THE SCHOLAR'S STORY.
"I AM sure we are very much obliged to you, sir," said Herbert.
"Boys don't very often turn out well who run away from home," observed
the squire. "You were very fortunate to escape as you did. Many a lad
who has run away and gone on the canal has either been heard of no
more, or, still worse, has grown-up into a ruffian and drunkard."
"If I were going to run away, I would not go on the canal," observed
Harry. "I would go to sea."
"You might not fare very much better for that," returned the scholar,
"and you would be still more powerless to help yourself if you chanced
to fall into the hands of a brutal captain. Any resistance to the
will of the captain on board ship is a mutiny, and liable to be
punished with death. A seafaring life is hard enough, especially in
the beginning, if begun under the most favorable circumstances; and
the inevitable hardships of the position would not be lightened by an
accusing conscience."
"There is no great danger of Harry's running away," said May, laughing.
"Harry, do you remember when you and Tommy Baker set out to go to
Bengal to hunt tigers?"
Harry blushed and laughed at the same time.
"What was that?" asked Ned.
"Shall I tell, Harry?" asked May.
"O yes, I don't care," replied Harry. "I was only eight years old,
anyhow."
"When Harry was eight years old," May began, "he and Tommy Baker, a
little friend of his, was visiting at the house of a lady who had a
great many beautiful books, and among others one which had in it a
great many pictures and stories about tiger hunting. It had beautiful
colored plates, and the stories were very interesting. So we always
asked for the tiger book whenever we went to see the lady."
"What was her name?" asked Ned, who always wanted all the particulars.
"Her name was Mrs. G—, but we always called her 'the lady.' All the
children did. Well, Harry and Tommy got the tiger book, and looked at
the pictures and read the stories, till they thought they would like
to go and hunt tigers too. So after supper, instead of coming straight
home, they set out to walk to Bengal. They had each for provisions an
apple and a nice frosted cake, which the lady had given them. When it
grew late and they did not come, mamma sent for them, but the lady said
they had set out some time before. Of course, every one was alarmed,
and papa and Uncle Henry went out to look for them. Before long Uncle
Henry found them a long way from home, but trudging along back as fast
as they could and looking very crestfallen."
"'Why, boys, where have you been?' asked Uncle Henry."
"'Almost to the toll-gate,' answered Harry."
"'To the toll-gate! And what took you there?'"
"'We wanted to go to India and hunt tigers,' said Harry, beginning to
cry."
"'Well!' said Uncle Henry, laughing. 'What made you turn back?'"
"'Because there was a great big pig in the road,' sobbed Harry, 'and we
were afraid to go past him.'"
Harry joined heartily in the laugh which followed, to the surprise of
Edward, who never could see any fun in a joke against himself.
"Don't you hate to have such stories told about you?" he said to Harry,
in a low tone.
"O no! I don't care! I have often laughed at it myself. I mean to go to
India some time or other, for all that."
"Who else is going to tell a story?" asked Frank.
"I think it is this gentleman's turn next," said the squire, turning to
the scholar, who sat looking at Agatha in an absent-minded way, as if
he were thinking of something very far off. He started as the squire
spoke, and expressed his willingness to contribute his share to the
amusement of the evening.
"We have had two stories of early times-one in Michigan and one in
New York State," said he. "I will tell you a story of early times
in Vermont. It was related to me by the lady to whom the incident
occurred, but as I cannot pretend to repeat her words, I will put the
story in words of my own."
"THE LONELY THANKSGIVING."
"It would be hard to find any place where people dwell at all
lonelier than Bolt's Hill. You turn up the public road, broad and
well-travelled, which leads from Whitehall to Rockville, and go up, and
up, and up, till it seems as if you were going to the clouds. On one
side of the road is a perpendicular wall of rock, from twenty to sixty
feet high, covered with grim, black spruce-trees. On the other side,
the land descends rapidly to a deep ravine, at the bottom of which
runs a brawling stream, which in wet weather is increased to a roaring
torrent."
"There is not a house or a sign of habitation for several miles, but
after a while the precipice and the road turn away from the stream,
and the ravine widens out into a valley, at the bottom of which is
a little, bright green meadow. The traveller comes to an old mossy
apple-orchard, and then to an old red house. The house is low and
needs painting, and the roof, the stone walls which surround the yard
and garden, and all the little buildings about the door are covered
with green moss and whitish lichens, showing how long they have been
standing. The view in front of the house is bounded by a narrow grove
of spruce and other trees, and behind that rises again the gray wall of
rocks. Back of the house, pale green rocky pasture-land runs down to
the brook, with here and there a tree growing in the scanty soil and
rooting itself deep in the rifts of the rock."
"In summer, Bolt's Hill is a pleasant place enough. But the autumnal
and winter gales sweep over it with a sound which may be heard for
miles away, and which seems like the roar of the sea on a sandy beach."
"But if Bolt's Hill be rather a dreary spot, the little girl who lived
there did not think so. It would be hard to find anywhere a more
cheerful, placid little maiden than Fanny Bolt, or one who enjoyed
life any more. Though she was the only child at home, she did not want
for playmates. She had the dog, the cat and kittens, the cosset lambs,
of which there were every summer one or two, and she was on terms of
intimacy with every horse, cow, and sheep about the place. In summer,
she went across lots to the district school, about three-quarters of
a mile away, and there she had plenty of friends, for all the school
children were fond of the bright, good-natured little girl."
"Fanny had not a great many books of her own. She possessed two or
three which had been her mother's. One called 'Examples for Young
Ladies,' and containing histories of various girls, good and bad. The
good girls invariably made happy marriages, and the bad ones always
caught cold and died, or were thrown out of carriages and became
cripples ever afterwards; the history always ending with the epitaph of
the young lady in question. Then she had a large 'Book of Trades,' with
a great many pictures, in which she took great delight. But her chief
treasures were the 'Parents' Assistant' and four big volumes of Mrs.
Sherwood's works, which her sailor brother had brought her from England
the last time he came home. These tales took her into a different world
from her own—a world over which Fanny pondered and dreamed as she
rambled over the pastures or sat with her sewing or knitting on the
flat stone before the kitchen door."
"Besides these peculiar treasures, Fanny, by the time she was twelve
years old, had read nearly all the books in the house. There was quite
a collection of voyages and travels in the corner cupboard, which she
knew almost by heart, and she had read a great deal of English and
American history. But the book she loved best of all was the Bible—the
great Bible with pictures, which lay on a stand in the corner, and
which she was allowed to look over and study as much as she pleased, on
the single condition that she should always have clean hands when she
touched it."
"Mrs. Bolt had family prayers every morning, and Fanny read her two
verses in turn with the rest, looking over her father as she sat by his
side. Then Fanny, ever since she could remember, had learned every day
first one, then two, then three verses in the New Testament, which she
repeated to her mother before she went to bed; so that she was very
familiar with the sacred text."
"Fanny did not often go to Sunday-school. Her parents were 'Church
people,' and there was no Episcopal church nearer than that at
Rockville, twelve miles away. On the first Sunday of every month, Mr.
and Mrs. Bolt drove over to Rockville to church, and these were Fanny's
great holidays. Then she met her special friends, the rector's two
little daughters. Then she went to Sunday-school, and in consideration
of her living so far away, the teacher allowed her to take home two or
three books at a time. One day, one of the other little girls in the
class objected to this indulgence."
"'We can only have one book at a time, and she has three. I don't think
it is fair.'"
"'Fanny can only come once in a month,' replied the teacher; 'and when
she comes she has learned the lessons for the whole month. She never
misses a lesson, and it is only fair that she should have the same
privileges as you who are more favored.'"
"Fanny had not always been an only child. She had once had two
brothers. The elder had gone to sea before Fanny was born. He had
come home two or three times since she could remember, and had always
brought her and her mother beautiful presents; but he had not been home
now for five years. The ship in which he sailed had been lost, and
though some of the sailors were saved, David Bolt was not among them.
Every one but Fanny believed that he was drowned; but Fanny could not
think so. She never talked about David now, because it seemed to grieve
her mother, but she thought of him a great deal, and always prayed for
him when she said her prayers."
"The other brother, John, had been injured by the fall of a tree he
was cutting down, and after lingering some months, he too died, and
was buried near the little church in Rockville. Fanny always went to
see his grave when she went to church. She loved to think of John,
too, and remember the talks she used to have with him as he lay on his
bed in the little room opening out of the kitchen. But she felt very
differently about John from what she did about David. John was safe in
heaven, never to suffer any more. Fanny was sure of that."
"But poor David might be cast ashore on some desert island, or a slave
among the savage Arabs, like the Captain Riley whose narrative was
among the books in the corner cupboard; and most earnestly did the
little girl pray that God would care for him and bring him safely home
again."
"One November—the one in which our story begins—the winter had set in
early, and very cold and stormy. There had been snowstorms already,
and the sleighing was good, though the road between Bolt's Hill and
Rockville was somewhat drifted. Fanny did not go to school now. She
learned her lessons at home, and recited them to her father in the
evening. She could not run about the fields any more, but she did not
want either for work or amusement. She had her lessons to learn and her
daily task of spinning to do, for Fanny had already learned to spin
both on the great and little wheel. Then for amusement, she had the
footstool she was working in worsted for a present to Mr. Henderson,
the rector of the church at Rockville: she had her swing in the garret,
her dolls and playhouse, and her books, which she loved the more the
oftener she read them over."
"The day before Thanksgiving—that is to say, on the twenty-seventh day
of November, Mrs. Bolt said to Fanny at the breakfast table:"
"'Now, Fanny, you are to be housekeeper to-day. Your father and myself
are going to Rockville to do some business, and we want you to stay at
home, keep up the fire, and have a comfortable house and a good supper
for us when we come home.'"
"Fanny looked a little grave and disappointed when she heard that her
parents were going to Rockville without her, but her face soon cleared
up again. And she began to please herself with thinking of all the work
she should do, and the nice supper she would have for her mother at
night; for Fanny was already quite a good cook."
"'You will not be lonely,' continued Mrs. Bolt. 'Your father stopped
at Mrs. Morrell's last evening, and invited Miss Gibson to come up and
spend two or three weeks with us, and she is coming this morning.'"
"Fanny clapped her hands with joy. Miss Gibson was the lady who had
taught the district school for the last two summers. She was very
young, only eighteen; and though she well knew how to command obedience
in school, out of school she was the best playfellow in the world. She
knew heaps of stories and more plays than were ever heard of in the
Bolt Hill district before, and all the children loved her. Miss Gibson
was an orphan, and had no home of her own, but she was a welcome guest
at every house in the district. Fanny loved her dearly, and nothing
could please her more than the news that she was to have her darling
Miss Gibson to herself for a whole day."
"'It looks like snow,' said Captain Bolt, as he came in after bringing
the horse round to the door; 'but then it has looked so for two or
three days. Mind and keep up good fires, Fanny. There is plenty of dry
wood and pine-knots in the shed. I shall be home in time to milk.'"
"'Oh, father, let me milk!' said Fanny. 'I can do it just as well as
not.'"
"'Very well, do as you please. And if anything should happen—mind, I
don't see how anything can—but if anything should happen to prevent our
coming home to-night, don't you be scared, but put your trust in God
and go to bed in peace.'"
"'But, father, what could happen?' asked Fanny."
"Nothing that I know of, child, but it is way of mine to look at all
sorts of possibilities. Come now, mother, if you are ready.'"
"Fanny stood at the door of the farm-house with her skirt thrown over
her head, and watched the sleigh down the hill, till a turn in the
road hid it from her eyes. Then, she turned the other way to see if
Miss Gibson was coming, though it was rather early to expect her. Mr.
Morrell lived five miles away by the road, but by the path, ''cross
lots,' along which Fanny used to go to school and by which Miss Gibson
would come, it was only about a mile. This path was almost always kept
open in winter, for it was much the nearest way to the little village
called Rockville Four Corners."
"As I said, it was early for Fanny to expect her friend, but Miss
Gibson had said she should come as early as she could get away. Fanny
gazed for some time across the pasture but saw nothing, and finally she
went in, made up a bright fire, and occupied herself in washing up the
breakfast dishes and putting the kitchen in nice order. She had done
all this, got out her spinning wheel, and learned her Scripture verses,
and still Miss Gibson did not make her appearance."
"'There is no use in this,' said Fanny, decidedly. 'The more I look for
her the more she won't come. "A watched pot never boils," as father
says. I will just set about my spinning and not go to the door again
till she comes.'"
"As Fanny turned to go into the house, a few snow-flakes came drifting
downwards through the air."
"'There!' said Fanny. 'It is going to snow, after all. I hope father
and mother will not get caught in the storm.'"
"Fanny drew her wheel—her own pretty wheel, made expressly for her
and given her on her last birthday—into its usual place, and applied
herself sedulously to her task, stepping busily backwards and forwards
and singing to herself. She was spinning some uncommonly fine stocking
yarn, and she took great pride in making a smooth, even thread."
"'I will not even look out of the window,' said she to herself, 'till I
have spun all these rolls.'"
"This was a very good plan of Fanny's. Nothing makes the time pass
more quickly than setting oneself a certain task, and sticking to it
steadily till it is finished. Fanny went on with her spinning, and soon
became interested in her work, which she tried to do as well as she
possibly could. As she took up the last roll, a fierce gust of wind
shook the window so strongly that she turned, without thinking, and
looked out. The air was full of snow-flakes whirling in all directions,
as they were driven by the wind. Fanny went to the window. She could
not even see the barn."
"'It is only a squall,' thought Fanny. 'It will be over presently.
I only hope Miss Gibson has not got caught in it. I do wonder why
she does not come. She told father she would be here directly after
breakfast.'"
"Fanny was destined to wonder a great many times before the day closed,
for Miss Gibson did not come at all, because she did not even set out.
The truth of the matter was this. When Miss Gibson rose in the morning,
she found she had a bad sore throat. She had taken cold in some way,
and her throat was very much swollen and so sore that she could hardly
swallow her breakfast."
"'You will never be able to go up to Bolt's Hill this morning,' said
Mrs. Morrell."
"'I don't like to disappoint Fanny,' said Miss Gibson, 'especially as
she is to be alone to-day. Perhaps I will feel better when I have had
my breakfast.'"
"'We shall see,' returned Mrs. Morrell, shaking her head. 'I am much
mistaken if you get out of the house this day, or to-morrow either.'"
"It turned out that Mrs. Morrell was right. Miss Gibson's cold grew
worse very fast, and before breakfast was over she was obliged to lie
down on the sofa."
"'It is too bad that you should be disappointed, and Fanny too,' said
good-natured Mrs. Morrell. 'I'll tell you what I'll do, Eunice.' (Miss
Gibson's name was Eunice.) 'I will send Jake up to Bolt's Hill with the
sled to bring Fanny down here to spend the day. She will enjoy that,
and so shall I; for there is not a nicer girl than Fanny in the whole
district.'"
"Jake set out on his errand with no good will. He was Mr. Morrell's
nephew, and 'bound' to him; that is, he was to live in his uncle's
house and work for him till he was grown-up; at which time he was to
have a suit of clothes, a horse, and some other matters to start him in
the world. Mr. Morrell had one son, who was in college studying to be
a minister. Jake chose to feel himself very much injured that he could
not go to college, too, though, as his aunt said, it was hard to tell
what he would have done there, since he was the dunce of the village
school, was always at the bottom of the spelling and parsing classes,
and had never yet succeeded in learning the multiplication table. The
only thing to which Jake really applied himself, and in which he showed
any ingenuity, was in shirking work; and it seemed us if he sometimes
took more pains to avoid work than would have been necessary to do it.
In short, Jake was thoroughly and entirely lazy, and being so, he was
almost, as a matter of course, thoroughly selfish and very much given
to lying."
"Jake had finished his chores before breakfast, for a wonder, and he
felt very virtuous in consequence, and very much disposed to spend the
rest of the day in lounging in the chimney-corner. It was therefore
with no good will that he found himself required to go up to Bolt's
Hill and drag Fanny down to his aunt's."
"'I don't believe she will come,' said he, sulkily, 'and, besides, I
don't see why I am to be bothered with her. However, I suppose I can
go.'"
"I suppose you can, and pretty quick, too!' returned Mrs. Morrell,
sharply."
"Jake knew by experience that to quarrel with his aunt was no way to
secure his dearly beloved ease, and that he must at least pretend to
obey her. But he had no sort of notion of going clear up to Bolt's
Hill. He took his sled and went out, indeed, but only as far as the
grocery at the corner by the blacksmiths shop, where he lounged away a
couple of hours enjoying the society of two or three village loafers.
Then he returned home."
"'Where is Fanny?' asked his aunt, meeting him at the door."
"Oh, I met Captain Bolt just up at the corner, and he had Fanny with
him. They were coming round this way to tell Miss Gibson that she need
not come up, because they were all going to Rockville for the day.'"
"'So you see, Eunice, it was well you did not go up there,' said Mrs.
Morrell. 'It is queer too—not a bit like the Bolts.'"
"'Something new might have happened, you know,' said Miss Gibson. In
her heart, she felt hurt that her friends should have treated her so
unceremoniously—inviting her for a visit, and then going away from home
on the very day she was expected. But she had abundance of that charity
which thinketh no evil. She presently made up her mind that something
unforeseen must have happened which made it necessary for Fanny to go
with her parents to Rockville, and wisely resolved to think no more of
the matter till she saw her friends again. That Jake had made up the
whole story was an idea which never entered her mind."
"Meantime Fanny, in the old red house on the hill, found the time
pass rather slowly. The storm did not abate as she expected; on the
contrary, the snow seemed to fall faster mid faster all the time, and
the wind, catching it up, spun it in whirls and eddies round the house,
and then piled it up in great drifts under the windows and along the
fences. There was no use in looking out of the window, for nothing
was to be seen. Long before noon, Fanny had given up all idea of Miss
Gibson's arriving that day. It was clear she could not come out in such
a storm. Fanny could not help crying a little over her disappointment;
but she soon wiped her eyes."
"'There is no use in crying,' said she to herself, briskly and
cheerfully. 'I must just make the best of it, that's all. I mean to
work at my cushion till it is time for dinner, and then make myself
some batter slap-jacks. Mother said I might get anything I liked, and I
mean to have slap-jacks and maple molasses.'"
"Fanny got out her work-basket, sorted her worsteds—crewels she called
them, and went industriously to work. She was embroidering a pretty
pattern, and she soon fell to singing cheerfully over her work.
By-and-by old Bose, the dog, came to the door and scratched to come
in. As Fanny opened the door, the wind pulled it out of her hand and
slammed it back against the wall, while what seemed a whole snow-drift
came whirling in at the door."
"'Whew!' exclaimed Fanny. 'This rather beats all I ever saw, even on
Bolt's Hill! Come in, Bose, you good old dog! You shall have your
dinner with me. I declare!' said Fanny, struck with a sudden thought,
'I mean to have a dinner party.'"
"No sooner said than done. Fanny ran upstairs to the garret, and
presently came down carefully carrying a large basket, and followed by
a very large and beautiful yellowish-white cat, with long hair and a
long, bushy tail. She set the basket down in a warm corner by the fire.
It contained a bunch of yellowish-white fur, which presently began to
move and showed itself to be composed of three plump kittens, about
four weeks old, which stretched themselves, crept out of the basket,
and began playing about the floor. The old cat was evidently greatly
pleased, and showed her satisfaction in cat fashion by purring, making
pretty little coaxing noises, rubbing her head, and finally mounting
in Fanny's lap and sitting on her shoulder. She was a foreigner, a
Japanese, and had been brought home by David Bolt on his last visit as
a present to his little sister. She was only a kitten then, but she
was now growing old. She was still lively and playful and an excellent
mouser. None of her kittens were ever killed. All the children in the
village were glad to have them, and two or three of them had been
carried as far as Rockville and Whitehall. When she had no kittens, the
cat generally slept on Fanny's bed."
"Fanny made her slap-jacks and cooked some ham for her own dinner.
Old Bose sat by her side, wagging his tail, and now and then giving a
short bark. Puss sat up in a chair by the table, and behaved as well
as possible, purring loudly, and now and then speaking to her kittens
which capered about the room. Fanny said grace as her father did, and
eat her dinner, now and then giving her companions a morsel. Then she
washed up all her dishes, swept the hearth, and sat down to read."
"Meantime the storm kept on increasing in force, if that were possible,
and the short November day drew towards a close. When Fanny finished
her story and looked out, she found it was growing dark."
"'I must go out and milk, if I am to do it at all,' said she; 'though I
don't exactly see how I am to get to the barn. However, I can try, and
if I cannot make it out I can come back.'"
"She wrapped herself in her shawl, tying it round her that it might not
be in her way, put on her hood, and pulled on a pair of old woollen
stockings over her shoes. Thus equipped, she set out for the barn."
"She found the task rather easier than she expected. The wind had blown
away the snow so as to form a sort of path for a part of the way; and
though there was a drift before the barn-door, she made her way through
it the first time without much trouble, aided by Bose, who flounced
backwards and forwards through the snow and helped to break a path.
There were only two cows in the shed. Fanny milked them both, and
pulled down hay for them from the rack above. There was a pump in the
corner of the shed, and Fanny pumped water for the cows, and carried
a pailful to the old mare in the stable. She was obliged to make two
journeys to the house with her pails, and she came in from the last
looking very serious indeed. When she had taken off her wraps and put
away her milk, she stood at the window for a long time, and when she
turned away there were tears in her eyes."
"'I don't believe father and mother can get home to-night,' said she,
sorrowfully. 'I am afraid they will be smothered in the drifts. And what
shall I do if I have to stay here all night alone?'"
"These thoughts were too much to bear quietly. Fanny threw herself down
on the floor, with her head in a chair, and cried bitterly. The cat and
the dog came round her as if to ask what was the matter. Fanny put her
arm round the dog's neck."
"'Oh, poor old Bose!' she sobbed. 'Where do you think your master and
mistress are now?'"
"Bose looked wistfully at her and licked her face, but he could give
her no other comfort. Presently Fanny grew more quiet, and she might
have been heard murmuring softly to herself. Fanny was praying—begging
her Father in heaven to watch over her father and mother and bring
them safe home, and to take care of her while she was there alone, so
far from neighbors. As she prayed, she grew more composed and her sobs
ceased; and when she rose her face was quiet and even cheerful. She
made up the fire and lighted a candle. Then bringing the Prayer-book
from the corner-stand, she read aloud the psalms for the day, both
morning and evening, finding great comfort in the repeated declaration
that 'His mercy endureth forever!' Then she began to think what she had
better do next."
"'I will bring in plenty of wood from the shed, so that I need not have
to go out in the cold any more.'"
"This was soon done. Fanny brought in plenty of light wood such as she
could manage. The fire had been made up in the morning with a mighty
back-log, back-stick, and fore-stick, all as large as good-sized trees.
Fanny piled up the fuel, putting in plenty of pine-knots to make a
cheerful blaze, and swept up the hearth clean. Then she brought in more
wood, enough to last all night."
"'I suppose I had better get the supper,' said she, sighing; 'though I
am afraid they will not be here to eat it.'"
"There was at least some comfort to be found in keeping busy, and
Fanny almost forgot her trouble in setting the table neatly, frying
a chicken, which she found all prepared for cooking in the pantry,
and getting ready a nice hot supper. When everything was done, she
covered up all her dishes warmly on the hearth, set the light on a
little stand in the chimney-corner, propped up her favorite volume
of Bishop Heber's Journal, and set resolutely to knit and read till
her father and mother should come. The clock struck the hours and
half-hours—six—seven—eight—nine—ten—and still nobody came, and no sound
was heard outside but the shrill howling and deep roar of the wind, and
the click of the snow as it was blown against the glass. At last Fanny
laid down her knitting, and closed her book."
"'There is no use in my sitting up any longer,' said she to herself. 'I
remember what father said to me the last thing: "If anything happens
that we do not come home, put your trust in God, and go to bed in
peace." I will just go over the house to see that all is right, and
then say my prayers and go to bed.'"
"She accordingly took up her candle, and calling Bose to go with
her—not that she was afraid, but because she liked his company—she went
into every room in the house, seeing that the windows and doors were
fast and all things in order. As she came down and went into the front
room—the keeping room, as it was usually called, she was startled to
see how high the snow was piled against the front windows of the house."
"'It must be drifting in between the house and the ledge, as it did
once when I was a little girl,' thought Fanny. 'Father will have a fine
time shovelling it away.'"
"Seeing that all was safe, she arranged the fire so as to insure its
keeping, set everything in order for the night, eat a little supper
herself, and fed the cat and dog. Then she lighted a small oil-lamp
which her mother used when she wished to keep a light all night, and
set it in a safe place. She had made up her mind to sleep down-stairs
in the small room which opened out of the kitchen—John's room, as
it was still called—instead of going upstairs. By the time she had
finished all her preparations, it was eleven o'clock—later than she had
ever sat up in her life before."
"'How nice and comfortable it all looks!' she thought, surveying the
large kitchen. 'Now, if I only knew that dear father and mother were
safe, I would not much mind having to stay alone. The Rockville road
is not like this; there are a great many houses on it, so that if they
were stopped by the drifts they would have some place to stay all
night. But very likely they did not leave Rockville at all.'"
"Fanny said her prayers as usual, asking earnestly that her father and
mother might be taken care of and brought safely home. As she prayed
she seemed to feel as though her Saviour was very near her in her
solitude. She remembered all those precious words: I will never leave
thee nor forsake thee; 'Lo, I am with you alway, even unto the end of
the world;' 'I will not leave you comfortless, I will come to you;'
and God gave her grace to believe in His promises and to lean upon His
mercy, which endureth forever. When she rose up, she felt herself no
longer alone."
"Fanny had thought she should lie awake all night, but instead
of that her head had hardly touched the pillow before she fell
asleep. She slept long and soundly, but when she awoke there was
no sign of daylight. All was dark and still. She did not even hear
the roaring of the wind, and she thought the storm must be over.
Presently the clock begun to strike, and she counted the strokes:
one-two-three-four-five—six—seven—eight—and there it stopped. What
could it mean? Was the clock wrong? Had it run down? It struck eleven
before she went to bed, she was quite sure. She jumped up and ran out
into the kitchen. There was no light outside, but the lamp was still
burning. Fanny caught it up and looked at the clock. Eight o'clock,
sure enough. The sun ought to be up and shining, and here it was still
dark night! What could have happened?"
"Fanny went to the window and put up the curtain. She could not see
anything till she held the lamp close to the glass. Then the truth
flashed upon her all at once. She was snowed up. The house was buried
in snow. She went into the front room, and then upstairs. All the same.
A solid wall of snow was banked up against the panes. Not even from the
upper windows could she see a ray of light. She was buried alive."
"Fanny stood for a few minutes as if stunned by the greatness of the
calamity which had overtaken her. What was she to do? What would become
of her? Would she be left to starve to death there in the snow? Would
some one come before it was too late?"
"What would become of the cattle—the cows and sheep in their sheds, the
mare in the barn? She could think of nothing at first, and she returned
to the kitchen, and threw herself on the settee in a kind of stunned
and stupid despair."
"But Fanny did not lie there long. She had naturally a hopeful
and resolute disposition, and she had been trained in habits of
thoughtfulness and presence of mind. She roused herself, and began to
consider what she had better do."
"'There is no sort of use in my trying to get out, even to the barn,'
she reflected. 'I should be smothered in the snow. So the cattle and
the chickens must take their chance. I am glad I pulled down plenty of
hay for them last night. But now about myself. I suppose it may be two
or three days before any one can get up here, and I had better look
round and see what I have to live upon. Oh, if Miss Gibson had only
come up as she promised! But after all, it would be only one more in
trouble. The first thing to do is to bring in plenty of wood. No, that
is not the first thing, either.'"
"Fanny knelt down and said her prayers. Then she quickly dressed
herself, and, going out into the shed, she soon brought in plenty of
wood, enough to last the whole day through, and piled it up in one
corner out of the way. As she went out the third time, she heard a
cracking sound in the roof of the shed; and looking up, she saw that
some of the boards were bent down so that the snow came in between
them."
"'If the shed should fall in, I would be rather badly off,' said she.
'I think I had better bring in all the wood I am likely to want.'"
"This was very sensible in Fanny. Fuel is generally the first thing to
be looked to in such cases. She brought in nearly all the cut wood in
the shed, and a great store of pine-knots. Then she began to look into
the state of her provisions. No fear there. She had enough of flour,
meal, and butter to last six weeks, besides the barrels of beef and
pork in the cellar, and the chickens and turkey which had been got
ready for the Thanksgiving dinner. As she looked at them she realized
for the first time that this was Thanksgiving day—the day on which all
New England bred or descended folks gather together as many of their
families as are within reach, that they may rejoice together before the
Lord, they, their sons and daughters, in all the good which the Lord
has done unto them. Thanksgiving day!—And here she was alone and buried
in the snow, while her father and mother were she did not know where."
[Illustration: "Christmas at Cedar Hill."
"But I am not going to cry."]
"'But I am not going to cry,' said Fanny aloud, resolutely brushing the
tears from her eyes. 'If I once begin, I shall never know when to stop.
I shall make my head ache, and then I shall be good for nothing.'"
"Determinedly she wiped her eyes and choked down her sobs. She looked
into the candle box. It was half full of nice mould candles, and there
was, besides, a jug of oil."
"'Well,' said Fanny, as she concluded her survey, 'I don't see that I
need be extra careful of anything but wood, and I don't think I shall
get out of that very soon. If father and mother are alive, they will
be coming to look for me before long. Then they must know down at Mr.
Morrell's that I am here alone, because father told Miss Gibson, and I
should think they would see that I don't suffer. At any rate there is
One who knows all about it, and while He cares for me, no real harm can
come to me. Oh, I never knew before how good it was to trust in Him!'"
"Fanny got her breakfast and washed all her dishes nicely. When the
necessary work was done, she began to consider how she should spend
the day. It was Thanksgiving day—a time set apart by the Church and
the State is which to praise the Lord and rejoice before Him for all
His goodness during the year. Fanny know what her duty was. She loved
the services of the Church dearly, and she had always been taught that
it was not only her duty, but a precious privilege, to join with heart
and voice in the prayers and praises of God's people; and she felt
comforted at the thought that she could still join with them, though
she was alone on the snowy hill-top."
"When church time came, she got out the great Bible and Prayer-book
and laid them on the table. Then she took down one volume of a set of
sermons, out of which her father often read when they did not go either
to Rockville or to the Corners on a Sunday. She selected a discourse
which seemed to her suitable to the occasion, and put in a mark."
"Then, as the clock struck the hour of church time, she opened her
Prayer-book and slowly and reverently read the service. She had never
prayed more earnestly in all her life than she did at this time; and
she realized more than she had ever done the meaning of those words
in the Creed, 'The Communion of Saints.' She felt herself a member of
the Church, and she found great comfort in the feeling. She was but
a little girl twelve years; she had never taken up much room in the
world, and if she died hardly any one besides her father and mother
would miss her very much; and yet she was, by her baptism, 'A member of
Christ, a child of God, and an inheritor of the kingdom of heaven.' She
was, in some mysterious way, one with Christ, and through Him with all
his faithful people. How then could she ever be really alone?"
"Fanny read the sermon she had selected, and though she did not
understand all of it, she found many things both pleasant and
profitable. When she had finished her services, she sat for some time
singing the psalms and hymns in the Prayer-book, and others which she
had learned down in the village. She had a sweet voice, and always took
great pleasure in singing. If anything happened to make her angry or
sad, she would run away by herself and sing; and she seldom failed to
regain her tranquillity in this way."
"'I must get a nice dinner,' said Fanny, when noon came. 'It would not
be like Thanksgiving unless I did.'"
"After dinner, Fanny began to think what she should do next. She did
not feel quite so cheerful as she had done in the morning. The darkness
and the loneliness began to tell upon her spirits. Then, too, it was
so terribly still. Fanny felt as though even the roaring of the wind
would be a relief; but she could not hear a breath. There was only the
ticking of the clock, the burning of the fire, and the noises made by
the kittens in playing about the floor. Every now and then Fanny would
feel sure that she heard people digging in the snow, and she would
strain her ears to the utmost, only to be disappointed again. The time
wore on very slowly, and at last the clock struck four."
"'I cannot stand this,' said Fanny, throwing down the book she was in
vain trying to read. 'I must have something to do. I believe I will get
out my spinning wheel. I hope it will not be doing wrong. I feel as if
I should be crazy unless I did something.'"
"This again was wise in the little girl. There is nothing so good as
strenuous employment to keep the mind healthy under circumstances of
excitement and suspense. Fanny worked hard at her spinning, taking the
greatest pains with her thread, till eight o'clock, when she took her
supper, fed the dog and cat, and then went to bed."
"Fanny's danger was much more serious than she had any notion of. A
great weight of snow had by this time gathered on the house, which was
what is called gambrel-roofed—that is to say, it was two stories high
in front and sloped down to one behind. A modern-built house would
most likely have been crushed at once, but the old red farm-house was
solidly framed with stout oak timbers, three times as thick as any we
think of using nowadays, and it stood out bravely as yet."
"Fanny did not rest as soundly this night as the night before. She was
troubled with bad dreams, from which she started affright, calling for
her mother, and crying when she remembered that that mother was far
away, if indeed she were alive. It was dreadful to wake in the morning
from a dream of summer and green trees, and David walking with her
to school, and then to realize it all—the snow above and around, the
loneliness and uncertainty. Fanny would have been glad to sleep till
noon, but that was impossible."
"So she got up, and after she had finished her breakfast she set to
spinning with all her might. She now kept two candles lighted, the
place seemed so dismal. Bose was growing very uneasy. He whined and
cried to go out, and behaved so strangely that Fanny was half afraid of
him."
"The day wore on slowly, and night came again, and yet she was alone."
"For three whole days, she had not seen the face of a human being. Her
firewood was getting low, too. She hardly dared to go into the shed for
more, and yet she was afraid her fire would go out unless she got a
larger stick. At last she determined to venture. She found her sled in
one corner, and, getting a pretty good-sized log on it, she managed to
drag it into the kitchen. She had done this three times and was going
out again, when Bose sprang between her and the door, and would not
allow her to pass, even growling and taking hold of her dress with his
teeth when she tried to push him out of the way. At that moment, the
shed fell in with a great crash. But for the dog, Fanny would have been
buried in its ruins."
"As it was, the fall of the shed was both alarming and inconvenient.
She could get no more wood and no more well-water; and what if the roof
to the home should fall in as that of the shed had done! She went up
into the garret to see if she could see any signs of its yielding, but
all stood firm as yet."
"And now Fanny made a great discovery. There was a little projecting
window, such as is sometimes called a dormer window, high in the roof,
looking towards the east, and through this window Fanny could see
a little glimpse of daylight. She stood looking at it in a kind of
ecstasy, and as she gazed a ray of clear sunshine shot through it and
glanced upon the great old chimney and the blackened beams and boards
of the roof. It seemed to the poor little girl like a visible angel
messenger from her Father in heaven. She clasped her hands and burst
into joyful tears, while she fell upon her knees and thanked God that
at least the dreadful storm was over."
"It was long before she could tear herself from the sight of that
blessed light; but at last, finding herself growing chilly, she
descended to the kitchen, and, having carefully made up her fire, she
began to spin once more, singing as she drew out her long threads and
speaking cheerfully now and then to the cat and dog."
"Presently she stopped her wheel, and went to get the reel on which to
wind the yarn she had spun. As she set it down, Bose sprang up, and
began to bark and howl furiously, at the same time scratching violently
at the door. With some trouble, Fanny quieted him for a moment,
and listened as well as her beating heart would let her. There was
certainly something moving outside—a muffled sound of digging. Fanny
even thought she could distinguish voices. She flew to the garret, and
piled one box on another, lifting easily in her excitement a chest she
could hardly have moved at another time. A tall, slender pole stood
in the corner. She pulled off her pink apron and tied it on the pole
for a flag. Then finding that she could not move the window, she broke
the glass, and, thrusting the pole through it, she waved it about. Oh,
joyful sound! Her signal was answered by a shout. She was saved!"
"We must now go back to Mr. Morrell's house at the Corners. After the
storm came on, Jake began to be rather uneasy about the consequences
of his falsehood. He tried to comfort himself by thinking that after
all Fanny very likely had gone with her father and mother, and was safe
in Rockville all the time; but still the thought would haunt him that
Fanny was alone in the house on the hill, and that if anything happened
to her he would be answerable."
"'Bolt's folks will hardly get home to-night,' remarked Mrs. Morrell,
as her husband came in with Jake from foddering the cattle and milking
the cows."
"'If they have any sense at all, they won't try!' replied Mr. Morrell.
'It is quite providential, as it turns out that Fanny went with them,
and that Eunice did not go up there. How is she?'"
"'Pretty considerable sick,' replied Mrs. Morrell. 'She has got a real
bad cold. Did Captain Bolt say anything about what time he should be
back, Jake?'"
"'No,' replied Jake."
"'It must have been a real sudden start, taking Fanny,' continued Mrs.
Morrell. 'He didn't know anything about it when he stopped here on his
way to the post-office. Maybe there is something going on in their
church.'"
"'I shouldn't wonder; and Bolt might have got notice of it when he went
to the post-office. Where did you see them, Jake?'"
"'Right up here by the Corners,' answered Jake, keeping as much out of
sight as he could."
"'They must have taken an early start to get down to the Corners by
that time.'"
"'Like enough they did start early just on purpose to let Eunice know,
and calculated to take her up on the way back,' remarked Mrs. Morrell.
'Didn't they say anything about it, Jake?'"
"'I didn't hear it, if they did,' replied Jake. 'Bolt said something
just as he was driving off, but I didn't understand what it was.'"
"'I dare say you forgot half your message,' said his aunt. 'Some one
must try and get up the hill early in the morning, and see what becomes
of the critters. The cows will be spoiled.'"
"But the next morning and the whole of the next day there was no
stirring out. The storm raged so fiercely that it was not thought worth
while to open the meeting-house, as no one could come who did not live
close by. Many a family in the village sat down three or four in number
to the dinner which had been prepared for twelve or fifteen. It was the
dullest Thanksgiving ever known."
"The family at Mr. Morrell's were round the fire at early twilight,
when a knock came at the door. Mr. Morrell opened it, and there stood a
man covered from head to foot with snow."
"'Come in, stranger, come in to the fire,' said Mr. Morrell."
"The stranger walked in, after shaking off as much as possible of the
clinging snow."
"'So you don't know me, Mr. Morrell,' said he, with a kind of sad
smile."
"'I ought to, I dare say, and your voice sounds kind of natural too,'
said Mr. Morrell, looking closely him."
"'Good gracious, husband, don't you see!' exclaimed Mrs. Morrell,
springing forward. 'It's David—David Bolt. My goodness sakes alive,
man, where did you come from?'"
"'From Whitehall, this time,' said David, submitting to be kissed by
the good woman as if he had been still the little boy who used to sit
on her lap. 'I started from there early this morning, and got a ride
as far as Daucey's. I have footed it from there, and tough work it has
been. But I felt somehow as if I must get home to-night after I heard
from Daucey that the old folks were alive and well. But coming by and
seeing your windows so bright, I thought I would drop in and rest
before I went up the hill. I expect it will be a tough pull, though.'"
"'You wont stir another peg this night,' said Mr. Morrell, positively.
'Your folks all went to Rockville yesterday before the storm began, and
they can't have got home yet. You just stay here to-night, and in the
morning early, if it clears off, we will go up and see what has become
of the cattle.'"
"With some difficulty David was persuaded to stay all night at the
Corners. The next morning, the storm was as bad as ever, and there
was no possibility of stirring. But on Saturday morning, the snow had
ceased falling, the wind went down, and the sun shone bright and clear.
In every direction the roads were blocked up, and it took two hours'
work of all the horses and ox teams in the village to clear a path
from the store to the meeting-house. David Bolt was enthusiastically
welcomed by all his old friends in the village, and invited to more
dinners than he could have eaten in two weeks. Just as the long train
of teams reached the post-office, two men on horseback came plunging
through the drifts from the direction of Rockville."
"'Hurrah! Here's Captain Bolt! Here's your father, David!' shouted the
men and boys."
"But Captain Bolt did not seem to heed their words. He rode into the
midst of the group, and, throwing himself from his horse, exclaimed:"
"'For the Lord's sake, neighbors, do any of you know anything about my
Fanny?'"
"'Fanny!' exclaimed Mr. Morrell, in wonder. 'Why, didn't Fanny go with
you? Jake said she did.'"
"'No, no, I never thought of taking her. I thought Miss Gibson was
going up there, and we should be home by night. Oh, what has become of
those poor girls all this time!'"
"'Eunice is at our house. She is sick with a cold,' said Mr. Morrell.
'Then that poor dear girl has been there alone! Jake, you villain, did
not you tell me that you saw Fanny with her father?'"
"But Jake had shrunk away from the crowd and disappeared at the first
sight of Captain Bolt."
"'Cheer up, captain,' said Mr. Morrell, kindly. 'I hope all will be
well. And see here, who is this waiting to speak to you?'"
"'David—no! Yes, it is! The Lord bless you, my son! Praised be His
name who has brought you again from the dead! But oh, David, your poor
little sister!'"
"Mr. Lee, the Congregational minister, had been helping his
parishioners to break the roads, and he now sprang upon his horse and
waved his hat, the wind blowing his white locks about his face."
"'Neighbors and friends,' he said, in a voice that all could hear,
'Captain Bolt's little daughter has been left entirely alone in their
house for three days and nights. Let us leave our own concerns and go
at once to her rescue!'"
"'Hurrah for Bolt's Hill!' shouted the big blacksmith; and then with a
sudden break in his voice: 'Poor dear little young one, all alone in
that lonesome place! Hurry up, neighbors. Just think if it was your own
child, and work with a will.'"
"It took an hour to reach the turn in the road where the path branched
off ''cross lots' to Bolt's Hill. As they reached it and looked up, a
universal groan burst from the party. Nothing could be seen of the red
house. It was one long unbroken sweep of snow from the top of the ledge
almost down to the brook."
"'The Lord have mercy on her!' said Mr. Morrell. 'I'm afraid the house
has fallen in, and it is all over.'"
"'No, no! Keep up courage, father,' exclaimed David."
"A tall tree stood just at the turn. The active sailor was at the top
in a moment, looking with eager eyes towards the place where the house
should have been. There was a moment's silence and suspense."
"'Hurrah, father, I see a smoke!' exclaimed David. 'I see the top of
the old chimney, and there is a fire!'"
"'Hurrah!' burst from the crowd. And in a moment they were all pushing
with frantic haste towards the hill. They had succeeded in breaking a
path as far as the bars which led from the barn-yard into the pasture,
and were digging their way towards the house, when they saw the pole
with Fanny's red flag thrust out of the garret window. This gave them
new courage, and in twenty minutes' time, Fanny was in the arms of her
father."
"'Where is mother?' were Fanny's first words."
"'Safe and sound, my dear. We got as far as the White Tavern on our way
home, and there we have been ever since. You may guess we have been
uneasy enough about you, even when we thought you had Miss Gibson with
you. We never guessed that you would be here alone. But, Fanny, you do
not speak to David?'"
"'David!' said Fanny, starting."
"'Yes, David! I have hardly spoken to him myself: I have been so
troubled about you. But here he is once more, safe and sound, thank
God!'"
"Fanny started back, looked for a moment with wild, wide open eyes at
the bearded figure which approached her, and put out her hand with an
uncertain motion as if to keep him off. Then sight and sense failed
her. The next she knew she was lying on the settee, and a kind motherly
voice said:"
"'She is coming to herself. Why, Fanny! Look up, dear.'"
"She opened her eyes, and there was good Mrs. Morrell bending over her,
and David kneeling by her side. Mrs. Morrell, thinking that Fanny might
very likely be ill, had borrowed the minister's cutter, and she and
Mrs. Lee had driven up in the wake of the road-breakers."
"That evening Thanksgiving day was kept in earnest, if rather late,
at Bolt's Hill. Some one had ridden off at once to the White Tavern
to relieve the anxiety of Mrs. Bolt; and by sunset the whole family
were assembled in the red house, together with the minister's family
and the doctor's, Mr. and Mrs. Morrell, and Eunice Gibson, who had
come up, bringing with them a great supply of cakes, pies, biscuits,
and all sorts of good things. Fanny, looking pale and feeble with the
excitement and fatigue she had gone through, was bolstered up in one
corner of the sofa; while between her and his mother sat David, holding
a hand of each and relating his adventures."
"He had indeed gone down with the unlucky ship, but had risen again and
obtained possession of a part of the wreck. On this, he had floated for
a week, until, when almost starved, he had been taken up by a canoe
full of savages. Knowing how many of the islanders in the Pacific are
cannibals, David expected nothing but that he should be killed and
eaten, or at least reduced to the condition of a slave. What, then, was
his surprise and delight to find himself among Christian men, some of
whom could even speak a few words of English. They had been converted
by some of the missionaries which the Christianized islanders are
constantly sending out at the risk of their lives to preach the glad
tidings of the Gospel among the heathen."
"With these good-natured people David lived five years in great comfort
and consideration, his chief trouble being home-sickness. He had the
satisfaction of teaching the islanders many useful arts, and of giving
them instruction in the truths of the Gospel. At the end of that time,
an English ship touched at the island for water, and in her David
obtained a passage to Liverpool, from which place he had no difficulty
in working his way home."
"'And now you are home, I hope you will stay,' said Mr. Morrell. 'I
should think you had had enough of the sea.'"
"'I don't say anything about that,' said David. 'Salt water comes
pretty natural to us Bolts. I believe, if father would confess it, he
would like to find himself on blue water once more.'"
"'I won't deny but I do have a hankering after it now and then,' said
Captain Bolt, laughing; 'but I am pretty well contented to sit in the
chimney-corner to-night.'"
"In the course of two or three days Fanny was quite well again. The
cows and the old mare suffered somewhat from their long fast, but with
care they soon recovered. Nobody was very long the worse for 'the
great drift on Bolt's Hill' but Jake Penniman. Mr. Morrell was an
upright man, who hated lies in every shape, and had some old-fashioned
notions of discipline. The first misfortune which befell Jake was a
sound horse-whipping. But a still sorer punishment was the universal
contempt and coldness with which he was treated. Not one of the village
boys would speak to him or play with him; the girls turned up their
noses, and talked about cowards and about poor dear Fanny Bolt whenever
he made his appearance. Even Jake's dull nature was roused by this
treatment. He found himself more miserable than he had ever been in his
life, and he thought seriously of running away."
"'I really don't know what to do with Jake,' said Mr. Morrell to
Captain Bolt one day. 'He does have a hard time in the village, that's
a fact. I don't think I know how to make any one work. I am no hand to
drive. It is so much easier to take hold and do things myself than it
is to follow Jake round and make him do them. Wife says I am to blame
for a good deal of the boy's laziness, and I don't know but she is
right.'"
"'Suppose you let Jake come to me for the rest of the winter,' said
Captain Bolt, after a little consideration. 'I believe I am a pretty
good hand to drive, at least my boys always thought so; and I will see
if I can do anything for Jake.'"
"'Well, Captain Bolt, if you ain't a Christian man, I wouldn't say so,'
said Mr. Morrell. 'I shouldn't suppose you could bear the sight of the
boy.'"
"'Forgive and forget, neighbor. I should be ashamed to bear malice
against a boy like that; and if I can do him any good, I am sure I am
very willing to try. I am an old sea captain, you know, and used to
having my own way, and maybe Jake will be the better for a change. I
will talk with my wife and let you know.'"
"At first Jake did not very well like the notion of going up to Bolt's
Hill; but his admiration of David, the returned sailor, and his desire
to get away from the village, prevailed. For a while he found his
life very irksome. Captain Bolt did not do after him what he left
half-finished. He simply made Jake do it over again—twenty times, if
necessary. So with his lessons. Jake had never perfectly learned the
multiplication table. He now learned it in a day, simply because he was
informed that he would have no supper till he did. He learned more in
four months than he had done before in all his life, and really turned
out quite an average sort of man."
[Illustration]
[Illustration]