LOST IN THE SNOW.
“Joe! Joe!” called Mrs. Johnson, as she entered her son’s bedroom,
about twelve o’clock one bitter cold night in January. “Wake up. Your
father is very sick.”
“What’s the matter? Father sick?” asked the boy, springing up.
“Yes, he has taken cold, and complains of heart cramps. I do not know
what to do. I have tried several things, but none of them seem to do
any good.”
“Shall I go for Dr. Weston?”
“It would be best to have him. But it is awful cold out, and is snowing
heavily.”
“I won’t mind that, mother. I’ll hurry on my clothes and start at once.”
“Do, then. Tell the doctor he must come at once.”
“I will.”
Having dressed himself in an incredibly short time, Joe put on his
overcoat, wound a tippet around his neck and head, donned his hat and
left the house. Dr. Weston lived on the other side of Lockport, and he
had a mile’s journey to reach the residence.
As we have said, it was bitter cold. The lazy, generous flakes whirled
down to such a degree that nothing could be seen twenty feet ahead.
Undaunted by this, however, our hero started courageously, and was soon
well on his way, leaving behind him dog-trot footprints in the eight
inches of snow that covered the ground.
But running as fast as he could it was full half an hour before he
reached the doctor’s residence. He was thoroughly tired by the run, and
when he rang the bell he sat down on the piazza railing to rest himself.
“Who’s there?” came through the speaking tube, in the familiar voice of
the doctor.
“It is I--Joe Johnson,” replied the boy.
“What do you want?”
“My father is very sick. Mother would like you to come and attend him
at once.”
“What is the matter?”
“I don’t know exactly. He has a heavy cold, and complains of cramps in
the heart.”
“Then I’ll hurry as fast as I can. If you will wait ten minutes you
can ride back with me in my cutter.”
Now, undoubtedly, this would have been the best thing for Joe to do.
But, like many another person in a similar situation, ten minutes
seemed to him like an age.
“No, doctor, I am much obliged,” he replied. “I’ll start at once and
let mother know that you are coming.”
“Very well, then,” answered Dr. Weston.
Having rested himself, our hero started on the return. It was much
colder now than it had been, and the soft flakes had given way to fine,
hard particles which the wind drove piercingly into his face. The snow,
too, lay deeper, and rendered his progress slow. In half an hour he
found himself, thoroughly exhausted, only halfway home.
“I wish I had accepted the doctor’s invitation to ride,” he said to
himself, as he stood still for a moment, trying to catch his breath. “I
don’t seem to be returning as fast as I came. I wonder if the doctor is
behind me.”
Joe listened attentively, but no sound broke the stillness.
Occasionally a blast of wind swept through the trees, but that was all.
“It won’t do for me to stand here,” he continued. “I would freeze to
death in five minutes,” and he staggered on through the blinding snow.
But to walk through nearly a foot of snow is no easy task, and with
the cutting north wind blowing directly in the face it is well-nigh
impossible.
Our hero grew colder and colder; it seemed to him that he had never
been so cold before. Several times he missed the way, too, and once,
when he stumbled, he rolled down into a hollow.
This frightened him, and he tried his best to see ahead and keep in the
right way.
But now a drowsy sensation began to steal over him, and instead of
being cold his body began to become of a sluggish warmth. His head sank
down on his breast, and he felt, oh! so sleepy.
“I’ll sit down under the tree over there and rest for a moment,” he
thought, and started to carry out his idea.
Before he could take three steps he sank to the ground. He attempted
to rise, but found he had not the strength to do so. The awful truth
rushed to his mind:
“I am to die in the snow!”
Those were the last words Joe uttered.
The wind blew and the snow came down faster than ever. It took but a
few moments to cover him, and then no one would have suspected that
under that unbroken sheet of white lay a human form.
It was nearly a quarter of an hour after Joe had summoned him that
Dr. Weston entered the cutter which his colored boy brought from the
stable, and started on his way to the Johnson home.
He was well wrapped up in an immense fur overcoat and a couple of
buffalo robes, and nothing but a small part of his face could be seen
as he grasped the reins and guided his faithful horse, a magnificent
bay, down the side street and out of the town.
“Come, Hero, get up,” he called. “We must hurry, or we may be too late.
Faster.”
And Hero, being an intelligent horse, understood what was said and
began to increase his speed.
Soon they had left the town and were well on the road. Here the fury of
the snowstorm was more felt, and the doctor, knowing that Hero would
keep his gait, rode without urging, settled himself deep in the robes,
and was soon lost in reverie.
His meditations were interrupted by the sudden stop of Hero. He was
thrown forward against the dashboard, and the shock brought him to his
full senses in an instant.
“Hello! What is the matter now?” he said to himself. “I wish I could
see ahead.”
But that was impossible. The blinding snow hid everything from view.
“It’s no use. I must go on. Get up, Hero.”
Hero would not get up. He only pawed the ground with his hoofs, and
gave a loud snort.
“Something must be the matter,” the doctor continued. “Perhaps there is
something the matter with the harness. I suppose I will have to jump
out and see.”
Dr. Weston crawled from the robes, and carried out his idea. A careful
examination convinced him that the entire running gear and all was in
perfect order.
“I can’t see what the matter is. Can’t you tell me, Hero?”
Hero gave another snort. Then, greatly to the doctor’s surprise, pawed
the snow carefully away in front of him, and lowering his head, grasped
a dark object by his teeth and raised it up. Dr. Weston uttered an
exclamation:
“Great Cæsar! It’s Joe Johnson!”
In the twinkle of an eye he placed the boy’s form in the cutter. Then
Hero was set to the quickest of trots. The animal, in five minutes,
brought the cutter to the Johnson’s cottage.
Here Joe was taken in, and after hard work resuscitated. Mr. Johnson’s
sickness proved but slight, and the doctor turned all his attention to
the half-frozen boy.
It took a week for our hero to recover. When he came downstairs for the
first time, and sat by the fire, he said:
“It was queer, mother: just like going to sleep.”
“It was a sleep, Joe,” replied his mother; and as she turned away she
continued to herself: “And had it not been for intelligent Hero it
would have been the sleep of death!”
The winter passed and spring came on, and with the warmer weather Joe’s
thoughts turned again to bicycling. An international contest had been
arranged and this our hero determined to enter.
Yet before this great race something occurred which showed more than
anything else what a great rate of speed Joe could make on his wheel
when the occasion demanded.