Gibson, 'especially as she is to be alone to-day. Perhaps I will feel better when I have had my breakfast.'"
"'We shall see,' returned Mrs. Morrell, shaking her head. 'I am much mistaken if you get out of the house this day, or to-morrow either.'"
"It turned out that Mrs. Morrell was right. Miss Gibson's cold grew worse very fast, and before breakfast was over she was obliged to lie down on the sofa."
"'It is too bad that you should be disappointed, and Fanny too,' said good-natured Mrs. Morrell. 'I'll tell you what I'll do, Eunice.' (Miss Gibson's name was Eunice.) 'I will send Jake up to Bolt's Hill with the sled to bring Fanny down here to spend the day. She will enjoy that, and so shall I; for there is not a nicer girl than Fanny in the whole district.'"
"Jake set out on his errand with no good will. He was Mr. Morrell's nephew, and 'bound' to him; that is, he was to live in his uncle's house and work for him till he was grown-up; at which time he was to have a suit of clothes, a horse, and some other matters to start him in the world. Mr. Morrell had one son, who was in college studying to be a minister. Jake chose to feel himself very much injured that he could not go to college, too, though, as his aunt said, it was hard to tell what he would have done there, since he was the dunce of the village school, was always at the bottom of the spelling and parsing classes, and had never yet succeeded in learning the multiplication table. The only thing to which Jake really applied himself, and in which he showed any ingenuity, was in shirking work; and it seemed us if he sometimes took more pains to avoid work than would have been necessary to do it. In short, Jake was thoroughly and entirely lazy, and being so, he was almost, as a matter of course, thoroughly selfish and very much given to lying."
"Jake had finished his chores before breakfast, for a wonder, and he felt very virtuous in consequence, and very much disposed to spend the rest of the day in lounging in the chimney-corner. It was therefore with no good will that he found himself required to go up to Bolt's Hill and drag Fanny down to his aunt's."
"'I don't believe she will come,' said he, sulkily, 'and, besides, I don't see why I am to be bothered with her. However, I suppose I can go.'"
"I suppose you can, and pretty quick, too!' returned Mrs. Morrell, sharply."
"Jake knew by experience that to quarrel with his aunt was no way to secure his dearly beloved ease, and that he must at least pretend to obey her. But he had no sort of notion of going clear up to Bolt's Hill. He took his sled and went out, indeed, but only as far as the grocery at the corner by the blacksmiths shop, where he lounged away a couple of hours enjoying the society of two or three village loafers. Then he returned home."
"'Where is Fanny?' asked his aunt, meeting him at the door."
"Oh, I met Captain Bolt just up at the corner, and he had Fanny with him. They were coming round this way to tell Miss Gibson that she need not come up, because they were all going to Rockville for the day.'"
"'So you see, Eunice, it was well you did not go up there,' said Mrs. Morrell. 'It is queer too—not a bit like the Bolts.'"
"'Something new might have happened, you know,' said Miss Gibson. In her heart, she felt hurt that her friends should have treated her so unceremoniously—inviting her for a visit, and then going away from home on the very day she was expected. But she had abundance of that charity which thinketh no evil. She presently made up her mind that something unforeseen must have happened which made it necessary for Fanny to go with her parents to Rockville, and wisely resolved to think no more of the matter till she saw her friends again. That Jake had made up the whole story was an idea which never entered her mind."
"Meantime Fanny, in the old red house on the hill, found the time pass rather slowly. The storm did not abate as she expected; on the contrary, the snow seemed to fall faster mid faster all the time, and the wind, catching it up, spun it in whirls and eddies round the house, and then piled it up in great drifts under the windows and along the fences. There was no use in looking out of the window, for nothing was to be seen. Long before noon, Fanny had given up all idea of Miss Gibson's arriving that day. It was clear she could not come out in such a storm. Fanny could not help crying a little over her disappointment; but she soon wiped her eyes."
"'There is no use in crying,' said she to herself, briskly and cheerfully. 'I must just make the best of it, that's all. I mean to work at my cushion till it is time for dinner, and then make myself some batter slap-jacks. Mother said I might get anything I liked, and I mean to have slap-jacks and maple molasses.'"
"Fanny got out her work-basket, sorted her worsteds—crewels she called them, and went industriously to work. She was embroidering a pretty pattern, and she soon fell to singing cheerfully over her work. By-and-by old Bose, the dog, came to the door and scratched to come in. As Fanny opened the door, the wind pulled it out of her hand and slammed it back against the wall, while what seemed a whole snow-drift came whirling in at the door."
"'Whew!' exclaimed Fanny. 'This rather beats all I ever saw, even on Bolt's Hill! Come in, Bose, you good old dog! You shall have your dinner with me. I declare!' said Fanny, struck with a sudden thought, 'I mean to have a dinner party.'"
"No sooner said than done. Fanny ran upstairs to the garret, and presently came down carefully carrying a large basket, and followed by a very large and beautiful yellowish-white cat, with long hair and a long, bushy tail. She set the basket down in a warm corner by the fire. It contained a bunch of yellowish-white fur, which presently began to move and showed itself to be composed of three plump kittens, about four weeks old, which stretched themselves, crept out of the basket, and began playing about the floor. The old cat was evidently greatly pleased, and showed her satisfaction in cat fashion by purring, making pretty little coaxing noises, rubbing her head, and finally mounting in Fanny's lap and sitting on her shoulder. She was a foreigner, a Japanese, and had been brought home by David Bolt on his last visit as a present to his little sister. She was only a kitten then, but she was now growing old. She was still lively and playful and an excellent mouser. None of her kittens were ever killed. All the children in the village were glad to have them, and two or three of them had been carried as far as Rockville and Whitehall. When she had no kittens, the cat generally slept on Fanny's bed."
"Fanny made her slap-jacks and cooked some ham for her own dinner. Old Bose sat by her side, wagging his tail, and now and then giving a short bark. Puss sat up in a chair by the table, and behaved as well as possible, purring loudly, and now and then speaking to her kittens which capered about the room. Fanny said grace as her father did, and eat her dinner, now and then giving her companions a morsel. Then she washed up all her dishes, swept the hearth, and sat down to read."
"Meantime the storm kept on increasing in force, if that were possible, and the short November day drew towards a close. When Fanny finished her story and looked out, she found it was growing dark."
"'I must go out and milk, if I am to do it at all,' said she; 'though I don't exactly see how I am to get to the barn. However, I can try, and if I cannot make it out I can come back.'"
"She wrapped herself in her shawl, tying it round her that it might not be in her way, put on her hood, and pulled on a pair of old woollen stockings over her shoes. Thus equipped, she set out for the barn."
"She found the task rather easier than she expected. The wind had blown away the snow so as to form a sort of path for a part of the way; and though there was a drift before the barn-door, she made her way through it the first time without much trouble, aided by Bose, who flounced backwards and forwards through the snow and helped to break a path. There were only two cows in the shed. Fanny milked them both, and pulled down hay for them from the rack above. There was a pump in the corner of the shed, and Fanny pumped water for the cows, and carried a pailful to the old mare in the stable. She was obliged to make two journeys to the house with her pails, and she came in from the last looking very serious indeed. When she had taken off her wraps and put away her milk, she stood at the window for a long time, and when she turned away there were tears in her eyes."
"'I don't believe father and mother can get home to-night,' said she, sorrowfully. 'I am afraid they will be smothered in the drifts. And what shall I do if I have to stay here all night alone?'"
"These thoughts were too much to bear quietly. Fanny threw herself down on the floor, with her head in a chair, and cried bitterly. The cat and the dog came round her as if to ask what was the matter. Fanny put her arm round the dog's neck."
"'Oh, poor old Bose!' she sobbed. 'Where do you think your master and mistress are now?'"
"Bose looked wistfully at her and licked her face, but he could give her no other comfort. Presently Fanny grew more quiet, and she might have been heard murmuring softly to herself. Fanny was praying—begging her Father in heaven to watch over her father and mother and bring them safe home, and to take care of her while she was there alone, so far from neighbors. As she prayed, she grew more composed and her sobs ceased; and when she rose her face was quiet and even cheerful. She made up the fire and lighted a candle. Then bringing the Prayer-book from the corner-stand, she read aloud the psalms for the day, both morning and evening, finding great comfort in the repeated declaration that 'His mercy endureth forever!' Then she began to think what she had better do next."
"'I will bring in plenty of wood from the shed, so that I need not have to go out in the cold any more.'"
"This was soon done. Fanny brought in plenty of light wood such as she could manage. The fire had been made up in the morning with a mighty back-log, back-stick, and fore-stick, all as large as good-sized trees. Fanny piled up the fuel, putting in plenty of pine-knots to make a cheerful blaze, and swept up the hearth clean. Then she brought in more wood, enough to last all night."
"'I suppose I had better get the supper,' said she, sighing; 'though I am afraid they will not be here to eat it.'"
"There was at least some comfort to be found in keeping busy, and Fanny almost forgot her trouble in setting the table neatly, frying a chicken, which she found all prepared for cooking in the pantry, and getting ready a nice hot supper. When everything was done, she covered up all her dishes warmly on the hearth, set the light on a little stand in the chimney-corner, propped up her favorite volume of Bishop Heber's Journal, and set resolutely to knit and read till her father and mother should come. The clock struck the hours and half-hours—six—seven—eight—nine—ten—and still nobody came, and no sound was heard outside but the shrill howling and deep roar of the wind, and the click of the snow as it was blown against the glass. At last Fanny laid down her knitting, and closed her book."
"'There is no use in my sitting up any longer,' said she to herself. 'I remember what father said to me the last thing: "If anything happens that we do not come home, put your trust in God, and go to bed in peace." I will just go over the house to see that all is right, and then say my prayers and go to bed.'"
"She accordingly took up her candle, and calling Bose to go with her—not that she was afraid, but because she liked his company—she went into every room in the house, seeing that the windows and doors were fast and all things in order. As she came down and went into the front room—the keeping room, as it was usually called, she was startled to see how high the snow was piled against the front windows of the house."
"'It must be drifting in between the house and the ledge, as it did once when I was a little girl,' thought Fanny. 'Father will have a fine time shovelling it away.'"
"Seeing that all was safe, she arranged the fire so as to insure its keeping, set everything in order for the night, eat a little supper herself, and fed the cat and dog. Then she lighted a small oil-lamp which her mother used when she wished to keep a light all night, and set it in a safe place. She had made up her mind to sleep down-stairs in the small room which opened out of the kitchen—John's room, as it was still called—instead of going upstairs. By the time she had finished all her preparations, it was eleven o'clock—later than she had ever sat up in her life before."
"'How nice and comfortable it all looks!' she thought, surveying the large kitchen. 'Now, if I only knew that dear father and mother were safe, I would not much mind having to stay alone. The Rockville road is not like this; there are a great many houses on it, so that if they were stopped by the drifts they would have some place to stay all night. But very likely they did not leave Rockville at all.'"
"Fanny said her prayers as usual, asking earnestly that her father and mother might be taken care of and brought safely home. As she prayed she seemed to feel as though her Saviour was very near her in her solitude. She remembered all those precious words: I will never leave thee nor forsake thee; 'Lo, I am with you alway, even unto the end of the world;' 'I will not leave you comfortless, I will come to you;' and God gave her grace to believe in His promises and to lean upon His mercy, which endureth forever. When she rose up, she felt herself no longer alone."
"Fanny had thought she should lie awake all night, but instead of that her head had hardly touched the pillow before she fell asleep. She slept long and soundly, but when she awoke there was no sign of daylight. All was dark and still. She did not even hear the roaring of the wind, and she thought the storm must be over. Presently the clock begun to strike, and she counted the strokes: one-two-three-four-five—six—seven—eight—and there it stopped. What could it mean? Was the clock wrong? Had it run down? It struck eleven before she went to bed, she was quite sure. She jumped up and ran out into the kitchen. There was no light outside, but the lamp was still burning. Fanny caught it up and looked at the clock. Eight o'clock, sure enough. The sun ought to be up and shining, and here it was still dark night! What could have happened?"
"Fanny went to the window and put up the curtain. She could not see anything till she held the lamp close to the glass. Then the truth flashed upon her all at once. She was snowed up. The house was buried in snow. She went into the front room, and then upstairs. All the same. A solid wall of snow was banked up against the panes. Not even from the upper windows could she see a ray of light. She was buried alive."
"Fanny stood for a few minutes as if stunned by the greatness of the calamity which had overtaken her. What was she to do? What would become of her? Would she be left to starve to death there in the snow? Would some one come before it was too late?"
"What would become of the cattle—the cows and sheep in their sheds, the mare in the barn? She could think of nothing at first, and she returned to the kitchen, and threw herself on the settee in a kind of stunned and stupid despair."
"But Fanny did not lie there long. She had naturally a hopeful and resolute disposition, and she had been trained in habits of thoughtfulness and presence of mind. She roused herself, and began to consider what she had better do."
"'There is no sort of use in my trying to get out, even to the barn,' she reflected. 'I should be smothered in the snow. So the cattle and the chickens must take their chance. I am glad I pulled down plenty of hay for them last night. But now about myself. I suppose it may be two or three days before any one can get up here, and I had better look round and see what I have to live upon. Oh, if Miss Gibson had only come up as she promised! But after all, it would be only one more in trouble. The first thing to do is to bring in plenty of wood. No, that is not the first thing, either.'"
"Fanny knelt down and said her prayers. Then she quickly dressed herself, and, going out into the shed, she soon brought in plenty of wood, enough to last the whole day through, and piled it up in one corner out of the way. As she went out the third time, she heard a cracking sound in the roof of the shed; and looking up, she saw that some of the boards were bent down so that the snow came in between them."
"'If the shed should fall in, I would be rather badly off,' said she. 'I think I had better bring in all the wood I am likely to want.'"
"This was very sensible in Fanny. Fuel is generally the first thing to be looked to in such cases. She brought in nearly all the cut wood in the shed, and a great store of pine-knots. Then she began to look into the state of her provisions. No fear there. She had enough of flour, meal, and butter to last six weeks, besides the barrels of beef and pork in the cellar, and the chickens and turkey which had been got ready for the Thanksgiving dinner. As she looked at them she realized for the first time that this was Thanksgiving day—the day on which all New England bred or descended folks gather together as many of their families as are within reach, that they may rejoice together before the Lord, they, their sons and daughters, in all the good which the Lord has done unto them. Thanksgiving day!—And here she was alone and buried in the snow, while her father and mother were she did not know where."