Twelve months passed away, and Christmas came again, with its frost and
snow and sunshine--its blazing fires, its good cheer, and its merry
greetings.
Many a Christmastide had now passed over the head of our blacksmith,
John Thorogood, and his excellent wife Mary, but Time had touched them
lightly in its flight. They both looked young and hale, and full of
vigour. The only difference in them was a wrinkle or two at the corners
of the eyes, and a few grey hairs mingling with the brown. Perhaps John
was a little more corpulent than when he was a youth; but he could wield
the fore-hammer as easily and powerfully as ever.
A cloud, however, had been gathering over their happy home during the
past year. Molly--the sweet active girl who had never known a day's
illness from her childhood--had fallen into bad health. Her step had
lost its spring, but her cheerful spirit was unsubdued.
"You're better to-day, Molly darling?" asked the smith, in a tone which
showed he was not sure of the answer.
"Yes, father, much better." Molly did not use endearing terms, but the
sweetness of her looks and voice rendered such needless.
She was pale and thin, and could not check the touch of sadness in her
tones.
"Fred is sure to come, darling," said Mrs Thorogood, stopping in her
preparations for supper to smooth her daughter's fair head.
"Oh yes, mother, I know that Fred is sure to come," returned Molly, with
a laugh and a little blush. "No fear of _him_. I was not thinking of
him, but of Jim. It is the first Christmas we shall have spent without
him. Dear Jim! I wonder what company he will have to spend it with him
in the backwoods."
"Whatever company it may be," returned the mother, "they'll only have
his body and mind--his spirit will be here."
"Well said, old Moll; we shall have the best part of him to-night in
spite of the Atlantic Ocean," cried the blacksmith, who was seated on a
stool making fun with the terrier, the cat, and the kitten--not the
original animals, of course, but the lineal descendants of those which
were introduced at the beginning of our tale.
"I hope they won't be late," remarked Mrs Thorogood, looking with some
anxiety into a big pot which rested on the roaring fire.
"The boys are never late, Moll," remarked the smith, giving the cat a
sly poke on the nose, which it resented with a fuff, causing the terrier
to turn its head on one side inquiringly.
As he spoke the front door opened, and feet were heard in the passage
stamping off the snow.
"There they are!" exclaimed old Moll, slipping the lid on the big pot,
and wiping her hands hastily.
"No, it is too soon for them yet; they're always sharp to time. It is
Fred," said Molly with a quiet smile.
She was right. Fred Harper, a fine strapping young fellow--a
carpenter--had met Molly in London, and got engaged to her. She offered
to let him off when she became ill and delicate, but he would not be let
off. "Molly," this enthusiast had said, "if you were to become so thin
that all your flesh were to disappear, I'd be proud to marry your
skeleton!"
Fred sat down by her side, but had scarcely begun to make earnest
inquiries after her health, when the outer door again opened, and
another stamping of feet was heard in the passage. It was a tremendous
stamping, and accompanied with strong, loud, manly voices.
"No mistake now!" said the smith, rising and opening the door, when in
walked four such men as any father and mother might be proud of. It was
not that they were big--plenty of blockheads are big: nor was it that
they were handsome--plenty of nincompoops are well-favoured; but,
besides being tall, and strong, and handsome, they were free, and
hearty, and sensible, and wise--even in their joviality--and so
thorough-going in word, sentiment, and act, that it was quite a pleasure
merely to sit still and watch them, and listen.
"I told 'ee they'd come in their togs, old woman," said the smith, as
his son Tom appeared, dusting the snow from his Coastguard uniform, on
the breast of which was displayed the gold medal of the Royal National
Lifeboat Institution.
"You might be sure of that, mother, seeing that we had promised," said
Dick, the blithe and hearty man-of-war's man, as he printed a kiss on
his mother's cheek that might have been heard, as he truly said, "from
the main truck to the keelson." At the same time bushy-browed Harry,
with the blue coat and brass epaulettes of the fire-brigade, was paying
a similar tribute of affection to his sister, while fiery Bob,--the old
uniform on his back and the Victoria Cross on his breast,--seized his
father's hand in both of his with a grip that quite satisfied that son
of Vulcan, despite the absence of two of the fingers.
They were all deep-chested, strong-voiced men in the prime of life; and
what a noise they did make, to be sure!
"You're not too soon, boys," said the smith; "old Moll has been quite
anxious about a mysterious _something_ in the big pot there."
"Let me help you to take it off the fire, mother," said the gallant tar,
stepping forward.
"Nay, that's my duty," cried Harry, leaping to the front, and seizing
the pot, which he dragged from the flames with professional ability.
When the _something_ was displayed, it was found to be a gorgeous
meat-pudding of the most tempting character--round and heavy like a
cannon-ball. Of course it did not flourish alone. Old Moll had been
mysteriously engaged the greater part of that day over the fire, and the
result was a feast worthy, as her husband said, "of the King of the
Cannibal Islands."
"Talking of Cannibal Islands," said Dick, the sailor, during a pause in
the feast, "you've no idea what a glorious place that Pacific Ocean is,
with its coral islands, palm-groves, and sunshine. It would be just the
place to make you well again, Molly. You'd grow fat in a month."
"Ha; get fat, would she," growled Bob, the soldier, "so as to be ready
for the first nigger-chief that took a fancy to have her cooked for
supper--eh? Never fear, Molly, we won't let you go to the Cannibal
Islands. Give us another cut o' that cannon-ball, mother. It's better
eating than those I've been used to see skipping over the battlefield."
"But they're not _all_ Cannibal Islands, man," returned Dick; "why,
wherever the missionaries go, there the niggers get to be as
well-behaved as you are. D'you know, Molly, I've really been thinking
of cutting the service, and emigrating somewhere, if you and Fred would
go with me."
"It would be charming!" replied Molly, with a sweet though languid
smile. "We'd live in a wooden hut, roofed with palm-leaves, and while
you and Fred were away hunting for dinner, I would milk the buffaloes,
and boil the cocoa-nuts!"
"Ah, Molly," said Tom, the Coastguardsman, stroking his bushy beard,
"the same idea has been running in my head, as well as in Dick's, ever
since we got that letter from Jim, telling us of the beauty of his new
home, and urging us all to emigrate. I've more than half a mind to join
him out there, if you and the old folk will consent to go."
"You're not serious, are you, Tom?" asked Harry, the fireman, laying
down his knife and fork.
"Indeed I am."
"Well, you might do worse. I would join you myself, if there were only
houses enough to insure a fire or two every month."
"Why, man," said Fred Harper, "in these lands the whole forest goes on
fire sometimes--surely that would suffice to keep your spirits up and
your heart warm."
"Let's have a look at Jim's last epistle, mother," said Dick, when the
feast was nearly over, and fragrant coffee smoked upon the board, (for
you know the Thorogood Family were total abstainers), "and let Fred read
it aloud. He's by far the best reader amongst us."
"Well, that's not sayin' much for him," remarked the fireman, with a sly
glance at his sister.
"Your lamp is not as powerful as it might be, mother," said Fred,
drawing his chair nearer to that of the fair invalid, as he unfolded the
letter. "Turn your eyes this way, Molly,--there, keep 'em steady on the
page; I can see _now_!"
"Eagle's Nest, Rocky Mountain Slopes, 5th October 18---," began Fred.
"Darling Mother,--You've no idea what a charming place God has given me
here, with plenty of work to do of the most congenial kind. I have only
an opportunity for a short letter this time, because the postboy has
arrived unexpectedly, and won't wait. Postboy! You would smile at that
word if you saw him. He's a six-foot man in leather, with a big beard,
and a rifle and tomahawk. He was attacked by Indians on the way over
the mountains, but escaped, and he attacked a grizzly bear afterwards
which didn't escape--but I must not waste time on _him_, Well, I must
devote all my letter this post to urging you to come out. This is a
splendid country for big, strong, hearty, willing men like father and my
brothers. Of course it is no better than other countries--rather
worse--for weak men, either in mind or body. Idlers go to the wall here
as elsewhere; but for men willing and able to work--ready to turn their
hands to anything--it is a splendid opening. For myself--I feel that my
Heavenly Father has sent me here because there is work for me to do, and
a climate which will give me health and strength to do it. My health is
better now than it has ever been mince the day of that fall which
damaged my constitution so much as to render me one of the confirmed
cripples of the earth. But it was a blessed fall, nevertheless. I was
cast down in order that I might be lifted up. You would smile,
mother,--perhaps you'd laugh--if you saw me at my work. I'm a
Jack-of-all-trades. Among other things I'm a farmer, a gardener, a
carpenter, a schoolmaster, a shoemaker, and a missionary! The last, you
know, I consider my real calling. The others are but secondary matters,
assumed in the spirit of Paul the tent-maker. You and dear Molly would
rejoice with me if you saw my Bible Class on week-days, and my
congregation on Sundays. It is a strange congregation to whom I have
been sent to tell the old old story of Jesus and His love. There are
farmers, miners, hunters, even painted savages among them. My church is
usually a barn--sometimes a tent--often the open air. There are no
denominations here, so that I belong to none. Only two sects exist--
believers and unbelievers. But the place is growing fast. Doubtless
there will be great changes ere long. Meanwhile it is my happy duty and
privilege to scatter seed in the wilderness.
"Now, I urge you to come, because there is health for Molly to be found
on these sunny slopes of this grand Backbone of America. That is my
strongest point. If that does not move you, nothing else will! One
glance from the windows of my wooden house--this Eagle's Nest on the
Rocky Mountain Slopes--would be sufficient to begin the work of
convalescence. Woods, dells, knolls, hills, plains, prairies, lakes,
streams--with the blue mountains in the far, far distance. Oh! if I
were a poet, what a flight I would make into the realms of--of--well,
you understand me! I have no time for more. The big-bearded postboy is
growing impatient. Only this much will I add,--do, _do_ come, if you
love me. My kindest love to you all. May God guide you in this
matter.--Your affectionate son, JIM.
"P.S.--One of the members of my congregation is a celebrated hunter
named Reuben Dale. His wife is also one of my flock, and so is his
friend Jacob Strang. The manner in which Reuben got married is so
curious that I have amused myself by writing an account of it for
mother. I enclose it."
"Read the story aloud, Fred," said Molly. "What Jim thought interesting
must be well worth reading."