THE STORM.
It was fortunate that Ruel made that little exploring expedition, all
by himself, for the storm was evidently rising fast. The sun went out;
clouds rolled up over the western sky until it seemed as if evening
were coming on; the forest was perfectly silent, except for a troubled
rustling of the birches, the plash of the brook, and a dull, far-off
sound like the waves of a distant ocean.
Mr. Percival drove all the party into the camp, and Ruel busied himself
in laying on extra poles and closing every crack where the rain might
beat in at the sides.
Kittie and Bess had been out in a storm before with their uncle, so
they didn’t much mind it. Pet nestled up close beside them, and waited
with wide-open eyes, hardly knowing whether to be more frightened or
delighted at the prospect. Tom was by far the most nervous of the
party, fidgeting about, begging Ruel to come inside, and behaving so
queerly that Bess declared with a laugh that she believed he felt like
the princes, when the Manitou was coming. As she spoke there was an
ominous and prolonged roll of thunder, and the tree-tops bent under the
first rush of the on-coming tempest.
Tom started and turned white to the very lips, but answered never a
word.
“Don’t bother the boy,” said Mr. Percival kindly. “See--the storm is
really upon us now!”
A glittering flash of lightning accompanied his words, and was followed
by a rattling discharge of thunder. Up to this time, not a drop of rain
had fallen, but now it began to patter like bullets on the dry leaves,
the fire, and, loudest of all, on the bark roof above them.
Ruel crept in at last, and all seven curled up in as small compass, as
far from the half-open front, as possible. How it did pour! It came
down in torrents, in sheets, with an uninterrupted roar.
“Fire’s gittin’ tired,” remarked Ruel, after about two minutes of this;
and sure enough, nothing was left but a few charred brands, steaming
sulkily.
The lightning and thunder now came almost simultaneously, flashing and
booming until the very sky above them seemed ablaze.
After a few attempts at conversation the young folks gave it up,
and remained silent. Pet was very much frightened and hid her face
on Kittie’s shoulder, giving a little involuntary cry whenever an
unusually loud peal of thunder crashed overhead.
For a full half-hour the fury of the storm lasted. Then it rolled away
over the hills and left only a light rain falling. It was still far
too wet for them to leave their shelter, but the party recovered their
spirits, and Ruel even managed to coax a new fire to blaze on the ruins
of the old, with the aid of some dry bark and sticks he had prudently
stowed away at the first alarm. The cheerful blaze and hissing crackle
of the fire were reassuring, and voices soon rose again, as merrily as
ever.
“What time do you s’pose it is?”
“Three o’clock!”
“Say, aren’t you _awfully_ stiff? Do let me move my foot a little!”
“Kit, let’s have a song. That one about the pines.” This was from Tom.
Kittie accordingly sang the following lines, to a bright little air.
They were written by Randolph’s brother, she admitted with a blush and
a laugh; the tune was in Whiting’s Third Music Reader:
The pines have gathered upon the hill,
To watch for the old-new moon;
I hear them whispering--“Hush, be still,
It is coming, coming soon;
Coming, coming soon!”
The brown thrush sings to his small brown wife
Who broods below on her nest,
“Of all the wide world and of all my life,
It is you I love the best,
You I love the best!”
But the baby moon is wide awake,
And its eyes are shining bright;
The pines in their arms the moon must take
And rock him to sleep to-night,
Rock him to sleep to-night!
Kittie’s voice was a soft contralto, and though not strong, was very
sweet. There were hand-clapping and thanks in profusion; then a
unanimous cry for a story--something about a thunder-shower.
These young people, be it said, always called on their uncle Will for a
story upon any subject, with as much confidence as you would have in
ordering roast beef or cake at a hotel, without looking at the bill.
“Very well,” said the story-teller, after a moment’s reflection, “I’ll
tell you about Patsy’s Prayer.”
“It was a sultry afternoon in August. In the government offices, from
the Alleghanies to Eastport, men were busily making up weather reports
of what promised to be the hottest day of the season. Pretty soon, some
of them began to find difficulty in managing their telegraph wires; the
air seemed charged with electricity; the men took their observations,
and worked harder than ever. At length the sergeant in charge of one
of the largest and busiest stations glanced up quickly from a bunch of
dispatches he had just read, examined the barometer with a great deal
of care, made a few notes in a huge memorandum book, and scratched off
a message, which was handed at once to the telegraph operator sitting
a few feet away. In five minutes the government weather officials
throughout New England knew that a dangerous storm-centre was rapidly
moving toward them; and up went their signals accordingly.
“The Brookville farmers had heard nothing of all this, but they looked
at the sky knowingly, and hurried a little at their work. At the quiet
old Coburn house the ‘women folks’ were up-stairs asleep, in the lull
between dinner and supper; the men were afield, working with all their
might.
“‘I dunno,’ said Patsy, ‘but I’ll take a bit av a walk wid Shock. Sure,
they won’t mind ef I’m back before tay.’
“Patsy Dolan and his four-year-old sister Shock (probably so-called in
reference to the usual state of her hair) were Boston children, who
had been sent into the country for a week by the Missionary Society.
Patsy himself was only nine, and knew nothing of the world outside of
his native city. As he stepped out of the back door of the old house,
leading his little sister, he instinctively glanced over his shoulder.
Then he laughed a little at himself.
“‘No p’leecemen here!’ he said aloud, with a chuckle. ‘A feller can
kape onto the grass all he wants.’
“It was very slow walking, for Shock was not an accomplished
pedestrian, even on brick sidewalks; and here the ground was very
uneven. Besides, it must be confessed that her temper was rather
uncertain, and on this particular hot afternoon she constantly
required soothing. But Patsy cared little for this. He had been used
to taking care of his baby sister almost ever since she was born, and
he patiently submitted to her whims, now stopping to disentangle her
little bare feet from briery vines, now lifting her in his arms and
bearing her over an unusually rough spot. So they went on, across the
field, over a tiny brook, through a narrow belt of woods, and out upon
an open pasture, which bulged up here and there like a great quilt,
with patches of moss and grass, and with round juniper bushes for
buttons. At least, this was the image that vaguely suggested itself to
Patsy as he tugged his hot little burden along farther and farther away
from home.
“Suddenly he stopped and looked up.
“‘Sure, it’s comin’ on night,’ said he. ‘The sun’s gone entirely, it
is. We must be goin’ back.’
“But Shock had reached the limit of feminine endurance, and declined,
with all the firmness of her nature, this unexpected move. She objected
to that extent that she sat down hard on the ground, and wailed with
heat and weariness.
“Patsy was a little nonplussed, for it was growing very dark. He was
acquainted with Shock’s resources of resistance, and hesitated to call
them forth. While he deliberated he winked and winced at the same
moment; a broad drop of water had struck full upon his upturned face.
“‘Come out o’ that, Shockie,’ he cried, ‘we _must_ go now. The rain is
a-comin’!’
“Thereupon Shock made her next move, which was to lie flat on her back
and cry louder. She hadn’t begun to kick yet, but Patsy knew she would.
“Another great drop fell, and another. It grew bright about them, then
suddenly darker than ever, as if somebody had lighted the gas and blown
it out.
“Hark! Rumble, rumble, boom, bo-o-m--bo-o-m! Patsy pricked up his ears;
for even a city boy knows thunder, though it is half drowned by the
roar of the wagons and pavements. Without more words he dived at Shock,
and bore her away struggling, across the pasture. It had grown so dark
that he could not well see where to put his feet, so he fell once or
twice, bruising his wrists badly. But he managed to tumble in a way to
save Shock, so it didn’t matter.
“There was a moaning and rustling sound in the far-off forests that
notched the horizon on every side. Then the wind and the rain joined
hands, and rushed forward wildly with a mighty roar that appalled the
boy, staggering under his heavy load.
“He halted, and crouched in a little hollow. The voice of the storm now
quite swept away the feeble crying of the exhausted child in his arms.
As he cast a wild look about him, like a hunted rabbit, a brilliant
flash of lightning showed for an instant what promised a refuge which,
slight though it might be, seemed blessed compared with this bare field
where the storm was searching for him with its terrible, gleaming eyes
and hollow voice. If he could only reach that spot, Patsy thought,
he would feel easy. It was a single huge elm-tree, like those on the
Common, only standing quite alone in the pasture. It would be such a
nice place in a thunder-storm--poor Patsy!
“A dim recollection of the prayers the mission people had taught him,
came into his mind. But he couldn’t think of anything but, ‘Now I lay
me,’ so he concluded to try for the tree first, and say his prayers
after he got there.
“He lifted Shock once more in his aching arms, and started.
“But God heard his little heart-prayer above all the booming of the
thunder; and this was how He answered it.
“The boy was getting on bravely, when Shock, whose fright was renewed
by the motion, gave a sudden struggle. His foot slipped,--down, down he
went, into a gully that had lain, unseen, across his path. The bushes
broke his fall, but he lay a moment quite breathless and discouraged.
But it would not do to remain so; for there was Shock, by no means
injured, and crying lustily. Patsy picked himself up, and felt about
him until his hand struck the side of a large rock. There was a dry
place under one side, which projected slightly. He reached for Shock,
and deposited her in this sheltered spot, on some leaves the wind had
blown in there last autumn. He wished he could get in, too; but there
was barely room for one.
“‘Told, told,’ moaned Shock, shivering, and drawing up her little limbs.
“Without an instant’s hesitation Patsy threw off his wet jacket, and
tucked it round her. In three minutes he knew by her stillness and
regular breathing that she was asleep.
“Then he began to be cold--very cold himself. Every whizzing rain-drop
seemed like ice, striking on his bare feet and bruised hands. If he
could only have that jacket, or put his feet in with Shock under it
just for a minute!
“‘I don’t s’pose she’d know,’ he said to himself, with chattering
teeth. ‘But I won’t--no, I won’t. A feller must look out fer his
sister.’
“Then he remembered the prayers again; and the best thing he could
think of was the psalm he had been taught only the Sunday before. He
cuddled up as close to the rock as he could, and began:
“‘The Lord is my shepherd--I shall--I shall--’ Here he forgot, and had
to commence again.
“‘The Lord is my shepherd, I shall--not--want nothin’. He maketh me
to lie down in green pastures--’ Patsy paused, and peered into the
darkness doubtfully. ‘I dunno,’ he said, ‘as I want--’
“He never finished that sentence. And this was what interrupted him. A
great shimmering, glittering flash, that filled all the air, and at the
very same moment an awful crash--and the storm beat down upon a little
white face, upturned silently to the black sky.
* * * * *
“‘Hallo--hallo--o--o!’ The shout rang out clear and strong on the
evening air. Far off among the hills the last rumble of thunder was
dying away.
“‘They must have gone along here,’ cried Farmer Coburn; ‘hold your
lantern, Tom--see, there’s their tracks.’
“‘Hallo! hallo--o--o!--Why, what--’ What makes Farmer Coburn stop so
suddenly, and then dart forward with one of the lanterns? A wee sound,
and a sad, sad sight. The sound is the waking voice of Shock, who turns
uneasily on her bed of dry leaves; the sight is a little white face,
upturned to the star-dotted sky.
“How those rough men bent over the little fellow, the tears running
over their cheeks, as they noticed the jacket!
“‘He’s alive!’ shouts Tom, with a half-sob, catching the boy up in his
arms, ‘he’s only stunned. The lightnin’ must have struck round here
somewhere, just near enough to knock him over. He’s comin’ to now!’
“And Patsy comes. He soon as he can talk, he tells them about it.
“‘Why,’ he says, straightening up in Tom’s arms (Shock is sound asleep
again, with her tousled head bobbing on Farmer Coburn’s shoulder at
every step)--‘why, there’s the tree, sure--’
“The men looked, and turned away with a shudder. The noble elm would
never again lift its green boughs toward the sky. Scorching, rending,
shattering, the red lightning had torn its way down the huge trunk,
throwing the fragments on every side, and leaving the twisted fibres
thrust into the air, white and bare, in a way that told of the terrible
force that had had the mastery of them.
“Patsy thought it all over very soberly. He remembered his prayer and
his psalm.
“‘I dunno--’ he said.”
* * * * *
As uncle Will ceased, his auditors were very still; thinking, perhaps,
how they too had been kept safely from the fury of the tempest on the
lonely mountain-side.
Ruel now looked out and announced that the storm was over; and indeed
there was hardly need of telling it, for the sunbeams came dancing
down to the little birch camp with the same story. Out poured the
young folks, the girls holding their skirts daintily from contact with
the dripping undergrowth, of which, fortunately, there was not an
abundance. The brook was much higher than before, and laughed and spoke
in deeper tones; as if, like many a young human life, it had grown old
during the storm, and was no longer a child.
The whole party now “broke camp” and turned their faces homeward. Their
feet they could not keep dry, of course; but they were not far from The
Pines, and they knew that aunt Puss was waiting for them with dry socks
and a good supper.
Down the path they ran, filling the air with their shouts and laughter.
Ruel came last, with a huge bundle of bark, made from the sheets they
had used on the hut.
“No use to leave it there,” he said, in answer to Randolph’s laughing
question. “In a week ’twould jest be good fer spiders to live in--all
curled up in the sun. Daown ’t the house we c’n use it fer your uncle’s
fires, this tew months.”