On the other side of the mountain stood the dismal hut; and the stars
of that blessed eve had shone down upon the lonely clearing in which
it stood, and the smooth white surface of the frozen and snow-covered
lake which lay in front of it, as brightly as they had shone on the
cabin of the Trapper; but no friendly step had made its trail in the
surrounding snow, and no blessed gift had been brought to its solitary
door.
[Illustration: "On the other side of the mountain stood the dismal
hut."]
As the evening wore on, the great clearing round about it remained
drearily void of sound or motion, and filled only with the white
stillness of the frosty, snow-lighted night. Once, indeed, a wolf
stole from underneath the dark balsams into the white silence, and,
running up a huge log that lay aslant a ledge of rocks, looked across
and round the great opening in the woods, stood a moment, then gave a
shivering sort of a yelp, and scuttled back under the shadow of the
forest, as if its darkness was warmer than the frozen stillness of the
open space. An owl, perched somewhere amid the pine-tops, snug and
warm within the cover of its arctic plumage, engaged from time to time
in solemn gossip with some neighbor that lived on the opposite shore
of the lake. And once a raven, roosting on the dry bough of a
lightning-blasted pine, dreamed that the white moonlight was the light
of dawn, and began to stir his sable wings, and croak a harsh welcome;
but awakened by his blunder, and ashamed of his mistake, he broke off
in the very midst of his discordant call, and again settled gloomily
down amid his black plumes to his interrupted repose, making by his
sudden silence the surrounding silence more silent than before.
It seemed as if the very angels, who, we are taught, fly abroad over
all the earth that blessed night, carrying gifts to every household,
had forgotten the cabin in the woods, and had left it to the cold
hospitality of unsympathetic nature.
Within the lonely hut, which thus seemed forgotten of Heaven itself,
sat a woman huddling her young--two girls and a boy. The fireplace was
of monstrous proportions, and the chimney yawned upward so widely that
one looking up the sooty passage might see the stars shining overhead.
A little fire burned feebly in the huge stone recess: scant warmth
might such a fire yield, kindled in such a fireplace, to those around
it. Indeed, the little flame seemed conscious of its own inability,
and burned with a wavering and mistrustful flicker, as if it were
discouraged in view of the task set before it, and had more than half
concluded to go out altogether.
The cabin was of large size, and undivided into apartments. The little
fire was only able to illuminate the central section, and more than
half of the room was hidden in utter darkness. The woman's face, which
the faint flame over which she was crouched revealed with painful
clearness, showed pale and haggard. The induration of exposure and the
tightening lines of hunger sharpened and marred a countenance which a
happier fortune would have kept even comely. It had that old look
about it which comes from wretchedness rather than age, and the
weariness of its expression was pitiful to see. Was it work or vain
waiting for happier fortunes that made her look so tired? Alas! the
weariness of waiting for what we long for, and long for purely, but
which never comes! Is it the work or the longing--the long
longing--that has put the silver in your head, friend, and scarred
the smooth bloom of your cheeks, my lady, with those ugly lines?
"Mother, I'm hungry," said the little boy, looking up into the woman's
face. "Can't I have just a little more to eat?"
"Be still," answered the woman sharply, speaking in the tones of vexed
inability. "I've given you almost the last morsel in the house."
The boy said nothing more, but nestled up more closely to his mother's
knee, and stuck one little stockingless foot out until the cold toes
were half hidden in the ashes. O warmth! blessed warmth! how pleasant
art thou to old and young alike! Thou art the emblem of life, as thy
absence is the evidence and sign of life's cold opposite. Would that
all the cold toes in the world could get to my grate to-night, and all
the shivering ones be gathered to this fireside! Ay, and that the
children of poverty, that lack for bread, might get their hungry hands
into that well-filled cupboard there, too!
In a moment the woman said, "You children had better go to bed. You'll
be warmer in the rags than in this miserable fireplace."
The words were harshly spoken, as if the very presence of the
children, cold and hungry as they were, was a vexation to her; and
they moved off in obedience to her command.
O cursed poverty! I know thee to be of Satan, for I myself have eaten
at thy scant table, and slept in thy cold bed. And never yet have I
seen thee bring one smile to human lips, or dry one tear as it fell
from a human eye. But I have seen thee sharpen the tongue for biting
speech, and harden the tender heart. Ay, I've seen thee make even the
presence of love a burden, and cause the mother to wish that the puny
babe nursing her scant breast had never been born. And so the children
went to their unsightly bed, and silence reigned in the hut.
"Mother," said one of the girls, speaking out of the
darkness,--"mother, isn't this Christmas Eve?"
"Yes," answered the woman sharply. "Go to sleep." And again there was
silence.
Happy is childhood, that amid whatever deprivation and misery it can
so weary itself in the day that when night comes on it can lose in the
forgetfulness of slumber its sorrows and wants!
Thus, while the children lost the sense of their unhappy surroundings,
including the keen pangs of hunger, for a time, and under the tattered
blankets that covered them saw, perhaps, visions of enchanting lands,
and in their dreams feasted at those wonderful tables which hungry
children see only in sleep, to the poor woman sitting at the failing
fire there came no surcease of sorrow, and no vision threw even an
evanescent brightness over the hard, cold facts of her surroundings.
And the reality of her condition was dire enough, God knows. Alone in
the wilderness, miles from any human habitation, the trails covered
deep with snow, her provisions exhausted, actual suffering already
upon them, and starvation staring them squarely in the face,--no
wonder that her soul sank within her; no wonder that her thoughts
turned toward bitterness.
"Yes, it's Christmas Eve," she muttered, "and the rich will keep it
gayly. God sends them presents enough; but you see if He remembers me!
Oh, they may talk about the angels of Christmas Eve flying abroad
to-night, loaded with gifts, but they'll fly mighty high above this
shanty, I reckon; no, they won't even drop a piece of meat as they
soar past." And so she sat muttering and moaning over her woes, and
they were heavy enough,--too heavy for her poor soul, unassisted, to
lift,--while the flame on the hearth grew thinner and thinner, until
it had no more warmth in it than the shadow of a ghost, and, like its
resemblance, was about to flit and fade away. At last she said, in a
softened tone, as if the remembrance of the Christmas legend had
softened her surly thoughts and sweetened the bitter mood:--
"Perhaps I'm wrong to take on so. Perhaps it isn't God's fault that I
and my children are deserted and starving. But why should the innocent
be punished for the guilty, and why should the wicked have enough and
to spare, while those who do no evil go half naked and starved?"
Alas, poor woman! that puzzle has puzzled many besides thee, and many
lips besides thine have asked that question, querulously or
entreatingly, many a time; but whether they asked it in vexation and
rebellion of spirit, or humbly besought Heaven to answer, to neither
murmur nor prayer did Heaven vouchsafe a response. Is it because we
are so small, or, being small, are so inquisitive, that the Great
Oracle of the blue remains so dumb when we cry?
At this point the poor little flame, as if unable to abide the cold
much longer, flared fitfully, and uneasily shifted itself from brand
to brand, threatening with many a flicker to go out; but the woman,
with her elbows on her knees, and her face settled firmly between her
hands, still sat with eyes that saw not the feeble flame at which they
so steadily gazed.
"I will do it, _I will do it!_" she suddenly exclaimed. "I will make
one more effort. They shall not starve while I have strength to try.
Perhaps God will aid me. They say He always does at the last pinch,
and He certainly sees that I am there now. I wonder if He's been
waiting for me to get just where I am before He helped me. There is
one more chance left, and I'll make the trial. I'll go down to the
shore where I saw the big tracks in the snow. It's a long way, but I
shall get there somehow. If God is going to be good to me, He won't
let me freeze or faint on the way. Yes, I'll creep into bed now, and
try to get a little sleep, for I must be strong in the morning." And
with these words the poor woman crept off to her bed, and burrowed
down, more like an animal than a human being, beside her little ones,
as they lay huddled close together and asleep, down in the rags.
What angel was it that followed her to her miserable couch, and
stirred kindly feelings in her bosom? Some sweet one, surely; for she
shortly lifted herself to a sitting posture, and, gently drawing down
the old blanket with which the children, for warmth's sake, had
wrapped their heads, looked as only a mother might at the three little
faces lying side by side, and, bending tenderly over them, she placed
a gentle kiss upon the forehead of each; then she nestled down again
in her own place, and said, "Perhaps God will help me." And with this
sentence, half a prayer and half a doubt, born on the one hand from
that sweet faith which never quite deserts a woman's bosom, and on the
other from that bitter experience which had made her seem in her own
eyes deserted of God, she fell asleep.
She, too, dreamed; but her dreaming was only the prolongation of her
waking thoughts; for long after her eyes closed she moved uneasily on
her hard couch, and muttered, "Perhaps God will. Perhaps--"
Sad is it for us who are old enough to have tasted the bitterness of
that cup which life sooner or later presents to all lips, and have
borne the burden of its toil and fretting, that our vexations and
disappointments pursue us even in our slumber, disturbing our sleep
with reproachful visions and the sound of voices whose upbraiding robs
us of our otherwise peaceful repose. Perhaps somewhere in the years to
come, after much wandering and weariness, guided of God, we may come
to that fountain of which the ancients dreamed, and for which the
noblest among them sought so long, and died seeking; plunging into
which, we shall find our lost youth in its cool depths, and, rising
refreshed and strengthened, shall go on our eternal journey re-clothed
with the beauty, the innocence, and the happiness of our youth.
The poor woman slept uneasily, and with much muttering to herself;
but the rapid hours slid noiselessly down the icy grooves of night,
and soon the cold morning put its white face against the frozen
windows of the east, and peered shiveringly forth. Who says the earth
cannot look as cold and forbidding as the human countenance? The sky
hung over the frozen world like a dome of gray steel, whose invisibly
matched plates were riveted here and there by a few white, gleaming
stars. The surface of the snow sparkled with crystals that flashed
colorlessly cold. The air seemed armed, and full of sharp, eager
points that pricked the skin painfully. The great tree-trunks cracked
their sharp protests against the frosty entrances being made beneath
their bark. The lake, from under the smothering ice, roared in dismay
and pain, and sent the thunders of its wrath at its imprisonment
around the resounding shores. A bitter morn, a bitter morn,--ah me! a
bitter morn for the poor!
The woman, wakened by the gray light, moved in the depths of the
tattered blankets, sat upright, rubbed her eyes with her hands, looked
about her as if to recall her scattered senses, and then, as thought
returned, crept stealthily out of the hole in which she had lain, that
she might not wake the children, who, coiled together, slumbered on,
still closely clasped in the arms of blessed unconsciousness.
"They had better sleep," she said to herself. "If I fail to bring them
meat, I hope they will never wake!"
Ah! if the poor woman could only have foreseen the bitter
disappointment, or that other something which the future was to bring
her, would she have made that prayer? Is it best for us, as some say,
that we cannot see what is coming, but must weep on till the last tear
is shed, uncheered by the sweet fortune so nigh, or laugh unchecked
until the happy tones are mingled with, and smothered by, the rising
moan? Is it best, I wonder?
She noiselessly gathered together what additions she could make to her
garments, and then, taking down the rifle from its hangings, opened
the door, and stepped forth into the outer cold. There was a look of
brave determination in her eyes as she faced the chilly greeting the
world gave her, and, with more of hopefulness than had before appeared
upon her countenance, she struck bravely off along the lake shore,
which at this point receded toward the mountain.
For an hour she kept steadily on, with her eyes constantly on the
alert for the least sign of the wished and prayed-for game. Suddenly
she stopped, and crouched down in the snow, peering straight ahead.
Well might she seek concealment, for there, standing on a point of
land that jutted sharply out into the lake, not forty rods away,
unscreened and plain to view, stood a buck of such goodly proportions
as one even in years of hunting might not see.
The woman's eyes fairly gleamed as she saw the noble animal standing
thus in full sight; but who may tell the agony of fear and hope that
filled her bosom! The buck stood lordly erect, facing the east, as if
he would do homage to, or receive homage from, the rising sun, whose
yellow beams fell full upon his uplifted front. The thought of her
mind, the fear of her heart, were plain. The buck would soon move;
when he moved, which way would he move? Would he go from or come
toward her? Would she get him, or would she lose him? Oh, the agony of
that thought!
"God of the starving," burst from her quivering lips, "let not my
children die!"
Many prayers more ornate rose that day to Him whose ears are open to
all cries. But of all that prayed on that Christmas morn, whether with
few words or many, surely, no heart rose with the seeking words more
earnestly than that of the poor woman kneeling as she prayed, rifle in
hand, amid the snow.
"God of the starving, let not my children die!"
That was her prayer; and, as if in answer to her agonizing petition,
the buck turned and began to advance directly toward her, browsing as
he came. Once he stopped, looked around, and snuffed the air
suspiciously. Had he scented her presence, and would he bound away?
Should she fire now? No; her judgment told her she could not trust the
gun or her aim at such a range. He must come nigher,--come even to the
big maple, and stand there, not ten rods away; then she felt sure she
should get him. So she waited. Oh, how the cold ate into her! How her
teeth chattered as the chills ran their torturing courses through her
thin, shivering frame! But still she clutched the cold barrel, and
still she watched and waited, and still she prayed:--
"God of the starving, let not my children die!"
Alas, poor woman! My own body shivers as I think of thine, and my pen
falters to write what misery befell thee on that wretched morn.
Did the buck turn? Did he, having come so tantalizingly near, retrace
his steps? No. He continued to advance. Had Heaven heard her prayer?
Her soul answered it had; and with such feelings in it toward Him to
whom she had appealed as she had not felt in all her life before, she
steadied herself for the shot. For even as she prayed, the deer came
on,--came to the big maple, and lifted his muzzle to its highest reach
to seize with his tongue a thin streamer of moss that lay against the
smooth bark. There he stood, his blue-brown side full toward her,
unconscious of her presence. Noiselessly she cocked the piece.
Noiselessly she raised it to her face, and, with every nerve drawn to
its tightest tension, sighted the noble game, and--_fired_.
Had the frosty air watered her eye? was it a tear of joy and gratitude
that dimmed the clearness of its sight? or were the half-frozen
fingers unable to steady the cold barrel at the instant of its
explosion? We know not. We only know that in spite of prayer, in spite
of noblest effort, she missed the game. For, as the rifle cracked, the
buck gave a snort of fear, and with swift bounds flew up the mountain;
while the poor woman, dropping the gun with a groan, fell fainting on
the snow.