A LONG NIGHT.
Mr. Parlin found it very hard to push his way through the drifts, with
the storm beating on all sides, and every snow-flake pricking like a
needle. He thought of Ben Penny, and was almost afraid the sick lad
would perish. It seemed to make very little difference which direction
he took, since one was as likely to be right as another. As he was
going down Congress Street, some one touched his arm.
“Look here, sir; be you Mr. Parlin?”
Enoch Rosenberg had spent several years with a farmer in the backwoods,
and did not talk very correctly. “The school-mistress says you’re
round after that little girl o’ yourn.”
“Yes, yes; what do you know of her?”
“Why, I’ve come to tell you she’s safe and sound, and t’other little
one too.”
“Are you sure? Is it true? Where are they? Speak quick!”
“At Mr. Harris’s--two miles off--no, considerable scant of two
miles--down yonder. They’d have been as dead as door-nails, both of
’em, if I hadn’t happened to have catched up with ’em. One of ’em, she
hollered out to me, and then they fell down, one top o’ the other, as
near froze as ever you see.”
“But how do you know they are safe now; tell me that!”
“I took ’em to Mr. Harris’s; that’s how I know. I had to scold
considerable sharp, and make believe I’se going to set a dog on ’em,
afore I could bring ’em to.”
Mr. Parlin drew his hand across his eyes. He could not bear to think
his tender child had been in such horrible danger.
“What is your name, my young friend?” said he, offering his hand to
Enoch; “and how did you know me? Call round to my office to-morrow; I
want to see you again. This is not the time or place to thank you as
you deserve.”
Enoch’s black eyes glittered. He understood that Mr. Parlin meant to
give him some money, and this was just what he had expected, for he
remembered the liberal reward bestowed on his mother for taking care of
Dotty a day or two.
“Yes, sir,” replied he, thinking, “he’ll come down with something
handsome! I ain’t a mite afraid but he will. Guess I wouldn’t a’ taken
this tramp for nothing!”
Mr. Parlin hastened to Mrs. Penny. He found her pacing the floor, and
staring straight before her with fixed eyes.
“Good news,” said he; “the children are safe.”
Mrs. Penny screamed as if he had struck her.
“Safe,” repeated he; “they are at Mrs. Harris’s. I know the woman--one
of the kindest souls living.”
Mrs. Penny screamed again, and wrung her hands. Mr. Parlin feared she
was losing her reason; but very soon tears began to flow, and the
weight on her brain gave way.
“If you can rest easy,” said Mr. Parlin, “I do not think it will be
best to bring the children home to-day. After this great fright and
exposure, they need rest.”
“O, no; don’t go for them,” cried Mrs. Penny. “I beg you won’t go for
them; I can’t have my little Tate face such a storm again!”
Mr. Parlin turned to open the door; but Mrs. Penny was too excited to
stop talking.
“Only think of my letting her go to school to-day! She said to me, ‘O,
ma, I must go; for Dotty Dimple and I have an engagement!’ She thinks
there’s nobody like Dotty Dimple!”
Mr. Parlin turned the knob, but Mrs. Penny continued.
“The child came home one night very much agitated, and wanted to
know why I didn’t make her be good, like Dotty Dimple. I told her I
couldn’t; she must try for herself. ‘But, ma,’ said she, ‘you ought to
pray to me, and make me be good; that’s what Dotty Dimple’s mother does
to her! Dotty says, if our Nancy put her to bed, she shouldn’t be any
better’n me!’”
Mr. Parlin laughed.
“Our little daughter thinks very well of herself,” said he; “and
that is the most discouraging thing about her. Good by, Mrs. Penny.
To-morrow, as soon as the storm is over, I will go for the children.”
“Good by, sir; and send my boy back, if you find him.”
“Good by, thir,” said a little dumpling of a girl, called Tid, peeping
out from behind the closet door.
“My precious Tate,” thought Mrs. Penny, earnestly; “if I ever get her
home again, I will take more pains with her. I presume Nancy doesn’t
hear her say her prayers half the time. She seems inclined to tell
wrong stories lately; who knows but I could break up the habit, if, as
Dotty Dimple says, I put her to bed myself?”
Mr. Parlin overtook Ben Penny, and helped him home. By that time he
longed for shelter: but how could he rest until he had seen for himself
that Dotty was safe? The Rosenberg boy had no doubt intended to tell
the truth, but there might be some mistake; so the anxious father went
all the way to Mr. Harris’s, and, when he arrived there, found the
children fast asleep.
“Do stay and rest yourself, sir,” said Mrs. Harris. “You look as if you
couldn’t walk another step.”
“Thank you,” replied Mr. Parlin; “an hour’s rest would be very welcome;
but I dare not take it; it is growing late.”
The tired man set out again. By the time he reached home, he was so
exhausted that he could scarcely speak.
“Why, my dear husband, what is the matter?” said Mrs. Parlin; “and
where is Dotty?”
“Safe,” replied Mr. Parlin from the depths of a sofa pillow, “safe!”
“Safe?”
“Yes, at Mrs. Harris’s.”
“At Mrs. Harris’s, Edward? What is she doing there?”
“Having a good nap.”
“Sleeping at this time of day?”
“Yes; you see she got thoroughly chilled.”
“Chilled?”
“Yes; she and that Penny child lost their way.”
“Lost their way? When? Where?”
“Going from the school-house to Mrs. Penny’s.”
Prudy was excessively amused.
“Why, papa, the road isn’t any longer’n my little finger!”
“But this snow, my dear, is a great deal deeper than your finger. I
fear we shall hear of sad accidents, for it will prove one of the
worst storms ever known in New England.”
It was a fearful night. The wind shrieked and rattled the windows, and
shook the storm-door. One would have thought a legion of wretched,
starving beggars were prowling about the house, pleading to be let in.
And still it was nothing but the wind.
“I wish my children were all at home,” sighed Mrs. Parlin, every time
the shrieks wakened her. “I know Mrs. Harris will take good care of
Dotty; but I don’t like to have my little girl away from me on such a
night as this.”
At the same time Dotty Dimple was lying in a room whose walls were
papered so strangely, that she thought the pictures kept her awake even
in the dark. A boy pumping water for some cows--she wondered why the
water didn’t freeze; and a lady “jumping the rope with a shawl.” Then
the bedstead had very high posts, with a ball stuck upon every one,
like a head on a pin.
“People do have such queer things in their houses that it keeps me
awake,” thought Dotty, who had been asleep most of the afternoon.
“And there’s Tate, now--nothing keeps her awake. I wish she was; but I
don’t dare touch her for fear she’ll have the nose-bleed.”
The wind seized the house between its teeth and shook it.
“O, my!” thought Dotty, “where are we going to? S’pose this house
should blow to Europe, and my father’s house should blow to Boston!
But there needn’t anybody think I can help it, for I can’t. It wasn’t
running away. Miss Parker said we might; and I don’t s’pect my papa
knows this minute.”
Dotty was so homesick that Mrs. Harris had not mentioned her father’s
visit.
“That Solly Rosenbug, that’s called something else,--I’ve forgot his
name,--he won’t remember to tell him. My father’ll have to print me in
the papers. ‘My daughter Alice, with a calico wrapper on. Have you seen
her? Little pockets in, and a pair of red mittens.’ Nobody has ever
seen me, the snow was so thick; and when they are so scared they can’t
speak a word, then I shall get there; but not go through the cellar
window, though, ’cause I didn’t run away, and couldn’t help it. I was
doing just right.
“How they’ll feel! And what’s the first words grandma’ll say? I know.
She always says ’em after I’ve had a dreadful time, and didn’t get
drowned, or die,--
“‘He gave his angels a _charger of_, concerning thee.’
“I don’t know what she means by an ‘angel a charger of.’ P’r’aps ’twill
be Solly Rosenbug, she means; but she don’t know how he looks, or she
wouldn’t call _him_ an angel!”
It was a long night to Dotty. For the endless space of two hours she
lay sad and homesick, thinking how dreary it was without her mother.
In the morning the storm was past; but the wind, which had not slept
a wink all night, started up as fresh as ever. When Dotty looked out
of the window, there lay the world, all dead and buried, nothing to be
seen but mounds of snow.
“The streets are gone,” said Dotty, “and everything else. You could
ride top o’ the houses, and not know the difference. The trees look as
if they were sound asleep and being rocked, with their night-caps on.
Horses sleep standing up; so do trees, too.”
“My mother didn’t sleep,” said Tate. “I know she must a’ laid awake and
cried. She can’t eat a speck o’ breakfast, and Nancy’ll bring her some
toast in bed.”
“My mamma never eats in bed,” said Dotty; “she doesn’t think it’s
proper; but she’ll look paler’n your mother does, for I’m her youngest
child!”
“Did you think my mother didn’t love me as well as she did Tid?” asked
Tate, in an injured tone, tracing a little rivulet with her finger-nail
on the frosted pane.
“O, dear! I don’t care how much she loves you, Tate, if my father’d
only come and take me home.”
“Cheer up, children,” said Mrs. Harris; “he’ll be here soon; just as
soon as the men can cut a road through the drifts. Now come and eat
your breakfasts, dears.”
“She heard what you said, Tate Penny! You always talk so loud!”
whispered Dotty.