A RESCUE.
"AS comfortable as possible" did not seem likely to be very
comfortable. The station was a small one, in an out of the way place.
There was a dwelling-house attached to it, but it had only just been
completed and was quite unfurnished. The waiting-room of the station
contained a large stove, and there was plenty of wood—that was one
comfort—but they had neither beds nor provisions.
"What are we to do now?" asked Herbert.
"Don't be discouraged!" said the old lady. "My people are expecting me,
and I presume some of them will be down before long. We will see what
can be done."
At that moment a great jingling of bells was heard, and Ned rushed in
to say that some one had come with a big lumber sleigh. He was closely
followed by an elderly gentleman well wrapped up and well covered
with snow, who, after shaking himself well, and looking round, took
possession of the old lady, saluting her with the title of "Mother."
"So you did get here!" said he, giving her a hearty kiss. "We have
been in a thousand worries about you, end John drove down once before
to-day. I came myself this time, for the road is drifted as badly as
ever I saw it. How have you got through?"
"Pretty well, pretty well, considering!" replied the old lady. "But
just step this way, father, I want to speak to you."
A whispered consultation went on for two or three minutes, during which
time the rest of the party, clustered round the stove, were trying to
get warm. Presently the old gentleman spoke:
"Now, ladies and gentlemen, as soon as you are warmed a little, we will
all pile into the lumber sleigh and go over to Cedar Hill to supper.
Now, I will take no excuses!" he added, as the gentlemen looked at
each other. "It is two miles to the nearest village, and the roads
are nearly impassable; but the track to Cedar Hill is not so bad, and
besides it, is only half as long. We have got a big house, plenty of
beds, and no end of mince pies and chickens; and if we can't make you
comfortable, at least we will do our best—and that will be better than
camping out in this place all night."
"It will, indeed!" said the clergyman. "You are very kind indeed, sir,
and I advise my young friends here to accept your invitation at once.
But I fear if we all go, we shall put you to great inconvenience."
"Not a bit, not a bit!" returned the old gentlemen. "Mrs. Hardy is not
easily put out—are you, mother?"
"No, indeed!" replied the old lady. "It is what I have been calculating
upon ever since the conductor said we could not get through, but I
thought I would not say anything, till I saw whether our folks came to
meet me or not."
"Now, that is mother, all over!" said Squire Hardy. "Always thinks of
everything. But come, I shall take no denial! The longer we wait the
worse the road will be. Come, conductor, nobody will run away with your
train to-night, I will engage!"
The conductor, however, declared that he must remain on his post. There
might be important telegrams to attend to, and he expected the express
train was in the same scrape, not far off. He had been a soldier, he
said, and was used to roughing it in worse places than this. But he
strongly advised the rest of the party to accept Hardy's invitation,
saying he would send them word at the first prospect of their being
able to continue their journey.
So all was settled, and our young friends, well wrapped in buffalo
skins, were packed in among the elders, wherever there was a chink, as
Herbert said. They had but a rough ride, for the road was up and down
hill at the best, and was now heavily drifted. Two or three times, they
seemed on the point of turning over, and for the last part of the way,
the gentlemen got out and walked.
"Are you cold, Agatha?" asked Herbert.
"Not very, only my feet," said Agatha.
"O dear!" said Frank, with a sigh that almost a groan. "If I only get
you into a place of safety once more, I don't care what happens to me!"
"We shall soon be in a place of safety, and of comfort, too," said Mrs.
Hardy, kindly. "See, there is our house!"
In a few minutes more, the lane turned into a gate, and they drew up
at the door of a large Louse. The door was thrown open, letting out a
flood of ruddy light, and in a few minutes, the whole party had shaken
off the loose snow and were ushered into a spacious parlor, attended by
their host and hostess, several boys and girls, and two or three dogs,
all, as it seemed, anxious to welcome the unexpected guests.
It was not long before all were warmed, and washed, and brushed, and
seated at a long supper-table, loaded with all sorts of good things.
The two little girls of the family, May and Annie, had taken possession
of Agatha as their rightful property, and she had already learned,
while brushing her hair and arranging her dress in their room, that
Annie was an orphan, and always lived with her grandparents, but May
had only come on a visit; that May was nine and Annie ten, and that
they loved each other dearly. She had seen the cushion May had worked
for grandmamma, and the scarf Annie had knitted for grandpapa, and had
faithfully promised not to tell—the presents being a great secret,
not to be revealed till the next morning, when they were to be placed
on the breakfast table. Agatha was fond of children and always got on
nicely with them.
The boys were rather shyer, as is apt to be the case with boys; but
Harry Hardy had presently discovered that the boys went to Doctor
Bower's school, and informed them that he was to go there next term;
after which they got on pretty well.
Frank did not feel much like talking. His heart was full of deep
thankfulness that things had turned out so much better than he had any
right to expect, and he made some resolutions and offered some prayers
that night for which his whole life was likely to be the better.
When supper was over, the whole party assembled in the parlor, where
there was a famous blazing fire in the grate.
"What a beautiful fire!" remarked Agatha. "I do love coal that blazes
so."
"Yes, in that we have the advantage of being near the mines," said Mr.
Hardy. "Coal is plenty and cheap, and I do love to see the fire. But
now, what shall we do to make the evening pass pleasantly, and repay
these young folks for the loss of their Christmas games at home?"
"Oh, grandfather!" exclaimed May, "don't you remember you promised to
tell us the story of the longest Christmas eve you ever spent? I am
sure Agatha would like to hear, wouldn't you?" she added, turning to
Agatha.
"Yes," replied Agatha. "I love stories."
"And so do I," said Ned, "especially when there are wild beasts in
them."
"Then this will suit you exactly, for there are plenty of wild beasts
in it," said Harry Hardy, who had heard the story before, but was quite
ready to hear it again. "Please do tell it, grandfather!"
The other guests joined their entreaties to those of the children.
"Well, I consent," said Squire Hardy; "but only on condition that
grandmamma shall tell hers, and the rest shall follow."
This was agreed to by all. The party drew their chairs round the fire.
Ned, who was never troubled with bashfulness, squeezed his stool in
close to the fire, and all prepared to listen to the tale of:
THE LONG CHRISTMAS EVE.
"I was born in Massachusetts. My father was a cabinet-maker, an
excellent workman, as I have heard, and, having a great turn for
mechanics, he was always poring over some new invention or other—some
labor-saving machine or new device for warming. They say necessity
is the mother of invention. I am disposed to think that invention is
often the mother of necessity. At least it was so in my father's case,
for, though a perfectly steady, sober man and a good workman, we were
always poor. And when my father died, my dear mother was left with six
children and very little else."
"I was the eldest, and when I was about fifteen, she determined to
send me out to my grandfather, who had removed to Michigan some years
before, and now lived upon a fine farm in one of the earliest settled
counties of that State. I was delighted with the idea, partly because I
liked the notion of seeing life in a new country, partly because I was
very desirous of doing something to help my mother. I thought that by
working a few years with my grandfather, I should learn how to manage a
farm, so that in time, I could take a piece of land of my own, and make
a home for my mother and the other children."
"I shall say nothing of the journey, though a journey in those days was
a very different matter from what it is now. A stage-coach was then the
most expeditious mode of travelling, and people thought ten miles an
hour was wonderful speed. But the roads were very bad in the spring and
fall, and often the heavy coach swept along at a snail's pace, happy
if it could get through without being overturned or stuck fast in the
mud. But a stage-coach was far beyond my means. My mother heard of a
family who were removing to the West, and who agreed to take me as far
as Detroit, and board me on the way, in consideration of my help in
driving, etc."
"We travelled with two great covered wagons and carried our own
provisions for the most part—sometimes camping out when the weather was
fine, sometimes staying at one of the taverns, which then abounded upon
the east and west roads. The people were reasonably kind to me, but
travelling in this way was tedious, toilsome work, and right glad was I
when I reached Detroit and found my grandfather waiting for me."
"Detroit was something of a city as long ago as that, but it certainly
was not a very splendid one, and I thought in all my travels, I had
never seen anything equal to the mud in the streets. At that time,
and for a long time afterwards, the ladies used to go to parties in
carts—regular carts, and very strongly built at that."
"We reached my grandfather's house in safety, and I found him very
comfortably situated in a new farm-house, with plenty of room and
abundance of comforts about him. Like all his neighbors, he had taken
up new land, but, having a good cash capital to begin with, he was able
to go on with his improvements more rapidly than most of them, and was
now by far the richest and most important man in the county."
"He owned a grist-mill and saw-mill on the river, and as everybody in
the neighborhood brought their corn to him to be ground, he had plenty
both of custom and company. My grandmother was a very charitable woman,
and when the poor people came with a bag of corn to be made into meal,
she would often give them a few apples, a loaf of wheat bread, or a
crust of gingerbread to take home to their children."
"People were beginning to make improvements pretty fast, and our mill
being in a convenient and healthy situation, a little village was fast
springing up around us."
"So there was a great demand for lumber, and the mill was kept very
busy. I was always fond of machinery, and my grandfather seeing, after
a while, how my taste turned, took me in to help him 'tend saw-mill.
Though very strict in requiring obedience and attention to business, he
was as kind a man as ever lived, and I was as happy with him as I have
ever been in my life. I loved to help him haul the big logs and get
them on the carriage, and then see the gang of sharp saws eat through
them from end to end. I liked to talk to the teamsters who came to the
mill for lumber or hauled the logs out of the woods. And above all I
liked to ride or drive round to the shingle camps, to see what the men
were about there, and sometimes to carry them a great pie or a basket
of hard gingerbread which my grandmother had baked for them. There were
many Indians about the country at that time, and we used often to have
our barns full of them for days together."
"Were you not afraid of them?" asked Agatha.
"O no; they were very friendly and well-behaved, unless when they got
drunk, though we had to keep a sharp lookout to prevent their stealing.
I learned a great deal from them about shooting and trapping, and by
degrees I got to be a capital shot and a good deal of a woodsman."
"There was one thing which I missed very much, and that was the church.
I was not particularly serious at that time, but I had been used to go
to church and Sunday-school every Sunday since I could remember. My
grandfather always read the service in his own family every Sunday, and
frequently two or three of the neighbors would drop in at these times.
We had a schoolhouse, of course, and now and then some minister would
give us a Sunday, but there was no regular church, and, as I said, I
missed it very much."
"The next fall, after I came to the mills, my grandfather went
to Detroit, a few weeks before Christmas, and when he came back,
besides quantities of groceries and dry goods, he brought home a very
unexpected guest—neither more nor less than a very pretty young lady.
Her name was Caroline Merton. She was a niece of my grandmother's, and,
being a little out of health, her parents had sent her out into the
country for change of air and scene."
"At first I thought it would be a great nuisance to have a young lady
in the family, but when I became acquainted with Carry I changed my
mind. Though a little bit of a body, and very nice and dainty in her
dress, she was as nimble as a squirrel and as fearless as any boy. I
soon found out that she could ride and drive, make snowballs, slide,
and skate, and that she was no more afraid of a gun than I was.
Besides, she was a capital cook, and could learn any sort of work
directly, so she was a great help to my grandmother."
"My grandfather had given me a fine young horse of his own raising. Of
course I felt very grand at owning a horse, and my grandfather, having
a nice light cutter, I took great delight in driving Carry about the
country whenever I could be spared from the mill."
"Well, the day before Christmas came a welcome guest—a clergyman, who
had been an old friend of my grandfather's, and who had been sent by
the Bishop on a sort of tour of inspection through the country to visit
the new settlements, especially those where there were no churches.
He had written to give notice of his coming, but the mails were not
very reliable, and, as it happened, the letter arrived about two
hours after the writer. Mr. Burgess proposed to spend Christmas and
the Sunday after at the mills, and it was decided to hold a Christmas
service in the schoolhouse, and to send word to as many people as
possible meantime. There were a good many church people settled in a
neighborhood about ten miles away, and it, was decided that I should
ride over and carry them notice of the services, calling at as many of
the outlying houses as I could take in my route."
"The weather was pleasant, though cold, and the sleighing as fine as
possible, and my grandmother suggested that Carry should go along with
me. Nothing could have pleased either of us better, for Carry was
always ready for a sleigh-ride, and I felt quite grand and manly at
being intrusted with the care of her. I always felt ten inches taller
when I had her on my arm or by my side, and I used to wish sometimes
that we could be thrown into danger, that I might have the pleasure
of protecting her. Well, we took an early dinner, and set off about
one o'clock, provided with abundance of blankets and buffalo skins,
and having in the bottom of the cutter a large basket filled with tea,
sugar, rice, and other good things, which we were to leave at the house
of a poor sick woman on the way."
"It was not long before we arrived at the house of the sick woman, and
as Carry said she was not cold, and would rather not get out, I left
her to hold the horse while I took the basket into the house. There was
no one in the house but the man and his wife, who was a poor, feeble,
sickly creature, but very good and industrious. I had often carried
them provisions before, and knew them very well. Indeed, the man worked
for my grandfather, but he had not been down for three or four days,
and we supposed his wife must be worse."
"'She has been very bad for two or three days,' said John, in answer
to my question, 'and I think she is out of her head. She has got the
notion that the Cedar swamp is full of wolves, and nothing can drive it
out of her. I am afraid to leave her for fear she should go into fits.'"
"'Poor thing!' said I. 'What a pity she should have taken such a
fancy!' I spoke in a low tone, but the sick woman heard me."
"'It is no fancy!' said she, raising herself upon her elbow and looking
earnestly at me. 'I tell you I have heard them for two nights, coming
nearer and nearer—nearer and nearer—through the swamp. I know what they
want, well enough—they smell a death in the house.'"
"'Well, well, Huldah, don't you worry about it,' said John, tenderly.
'We have got plenty of firewood, and powder and ball, and I won't leave
you a moment till you feel better. You see how it is,' he added, in a
low voice, following me to the door. 'I can't possibly leave her, till
there is a change somehow. I wish, if it isn't too much, you would ask
the old lady to ride up and see her. I am afraid she isn't long for
this world.'"
"'I am sure grandmother will come,' said I. 'She talked of doing so
to-day, but we have company. But you don't really think Huldah hears
the wolves, do you?'"
"'O no! It is just possible she might, though. The snow is very deep up
north, and the wolves may have driven down the deer. But we have had no
wolves to signify in this neighborhood since the hard winter five years
ago.'"
"'But I should think you would have heard them if she did,' I remarked.
"'Well, I don't know. Sick people's ears are apt to be sharp, and I am
rather hard of hearing. I expect, however, that what she takes for the
noise of wolves is the sighing of the wind through the trees.'"
"I repeated my promise of bringing my grandmother up as soon as
possible, and went back to the cutter. I did not myself believe the
sick woman had heard the wolves, and I did not mention the matter to
Carry at all. She had a kind of superstitious horror of wolves; they
seemed to be almost the only thing she was afraid of, and I feared the
mere thought of them would spoil her ride. So we chatted on about all
sorts of things as we rode from one house to another, and by the time
we reached the Jones' settlement, as it was called, I had forgotten all
about the matter myself."
"We stopped at the house of Captain Jones, and, as Carry was rather
cold and tired, I left her with Mrs. Jones while I went round to call
upon the neighbors and invite them to come down to the mills next day.
By the time I had finished my rounds, it was growing dark. Meantime,
good Mrs. Jones had got a famous supper ready for us, and nothing would
do but we must stay and eat it. I knew that the moon was full and
the night would be almost as light as day, and we both felt that it
would be much pleasanter riding home after supper than before. So the
horse was put into the barn to take his refreshment, and we sat down,
prepared to do full justice to the good things before us. Two or three
neighbors stepped in, and, to make a long story short, it was almost
eight o'clock before we started for home."
"'Which road shall you take?' asked Mr. Jones, as we went out to get up
the horse."
"'Oh, the swamp road, of course!'"
"'Well, I don't know,' said Mr. Jones, slowly. 'I think, if I were you,
I would go round by the Buck tavern.'"
"'But why?' I asked, in surprise. 'It is three miles further, and the
road is badly drifted, while that through the swamp is as smooth as a
floor.'"
"'It is a kind of lonesome road through the swamp, though,' observed my
companion. 'There isn't a house after you leave John's till you reach
the mills.'"
"'Oh, I don't mind that,' I replied. 'I have good company, you know.'"
"'Yes, I know. She is a first-rate girl, that's a fact. But talking
about the roads, I heard say that there were wolves heard up Concord
way last night, and they are not exactly the customers one likes to
meet in a lonely place, especially with a young lady in company.'"
"I started a little as these words brought poor Huldah and her fears to
my mind, but a moment's thought reassured ma."
"'But Concord is ten miles off' I replied. 'I dare say you might find a
few wolves within ten miles almost any time of year. I hate to go round
by the Buck, it will make us so late home.'"
"'More haste, worse speed,' said Mr. Jones. 'I always think it best
to be on the safe side, especially when there are women folks along.
I thought I would not speak before your cousin; as it might make her
scary about riding at all, but if you will take my advice you will go
home by the Buck.'"
"I thanked Mr. Jones for his advice, though I had very little idea of
following it, and drove round by the door to take in Carry. Mrs. Jones
followed us to the door with a great block of hard wood which she had
heated through before the fire, to keep Carry's feet warm during the
ride."
"The two roads divided about half a mile from the village; and, being
very much interested in some story Carry was telling me, I turned into
the swamp road without thinking what I was doing. I debated for a
minute or two whether I should not turn back, but I thought if I did I
should have to tell Carry the reason, and thus perhaps spoil her ride.
Besides, I thought it would look as if I were afraid, and, like most
other boys of my age, I would rather run any risk than let a girl think
I was a coward. Then, I had very little idea that there were any number
of wolves in the neighborhood, though, as I said, a few might be found
in the swamps at all times of the year."
"Finally, I had at that time a very serious fault, and one of which
my grandfather had not yet succeeded in breaking me, probably because
I had not myself learned to look upon it as a fault. I had a great
objection to being advised or directed—dictated to, as I said, and I
frequently took the opposite course to that which was suggested to me,
out of sheer obstinacy and determination to have my own way."
Ned glanced at Frank, and Frank on his part looked steadfastly at the
fire.
"So I kept on my way," continued the squire, "and we soon entered the
swamp. The road was sufficiently wide, and very smooth and even. The
moon shone gloriously, making the trees and bushes appear as if covered
with diamonds, and checkered the road with light and shade, as some
great tree now and then threw its branches over the track."
"John's house was situated nearly in the middle of the long swamp, in
a little open space, where there was a rise of ground and few acres
of excellent land, which he had cleared and got under some kind of
cultivation. As we drove by, we saw by the dancing, flickering light
in the window that he had got a great fire. It shone through the
uncurtained glass clear across the road, and as we passed, John himself
came to the door. I pulled up for a moment, and asked him how his wife
was."
"'She is very bad,' he answered, shaking his head. 'Nothing will
persuade her that she does not hear the wolves, and I had to make up a
great roaring fire to satisfy her. I just came to the door to see if
there was any sound to be heard, but I can't make out anything more
than common.'"
"I felt Carry give a little start at the mention of wolves. As we drove
on, the dog began to bark furiously, now and thou breaking into a long,
doleful howl. We heard him for a long time as we drove through the
swamp."
"'The old dog means to have the last word,' said I. 'He makes
more noise than a dozen wolves. I don't believe he thinks us very
respectable characters, Carry.'"
"Carry did not answer. Her flow of conversation seemed to have been
suddenly stopped by John's words, and as she put back her veil I could
see that she was listening. I confess I heartily wished that we had
gone by the other road, though nothing would have made me acknowledge
it. Nevertheless, I grew more and more uncomfortable every moment, and
I drove as fast as I could. To add to my annoyance, the horse began to
prick up his ears and show signs of restiveness, and finally broke into
a gallop."
"'What ails the brute!' I exclaimed, using, I am afraid, rather a hard
word. But Carry laid her hand on my arm."
"'Hush, Harry! For mercy's sake, don't swear! Listen!'"
"I listened, and the cold sweat broke out on my forehead, for I heard
the howling of the wolves as plainly as I now hear the roaring of the
wind."
"What was it like?" asked Agatha, drawing somewhat nearer to Frank.
"Like no sound you ever heard. Perhaps a little like the long-drawn
howl of a hound, but a great deal more wild and doleful. At first
I could not tell whether the sound was behind or before us; but by
listening a moment, I satisfied myself that our enemies at present were
all in the rear, though evidently in hot pursuit, as the sounds grew
louder every moment. Our lives depended upon our being able to reach
the edge of the swamp before they came up with us, or, failing that,
to attain some place of comparative safety near at hand. I could think
of but two. One was an old log-house which stood by the side of the
road in an abandoned clearing. I had once been in it, and I know that
the walls were in tolerably good repair, if there were only doors and
windows but how that was I could not remember. The other was a strong,
low growing oak tree, which stood a little beyond the clearing."
"I whipped up Charley and he flew like the wind. I think if he had
been fresh we should have kept our distance without much trouble. But
he had already been driven a good way, and after a little, he began
to be distressed. Still I pushed on, for it was our only hope. In a
few moments—it could have been but a few, though it seemed an age—we
reached the house, and I saw, to my horror, that the windows and a part
of the roof were gone, end the door was off its hinges and lay flat on
the ground."
"I believe I gave a little groan on seeing this, for Carry said, in a
low voice—she had not said a word before:"
"'We are lost, then! Oh, my poor mother!'"
"'No, no!' I cried. 'There is the oak tree a little further on.
Courage, Carry, we will cheat them yet!' I shouted to Charley to
encourage him, and the noble fellow made a new effort. I could see our
pursuers coming on behind us, and evidently gaining ground."
"At last we made a little turn, and there was the great oak, stretching
its low short branches over the road. It was but an instant's work to
spring from the cutter."
"'Up, up, Carry, for your life!' I said. 'They are upon us!'"
"Carry, as I said, was small and wonderfully active. Dropping her heavy
cloak, she sprang from the ground like a cat, and caught the limb. I
pushed her from below, and she raised herself to the bough, where she
clung securely. I followed her only just in time, for before I was
fairly in the tree the head of the nearest wolf appeared round the turn
in the road. Charley, relieved from our weight, bounded forward like a
deer, and, as I looked after him, I saw with delight that he had freed
himself from the cutter. The wolves were close upon him, and one of
them actually sprang upon his flunk, but a well-directed kick sent him
howling backwards with a broken leg."
"The instant the other wolves saw that their comrade was disabled,
they set upon him after their fashion, which gave both Charley and
ourselves a respite. I was not without hope that he would reach home in
safety, and I knew that if he did, he would give the alarm. Grandfather
would perceive that some accident had happened, and come out at once
to see what was the matter. I proposed to Carry that we should climb
higher in the tree, and thus place ourselves in e position at once more
comfortable and more secure. I could see by the moonlight that she was
pale as death, but no old hunter could be cooler or more collected. She
managed her movements so well that in a few moments she was seated in
perfect safety among the upper branches of the tree, where the trunk
served at once to shelter her from the wind and support her arm and
shoulder."
"'Now, Carry,' said I, 'we are safe, so far as the wolves are
concerned. The only danger now is from the cold. You must make up your
mind that you will not go to sleep.'"
"'Sleep!' said she, shuddering. 'I don't feel as though I should ever
sleep again, much less here!'"
"'You don't know how you will feel when you are chilled through,' I
replied. 'If we can only stand it till daylight, we shall be safe, at
any rate. What time is it now?'"
"Carry looked at her watch. It was half-past nine. 'A long, long night
is before us!' said she, sighing. 'I fear we shall never be able to
stand it through, but I will do my best to keep awake. May God have
mercy on us!'"
"'Amen!' said I, fervently, and that amen was the first real prayer I
ever said in my life."
"Many another first prayer has been made under like circumstances,"
remarked the clergyman; "and, alas! Many a last one also. But go on
with your story, sir."
"The wolves still hung over the remains of their dead comrade at some
little distance," continued the squire, "and I thought I might venture
down to secure one of the buffalo robes and Carry's cloak, which lay on
the ground. Without telling Carry what I was about to do, I bade her
sit still and make no noise, while I carefully descended from branch
to branch and dropped softly upon the ground. I threw the skin and the
cloak up on the branch."
"But the snow was cold and creaked under my feet. One of the wolves
looked round, and in a moment the whole pack were upon me. I was too
quick for them, however. As I swung myself upon the branch, I had
the satisfaction of dealing the nearest wolf a kick with my heavy
cowhide boot which would not have disgraced a mule. In another moment
I was safe at Carry's side with my prize, which was worth more than
its weight in gold to us at that moment, for the weather was growing
very cold. I wrapped Carry in her cloak, and would have given her the
whole of the skin; but she insisted upon my sharing it, and finding,
upon examination, that the bough was strong enough to bear a dozen men
safely, I drew close to her side and put my arm round her waist."
"More than a dozen wolves were now assembled round the foot of the
tree, howling and yelling as they looked up at us. Every now and then
one of them would give a leap upward, as if to secure his supper at any
rate. How thankful I felt when I remembered that wolves cannot climb!"
"Cannot they climb?" asked Ned.
"No, no more than a dog. If they could climb as well as run, few
creatures could escape from them. The wind had now risen a little, and
it was very cold, so that in spite of the buffalo skin, we shivered
from head to foot. I looked at Carry, and I perceived that her eyes
closed every now and then."
"'Carry,' said I; 'you are growing sleepy!"
"'I know it,' she replied, rousing herself. 'It seems very strange, but
I believe, if I were sure of not falling, I should go to sleep in a
moment.'"
"'And never wake again in this world!' said I. 'Don't you know that the
sleep which comes from cold ends only in death? You must keep awake,
whatever happens!'"
"'I will,' said she. And in a moment she began to sing the 'Gloria in
Excelsis.' I had often admired her singing before, and since then I
have heard that magnificent old chant in grand churches and cathedrals
at home and abroad, but I never heard it sound so wonderfully and
gloriously pathetic as it did that night, ringing among the trees of
the swamp as she sang: 'Thou who takest away the sins of the world,
have mercy upon us!'"
The squire paused for a moment and wiped his spectacles.
"It made me cry at first; for I thought she might be singing the
angels' song in another world before Christmas morning shone upon this.
But presently I recovered myself a little and joined my voice to hers.
For more than two hours we sat there in the tree, singing chants and
hymns and repeating parts of the Church service. We knew plenty of
songs, but we did not feel like singing them then."
"'This is Christmas Eve,' said Carry, at last. 'Can you realize it,
Harry?'"
"I did realize it, bitterly enough. 'Yes,' said I; 'and all our
folks—yours and mine—are enjoying it at home, never thinking of us!'"
"'Perhaps they do think of us,' said Carry softly. 'And at any rate,
Harry, God thinks of us.'"
"'Why don't He help us, then?' I thought, rebelliously enough, and then
the thought crossed me that I had never in my life asked Him honestly
to help me—never, in fact, felt the need of His help. I had always felt
sufficient to myself, and it was this very self-sufficiency which had
brought us into all this trouble."
"'Carry,' said I, half-choking, 'do say that you forgive me for
bringing you into this scrape.'"
"'There is nothing to forgive,' replied Carry. 'It was not your fault.
You did not know anything about the wolves.'"
"'I did! I did!' I cried. 'Mr. Jones warned me not to come by this
road, but I thought I knew best. Oh, Carry, can you forgive me?'"
"Carry was silent for a moment. 'I forgive you,' said she; 'but, Harry,
let this be a lesson to you!'"
"Notwithstanding all our exertions to keep warm and wakeful, we began
to be very much overcome with the cold. I tried to say my prayers, to
confess my sins, and to pray for my poor mother and sisters, but my
head was growing confused, and I could think of nothing distinctly.
Carry was now quite silent, but I could see that her lips moved.
Suddenly she gave such a violent start that I thought she was going to
fall."
"'Take care!' said I. 'Sit still!'"
"'Harry!' said she, whispering, as if afraid the wolves would overhear
her, 'Harry, I heard a shot!'"
"'Some tree cracking with the frost,' said I."
"'It was a rifle shot!' said she, positively. 'There, again!'"
"I heard it this time—the unmistakable sharp crack of a rifle—and then
a distant shout."
"'Safe! Safe!' I cried, exultingly. 'They have taken the alarm and have
come out to look for us!'"
"I put my two fingers in my mouth and gave a loud, shrill whistle—a
peculiar whistle, which my grandfather and I had agreed upon as a
signal when he was needed at the mill. It was answered by another
shout, and presently I saw through the trees the red light of torches
and lanterns. The wolves took to flight as they approached, and we were
saved."
"It had turned out as I had hoped. Once free from incumbrance, Charley
had gained on his pursuers and reached the open country where they
dared not follow him. He took the straight road home as a matter of
course, and came clattering round to the back door."
"'There are the children, at last!' remarked my grandfather, rising;
but, just as he was about opening the door, Peter, the black man,
came in, looking decidedly startled, and as pale, my grandfather said
afterwards, as could possibly be expected of as black as his hat."
"'I'se afraid something has happened to the young folks, boss,' said
he. 'Charley has come home by hisself without the cutter, and a great
bite on his flank. I'se dreadful afraid something bad has happened.'"
"'You are right, Peter, something bad has happened!' said my
grandfather, examining the home. 'I am afraid this means wolves! We
must raise the neighbors at once and go out to look for the poor
children. Run and ring the mill bell as hard as you can, while I saddle
the horses.'"
"The jingling bell soon called together all the men of the settlement.
Horses were brought out, guns loaded, and torches lighted, and they set
out to look for us with but little hope of finding us alive."
"Trembling and exhausted, we were helped down from our perch. But we
were both too weak to sit on horseback, and the men were obliged to
construct litters to carry us home. Seeing Carry laid upon hers was the
last thing I remembered for many days."
"The Christmas service took place, and was well attended, but neither
Carry nor myself were among the congregation. I was laid up with a
fever and as crazy as a loon, as they say, for three weeks. When I
recovered, they told me that I had acted over again all the scenes I
had passed through, sometimes whipping the horse, and then encouraging
Carry or singing hymns and chants. I was very weak and unwell all the
rest of the winter, and quite unable to work, so I had plenty of time
to think; and, I trust, my thinking was to good purpose."
"From that time forward we had service and preaching every two weeks
in the schoolhouse. The next spring my grandfather built a neat little
church, and the Bishop paid us a visit. Carry and I were among the
persons confirmed, and I trust we have been able to lead the rest of
our lives according to that beginning. Carry had a terrible cold and
lost her voice, so that she was never able to sing afterwards. And
that, children, was the very longest Christmas eve I ever spent in my
life."
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