CAUGHT BY STORM
Jack had seen the storm approaching as he was driving along a lonely road
above a valley in the late afternoon, but it would have been about as far
to turn back to the nearest shelter as it would to go on as fast as he
could to the next. Urging the horses to do their best (for during the
severe weather he was using the team), he drew up the robe, turned down
the sides of his cap, and fastened up his coat collar. The snow came down
faster and faster.
“Good thing there’s no wind,” he muttered; but even as he spoke a
spiteful gust snatched up an armful of snow, and whirled it into his
face. The horses did their best, but the road seemed endless; nothing
could be seen except limitless stretches of white country, and trees
whose branches sagged under their heavy loads.
There was a sudden crash, and right across his way dropped a huge limb of
a birch tree, stretching from one side of the road to the other. The
horses stopped, snorting with fright, and when Jack had quieted them, he
reached into the back of the wagon for the axe, and got out to clear a
pathway. He dared not try to drive around it; for he could not tell, on
account of the snow, just where the ground began to slope sharply away
toward the valley; and he wasn’t really anxious for a roll down those
hills.
Chopping the way through was a hard task for one, and Jack had to stop
very often to rest; by the time he finished, it was dark.
“Well, now we’re going on,” he said cheerily, giving a pat to either
horse as he passed their heads after dragging out the cut section of the
tree. The patient animals had stood quietly, heads dropped, bodies
relaxed, while he worked. He had thrown blankets across them, and the
rest had given them a chance to get their wind again. So they threw
themselves gallantly forward to their task, and soon pulled the wagon
down into the valley.
Here the road was not so good; for the snow had blown down the sides of
the hills and settled in drifts, some small and fairly passable, others
most difficult to plough through. Several times Jack had to get out and
shovel before the horses were able to get the wagon any farther on its
way. The lanterns on the wagon gave a fair light, with the help of the
whiteness all about them, but the road became increasingly difficult to
follow; and at last Jack had to admit to himself that he was lost. He had
no idea which way to turn; but it was impossible to stand still for the
night—they would be buried before morning if the snow kept on, and the
horses would perish. Recalling various stories of the intelligence, or
instinct, of animals under like circumstances, he decided to give the
horses a loose rein and trust to Providence. The faithful beasts plodded
on and on, while Jack strained his eyes through the whirling snowflakes,
searching for signs of habitation.
Some time during the night he saw a dim outline in front of him, and the
horses stopped. With an unspoken prayer of gratitude, he dropped down
from the seat, stiffly walked a few steps to the house, and knocked.