Chapter Thirteen.A Cunning Device ends in Failure Followed by Destruction.In a previous chapter it has been told how the long hard winter of that year, (1826), had passed away, after an unwontedly severe tussle with the spring. The prophets of the land now began to hold up their heads and look owlishly wise, for their predictions were evidently about to be fulfilled.Had not old Sam Ravenshaw said all through the winter that “something would come of it”? Was it not the daily remark of Angus Macdonald that such a state of things, “could not go on for ever—whatever”? Had not Peegwish glared prophecy with a degree of solemnity that rendered words not only impossible, but unnecessary? and had not Miss Trim asserted that dreadful consequences of some sort weresureto follow?Dreadful consequences did follow, and they began with a fine warm day. For a considerable time the fields of snow had been subjected to the influence of the blazing sun, and had been greatly diminished in depth. The day in question, however, was so very warm that Louis Lambert was induced to take his horse and gun with a view to wolf-hunting on the plains. The hard crust formed on the snow’s surface by the partial meltings of early spring is sufficiently strong to bear the weight of a wolf, but will not support a horse. Wolves, therefore, roam about with ease and at will at that period, while horses are obliged to keep to beaten tracks. When, however, the thaws set in, the case is reversed. The wolf, with his short limbs, flounders laboriously in the drifts of soft snow, while the horse, with his long and powerful legs, can gallop in spite of these. Thus wolf-hunting becomes, for a time, possible.Louis Lambert was fond of the chase. He was also fond of courting, and, resolving to combine the two, galloped away to the abode of old Ravenshaw. He had been there so often of late that he felt half ashamed of this early morning visit. Lovers easily find excuses for visits. He resolved to ask if Herr Winklemann had been seen passing that morning, as he wished his companionship on the plains—the shallow deceiver!“Good-morning, Cora,” he said, on entering the hall.Elsie, who stood at the window with her back to the door, turned quickly round.“Oh, I beg pardon,” he said, with a slightly confused air; “I thought you were Cora, and—”“Well,” interrupted Elsie, with a hurt look that accorded ill with a twinkle in her eyes; “I think you might know the difference between me and Cora by this time, though you only saw my back.”“Ah, Elsie!” returned the youth, as he shook hands, “you ought in fairness to make allowance for the effects of spring. You know full well that the glare of the sun on the snow half blinds a fellow, so that even when, when—”“Come, now, don’t search about in your empty brain for one of your unmeaning compliments, but say at once what brings you here at so early an hour. Has a war party of Sioux come down on us, or is the river about to break up?”“War-parties of Sioux are no doubt prowling about the plains somewhere,” returned Lambert, with a smile, “and the ice will go soon if this heat continues; but neither of these things brought me here. The truth is, I came to ask if Winklemann has been seen to pass your windows this morning?”“The truth?” repeated Elsie, with a searching look.“Well,” replied the youth, with a laugh, “I came also to see you and—and—Cora.”“And father also, I suppose?”“Why, Elsie, you are unusually sharp this morning; but I really do wish to know if Winklemann has been seen, because he had left home when I passed his house, and I want him to hunt with me.”“Then I may tell you that he passed our window not ten minutes before your arrival, going in the direction of the Lower Fort. He rides fast, as you know, so if you would catch him up you must follow quickly.”The young man stood for a moment undecided, then, perceiving that Elsie gave him no encouragement to remain, he bade her adieu and rode away.“Louis is remarkably fond of coming here,” said Elsie to Cora, who entered the room a few minutes later, “but he did not come to seeusthis morning. He only came to ask after Herr Winklemann.”Cora laughed, but gave no further evidence of the state of her mind.Just then Peegwish the Indian entered. He walked towards the sisters with that solemn dignity of manner peculiar to the North American savage, but the intensified solemnity of his looks and a certain unsteadiness in his gait rather marred the dignity.“Peegwish,” said Elsie, going towards him with a grieved look, “you have been drinking beer again.”The Indian protested, in very bad English, that he had not tasted beer since the previous Christmas; whereupon Elsie proceeded to administer an earnest reproof to the muddled hypocrite, for she was really anxious to save him from the destruction which had already overtaken many of his red brethren through the baleful influence of fire-water; but Peegwish was just then in no condition to appreciate her remarks. To all she said his only reply was that he wanted “bally.”“You want bally?” returned Elsie, with a puzzled look.“Yis—bally,” he repeated, and a gleam of indescribable slyness broke like a sunbeam on his solemn visage as he said it.“What can he mean by bally, Cora?”“Perhaps he means barley.”“Ho!” exclaimed the Indian, with emphasis, by which he meant, “You’re right.”But Elsie had no barley to give him. She tried to find out what he wanted to do with the barley, but Peegwish was not communicative. The gleam of cunning faded from his mahogany countenance, and he relapsed into a state of impenetrable wisdom, in which condition he retired, and betook himself to the upper part of the settlement, near Fort Garry, in quest of “bally.” Here he found the people in a state of considerable excitement owing to the sudden and unusual rise of the river.At Fort Garry the Assinaboine River joins the Red River, and flows with it into Lake Winnipeg. At the period of which we write, (the month of May), both rivers were yet covered with the icy garment—between four and five feet thick—under which they had gone to rest five or six months before. The vast accumulation of snow which had fallen that winter was melted so fast that the Red River had risen with terrible rapidity, and it was obvious, from the ominous complainings of the “thick-ribbed ice,” that a burst-up of unwonted violence was impending. The strength of the ice, however, was so great that it rose with the swelling waters without breaking until nearly on a level with the top of the river banks. In some places, where the banks were low, the pent-up floods broke forth and swamped the land, but as yet little damage had been done.Of course the alarm of the settlers was considerable. Rumours of former floods which had devastated the surrounding plains were rife, and those of the people whose houses stood on the lower grounds began to remove their goods and chattels to higher places. Others delayed doing so in the belief that the river would not rise much higher, at all events that it would subside as soon as the ice broke up and cleared away to Lake Winnipeg. Some there were whose dwellings stood on high ground, and who professed to have no belief in floods at all.In other circumstances Peegwish would have noted the state of things that prevailed, but at that time his faculties were steeped in beer. For some days past they had been in this condition, but his supply was exhausted, and people who knew his propensity refused to give him more. Peegwish, therefore, being a somewhat resolute savage, resolved to adopt a course which would render him independent. Chuckling to himself at the depth and cunning of his intended course of action, he went among the farmers begging for “bally”! Some to whom he appealed treated him facetiously, others turned him away from their doors, being too anxious about the impending flood to listen to him. At last he found a soft-hearted soul in the person of Michel Rollin’s mother, old Liz, who dwelt in a very small log-hut on a knoll at a considerable height above the river.“What d’ee want wi’ the barley?” demanded old Liz, who, besides being amiable, had a feeling of kindness for the man with whom her absent son had for years been in the habit of hunting.“To heat ’im,” replied the Indian.“To eat it,” echoed the sturdy little woman; “weel, come in. I can spare some, but dinna mak’ a noise, Daddy’s sleepin’.”The savage entered with solemn though wavering caution. Old though she was, Liz had a living father. He was so very ancient, that if he had dwelt in Egypt he would probably have been taken for a live mummy. He sat in the chimney corner, in an arm-chair to which Liz had tied him to prevent his falling into the fire. He smiled and nodded at the fire when awake, and snored and nodded at it when asleep. Beyond this, and a grateful recognition of his daughter’s attentions, he did and said nothing. Gazing at Daddy, Peegwish fell into an owlish reverie, from which he was aroused by old Liz putting a small sack of barley on the ground before him. The Indian received it with thanks, threw it on his shoulder, and with an expression of unalterable determination on his visage, returned to his own home.The home of Peegwish was dilapidated like himself. It stood on a portion of ground belonging to Angus Macdonald, and was very near to the river’s brink. It was a mere log-cabin of the smallest dimensions, having one low door and one glassless window. The window also served the purpose of a chimney. Its furniture was in keeping with its appearance—a stool, a couple of blankets, two little heaps of brushwood for beds, a kettle or two, a bag of pemmican, an old flint gun, two pairs of snow-shoes, a pair of canoe-paddles, a couple of very dirty bundles, and an old female. The latter was the dirtiest piece of furniture in the establishment. She was sister to Peegwish, and was named by him Wildcat.Despite appearances, the hut was comfortably warm, for Wildcat—who, to do her justice, had been grossly misnamed—was fond of heat. She devoted the chief part of her existence to the collection of fuel, most of the remainder being spent in making moccasins, etcetera, and cooking.“Put on the pot, Wildcat,” said Peegwish on entering, as he threw down the sack of barley.The woman obeyed with alacrity. The fire burned on the earthen floor in primitive style. Erecting three sticks over it in the tripod form, she hung a pot therefrom, filled it with water, and awaited further orders. Knowing her brother’s cast of mind well, she refrained from questioning, though she perceived from the peculiar cunning of his looks that something unusual occupied his mind. Peegwish saw that Wildcat’s curiosity was aroused, and resolved to keep it in that condition. He had learned the fact that beer was made from barley, and had resolved, thenceforth, to brew his own beer; but no hint of this did he permit to escape him. He even went to the other extreme, and became unusually communicative on subjects remote from beer. He told how that the people up the river were being frightened by the rise in the water; how he had met Lambert and Winklemann going to hunt wolves; how these Nimrods had been obliged to change their minds and turn back for the purpose of looking after their property; and, in short, he wandered as far from the subject of beer and brewing as possible.His reference to the rise of the river, however, turned Wildcat’s thoughts to the fact that the ice in their immediate neighbourhood had been forced up in a manner that caused her some anxiety. She mentioned her fears to Peegwish, but that worthy was too deeply immersed in his experiments just then to care much for anything else. To her remarks he merely replied by a solemn shake of the head and an owlish gaze into the big pot.Soon the water in the pot began to boil. Peegwish put in a large proportion of barley, lighted his pipe, and sat down to await the result with the patience of a Stoic. Wildcat sat beside him with equal patience. An hour passed, Peegwish dipped a wooden spoon into the pot and tasted. The result was not satisfactory—it burnt his lips. He let the spoonful cool, and tried again. The liquid was marvellously like barley-broth, with which delicacy he was well acquainted. Another hour passed; again he dipped the spoon, and again met with disappointment, for his brew was not yet beer. The sun went down, the moon arose, the stars came out, and still Peegwish and Wildcat sat watching and dozing over the big pot.At last the former bade the latter watch alone while he slept. He lay back where he sat and slumbered instantly. Wildcat obeyed orders by heaping fresh logs on the fire and following suit. They snored in concert.The night advanced; the uneasy grindings of the ice increased; the tinkling of a thousand snow-born rills filled the air with liquid melody. The sub-glacial murmuring of many waters filled many hearts with anxious care, and numerous households near the river’s brink sat up the live-long night to watch—perhaps to pray. Intermittent cracking of the ice kept up the sound, as it were, of spattering musketry, and occasional loud reports were interspersed like the thunder of heavy guns.At grey dawn Peegwish awoke, looked slowly round, observed his sister asleep, and seized her by the nose. She awoke, rose hastily, and stirred the fire. An inspection of the big pot showed that its contents had become barley porridge. Even Peegwish’s imagination failed to regard it as beer. But Peegwish had been somewhat sobered by his sleep. Hearing the ominous sounds on the river he jumped up and ran outside. The sight that presented itself was sufficiently alarming. During the night the water had risen six feet, and the ice had been raised to a level with the floor of the Indian’s hut. But this was not the worst. A short tongue of land just above the hut had up to that time formed a sort of breakwater to the dwelling. Now, however, the ice had been forced quite over the barrier by the irresistible pressure behind, and even while he gazed a great wedge of ice, nearly five feet thick and several yards in length, was being reared up like a glittering obelisk, and forced slowly but surely down upon the hut.Peegwish had not recovered from his first surprise when the obelisk broke off by its own weight and fell in a mass of ruins, whilst the ice behind kept thrusting with terrible force towards him.If Peegwish was sluggish by nature his malady was evidently not incurable. He uttered a shout, and leaped back into his hut like a panther. His sister came out, gave one glance at the river, became wild-cattish for the first time in her life, and sprang after her brother.A few seconds later and the pair reappeared, bearing some of their poor possessions to a place of safety higher up the bank. They returned for more, and in a very few minutes had the whole of their worldly wealth removed from their doomed edifice. Then they sat down on the bank, and sadly watched the destruction of their home.From their point of view they could see that the main body of ice on the river was still unbroken, and that it was merely a huge tongue, or needle, which had been thrust up at that point by the form of the land above referred to. The shattered masses were soon forced against the side of the hut. There was a slight pause and a creaking of timbers; then the ice slipped upwards and rose above the roof. More ice came down from above—slowly grinding. Again there was a pause. The creaking timbers began to groan, the hut leaned gently over. One of the door-posts snapped, the other sloped inwards, the roof collapsed, the sides went in, the ice passed over all, and the hut of Peegwish was finally obliterated from off the face of the earth. So, a giant with his foot might slowly and effectually crush the mansion of a snail!
In a previous chapter it has been told how the long hard winter of that year, (1826), had passed away, after an unwontedly severe tussle with the spring. The prophets of the land now began to hold up their heads and look owlishly wise, for their predictions were evidently about to be fulfilled.
Had not old Sam Ravenshaw said all through the winter that “something would come of it”? Was it not the daily remark of Angus Macdonald that such a state of things, “could not go on for ever—whatever”? Had not Peegwish glared prophecy with a degree of solemnity that rendered words not only impossible, but unnecessary? and had not Miss Trim asserted that dreadful consequences of some sort weresureto follow?
Dreadful consequences did follow, and they began with a fine warm day. For a considerable time the fields of snow had been subjected to the influence of the blazing sun, and had been greatly diminished in depth. The day in question, however, was so very warm that Louis Lambert was induced to take his horse and gun with a view to wolf-hunting on the plains. The hard crust formed on the snow’s surface by the partial meltings of early spring is sufficiently strong to bear the weight of a wolf, but will not support a horse. Wolves, therefore, roam about with ease and at will at that period, while horses are obliged to keep to beaten tracks. When, however, the thaws set in, the case is reversed. The wolf, with his short limbs, flounders laboriously in the drifts of soft snow, while the horse, with his long and powerful legs, can gallop in spite of these. Thus wolf-hunting becomes, for a time, possible.
Louis Lambert was fond of the chase. He was also fond of courting, and, resolving to combine the two, galloped away to the abode of old Ravenshaw. He had been there so often of late that he felt half ashamed of this early morning visit. Lovers easily find excuses for visits. He resolved to ask if Herr Winklemann had been seen passing that morning, as he wished his companionship on the plains—the shallow deceiver!
“Good-morning, Cora,” he said, on entering the hall.
Elsie, who stood at the window with her back to the door, turned quickly round.
“Oh, I beg pardon,” he said, with a slightly confused air; “I thought you were Cora, and—”
“Well,” interrupted Elsie, with a hurt look that accorded ill with a twinkle in her eyes; “I think you might know the difference between me and Cora by this time, though you only saw my back.”
“Ah, Elsie!” returned the youth, as he shook hands, “you ought in fairness to make allowance for the effects of spring. You know full well that the glare of the sun on the snow half blinds a fellow, so that even when, when—”
“Come, now, don’t search about in your empty brain for one of your unmeaning compliments, but say at once what brings you here at so early an hour. Has a war party of Sioux come down on us, or is the river about to break up?”
“War-parties of Sioux are no doubt prowling about the plains somewhere,” returned Lambert, with a smile, “and the ice will go soon if this heat continues; but neither of these things brought me here. The truth is, I came to ask if Winklemann has been seen to pass your windows this morning?”
“The truth?” repeated Elsie, with a searching look.
“Well,” replied the youth, with a laugh, “I came also to see you and—and—Cora.”
“And father also, I suppose?”
“Why, Elsie, you are unusually sharp this morning; but I really do wish to know if Winklemann has been seen, because he had left home when I passed his house, and I want him to hunt with me.”
“Then I may tell you that he passed our window not ten minutes before your arrival, going in the direction of the Lower Fort. He rides fast, as you know, so if you would catch him up you must follow quickly.”
The young man stood for a moment undecided, then, perceiving that Elsie gave him no encouragement to remain, he bade her adieu and rode away.
“Louis is remarkably fond of coming here,” said Elsie to Cora, who entered the room a few minutes later, “but he did not come to seeusthis morning. He only came to ask after Herr Winklemann.”
Cora laughed, but gave no further evidence of the state of her mind.
Just then Peegwish the Indian entered. He walked towards the sisters with that solemn dignity of manner peculiar to the North American savage, but the intensified solemnity of his looks and a certain unsteadiness in his gait rather marred the dignity.
“Peegwish,” said Elsie, going towards him with a grieved look, “you have been drinking beer again.”
The Indian protested, in very bad English, that he had not tasted beer since the previous Christmas; whereupon Elsie proceeded to administer an earnest reproof to the muddled hypocrite, for she was really anxious to save him from the destruction which had already overtaken many of his red brethren through the baleful influence of fire-water; but Peegwish was just then in no condition to appreciate her remarks. To all she said his only reply was that he wanted “bally.”
“You want bally?” returned Elsie, with a puzzled look.
“Yis—bally,” he repeated, and a gleam of indescribable slyness broke like a sunbeam on his solemn visage as he said it.
“What can he mean by bally, Cora?”
“Perhaps he means barley.”
“Ho!” exclaimed the Indian, with emphasis, by which he meant, “You’re right.”
But Elsie had no barley to give him. She tried to find out what he wanted to do with the barley, but Peegwish was not communicative. The gleam of cunning faded from his mahogany countenance, and he relapsed into a state of impenetrable wisdom, in which condition he retired, and betook himself to the upper part of the settlement, near Fort Garry, in quest of “bally.” Here he found the people in a state of considerable excitement owing to the sudden and unusual rise of the river.
At Fort Garry the Assinaboine River joins the Red River, and flows with it into Lake Winnipeg. At the period of which we write, (the month of May), both rivers were yet covered with the icy garment—between four and five feet thick—under which they had gone to rest five or six months before. The vast accumulation of snow which had fallen that winter was melted so fast that the Red River had risen with terrible rapidity, and it was obvious, from the ominous complainings of the “thick-ribbed ice,” that a burst-up of unwonted violence was impending. The strength of the ice, however, was so great that it rose with the swelling waters without breaking until nearly on a level with the top of the river banks. In some places, where the banks were low, the pent-up floods broke forth and swamped the land, but as yet little damage had been done.
Of course the alarm of the settlers was considerable. Rumours of former floods which had devastated the surrounding plains were rife, and those of the people whose houses stood on the lower grounds began to remove their goods and chattels to higher places. Others delayed doing so in the belief that the river would not rise much higher, at all events that it would subside as soon as the ice broke up and cleared away to Lake Winnipeg. Some there were whose dwellings stood on high ground, and who professed to have no belief in floods at all.
In other circumstances Peegwish would have noted the state of things that prevailed, but at that time his faculties were steeped in beer. For some days past they had been in this condition, but his supply was exhausted, and people who knew his propensity refused to give him more. Peegwish, therefore, being a somewhat resolute savage, resolved to adopt a course which would render him independent. Chuckling to himself at the depth and cunning of his intended course of action, he went among the farmers begging for “bally”! Some to whom he appealed treated him facetiously, others turned him away from their doors, being too anxious about the impending flood to listen to him. At last he found a soft-hearted soul in the person of Michel Rollin’s mother, old Liz, who dwelt in a very small log-hut on a knoll at a considerable height above the river.
“What d’ee want wi’ the barley?” demanded old Liz, who, besides being amiable, had a feeling of kindness for the man with whom her absent son had for years been in the habit of hunting.
“To heat ’im,” replied the Indian.
“To eat it,” echoed the sturdy little woman; “weel, come in. I can spare some, but dinna mak’ a noise, Daddy’s sleepin’.”
The savage entered with solemn though wavering caution. Old though she was, Liz had a living father. He was so very ancient, that if he had dwelt in Egypt he would probably have been taken for a live mummy. He sat in the chimney corner, in an arm-chair to which Liz had tied him to prevent his falling into the fire. He smiled and nodded at the fire when awake, and snored and nodded at it when asleep. Beyond this, and a grateful recognition of his daughter’s attentions, he did and said nothing. Gazing at Daddy, Peegwish fell into an owlish reverie, from which he was aroused by old Liz putting a small sack of barley on the ground before him. The Indian received it with thanks, threw it on his shoulder, and with an expression of unalterable determination on his visage, returned to his own home.
The home of Peegwish was dilapidated like himself. It stood on a portion of ground belonging to Angus Macdonald, and was very near to the river’s brink. It was a mere log-cabin of the smallest dimensions, having one low door and one glassless window. The window also served the purpose of a chimney. Its furniture was in keeping with its appearance—a stool, a couple of blankets, two little heaps of brushwood for beds, a kettle or two, a bag of pemmican, an old flint gun, two pairs of snow-shoes, a pair of canoe-paddles, a couple of very dirty bundles, and an old female. The latter was the dirtiest piece of furniture in the establishment. She was sister to Peegwish, and was named by him Wildcat.
Despite appearances, the hut was comfortably warm, for Wildcat—who, to do her justice, had been grossly misnamed—was fond of heat. She devoted the chief part of her existence to the collection of fuel, most of the remainder being spent in making moccasins, etcetera, and cooking.
“Put on the pot, Wildcat,” said Peegwish on entering, as he threw down the sack of barley.
The woman obeyed with alacrity. The fire burned on the earthen floor in primitive style. Erecting three sticks over it in the tripod form, she hung a pot therefrom, filled it with water, and awaited further orders. Knowing her brother’s cast of mind well, she refrained from questioning, though she perceived from the peculiar cunning of his looks that something unusual occupied his mind. Peegwish saw that Wildcat’s curiosity was aroused, and resolved to keep it in that condition. He had learned the fact that beer was made from barley, and had resolved, thenceforth, to brew his own beer; but no hint of this did he permit to escape him. He even went to the other extreme, and became unusually communicative on subjects remote from beer. He told how that the people up the river were being frightened by the rise in the water; how he had met Lambert and Winklemann going to hunt wolves; how these Nimrods had been obliged to change their minds and turn back for the purpose of looking after their property; and, in short, he wandered as far from the subject of beer and brewing as possible.
His reference to the rise of the river, however, turned Wildcat’s thoughts to the fact that the ice in their immediate neighbourhood had been forced up in a manner that caused her some anxiety. She mentioned her fears to Peegwish, but that worthy was too deeply immersed in his experiments just then to care much for anything else. To her remarks he merely replied by a solemn shake of the head and an owlish gaze into the big pot.
Soon the water in the pot began to boil. Peegwish put in a large proportion of barley, lighted his pipe, and sat down to await the result with the patience of a Stoic. Wildcat sat beside him with equal patience. An hour passed, Peegwish dipped a wooden spoon into the pot and tasted. The result was not satisfactory—it burnt his lips. He let the spoonful cool, and tried again. The liquid was marvellously like barley-broth, with which delicacy he was well acquainted. Another hour passed; again he dipped the spoon, and again met with disappointment, for his brew was not yet beer. The sun went down, the moon arose, the stars came out, and still Peegwish and Wildcat sat watching and dozing over the big pot.
At last the former bade the latter watch alone while he slept. He lay back where he sat and slumbered instantly. Wildcat obeyed orders by heaping fresh logs on the fire and following suit. They snored in concert.
The night advanced; the uneasy grindings of the ice increased; the tinkling of a thousand snow-born rills filled the air with liquid melody. The sub-glacial murmuring of many waters filled many hearts with anxious care, and numerous households near the river’s brink sat up the live-long night to watch—perhaps to pray. Intermittent cracking of the ice kept up the sound, as it were, of spattering musketry, and occasional loud reports were interspersed like the thunder of heavy guns.
At grey dawn Peegwish awoke, looked slowly round, observed his sister asleep, and seized her by the nose. She awoke, rose hastily, and stirred the fire. An inspection of the big pot showed that its contents had become barley porridge. Even Peegwish’s imagination failed to regard it as beer. But Peegwish had been somewhat sobered by his sleep. Hearing the ominous sounds on the river he jumped up and ran outside. The sight that presented itself was sufficiently alarming. During the night the water had risen six feet, and the ice had been raised to a level with the floor of the Indian’s hut. But this was not the worst. A short tongue of land just above the hut had up to that time formed a sort of breakwater to the dwelling. Now, however, the ice had been forced quite over the barrier by the irresistible pressure behind, and even while he gazed a great wedge of ice, nearly five feet thick and several yards in length, was being reared up like a glittering obelisk, and forced slowly but surely down upon the hut.
Peegwish had not recovered from his first surprise when the obelisk broke off by its own weight and fell in a mass of ruins, whilst the ice behind kept thrusting with terrible force towards him.
If Peegwish was sluggish by nature his malady was evidently not incurable. He uttered a shout, and leaped back into his hut like a panther. His sister came out, gave one glance at the river, became wild-cattish for the first time in her life, and sprang after her brother.
A few seconds later and the pair reappeared, bearing some of their poor possessions to a place of safety higher up the bank. They returned for more, and in a very few minutes had the whole of their worldly wealth removed from their doomed edifice. Then they sat down on the bank, and sadly watched the destruction of their home.
From their point of view they could see that the main body of ice on the river was still unbroken, and that it was merely a huge tongue, or needle, which had been thrust up at that point by the form of the land above referred to. The shattered masses were soon forced against the side of the hut. There was a slight pause and a creaking of timbers; then the ice slipped upwards and rose above the roof. More ice came down from above—slowly grinding. Again there was a pause. The creaking timbers began to groan, the hut leaned gently over. One of the door-posts snapped, the other sloped inwards, the roof collapsed, the sides went in, the ice passed over all, and the hut of Peegwish was finally obliterated from off the face of the earth. So, a giant with his foot might slowly and effectually crush the mansion of a snail!
Chapter Fourteen.The Flood begins to do its Work.“It is very sad that the hut of poor Peegwish has been carried away,” observed Miss Martha Macdonald, while presiding at the breakfast-table.“Yes, it iss fery sad,” responded Angus Macdonald, in a somewhat unamiable tone; “but it iss more sad that he will pe living in our kitchen now, for that wuman Wildcat must pe there too, and it iss not coot for Wildcat to live in the kitchen. She will pe too fond of the kitchen altogether, an’ she will pe a greater thief than our own cawtie, for she is more omniferous an’ not so easy to scare.”“But cook is as good as a weasel at watching cats,” returned Martha, with a smile; “and it is reason we have to be thankful we have no heavier trouble, Angus, for many of the people up the river are driven out of their houses.”“What you say iss true, Martha. Just pefore breakfast I met that Cherman crater, Winklemann, ridin’ to the mission-house for help. The ice would pe scrapin’ the end of his gardin, he was tellin’ me, an’ if the ruver would pe risin’ another fut it would come into the house. He says the people are goin’ off to the mountain like flocks of sheep, carryin’ their coots and trivin’ their cattle pefore them. It is fery pad times, whatever.”In the parlour of Willow Creek House the breakfast party enlarged on the same theme.“Things look serious,” observed Samuel Ravenshaw, as he commenced his third egg. “If the water rises at this rate much longer, not only the houses that stand low on the river banks, but the whole settlement will be in danger. It is said that four houses and a barn were swept away last night by the force of the ice somewhere above the mission premises, and that about sixty people slept in the church.”“It is well that our house stands high,” said Mrs Ravenshaw. “Don’t you think, Sam, that we might have the barn prepared, in case some of our neighbours have to leave their houses?”“The barn is ready, mother,” said Elsie. “Father and I have been arranging it all the morning with the aid of Peegwish, poor fellow, who has been sent to us by Macdonald.”“Ay, and it’s as trim as an hospital,” added Mr Ravenshaw; “but I hope it won’t be wanted. The ice is now clearing away. When it is gone, the river will be sure to fall.—Tell the boy to saddle the horse, Cora,” continued the old gentleman, attacking his fourth egg. “I shall ride up to see how Winklemann gets on. Lambert is helping him.”“Is Lambert’s own house safe?” asked Elsie, with a glance at her sister.“Safe enough just now,” replied her father; “for it stands much higher and further back.”“Don’t forget old Liz Rollin,” said Elsie. “Her hut stands high, but if things get worse she will be in danger, and there is no one to look after her, you know.”“No fear of my forgetting the mother of the man who is helping to search for my dear boy,” returned Ravenshaw, “besides, old Liz is not without friends. Both Louis and Winklemann have promised to keep their eyes on her.”This reference to the mother of Michel Rollin turned the thoughts of the party into a channel that was very familiar, for the lost Tony and his brother were seldom absent from their thoughts. Of late, however, they had ceased to talk much of the absent ones, because, as months flew by without any tidings, their anxieties increased, and as their fears increased they felt less inclined to talk hopefully. Long before the breaking up of the ice Mr Ravenshaw had sent off an expedition at his own cost in search of the searchers. It consisted of a trusty Indian and two half-breeds. They were to cross the plains towards the Saskatchewan district, and make inquiries among the fur-traders there; but nothing had yet been heard of them, and although the face and figure of Tony were never absent from the old man’s memory, his name was not now so frequently on his lips.A sigh from Miss Trim revealed clearly the nature ofherthoughts. Poor Miss Trim! Her occupation was almost gone since Tony’s disappearance. Besides losing the terrible and specific task of teaching Tony his lessons, the amiable lady had lost the general duty of keeping Tony in order, putting right what Tony had put wrong, and, generally, undoing what Tony did. She also missed painfully those little daily attentions to her hands and shins, which were rendered necessary in consequence of Tony’s activity with his nails and the toes of his boots, to say nothing of his teeth. For many weeks past—it seemed to her years—Miss Trim had not bandaged a cut, or fomented a bruise, or mollified a scratch with ointment. She absolutely felt as though she had suffered bereavement.The silence which had descended on the breakfast-table was not broken until Mr Ravenshaw’s horse was reported ready at the door. On his way to the main road the old gentleman had to pass close to the summer-house on the knoll so much coveted by Angus Macdonald. There he reined up a few minutes. The position commanded an extensive view, and the aspect of the river was sufficiently alarming. The ice, which by that time had broken up, was rolling and crashing along with inconceivable force before the impetuous torrent. The water had risen to such a height that the lower lands were completely inundated. That it was still rising was made obvious by the fact that the rolling masses at the river-sides were being thrust higher and higher on obstructing points, carrying bushes and trees before them. Even while he gazed a lofty elm that grew on a low part of Angus Macdonald’s property was overthrown as if it had been a mere twig, and swept away. Several young maple and oak trees further down shared the same fate a few minutes later.The house of Angus was full in view. It occupied a mound nearly, though not quite, as high as the knoll on which he stood, and was still, like his own dwelling, far above the reach of the raging flood. The spot where the hut of Peegwish had stood was by that time deep below the surface of the ice-torrent.Mr Ravenshaw did not remain long in contemplation. The weather, which had been stormy, became suddenly cold, and a blinding fall of sleet induced him to button his greatcoat up to the chin as he hastened away.Arriving at the mission station after a gallop of several miles, he found a state of things which almost beggars description. Men, women, and children were hurrying to and fro, laden with their chief valuables, or driving carts loaded with household goods, which they deposited on the mission premises for safety, preparatory to the desertion of houses, which was expected to take place on the morrow. Goods of every description were scattered about in wild confusion, for many of the people were half mad with alarm. The missionary, with his assistants, was doing his best to reduce the chaos to order.Farther up the river Mr Ravenshaw encountered Herr Winklemann bearing a huge arm-chair on his shoulders. “Mine hause is toomed!” he said.“Doomed? I hope not. Where are you going with the chair?”“To zee hause of old Liz.”Without waiting for a rejoinder the stout German hurried on, and was soon lost to view among the bushes. Ravenshaw followed him shortly afterwards, and found old Liz arranging and piling away the belongings of Winklemann, who, after depositing the arm-chair by the side of the fire opposite the corner occupied by Daddy, had returned to his doomed house for more. Anxious to know in what condition his friend’s house was, the old gentleman took the road to it. The house of old Liz, as we have said, stood high, and well back from the river. It had been made a place of refuge by the nearest neighbours, and was not only filled but surrounded by goods and furniture, as well as live stock. A dense mass of willow bushes, by which the little hut was surrounded, completely shut out the view all round, except backward, in the direction of the prairie, so that Ravenshaw did not come in sight of the spot where the flood had already commenced its work of destruction until he had traversed a footpath for nearly a quarter of a mile. Many wet and weary settlers passed him, however, with their possessions on their backs, and here and there groups of women and children, to all of whom he gave a cheering word of hope and encouragement.On clearing the bushes the full extent of desolation was presented to view. The river here had overflowed its banks, so that a large part of the country wore the aspect of a lake. Knolls and slight eminences, which in happier times had been scarcely observable, now stood boldly out as conspicuous islets, while many farmhouses were either partly submerged or stood on the margin of the rising waters which beat against them. There was a strong current in some places, elsewhere it was calm; but the river itself was clearly traceable by the turmoil of crashing ice and surging water which marked its course. Men and women were seen everywhere—in the water and out of it—loading carts or barrows with their property, and old people, with children, looked on and shivered, for the thermometer had fallen to five degrees below the freezing-point of Fahrenheit’s scale, as indicated by the thermometer at the parsonage. The sleet had ceased, and the wind had fallen, but dark masses of clouds hurried athwart the lowering sky, and the dreary character of the scene was heightened by the poor cattle, which, being turned out of their warm places of shelter, stood on knolls or in the water and lowed piteously.One of the most conspicuous objects of the scene, from Ravenshaw’s point of view, was poor Winklemann’s house—a small one which stood on a low spot already surrounded by water. In front of it was Winklemann himself, wading through the flood, without coat or hat, and carrying a large bundle in his arms.“What have you got there?” asked Ravenshaw, as German went staggering past.“Mine moder,” he replied, and hurried on.Herr Winklemann had a mother—as old as the hills, according to his own report, and any one who beheld her feeble frame and wrinkled visage might well have believed him. With tender regard for her welfare her stout son had refrained from removing or even alarming her until the last moment, partly from fear that fright and the removal might do her serious injury, and partly from the hope that the flood had reached its highest point; but when the danger to his dwelling became great he resolved to carry her to the hut of old Liz, and, as a preliminary step, had removed her old arm-chair, as we have seen, to be ready for her reception. On returning to the house, however, he found that a portion of the river bank above had unexpectedly given way, diverging the flood a little in that part, so that his dwelling was already a foot deep in water. The old woman, however, lay safely on the bed where Winklemann had placed her, and was either unconscious of, or indifferent to what was going on. She did indeed look a little surprised when her son wrapped the blanket, on which she lay, completely round her, and took her up in his arms as if she had been a little child, but the look of surprise melted into a humorous smile as he drew the last fold over her face. She clearly believed it to be one of her dear boy’s little practical jokes, and submitted without a murmur.Staggering through the flood with her, as we have said, Winklemann carried her to the cottage of old Liz, who received her with tender care, helped to place her in the big chair, and remembering Daddy’s tendency to fall into the fire, tied her securely therein.Meanwhile Winklemann ran back to his house, where he found Mr Ravenshaw and Louis Lambert assisting several men to secure it on its foundations by tying it with ropes to the nearest trees.Joining these, he lent his powerful aid; but a power greater than his was at work, which could not be resisted. Not only did the water rise at an alarming rate and rush against the house with tremendous violence, but great cakes of ice bore down on it and struck it with such force as to make every timber tremble. Like all the other houses of the settlement, it was built entirely of wood, and had no other foundation than the levelled ground on which its framework stood.When the water rose considerably above his knees, and ice-floes threatened to sweep him away, Mr Ravenshaw thought it was time for an elderly gentleman to retire. The others continued for some time longer securing the ropes and, with poles, turning aside the ice; but ere long they also were driven to the higher ground, and compelled to stand idly by and watch the work of destruction.“You’ve got everything out, I fancy?” asked Lambert.“Everyt’ing,” replied Winklemann, with a deep sigh; “not’ing is left but zee hause.”“An’ that won’t be left long,” observed Mr Ravenshaw, as a huge mass of ice went against its gable-end like a battering-ram.It seemed to be the leader of a fresh battalion of the destroyer. A succession of ice-floes ran against the house and trees to which it was fastened. An additional rush of water came down at the same time like a wave of the sea. Every one saw that the approaching power was irresistible. The wave, with its ice-laden crest, absolutely roared as it engulfed the bushes. Two goodly elms bowed their heads into the flood and snapped off. The ropes parted like packthread; the building slewed round, reeled for a moment with a drunken air, caught on a shallow spot, and hung there.“Ach! mine goot old hause—farvell!” exclaimed Winklemann, in tones of deepest pathos.The house bowed as if in recognition of the old familiar voice, sloped into deeper water, gurgled out its latest breath, like a living thing, through its doors and windows, and sank beneath the wreck and ruin of its old surroundings.It was what men aptly term a clean sweep, but Winklemann’s was not the only house that succumbed to the flood on that occasion. Many besides himself were rendered homeless. That night, (the 4th of May), the waters rose four feet, and the settlers even on the higher grounds began to think of flight.
“It is very sad that the hut of poor Peegwish has been carried away,” observed Miss Martha Macdonald, while presiding at the breakfast-table.
“Yes, it iss fery sad,” responded Angus Macdonald, in a somewhat unamiable tone; “but it iss more sad that he will pe living in our kitchen now, for that wuman Wildcat must pe there too, and it iss not coot for Wildcat to live in the kitchen. She will pe too fond of the kitchen altogether, an’ she will pe a greater thief than our own cawtie, for she is more omniferous an’ not so easy to scare.”
“But cook is as good as a weasel at watching cats,” returned Martha, with a smile; “and it is reason we have to be thankful we have no heavier trouble, Angus, for many of the people up the river are driven out of their houses.”
“What you say iss true, Martha. Just pefore breakfast I met that Cherman crater, Winklemann, ridin’ to the mission-house for help. The ice would pe scrapin’ the end of his gardin, he was tellin’ me, an’ if the ruver would pe risin’ another fut it would come into the house. He says the people are goin’ off to the mountain like flocks of sheep, carryin’ their coots and trivin’ their cattle pefore them. It is fery pad times, whatever.”
In the parlour of Willow Creek House the breakfast party enlarged on the same theme.
“Things look serious,” observed Samuel Ravenshaw, as he commenced his third egg. “If the water rises at this rate much longer, not only the houses that stand low on the river banks, but the whole settlement will be in danger. It is said that four houses and a barn were swept away last night by the force of the ice somewhere above the mission premises, and that about sixty people slept in the church.”
“It is well that our house stands high,” said Mrs Ravenshaw. “Don’t you think, Sam, that we might have the barn prepared, in case some of our neighbours have to leave their houses?”
“The barn is ready, mother,” said Elsie. “Father and I have been arranging it all the morning with the aid of Peegwish, poor fellow, who has been sent to us by Macdonald.”
“Ay, and it’s as trim as an hospital,” added Mr Ravenshaw; “but I hope it won’t be wanted. The ice is now clearing away. When it is gone, the river will be sure to fall.—Tell the boy to saddle the horse, Cora,” continued the old gentleman, attacking his fourth egg. “I shall ride up to see how Winklemann gets on. Lambert is helping him.”
“Is Lambert’s own house safe?” asked Elsie, with a glance at her sister.
“Safe enough just now,” replied her father; “for it stands much higher and further back.”
“Don’t forget old Liz Rollin,” said Elsie. “Her hut stands high, but if things get worse she will be in danger, and there is no one to look after her, you know.”
“No fear of my forgetting the mother of the man who is helping to search for my dear boy,” returned Ravenshaw, “besides, old Liz is not without friends. Both Louis and Winklemann have promised to keep their eyes on her.”
This reference to the mother of Michel Rollin turned the thoughts of the party into a channel that was very familiar, for the lost Tony and his brother were seldom absent from their thoughts. Of late, however, they had ceased to talk much of the absent ones, because, as months flew by without any tidings, their anxieties increased, and as their fears increased they felt less inclined to talk hopefully. Long before the breaking up of the ice Mr Ravenshaw had sent off an expedition at his own cost in search of the searchers. It consisted of a trusty Indian and two half-breeds. They were to cross the plains towards the Saskatchewan district, and make inquiries among the fur-traders there; but nothing had yet been heard of them, and although the face and figure of Tony were never absent from the old man’s memory, his name was not now so frequently on his lips.
A sigh from Miss Trim revealed clearly the nature ofherthoughts. Poor Miss Trim! Her occupation was almost gone since Tony’s disappearance. Besides losing the terrible and specific task of teaching Tony his lessons, the amiable lady had lost the general duty of keeping Tony in order, putting right what Tony had put wrong, and, generally, undoing what Tony did. She also missed painfully those little daily attentions to her hands and shins, which were rendered necessary in consequence of Tony’s activity with his nails and the toes of his boots, to say nothing of his teeth. For many weeks past—it seemed to her years—Miss Trim had not bandaged a cut, or fomented a bruise, or mollified a scratch with ointment. She absolutely felt as though she had suffered bereavement.
The silence which had descended on the breakfast-table was not broken until Mr Ravenshaw’s horse was reported ready at the door. On his way to the main road the old gentleman had to pass close to the summer-house on the knoll so much coveted by Angus Macdonald. There he reined up a few minutes. The position commanded an extensive view, and the aspect of the river was sufficiently alarming. The ice, which by that time had broken up, was rolling and crashing along with inconceivable force before the impetuous torrent. The water had risen to such a height that the lower lands were completely inundated. That it was still rising was made obvious by the fact that the rolling masses at the river-sides were being thrust higher and higher on obstructing points, carrying bushes and trees before them. Even while he gazed a lofty elm that grew on a low part of Angus Macdonald’s property was overthrown as if it had been a mere twig, and swept away. Several young maple and oak trees further down shared the same fate a few minutes later.
The house of Angus was full in view. It occupied a mound nearly, though not quite, as high as the knoll on which he stood, and was still, like his own dwelling, far above the reach of the raging flood. The spot where the hut of Peegwish had stood was by that time deep below the surface of the ice-torrent.
Mr Ravenshaw did not remain long in contemplation. The weather, which had been stormy, became suddenly cold, and a blinding fall of sleet induced him to button his greatcoat up to the chin as he hastened away.
Arriving at the mission station after a gallop of several miles, he found a state of things which almost beggars description. Men, women, and children were hurrying to and fro, laden with their chief valuables, or driving carts loaded with household goods, which they deposited on the mission premises for safety, preparatory to the desertion of houses, which was expected to take place on the morrow. Goods of every description were scattered about in wild confusion, for many of the people were half mad with alarm. The missionary, with his assistants, was doing his best to reduce the chaos to order.
Farther up the river Mr Ravenshaw encountered Herr Winklemann bearing a huge arm-chair on his shoulders. “Mine hause is toomed!” he said.
“Doomed? I hope not. Where are you going with the chair?”
“To zee hause of old Liz.”
Without waiting for a rejoinder the stout German hurried on, and was soon lost to view among the bushes. Ravenshaw followed him shortly afterwards, and found old Liz arranging and piling away the belongings of Winklemann, who, after depositing the arm-chair by the side of the fire opposite the corner occupied by Daddy, had returned to his doomed house for more. Anxious to know in what condition his friend’s house was, the old gentleman took the road to it. The house of old Liz, as we have said, stood high, and well back from the river. It had been made a place of refuge by the nearest neighbours, and was not only filled but surrounded by goods and furniture, as well as live stock. A dense mass of willow bushes, by which the little hut was surrounded, completely shut out the view all round, except backward, in the direction of the prairie, so that Ravenshaw did not come in sight of the spot where the flood had already commenced its work of destruction until he had traversed a footpath for nearly a quarter of a mile. Many wet and weary settlers passed him, however, with their possessions on their backs, and here and there groups of women and children, to all of whom he gave a cheering word of hope and encouragement.
On clearing the bushes the full extent of desolation was presented to view. The river here had overflowed its banks, so that a large part of the country wore the aspect of a lake. Knolls and slight eminences, which in happier times had been scarcely observable, now stood boldly out as conspicuous islets, while many farmhouses were either partly submerged or stood on the margin of the rising waters which beat against them. There was a strong current in some places, elsewhere it was calm; but the river itself was clearly traceable by the turmoil of crashing ice and surging water which marked its course. Men and women were seen everywhere—in the water and out of it—loading carts or barrows with their property, and old people, with children, looked on and shivered, for the thermometer had fallen to five degrees below the freezing-point of Fahrenheit’s scale, as indicated by the thermometer at the parsonage. The sleet had ceased, and the wind had fallen, but dark masses of clouds hurried athwart the lowering sky, and the dreary character of the scene was heightened by the poor cattle, which, being turned out of their warm places of shelter, stood on knolls or in the water and lowed piteously.
One of the most conspicuous objects of the scene, from Ravenshaw’s point of view, was poor Winklemann’s house—a small one which stood on a low spot already surrounded by water. In front of it was Winklemann himself, wading through the flood, without coat or hat, and carrying a large bundle in his arms.
“What have you got there?” asked Ravenshaw, as German went staggering past.
“Mine moder,” he replied, and hurried on.
Herr Winklemann had a mother—as old as the hills, according to his own report, and any one who beheld her feeble frame and wrinkled visage might well have believed him. With tender regard for her welfare her stout son had refrained from removing or even alarming her until the last moment, partly from fear that fright and the removal might do her serious injury, and partly from the hope that the flood had reached its highest point; but when the danger to his dwelling became great he resolved to carry her to the hut of old Liz, and, as a preliminary step, had removed her old arm-chair, as we have seen, to be ready for her reception. On returning to the house, however, he found that a portion of the river bank above had unexpectedly given way, diverging the flood a little in that part, so that his dwelling was already a foot deep in water. The old woman, however, lay safely on the bed where Winklemann had placed her, and was either unconscious of, or indifferent to what was going on. She did indeed look a little surprised when her son wrapped the blanket, on which she lay, completely round her, and took her up in his arms as if she had been a little child, but the look of surprise melted into a humorous smile as he drew the last fold over her face. She clearly believed it to be one of her dear boy’s little practical jokes, and submitted without a murmur.
Staggering through the flood with her, as we have said, Winklemann carried her to the cottage of old Liz, who received her with tender care, helped to place her in the big chair, and remembering Daddy’s tendency to fall into the fire, tied her securely therein.
Meanwhile Winklemann ran back to his house, where he found Mr Ravenshaw and Louis Lambert assisting several men to secure it on its foundations by tying it with ropes to the nearest trees.
Joining these, he lent his powerful aid; but a power greater than his was at work, which could not be resisted. Not only did the water rise at an alarming rate and rush against the house with tremendous violence, but great cakes of ice bore down on it and struck it with such force as to make every timber tremble. Like all the other houses of the settlement, it was built entirely of wood, and had no other foundation than the levelled ground on which its framework stood.
When the water rose considerably above his knees, and ice-floes threatened to sweep him away, Mr Ravenshaw thought it was time for an elderly gentleman to retire. The others continued for some time longer securing the ropes and, with poles, turning aside the ice; but ere long they also were driven to the higher ground, and compelled to stand idly by and watch the work of destruction.
“You’ve got everything out, I fancy?” asked Lambert.
“Everyt’ing,” replied Winklemann, with a deep sigh; “not’ing is left but zee hause.”
“An’ that won’t be left long,” observed Mr Ravenshaw, as a huge mass of ice went against its gable-end like a battering-ram.
It seemed to be the leader of a fresh battalion of the destroyer. A succession of ice-floes ran against the house and trees to which it was fastened. An additional rush of water came down at the same time like a wave of the sea. Every one saw that the approaching power was irresistible. The wave, with its ice-laden crest, absolutely roared as it engulfed the bushes. Two goodly elms bowed their heads into the flood and snapped off. The ropes parted like packthread; the building slewed round, reeled for a moment with a drunken air, caught on a shallow spot, and hung there.
“Ach! mine goot old hause—farvell!” exclaimed Winklemann, in tones of deepest pathos.
The house bowed as if in recognition of the old familiar voice, sloped into deeper water, gurgled out its latest breath, like a living thing, through its doors and windows, and sank beneath the wreck and ruin of its old surroundings.
It was what men aptly term a clean sweep, but Winklemann’s was not the only house that succumbed to the flood on that occasion. Many besides himself were rendered homeless. That night, (the 4th of May), the waters rose four feet, and the settlers even on the higher grounds began to think of flight.
Chapter Fifteen.The Flood continues to do its Work.Rapidly and steadily did the waters of the Red River rise, until, overflowing all their banks, they spread out into the plains, and gradually settler after settler retired before the deluge, each forsaking his home at the last moment, and going off in quest of higher ground with his cattle and property.These high places were not numerous, for the whole region was very level. Many settlers discovered at that time a number of features in the colony which had been unrecognised before, and found refuge on spots which had never been observed as lying above the dead level of the plains. Even these spots were not all safe. Many of them were speedily submerged, and those who had fled to them sought refuge on the still higher knolls, which soon became inconveniently crowded. Some miles from the river there was an elevation of ground named the “Little Mountain,” and to this many of the people repaired. It was about as deserving of its title as is a molehill; nevertheless it proved a safe asylum in the end.Louis Lambert was driven from his home the day after that on which the house of his friend Winklemann was destroyed. His house was a stout one of two storeys, and, owing to its position, was less exposed to the current of the flood than many other dwellings. Confident of its strength and the security of its position, its owner had carried all his goods and furniture to the upper storey, but on returning, after assisting his friend, he found the water in it so high that he feared it might be set afloat—as some of the houses had already been—and finally made up his mind to remove. But where should he remove to? That was the question.“To zee hause of old Liz,” observed his friend. “It is close to hand, an’ zere is yet room.”This was true, but Lambert’s inclinations turned in the direction of Willow Creek; he therefore protested there was not room.“No, no,” he said; “it’s not fair to crowd round old Liz as we are doing. I’ll ride down to Ravenshaw’s and see if there is room on his ground to place my property. There will be plenty of time. Even if the water should go on rising, which I hope it won’t, my house can’t float for many hours. Meanwhile, if you’ll fetch round the boat, and place some of the heavy goods in it, you’ll be doing me a good turn.”“Vell, vell,” muttered the German, as he looked after his friend with a quiet smile and a shake of the head, “dere is no madness like lof! Ven a man falls in lof he becomes blind, qvite blind!”The blind one, meanwhile, mounted his steed and galloped away on the wings of “lof.” Lambert was a reckless rider, and an impatient though good-natured fellow. He dashed at full speed through shallow places, where the floods were creeping with insidious, tide-like persistency over the farm-lands, and forded some of the creeks, which almost rendered swimming unavoidable; but in spite of his daring he was compelled to make many a vexatious détour in his headlong course down to Willow Creek. On the way his mind, pre-occupied though it was, could not escape being much affected by the scenes of devastation through which he passed. Everywhere near the river houses were to be seen standing several feet deep in water, while their owners were either engaged in conveying their contents in boats and canoes to the nearest eminences, or removing them from such eminences in carts to spots of greater security. Some of the owners of these deserted houses had become so reckless or so despairing under their misfortunes, that they offered to sell them for merely nominal sums. It is said that some of them changed hands for so small a sum as thirty shillings or two pounds.Cantering round the corner of a fence, Lambert came within a hundred yards of a house round which the water was deep enough to float a large boat. Here he observed his friends, John Flett and David Mowat, embarking household goods into a large canoe out of the parlour window. Riding into the water, Lambert hailed them.“Hallo, Flett, d’ee want help?”“Thank ’ee, no; this is the last load. Got all the rest down to the church; the minister is lettin’ us stow things in the loft.”“You’re in too great haste, Flett,” returned Lambert. “The water can’t rise much higher; your place is sure to stand.”“Not so sure o’ that, Louis; there’s a report brought in by a redskin that all the country between the sources of the Assinaboine and Missouri is turned into a sea, and the waters o’ the Missouri itself are passing down to Lake Winnipeg. He says, too, that a whole village of redskins has been swept away.”“Bah! it’s not true,” said Lambert.“True or false,” rejoined Flett, resuming his work, “it’s time for me to clear out o’ this.”Forsaking the road, which he had hitherto attempted to follow, Lambert now stretched out at full gallop into the plains. He came to a small creek and found that the simple wooden bridge had been washed away, and that the waters of the river were driving its tiny current in the wrong direction. In a fit of impatience he applied the whip to his steed, which, being a fiery one, rushed furiously at the creek. Fire does not necessarily give an untrained horse power to leap. The animal made an awkward attempt to stop, failed, made a still more awkward attempt to jump, failed again, and stumbled headlong into the creek, out of which he and his master scrambled on the opposite side.Lambert shook himself, laughed, leaped into the saddle, and went off again at full speed. He came to the mission station, but did not stop there. It still stood high above the waters, and was crowded with settlers. Not far from it was a spot of rising ground, which was covered with more than a hundred tents and wigwams belonging to Canadian and half-breed families. Passing on, he came upon other scenes of destruction, and finally arrived at the abode of old Mr Ravenshaw. It, like the mission premises, still stood high above the rising flood. The family were assembled in the chief sitting-room, old Ravenshaw enjoying a pipe, while the ladies were variously occupied around him.“You’ve heard the report brought by the Indian about the flood, I fancy?”“Oh, yes; but I give no ear to reports,” said the old gentleman, emitting an indignant puff of smoke; “they often end likethat.”“True; nevertheless, it’s as well to be prepared,” said Lambert, with a glance at Elsie and Cora, who sat together near the window; “and I’ve come to beg for house-room for my goods and chattels, for the old house is not so safe as I had thought.”“There’s plenty of room in the barn for people in distress,” said Elsie, with a glance at her sister.“Or in the cow-house,” added Cora, with a laugh and a slight toss of her head; “we’ve had the cattle removed on purpose to make room for you.”“How considerate! And the cow-house of Willow Creek, with its pleasant associations, is a palace compared to the hall of any other mansion,” said the gallant Louis.A crash was heard outside just then. On looking from the windows, a great cake of ice about five feet thick, with a point like a church spire, was seen attempting, as it were, to leap the lower end of the garden-fence. It failed; but on making a second attempt was more successful. The fence went slowly down, and the spire laid its head among the vegetables, or rather on the spot where the vegetables would have been had the season been propitious. It was accompanied by a rush of water.The sight was viewed with comparative composure by old Mr Ravenshaw, but his better half took it less quietly, and declared that they would all be drowned.“I hope not!” exclaimed Miss Trim fervently, clasping her hands.“We’re high and dry just now, Louis,” said Mr Ravenshaw gravely, “but Willow Creek won’t be a place of refuge long if the rise goes on at this rate. See, my neighbour is beginning to show signs of uneasiness, though the ground on which he stands is not much lower than my own.”As he spoke, the old fur-trader pointed to the house of Angus Macdonald, where a large cart was being loaded with his property.Angus himself entered at the moment to beg leave to remove some of his valuables to his friend’s barn.“It iss not the danger, you see, Muster Ruvnshaw, that troubles me; it iss the watter. There are some things, as the leddies fery well know, will pe quite destroyed py watter, an’ it is puttin’ them out of harm’s way that I will pe after.”“Put whatever you like in the barn, Macdonald,” said Mr Ravenshaw promptly; “Elsie and I have had it and the other outhouses prepared. You are heartily welcome. I hope, however, that the water won’t rise much higher.”“The watter will rise higher, Muster Ruvnshaw,” returned Angus, with the decision of an oracle; “an’ it will pe goot for us if it will leave our houses standin’ where they are. Peegwish will be tellin’ me that; an’ Peegwish knows what he iss apout when he is not trunk, whatever.”Peegwish did indeed know what he was about. At the very time that Angus was speaking about him, Peegwish, feeling convinced that Macdonald’s house was in danger, was on his way to the mission station, which he knew to be a place of greater safety, and where he felt sure of a welcome, for the Reverend Mr Cockran—in charge at the time—had a weakness for the old hypocrite, and entertained strong hopes of bringing about his reformation. For two days he stayed in the parsonage kitchen, smoking his pipe, revelling in the odds and ends, such as knuckle-bones, stray bits of fat and tripe, which fell to his lot, and proudly exhibiting himself in one of the minister’s cast-off black coats, which contrasted rather oddly with a pair of ornamented blue leggings and a scarlet sash. When not busy in the kitchen, he went about among the homeless settlers assembled round the mission, sometimes rendering a little help, oftener causing a good deal of obstruction, and vainly endeavouring to obtain beer, while he meditated sadly now and then on his failure in the brewing line.At the end of these two days, however, a great change took place at the mission station, for the flood continued steadily to increase until it reached the church and parsonage, and drove the hundreds of people who had assembled there away to the more distant knolls on the plains. Mr Cockran, with his household and Sabbath scholars, besides a few of the people, resolved to stick to the church as long as it should stick to the ground, and Peegwish remained with them. He had unbounded confidence in the good missionary, and still more unbounded confidence in the resources of the parsonage kitchen. Wildcat was similarly impressed.At last the water rose to the church itself and beat against the foundations of the parsonage, for the current was very strong and had carried away some of the fences. All the people were thus obliged to take refuge in the church itself, or in the parsonage.On the 13th of May there were very few dry spots visible on or near the banks of the Red River. Dozens of houses had been carried away, and were either destroyed or stranded on localities far from their original sites. As far as the eye could reach, the whole region had been converted into a mighty lake, or rather sea; for in the direction of the plains the waters seemed to join the horizon. Everywhere this sea was studded with islets and knolls, which grew fewer and smaller as the floods increased. Here and there piles of floating firewood looked like boats with square-sails in the distance, while deserted huts passed over the plains with the stream like fleets of Noah’s arks!When the water began to touch the parsonage, its owner gave orders to collect timber and make preparation for the erection of a strong stage as a final place of refuge.“Come,” said he to Peegwish, when his orders were being carried out; “come, get your canoe, Peegwish, and we will pay a visit to the poor fellows on the knoll up the river.”The Indian waded to a spot close by, where his canoe was fastened to a post, and brought it to the door, after the fashion of a gondolier of Venice. The faithful Wildcat took the bow paddle; the clergyman stepped into the middle of the craft and sat down.They shot swiftly away, and were soon out of sight. The day was calm and warm, but the sky had a lurid, heavy appearance, which seemed to indicate the approach of bad weather. Paddling carefully along to avoid running against sunk fences, they soon came into the open plains, and felt as though they had passed out upon the broad bosom of Lake Winnipeg itself. Far up the river—whose course was by that time chiefly discernible by empty houses, and trees, as well as bushes, half-submerged—they came in sight of a stage which had been erected beside a cottage. It stood only eighteen inches out of the water, and here several women and children were found engaged in singing Watts’ hymns. They seemed quite comfortable, under a sort of tarpaulin tent, with plenty to eat, and declined to be taken off, though their visitors offered to remove them one at a time, the canoe being unable to take more. Further up, the voyagers came to the hut of old Liz.This hut was by that time so nearly touched by the water that all the people who had formerly crowded round it had forsaken it and made for the so-called mountain. Only Liz herself remained, and Herr Winklemann, to take care of their respective parents.“Do you think it safe to stay?” asked the clergyman, as he was about to leave.“Safe, ya; qvite safe. Besides, I have big canoe, vich can holt us all.”“Good-bye, then, and remember, if you want anything that I can give you, just paddle down to the station and ask for it. Say I sent you.”“Ya, I vill go down,” said Herr Winklemann gratefully. And Herr Winklemanndidgo down, much to his own subsequent discomfiture and sorrow, as we shall see.Meanwhile Mr Cockran reached the knoll which he had set out to visit. It was of considerable extent, and crowded with a very miscellaneous, noisy, and quarrelsome crew, of all sorts, ages, and colours, in tents and wigwams and extemporised shelters.They received the clergyman heartily, however, and were much benefited by his visit, as was made apparent by the complete though temporary cessation of quarrelling.The elements, however, began to quarrel that evening. Mr Cockran had intended to return home, but a gale of contrary wind stopped him, and he was fain to accept the hospitality of a farmer’s tent. That night the storm raged with fury. Thunder and lightning added to the grandeur as well as to the discomfort of the scene. Some time after midnight a gust of wind of extreme fury threw down the farmer’s tent, and the pole hit the farmer on the nose! Thus rudely roused, he sprang up and accidentally knocked down Peegwish, who happened to be in his way. They both fell on the minister, who, being a powerful man, caught them in a bear-like grasp and held them, under the impression that they had overturned the tent in a quarrel while he was asleep.At that moment a cry of fire was raised. It was found that a spark from a tent which stood on the windward side of the camp had caught the long grass, and a terrestrial conflagration was added to the celestial commotions of the night. It was a moment of extreme peril, for the old grass was plentiful and sufficiently dry to burn. It is probable that the whole camp would have been destroyed but for a providential deluge of rain which fell at the time and effectually put the fire out.Of course Mr Cockran became very anxious about those he had left at home, for the storm had increased the danger of their position considerably. Happily, with the dawn the gale moderated. The improvement did not, indeed, render canoeing safe, for the white-crested waves of that temporary sea still lashed the shores of the new-made islet; but the case was urgent, therefore the clergyman launched his canoe, and, with Peegwish and the faithful Wildcat, steered for the station.
Rapidly and steadily did the waters of the Red River rise, until, overflowing all their banks, they spread out into the plains, and gradually settler after settler retired before the deluge, each forsaking his home at the last moment, and going off in quest of higher ground with his cattle and property.
These high places were not numerous, for the whole region was very level. Many settlers discovered at that time a number of features in the colony which had been unrecognised before, and found refuge on spots which had never been observed as lying above the dead level of the plains. Even these spots were not all safe. Many of them were speedily submerged, and those who had fled to them sought refuge on the still higher knolls, which soon became inconveniently crowded. Some miles from the river there was an elevation of ground named the “Little Mountain,” and to this many of the people repaired. It was about as deserving of its title as is a molehill; nevertheless it proved a safe asylum in the end.
Louis Lambert was driven from his home the day after that on which the house of his friend Winklemann was destroyed. His house was a stout one of two storeys, and, owing to its position, was less exposed to the current of the flood than many other dwellings. Confident of its strength and the security of its position, its owner had carried all his goods and furniture to the upper storey, but on returning, after assisting his friend, he found the water in it so high that he feared it might be set afloat—as some of the houses had already been—and finally made up his mind to remove. But where should he remove to? That was the question.
“To zee hause of old Liz,” observed his friend. “It is close to hand, an’ zere is yet room.”
This was true, but Lambert’s inclinations turned in the direction of Willow Creek; he therefore protested there was not room.
“No, no,” he said; “it’s not fair to crowd round old Liz as we are doing. I’ll ride down to Ravenshaw’s and see if there is room on his ground to place my property. There will be plenty of time. Even if the water should go on rising, which I hope it won’t, my house can’t float for many hours. Meanwhile, if you’ll fetch round the boat, and place some of the heavy goods in it, you’ll be doing me a good turn.”
“Vell, vell,” muttered the German, as he looked after his friend with a quiet smile and a shake of the head, “dere is no madness like lof! Ven a man falls in lof he becomes blind, qvite blind!”
The blind one, meanwhile, mounted his steed and galloped away on the wings of “lof.” Lambert was a reckless rider, and an impatient though good-natured fellow. He dashed at full speed through shallow places, where the floods were creeping with insidious, tide-like persistency over the farm-lands, and forded some of the creeks, which almost rendered swimming unavoidable; but in spite of his daring he was compelled to make many a vexatious détour in his headlong course down to Willow Creek. On the way his mind, pre-occupied though it was, could not escape being much affected by the scenes of devastation through which he passed. Everywhere near the river houses were to be seen standing several feet deep in water, while their owners were either engaged in conveying their contents in boats and canoes to the nearest eminences, or removing them from such eminences in carts to spots of greater security. Some of the owners of these deserted houses had become so reckless or so despairing under their misfortunes, that they offered to sell them for merely nominal sums. It is said that some of them changed hands for so small a sum as thirty shillings or two pounds.
Cantering round the corner of a fence, Lambert came within a hundred yards of a house round which the water was deep enough to float a large boat. Here he observed his friends, John Flett and David Mowat, embarking household goods into a large canoe out of the parlour window. Riding into the water, Lambert hailed them.
“Hallo, Flett, d’ee want help?”
“Thank ’ee, no; this is the last load. Got all the rest down to the church; the minister is lettin’ us stow things in the loft.”
“You’re in too great haste, Flett,” returned Lambert. “The water can’t rise much higher; your place is sure to stand.”
“Not so sure o’ that, Louis; there’s a report brought in by a redskin that all the country between the sources of the Assinaboine and Missouri is turned into a sea, and the waters o’ the Missouri itself are passing down to Lake Winnipeg. He says, too, that a whole village of redskins has been swept away.”
“Bah! it’s not true,” said Lambert.
“True or false,” rejoined Flett, resuming his work, “it’s time for me to clear out o’ this.”
Forsaking the road, which he had hitherto attempted to follow, Lambert now stretched out at full gallop into the plains. He came to a small creek and found that the simple wooden bridge had been washed away, and that the waters of the river were driving its tiny current in the wrong direction. In a fit of impatience he applied the whip to his steed, which, being a fiery one, rushed furiously at the creek. Fire does not necessarily give an untrained horse power to leap. The animal made an awkward attempt to stop, failed, made a still more awkward attempt to jump, failed again, and stumbled headlong into the creek, out of which he and his master scrambled on the opposite side.
Lambert shook himself, laughed, leaped into the saddle, and went off again at full speed. He came to the mission station, but did not stop there. It still stood high above the waters, and was crowded with settlers. Not far from it was a spot of rising ground, which was covered with more than a hundred tents and wigwams belonging to Canadian and half-breed families. Passing on, he came upon other scenes of destruction, and finally arrived at the abode of old Mr Ravenshaw. It, like the mission premises, still stood high above the rising flood. The family were assembled in the chief sitting-room, old Ravenshaw enjoying a pipe, while the ladies were variously occupied around him.
“You’ve heard the report brought by the Indian about the flood, I fancy?”
“Oh, yes; but I give no ear to reports,” said the old gentleman, emitting an indignant puff of smoke; “they often end likethat.”
“True; nevertheless, it’s as well to be prepared,” said Lambert, with a glance at Elsie and Cora, who sat together near the window; “and I’ve come to beg for house-room for my goods and chattels, for the old house is not so safe as I had thought.”
“There’s plenty of room in the barn for people in distress,” said Elsie, with a glance at her sister.
“Or in the cow-house,” added Cora, with a laugh and a slight toss of her head; “we’ve had the cattle removed on purpose to make room for you.”
“How considerate! And the cow-house of Willow Creek, with its pleasant associations, is a palace compared to the hall of any other mansion,” said the gallant Louis.
A crash was heard outside just then. On looking from the windows, a great cake of ice about five feet thick, with a point like a church spire, was seen attempting, as it were, to leap the lower end of the garden-fence. It failed; but on making a second attempt was more successful. The fence went slowly down, and the spire laid its head among the vegetables, or rather on the spot where the vegetables would have been had the season been propitious. It was accompanied by a rush of water.
The sight was viewed with comparative composure by old Mr Ravenshaw, but his better half took it less quietly, and declared that they would all be drowned.
“I hope not!” exclaimed Miss Trim fervently, clasping her hands.
“We’re high and dry just now, Louis,” said Mr Ravenshaw gravely, “but Willow Creek won’t be a place of refuge long if the rise goes on at this rate. See, my neighbour is beginning to show signs of uneasiness, though the ground on which he stands is not much lower than my own.”
As he spoke, the old fur-trader pointed to the house of Angus Macdonald, where a large cart was being loaded with his property.
Angus himself entered at the moment to beg leave to remove some of his valuables to his friend’s barn.
“It iss not the danger, you see, Muster Ruvnshaw, that troubles me; it iss the watter. There are some things, as the leddies fery well know, will pe quite destroyed py watter, an’ it is puttin’ them out of harm’s way that I will pe after.”
“Put whatever you like in the barn, Macdonald,” said Mr Ravenshaw promptly; “Elsie and I have had it and the other outhouses prepared. You are heartily welcome. I hope, however, that the water won’t rise much higher.”
“The watter will rise higher, Muster Ruvnshaw,” returned Angus, with the decision of an oracle; “an’ it will pe goot for us if it will leave our houses standin’ where they are. Peegwish will be tellin’ me that; an’ Peegwish knows what he iss apout when he is not trunk, whatever.”
Peegwish did indeed know what he was about. At the very time that Angus was speaking about him, Peegwish, feeling convinced that Macdonald’s house was in danger, was on his way to the mission station, which he knew to be a place of greater safety, and where he felt sure of a welcome, for the Reverend Mr Cockran—in charge at the time—had a weakness for the old hypocrite, and entertained strong hopes of bringing about his reformation. For two days he stayed in the parsonage kitchen, smoking his pipe, revelling in the odds and ends, such as knuckle-bones, stray bits of fat and tripe, which fell to his lot, and proudly exhibiting himself in one of the minister’s cast-off black coats, which contrasted rather oddly with a pair of ornamented blue leggings and a scarlet sash. When not busy in the kitchen, he went about among the homeless settlers assembled round the mission, sometimes rendering a little help, oftener causing a good deal of obstruction, and vainly endeavouring to obtain beer, while he meditated sadly now and then on his failure in the brewing line.
At the end of these two days, however, a great change took place at the mission station, for the flood continued steadily to increase until it reached the church and parsonage, and drove the hundreds of people who had assembled there away to the more distant knolls on the plains. Mr Cockran, with his household and Sabbath scholars, besides a few of the people, resolved to stick to the church as long as it should stick to the ground, and Peegwish remained with them. He had unbounded confidence in the good missionary, and still more unbounded confidence in the resources of the parsonage kitchen. Wildcat was similarly impressed.
At last the water rose to the church itself and beat against the foundations of the parsonage, for the current was very strong and had carried away some of the fences. All the people were thus obliged to take refuge in the church itself, or in the parsonage.
On the 13th of May there were very few dry spots visible on or near the banks of the Red River. Dozens of houses had been carried away, and were either destroyed or stranded on localities far from their original sites. As far as the eye could reach, the whole region had been converted into a mighty lake, or rather sea; for in the direction of the plains the waters seemed to join the horizon. Everywhere this sea was studded with islets and knolls, which grew fewer and smaller as the floods increased. Here and there piles of floating firewood looked like boats with square-sails in the distance, while deserted huts passed over the plains with the stream like fleets of Noah’s arks!
When the water began to touch the parsonage, its owner gave orders to collect timber and make preparation for the erection of a strong stage as a final place of refuge.
“Come,” said he to Peegwish, when his orders were being carried out; “come, get your canoe, Peegwish, and we will pay a visit to the poor fellows on the knoll up the river.”
The Indian waded to a spot close by, where his canoe was fastened to a post, and brought it to the door, after the fashion of a gondolier of Venice. The faithful Wildcat took the bow paddle; the clergyman stepped into the middle of the craft and sat down.
They shot swiftly away, and were soon out of sight. The day was calm and warm, but the sky had a lurid, heavy appearance, which seemed to indicate the approach of bad weather. Paddling carefully along to avoid running against sunk fences, they soon came into the open plains, and felt as though they had passed out upon the broad bosom of Lake Winnipeg itself. Far up the river—whose course was by that time chiefly discernible by empty houses, and trees, as well as bushes, half-submerged—they came in sight of a stage which had been erected beside a cottage. It stood only eighteen inches out of the water, and here several women and children were found engaged in singing Watts’ hymns. They seemed quite comfortable, under a sort of tarpaulin tent, with plenty to eat, and declined to be taken off, though their visitors offered to remove them one at a time, the canoe being unable to take more. Further up, the voyagers came to the hut of old Liz.
This hut was by that time so nearly touched by the water that all the people who had formerly crowded round it had forsaken it and made for the so-called mountain. Only Liz herself remained, and Herr Winklemann, to take care of their respective parents.
“Do you think it safe to stay?” asked the clergyman, as he was about to leave.
“Safe, ya; qvite safe. Besides, I have big canoe, vich can holt us all.”
“Good-bye, then, and remember, if you want anything that I can give you, just paddle down to the station and ask for it. Say I sent you.”
“Ya, I vill go down,” said Herr Winklemann gratefully. And Herr Winklemanndidgo down, much to his own subsequent discomfiture and sorrow, as we shall see.
Meanwhile Mr Cockran reached the knoll which he had set out to visit. It was of considerable extent, and crowded with a very miscellaneous, noisy, and quarrelsome crew, of all sorts, ages, and colours, in tents and wigwams and extemporised shelters.
They received the clergyman heartily, however, and were much benefited by his visit, as was made apparent by the complete though temporary cessation of quarrelling.
The elements, however, began to quarrel that evening. Mr Cockran had intended to return home, but a gale of contrary wind stopped him, and he was fain to accept the hospitality of a farmer’s tent. That night the storm raged with fury. Thunder and lightning added to the grandeur as well as to the discomfort of the scene. Some time after midnight a gust of wind of extreme fury threw down the farmer’s tent, and the pole hit the farmer on the nose! Thus rudely roused, he sprang up and accidentally knocked down Peegwish, who happened to be in his way. They both fell on the minister, who, being a powerful man, caught them in a bear-like grasp and held them, under the impression that they had overturned the tent in a quarrel while he was asleep.
At that moment a cry of fire was raised. It was found that a spark from a tent which stood on the windward side of the camp had caught the long grass, and a terrestrial conflagration was added to the celestial commotions of the night. It was a moment of extreme peril, for the old grass was plentiful and sufficiently dry to burn. It is probable that the whole camp would have been destroyed but for a providential deluge of rain which fell at the time and effectually put the fire out.
Of course Mr Cockran became very anxious about those he had left at home, for the storm had increased the danger of their position considerably. Happily, with the dawn the gale moderated. The improvement did not, indeed, render canoeing safe, for the white-crested waves of that temporary sea still lashed the shores of the new-made islet; but the case was urgent, therefore the clergyman launched his canoe, and, with Peegwish and the faithful Wildcat, steered for the station.
Chapter Sixteen.Winklemann and Old Liz get into Trouble.At the parsonage, before the storm had fairly begun, the canoe party was thought of with considerable anxiety, for Mrs Cockran knew how frail the craft was in which her husband had embarked, and among the sixty-three persons who had taken refuge with her not one was capable of taking command of the rest in a case of emergency. Great, therefore, was her satisfaction when Herr Winklemann appeared in his canoe with a request for a barrel of flour.“You shall have one,” said Mrs Cockran, “and anything else you may require; but pray do not leave me to-night. I can give you a comfortable bed, and will let you go the moment my husband returns. I fully expect him this evening.”“Madam,” answered the gallant Winklemann, with a perplexed look, “you is vere goot, bot de gale vill be rise qvickly, an’ I dares not leaf mine moder vidout protection.”“Oh! but just stay for an hour or two,” entreated Mrs Cockran, “and show the people how to go on with the stage. Perhaps my husband may return sooner than we expect. Perhaps the storm may not come on; many such threatenings, you know, come to nothing.”Winklemann looked anxiously up at the sky and shook his head, but the entreaties of the lady prevailed. The good-natured German consented to remain for a “ver leetle” time, and at once set about urging on and directing the erection of the stage. This stage was planned to be a substantial platform about thirty feet square, supported on posts firmly driven into the ground, so that the water might pass freely under it. In the event of the parsonage becoming untenable it would form a refuge of comparative safety.It was while Winklemann was busily engaged on the stage that the storm broke forth which compelled the clergyman to spend the night on the islet, as already described. Of course the storm also forced Winklemann to remain at the station. But that impulsive youth’s regard for his “moder” would not permit of his giving in without a struggle. When he saw that the gale increased rapidly, he resolved to start off without delay. He launched his canoe; a half-breed in his employment managed the bow paddle, but they found that their united strength was insufficient to drive the craft more than a hundred yards against wind and waves. Returning to the station, Winklemann engaged two additional men to aid him, but the increasing gale neutralised the extra force. After a vain struggle the canoe was hurled back on the knoll, a wave caught the bow, overturned it, and threw the men into the water at the very door of the parsonage.The canoe was partially broken. Time was required to repair it. Time also gave the gale opportunity to gather power, and thus the chafing German was compelled to spend the night at the station.Meanwhile, those men whom he had left behind him spent a terrible night, but the brunt of the trouble fell upon old Liz.Poor old Liz! She was a squat piece of indomitable energy, utterly regardless of herself and earnestly solicitous about every one else.When the storm commenced, her dwelling had begun to show symptoms of instability. This fact she carefully concealed from Daddy and old Mrs Winklemann, who remained in their respective chairs smiling at each other, for both were accustomed to good treatment from their children, and regarded life in general from a sunny point of view. They knew that something very unusual was going on, but the old frau said—or thought—to herself, “My boy will look after me!” while Daddy said, or thought, “Liz knows all about it.” Happy trustful spirits! Enviable pair!Having informed the pair that she was going away for a minute or two to look after something outside, old Liz left them. She found herself up to the knees in water, of course, the moment she passed the doorway. From an outhouse she procured a strong rope. This she fastened to a large iron ring in the side of the hut, and attached the other end to a thick tree whose branches overshadowed it. Even during the brief time she was thus engaged the flood increased so rapidly, and the rising wind blew so wildly, that the poor creature was almost carried off her short legs. But old Liz had a powerful will, and was strong-hearted. Having accomplished her object, and lost for ever her frilled cap in so doing, she struggled back towards the door of the hut. A passing billet of firewood tripped her up and sent her headlong into the flood. She disappeared, but emerged instantly, with glaring eyes, gasping mouth, and streaming hair. A resolute rush brought her to the door-step; she seized the door-post, and was saved.“Hech! but it’s an awfu’ time,” gasped old Liz, as she wrung the water from her garments.—“Comin’, Daddy! I’ll be their this meenit. I’ve gotten mysel’ a wee wat.”“What’s wrang?” asked Daddy, in a feeble voice, as his ancient daughter entered.“It’s only a bit spate, Daddy. The hoose is a’maist soomin’, but ye’ve nae need to fear.”“I’m no’ feared, Liz. What wad I be feared o’ whan ye’re there?”“Ver is mine boy?” demanded old Mrs Winklemann, looking round.“He’s gane to the kirk for floor. Ne’er fash yer heed aboothim. He’ll be back afore lang.”The old woman seemed content, though she did not understand a word of Liz’s Scotch.“Bless mine boy,” she said, with a mild smile at Daddy, who replied with an amiable nod.But this state of comparative comfort did not last long. In half an hour the water came over the threshold of the door and flooded the floor. Fortunately the old couple had their feet on wooden stools and thus escaped the first rush, but old Liz now felt that something must be done to keep them dry. There was a low table in the room. She dragged it out and placed it between the couple, who smiled, under the impression, no doubt, that they were about to have their evening meal.“Daddy, I’m gaun to pit yer legs on the table. It’ll be mair comfortabler, an’ll keep ye oot o’ the wat.”Daddy submitted with a good grace, and felt more easy than usual, the table being very little higher than his chair. Mrs Winklemann was equally submissive and pleased. Covering the two pairs of legs with a blanket, old Liz produced some bread and cheese, and served out rations thereof to keep their minds engaged. She plumed herself not a little on the success of the table-and-legs device, but as the water rose rapidly she became anxious again, though not for herself. She waded about the hut with supreme indifference to the condition of her own lower limbs. At last she mounted upon the bed and watched, as the water rose inch by inch on the legs of the two chairs.“WhatwullI do whan it grups them?” she muttered, experiencing that deep feeling of anticipation with which one might watch the gradual approach of fire to gunpowder.The objects of her solicitude snored pleasantly in concert.“It’ll kill them wi’ the cauld, to say naething o’ the start,” continued the old woman with deepening, almost desperate, anxiety. “Oh man, man, what for did ye leave us?”This apostrophe was addressed to the absent Winklemann.One inch more, five minutes longer, and the flood would reach the bodies of the old couple. Liz looked round wildly for some mode of delivering them, but looked in vain. Even if her strength had been adequate, there was no higher object in the room to which she could have lifted them. The bed, being a truckle one, and lower than the chairs, was already submerged, and old Liz herself was coolly, if not calmly, seated in two inches of water. At the very last moment deliverance came in an unexpected manner. There was a slight vibration in the timbers of the hut, then a sliding of the whole edifice. This was followed by a snap and a jolt: the ring-bolt or the rope had gone, and old Liz might, with perfect propriety, have exclaimed, in the words of the sea song, “I’m afloat! I’m afloat! and the Rover is free!”For one moment her heart failed; she had read of Noah’s ark, but had never quite believed in the stability of that mansion. Her want of faith was now rebuked, for the old hut floated admirably, as seamen might say, on an even keel. True, it committed a violent assault on a tree at starting, which sent it spinning round, and went crashing through a mass of drowned bushes, which rendered it again steady; but these mishaps only served to prove the seaworthiness of her ark, and in a few minutes the brave little woman revived. Splashing off the bed and spluttering across the room, she tried to open the door with a view to see what had happened and whither they were bound, for the two windows of the mansion were useless in this respect, being fitted with parchment instead of glass. But the door was fast, and refused to open.“We’ll a’ be lost!” exclaimed Daddy, in alarm, for he had been awakened by the shock against the tree, and was now slightly alive to their danger.“Ver is mine boy?” asked the old frau, in a whimpering voice.“Nae fear o’ ’ee,” said Liz, in a soothing tone. “Him that saved Noah can save us.”“Open the door an’ see where we are, lassie,” said the old man.“It’ll no’ open, Daddy.”“Try the wundy, then.”“I’m sweer’d to break the wundy,” said Liz. “Losh, man, I’ll try the lum!”The chimney, to which old Liz referred, was capacious enough to admit a larger frame than hers. Moreover, it was a short one, and the fire had long ago been drowned out. With the enthusiasm of an explorer, the little woman stooped and entered the fireplace. She felt about inside for a few moments, and in doing so brought down an enormous quantity of soot. Immediately there was a tremendous coughing in the chimney.“Lassie! lassie! come oot! Ve’ll be chokit,” cried Daddy, in alarm.“Hoots, man, hand yer gab,” was the polite reply.Liz was not to be easily turned from her purpose. Raising one leg up she found a crevice for her right foot, and the aged couple beheld the old creature, for the first time, in the attitude of adanseuse, standing on one toe. Next moment the remaining leg went up, and she disappeared from view. If there had been any one outside, the old woman would have been seen, two minutes later, to emerge from the chimney-top with the conventional aspect of a demon—as black as a Zulu chief, choking like a chimpanzee with influenza, and her hair blowing freely in the wind. Only those who have intelligently studied the appearance of chimney-sweeps can form a proper idea of her appearance, especially when she recovered breath and smiled, as she thought of her peculiar position.But that position was one which would have damped the courage of any one except old Liz. The storm was beginning to grow furious; the sun, which had already set, was tingeing the black and threatening clouds with dingy red. Far as the eye could reach, the once green prairie presented an angry sea, whose inky waves were crested and flecked with foam, and the current was drifting the hut away into the abyss of blackness that seemed to gape on the horizon.“What see ye, Liz?” cried Daddy, bending a little, so as to send his voice up the chimney.“I see naethin’ but watter; watter everywhere,” said Liz, unconsciously quoting the Ancient Mariner, and bending so as to send her reply down. She did more; she lost her balance, and sent herself down to the bottom of the chimney, where she arrived in a sitting posture with a flop, perhaps we should say a squash, seeing that she alighted in water, which squirted violently all over her sooty person.This sudden reappearance astonished the aged couple almost more than it surprised Liz herself, for she could not see herself as they saw her.“Hech! but thatwasa klyte; but ne’er heed, Daddy. I’m nane the waur. Eh, but I’ll ha’e to clean mysel’,” said old Liz, rising slowly and going straight to a corner cupboard, whence she took a slab of soap, and began to apply it vigorously, using the entire room, so to speak, as a wash-tub. The result was unsatisfactory; beginning the process as a pure black, she only ended it as an impure mulatto, but she was content, and immediately after set herself to fasten the aged pair more securely in their chairs, and to arrange their limbs more comfortably on the table; after that she lighted a candle and sat down on the sloppy bed to watch.Thus that household spent the night, rocked, as it were, on the cradle of the deep.At daylight Herr Winklemann rose from his sleepless couch at the parsonage, and finding that the wind had moderated, launched his canoe. He left the mission station just an hour before Mr Cockran returned to it.Anxious was the heart of the poor youth as he wielded the paddle that morning, and many were the muttered remarks which he made to himself, in German, as he urged the canoe against wind and current. As he neared home his fears increased. On reaching a certain part from which he had been wont to descry the chimney of old Liz’s hut, he perceived that the familiar object was gone, and uttered a mighty roar of horror.The half-breed in the bow ceased paddling, and looked back in alarm.“Git on, you brute!” shouted Winklemann, at the same time exerting his great strength as though he meant to urge the light craft out of the water into the air.A few minutes more and they swept round into the space where the hut had once stood. There was nothing left but the bit of rope that had been made fast to the ring-bolt. Poor Winklemann let his paddle drop and sank almost double with his face in his hands.“Mine moder,” was all he could say, as he groaned heavily. In a few seconds he recovered with a start and bade the man in the bow paddle for his life.Winklemann, of course, knew that the house must have floated downwards with the current, if it had not been utterly overwhelmed. He directed his search accordingly, but the breadth of land now covered by the flood caused the currents to vary in an uncertain manner, as every ridge, or knoll, or hollow in the plains modified them. Still, there could be only one general direction. After a few minutes of anxious reflection the bereaved man resolved to keep by the main current of the river. He was unfortunate in this, for the hut, in commencing its adventurous career, had gone off in the direction of the plains. All day he and his companion paddled about in search of the lost family, but in vain. At night they were forced to return to the parsonage for a little food and rest, so as to fit them for a renewal of the search on the following morning.At the mission station they found Mr Cockran, with his wife and forty of his people, established on the stage. Early in the day the water had burst into the parsonage, and soon stood a foot deep on the floor, so that the pastor deemed it high time to forsake it and take to the last refuge. It was a crowded stage, and great was the anxiety of many of the mothers upon it lest their little ones should be thrust over the edge into the water. No such anxiety troubled the little ones themselves. With that freedom from care which is their high privilege, they even gambolled on the brink of destruction.Next day was the Sabbath. To go to church was impossible. There were three and a half feet of water in that building. The day was fine, however, and sunny. The pastor, therefore, had service on the stage, and being an earnest, intelligent man, he made good use of the floods and the peculiarity of their circumstances to illustrate and enforce his discourse.Long before the hour of worship had arrived, however, poor Winklemann went off in his canoe, and spent the whole of that day, as he spent several succeeding days, in anxious, diligent, hopeful, but finally despairing search for his lost old “moder.”
At the parsonage, before the storm had fairly begun, the canoe party was thought of with considerable anxiety, for Mrs Cockran knew how frail the craft was in which her husband had embarked, and among the sixty-three persons who had taken refuge with her not one was capable of taking command of the rest in a case of emergency. Great, therefore, was her satisfaction when Herr Winklemann appeared in his canoe with a request for a barrel of flour.
“You shall have one,” said Mrs Cockran, “and anything else you may require; but pray do not leave me to-night. I can give you a comfortable bed, and will let you go the moment my husband returns. I fully expect him this evening.”
“Madam,” answered the gallant Winklemann, with a perplexed look, “you is vere goot, bot de gale vill be rise qvickly, an’ I dares not leaf mine moder vidout protection.”
“Oh! but just stay for an hour or two,” entreated Mrs Cockran, “and show the people how to go on with the stage. Perhaps my husband may return sooner than we expect. Perhaps the storm may not come on; many such threatenings, you know, come to nothing.”
Winklemann looked anxiously up at the sky and shook his head, but the entreaties of the lady prevailed. The good-natured German consented to remain for a “ver leetle” time, and at once set about urging on and directing the erection of the stage. This stage was planned to be a substantial platform about thirty feet square, supported on posts firmly driven into the ground, so that the water might pass freely under it. In the event of the parsonage becoming untenable it would form a refuge of comparative safety.
It was while Winklemann was busily engaged on the stage that the storm broke forth which compelled the clergyman to spend the night on the islet, as already described. Of course the storm also forced Winklemann to remain at the station. But that impulsive youth’s regard for his “moder” would not permit of his giving in without a struggle. When he saw that the gale increased rapidly, he resolved to start off without delay. He launched his canoe; a half-breed in his employment managed the bow paddle, but they found that their united strength was insufficient to drive the craft more than a hundred yards against wind and waves. Returning to the station, Winklemann engaged two additional men to aid him, but the increasing gale neutralised the extra force. After a vain struggle the canoe was hurled back on the knoll, a wave caught the bow, overturned it, and threw the men into the water at the very door of the parsonage.
The canoe was partially broken. Time was required to repair it. Time also gave the gale opportunity to gather power, and thus the chafing German was compelled to spend the night at the station.
Meanwhile, those men whom he had left behind him spent a terrible night, but the brunt of the trouble fell upon old Liz.
Poor old Liz! She was a squat piece of indomitable energy, utterly regardless of herself and earnestly solicitous about every one else.
When the storm commenced, her dwelling had begun to show symptoms of instability. This fact she carefully concealed from Daddy and old Mrs Winklemann, who remained in their respective chairs smiling at each other, for both were accustomed to good treatment from their children, and regarded life in general from a sunny point of view. They knew that something very unusual was going on, but the old frau said—or thought—to herself, “My boy will look after me!” while Daddy said, or thought, “Liz knows all about it.” Happy trustful spirits! Enviable pair!
Having informed the pair that she was going away for a minute or two to look after something outside, old Liz left them. She found herself up to the knees in water, of course, the moment she passed the doorway. From an outhouse she procured a strong rope. This she fastened to a large iron ring in the side of the hut, and attached the other end to a thick tree whose branches overshadowed it. Even during the brief time she was thus engaged the flood increased so rapidly, and the rising wind blew so wildly, that the poor creature was almost carried off her short legs. But old Liz had a powerful will, and was strong-hearted. Having accomplished her object, and lost for ever her frilled cap in so doing, she struggled back towards the door of the hut. A passing billet of firewood tripped her up and sent her headlong into the flood. She disappeared, but emerged instantly, with glaring eyes, gasping mouth, and streaming hair. A resolute rush brought her to the door-step; she seized the door-post, and was saved.
“Hech! but it’s an awfu’ time,” gasped old Liz, as she wrung the water from her garments.—“Comin’, Daddy! I’ll be their this meenit. I’ve gotten mysel’ a wee wat.”
“What’s wrang?” asked Daddy, in a feeble voice, as his ancient daughter entered.
“It’s only a bit spate, Daddy. The hoose is a’maist soomin’, but ye’ve nae need to fear.”
“I’m no’ feared, Liz. What wad I be feared o’ whan ye’re there?”
“Ver is mine boy?” demanded old Mrs Winklemann, looking round.
“He’s gane to the kirk for floor. Ne’er fash yer heed aboothim. He’ll be back afore lang.”
The old woman seemed content, though she did not understand a word of Liz’s Scotch.
“Bless mine boy,” she said, with a mild smile at Daddy, who replied with an amiable nod.
But this state of comparative comfort did not last long. In half an hour the water came over the threshold of the door and flooded the floor. Fortunately the old couple had their feet on wooden stools and thus escaped the first rush, but old Liz now felt that something must be done to keep them dry. There was a low table in the room. She dragged it out and placed it between the couple, who smiled, under the impression, no doubt, that they were about to have their evening meal.
“Daddy, I’m gaun to pit yer legs on the table. It’ll be mair comfortabler, an’ll keep ye oot o’ the wat.”
Daddy submitted with a good grace, and felt more easy than usual, the table being very little higher than his chair. Mrs Winklemann was equally submissive and pleased. Covering the two pairs of legs with a blanket, old Liz produced some bread and cheese, and served out rations thereof to keep their minds engaged. She plumed herself not a little on the success of the table-and-legs device, but as the water rose rapidly she became anxious again, though not for herself. She waded about the hut with supreme indifference to the condition of her own lower limbs. At last she mounted upon the bed and watched, as the water rose inch by inch on the legs of the two chairs.
“WhatwullI do whan it grups them?” she muttered, experiencing that deep feeling of anticipation with which one might watch the gradual approach of fire to gunpowder.
The objects of her solicitude snored pleasantly in concert.
“It’ll kill them wi’ the cauld, to say naething o’ the start,” continued the old woman with deepening, almost desperate, anxiety. “Oh man, man, what for did ye leave us?”
This apostrophe was addressed to the absent Winklemann.
One inch more, five minutes longer, and the flood would reach the bodies of the old couple. Liz looked round wildly for some mode of delivering them, but looked in vain. Even if her strength had been adequate, there was no higher object in the room to which she could have lifted them. The bed, being a truckle one, and lower than the chairs, was already submerged, and old Liz herself was coolly, if not calmly, seated in two inches of water. At the very last moment deliverance came in an unexpected manner. There was a slight vibration in the timbers of the hut, then a sliding of the whole edifice. This was followed by a snap and a jolt: the ring-bolt or the rope had gone, and old Liz might, with perfect propriety, have exclaimed, in the words of the sea song, “I’m afloat! I’m afloat! and the Rover is free!”
For one moment her heart failed; she had read of Noah’s ark, but had never quite believed in the stability of that mansion. Her want of faith was now rebuked, for the old hut floated admirably, as seamen might say, on an even keel. True, it committed a violent assault on a tree at starting, which sent it spinning round, and went crashing through a mass of drowned bushes, which rendered it again steady; but these mishaps only served to prove the seaworthiness of her ark, and in a few minutes the brave little woman revived. Splashing off the bed and spluttering across the room, she tried to open the door with a view to see what had happened and whither they were bound, for the two windows of the mansion were useless in this respect, being fitted with parchment instead of glass. But the door was fast, and refused to open.
“We’ll a’ be lost!” exclaimed Daddy, in alarm, for he had been awakened by the shock against the tree, and was now slightly alive to their danger.
“Ver is mine boy?” asked the old frau, in a whimpering voice.
“Nae fear o’ ’ee,” said Liz, in a soothing tone. “Him that saved Noah can save us.”
“Open the door an’ see where we are, lassie,” said the old man.
“It’ll no’ open, Daddy.”
“Try the wundy, then.”
“I’m sweer’d to break the wundy,” said Liz. “Losh, man, I’ll try the lum!”
The chimney, to which old Liz referred, was capacious enough to admit a larger frame than hers. Moreover, it was a short one, and the fire had long ago been drowned out. With the enthusiasm of an explorer, the little woman stooped and entered the fireplace. She felt about inside for a few moments, and in doing so brought down an enormous quantity of soot. Immediately there was a tremendous coughing in the chimney.
“Lassie! lassie! come oot! Ve’ll be chokit,” cried Daddy, in alarm.
“Hoots, man, hand yer gab,” was the polite reply.
Liz was not to be easily turned from her purpose. Raising one leg up she found a crevice for her right foot, and the aged couple beheld the old creature, for the first time, in the attitude of adanseuse, standing on one toe. Next moment the remaining leg went up, and she disappeared from view. If there had been any one outside, the old woman would have been seen, two minutes later, to emerge from the chimney-top with the conventional aspect of a demon—as black as a Zulu chief, choking like a chimpanzee with influenza, and her hair blowing freely in the wind. Only those who have intelligently studied the appearance of chimney-sweeps can form a proper idea of her appearance, especially when she recovered breath and smiled, as she thought of her peculiar position.
But that position was one which would have damped the courage of any one except old Liz. The storm was beginning to grow furious; the sun, which had already set, was tingeing the black and threatening clouds with dingy red. Far as the eye could reach, the once green prairie presented an angry sea, whose inky waves were crested and flecked with foam, and the current was drifting the hut away into the abyss of blackness that seemed to gape on the horizon.
“What see ye, Liz?” cried Daddy, bending a little, so as to send his voice up the chimney.
“I see naethin’ but watter; watter everywhere,” said Liz, unconsciously quoting the Ancient Mariner, and bending so as to send her reply down. She did more; she lost her balance, and sent herself down to the bottom of the chimney, where she arrived in a sitting posture with a flop, perhaps we should say a squash, seeing that she alighted in water, which squirted violently all over her sooty person.
This sudden reappearance astonished the aged couple almost more than it surprised Liz herself, for she could not see herself as they saw her.
“Hech! but thatwasa klyte; but ne’er heed, Daddy. I’m nane the waur. Eh, but I’ll ha’e to clean mysel’,” said old Liz, rising slowly and going straight to a corner cupboard, whence she took a slab of soap, and began to apply it vigorously, using the entire room, so to speak, as a wash-tub. The result was unsatisfactory; beginning the process as a pure black, she only ended it as an impure mulatto, but she was content, and immediately after set herself to fasten the aged pair more securely in their chairs, and to arrange their limbs more comfortably on the table; after that she lighted a candle and sat down on the sloppy bed to watch.
Thus that household spent the night, rocked, as it were, on the cradle of the deep.
At daylight Herr Winklemann rose from his sleepless couch at the parsonage, and finding that the wind had moderated, launched his canoe. He left the mission station just an hour before Mr Cockran returned to it.
Anxious was the heart of the poor youth as he wielded the paddle that morning, and many were the muttered remarks which he made to himself, in German, as he urged the canoe against wind and current. As he neared home his fears increased. On reaching a certain part from which he had been wont to descry the chimney of old Liz’s hut, he perceived that the familiar object was gone, and uttered a mighty roar of horror.
The half-breed in the bow ceased paddling, and looked back in alarm.
“Git on, you brute!” shouted Winklemann, at the same time exerting his great strength as though he meant to urge the light craft out of the water into the air.
A few minutes more and they swept round into the space where the hut had once stood. There was nothing left but the bit of rope that had been made fast to the ring-bolt. Poor Winklemann let his paddle drop and sank almost double with his face in his hands.
“Mine moder,” was all he could say, as he groaned heavily. In a few seconds he recovered with a start and bade the man in the bow paddle for his life.
Winklemann, of course, knew that the house must have floated downwards with the current, if it had not been utterly overwhelmed. He directed his search accordingly, but the breadth of land now covered by the flood caused the currents to vary in an uncertain manner, as every ridge, or knoll, or hollow in the plains modified them. Still, there could be only one general direction. After a few minutes of anxious reflection the bereaved man resolved to keep by the main current of the river. He was unfortunate in this, for the hut, in commencing its adventurous career, had gone off in the direction of the plains. All day he and his companion paddled about in search of the lost family, but in vain. At night they were forced to return to the parsonage for a little food and rest, so as to fit them for a renewal of the search on the following morning.
At the mission station they found Mr Cockran, with his wife and forty of his people, established on the stage. Early in the day the water had burst into the parsonage, and soon stood a foot deep on the floor, so that the pastor deemed it high time to forsake it and take to the last refuge. It was a crowded stage, and great was the anxiety of many of the mothers upon it lest their little ones should be thrust over the edge into the water. No such anxiety troubled the little ones themselves. With that freedom from care which is their high privilege, they even gambolled on the brink of destruction.
Next day was the Sabbath. To go to church was impossible. There were three and a half feet of water in that building. The day was fine, however, and sunny. The pastor, therefore, had service on the stage, and being an earnest, intelligent man, he made good use of the floods and the peculiarity of their circumstances to illustrate and enforce his discourse.
Long before the hour of worship had arrived, however, poor Winklemann went off in his canoe, and spent the whole of that day, as he spent several succeeding days, in anxious, diligent, hopeful, but finally despairing search for his lost old “moder.”