Take up the threads of life at home,
Let not the stitches drop;
The busy world will know 'tis done
Though ne'er it pause nor stop.
"Nothing can bring you peace but yourself. Nothing can bring you peace
but the triumph of principles."--_Emerson._
A year passed away, and Mrs. Hayden grew no better. She was not as
cheerful as she had been at first, and instead of growing into the
brave, patient woman she longed to become, she had grown fretful and
irritable, and was in many ways different from the Mrs. Hayden Kate and
Grace had talked about so enthusiastically. None knew better than she,
how miserably she had failed to live the life that was soul
satisfying--the life that brought forth fruits. In all the years of her
prosperity, in the midst of the gayeties and luxuries, she had secretly
longed for something she never found, and in one sense it had not been
hard for her to give up the life of ease and idleness, because she had
hoped to find in the new duties a new peace and satisfaction, had hoped
to live up to her ideal of a noble woman, and it was with her whole
heart she had promised her husband her help and sympathy, but in all the
eighteen months, she had been but a burden; even calm forbearance and
cheerfulness had ceased to be virtues. The children, not having a
nursery, must needs be anywhere and everywhere, and in spite of her
efforts to the contrary, their noise annoyed her.
To-night she sat thinking it all over, in one of her most despondent
moods, for be it said to her credit, things did not always appear as
gloomy as she represented them to herself.
The ruddy firelight flickered over her in fitful gleams of light and
shadow. The children were out romping in the twilight, enjoying the
first snow of the season. Her husband had not yet returned from the
store.
What was the use, anyway, pursued the relentless conscience--even the
wish to be good was always choked by a complete forgetfulness; and
before she could catch her breath the words were out, so, although she
had believed nearly all her life that one might grow into goodness, she
was quite rebellious to-night with the thought of its impossibility, and
she felt bitter, too, to think of the long years of uselessness
stretching out before her. Scarcely thirty-five and yet she felt like a
cross, crabbed old woman, and shuddered to think of all the years to
come, if they were to be like the past, and there seemed no help for it
unless she could conquer herself. The doctor had done what he could to
cure her dyspepsia but she was a veritable slave to her capricious
stomach. She felt one of her oft-recurring sick headaches coming on and
every thought grew blacker and more disconsolate. Oh! she wished supper
were over and the children safe in bed, so she could be free from their
noise, and here they come! she thought, as a great stamping and laughing
was heard in the hall.
"Oh, mamma! such lovely snowflakes, just like a fairy's quilt, and they
have been falling all over us till we're like people in frost land. Just
look, mamma!" cried Mabel, who liked a romp as well as the boys,
although she was thirteen. Three-year-old Jamie and five-year-old Fred
came trooping in behind.
"Well, mamma, God has turned on the snow faucets," announced Fred, with
characteristic importance.
"An' all 'e fevvers is tummin' down fum 'e 'ky," shouted Jamie at the
top of his voice.
"And mamma, _can't_ we have a sled and go coasting this winter?" queried
Mabel, not noticing in her eagerness that her mamma was very sick.
"Oh, _don't_ make so much noise. Take them away and keep quiet, Mabel. I
can not endure so much confusion."
They went out clanging the door behind them in spite of their efforts to
keep quiet, and as their voices grew fainter, she thought with another
remorseful pang: "I have sent them away again. Why must I yield always
to self instead of overcoming?" Presently, however, all attempts at
thinking were lost in the efforts to get the camphor, bathe her head and
find some comforting spot whereon to rest her aching temples.
A subdued family gathered around the table that evening and everyone
felt the necessity of being quiet as possible. Even Fred and Jamie
understood that they _must_ keep still, and managed to keep their voices
down to something less than a shrill whisper.
Mrs. Hayden partook only of a small cup of tea and was then assisted to
her room, where she expected to remain for at least two days--the usual
time. Her husband spent the evening rubbing her head, bathing it with
camphor and keeping the house quiet as possible.
The next day dawned cloudy and grey, with a faint mildness in the air,
indicating a thaw. Mabel went to school, Fred and Jamie amused
themselves in the back parlor until they were tired and then flattened
their noses against the window, trying to see how many drops of melted
snow fell from the porch roof.
"I want a snow man," wailed Jamie, suddenly remembering what papa said
about the snow long ago.
"Well, you can't have it," said Fred, with great decision, who generally
opposed anything on principle.
"Yes, we can. We can go out and make one," persisted Jamie.
"Jack Frost'll bite your fingers."
"No he won't."
"He will--"
"He won't eever--"
"He will, 'cos mamma said so," said naughty Fred.
Jamie's little face clouded and the lip began to quiver; then a sudden
thought striking him, he jumped up, beaming with delight, and cried, as
he ran towards the hall:
"Mamma said Jack Frost couldn't find me when I had my overcoat and wed
mittens on, and my wed cap."
"You can't reach your coat an' you've lost your mittens," insisted Fred,
with perseverance worthy a better cause.
"O, yes I can. I can 'tep on my high chair," dragging it after him.
"I can get my things on first," said Fred who suddenly decided in favor
of the snow man, and hurriedly suiting the action to the word, rushed to
get his coat which hung under Jamie's, just as Jamie reached his little
hands up to get his. Fred gave a tremendous flirt and pull at his coat
which overbalanced his little brother and down came the high chair and
Jamie plump upon the luckless Fred, whose angry squeals and kicks,
mingled with Jamie's loud shrieks of terror made a commotion that
brought Anna, the housekeeper, to the rescue.
"What _is_ the matter?" as she plucked Jamie from the general _debris_.
"Fred pulled me down--"
"Jamie jumped on me," said both at once as soon as they could get their
breath.
"An', I aint lost my wed mittens, an' my little white leg is broke off,"
cried Jamie suddenly, spying the oft-mended leg of the high-chair, which
in this _melee_, had completely severed company with the rest of the
chair, and now mutely appealed for help to be put on again.
"There, there, papa can mend it all right again. Don't cry, little man.
Now Fred, you must stop crying and play nice with Jamie and not quarrel
so much. There! I hear mamma's bell; I must go see what she wants. Run
away and be quiet, for mamma can't stand a _bit_ of noise to-day," and
Anna left them again to their own devices. Jamie carefully laid the
little white leg away in his box of playthings, and then both children
went back to the window to watch the drops again.
"I see one, two, three, seven, four, ten--" slowly counted Jamie as the
crystal drops fell.
"Oh, I see a ice berg, an' I'm goin' to get it for candy," shouted Fred
as he ran out on the porch and seized an icicle. It seemed so nice out
there that he stayed and called Jamie to come, too. They were delighted
with the new plaything and new sights, and any thought of being cold or
needing their coats never entered their minds, so the icicle, the
beautiful drops, and finally the snow claimed their attention until they
were at last happily engaged in the much-desired occupation of making a
snow man.
It was near noon and the sun had finally rifted the grayest clouds, and
was sending such warm smiles on the snow-laden earth that trees and
fences, roofs and ridges burst into tears of joy. So, often does the
sun-shiny smile melt the ice-bound prison of discontent or
misunderstanding.
Fred and Jamie were in the midst of their interesting creation when Mr.
Hayden came home to dinner.
"Boys! boys!" he called from the gate as soon as he saw them. "You'll
catch your death of cold; run into the house, quick! Why haven't you
something on your heads and rubbers on your feet?" and without waiting
to hear their vociferous reply, he hurried them into the house.
"Oh, but it was such fun, papa, an' we was goin' to put two coals in his
head, cos' his eyes was black, you know, an' your old mashed hat for his
head, an'--"
"An' me foun' a 'tick for his arm," interrupted Jamie, who must be sure
papa knew all about this wonderful man.
"Yes, he looks very promising, and I guess I'll have to finish him for
you; but you must not go out again to-day. Just think what would we do
if you should be sick while mamma must be in bed. Poor mamma, she would
feel bad and cry because she couldn't help you, and it would make her
feel very sorry indeed to know her little boys went out without somebody
saying they might."
"Well, papa, we didn't mean to go 'thout our things on, but two of the
_beautifullest_ icebergs hunged down an' we played they was candy an'
all the pretty drops said stop, stop, stop, an'--"
"Yes, an' the 'no was full of 'tars 'at shined right up at us an'
laughed an' played hide an' seek wiv each other."
"An' Jamie wanted to make a snow man," suddenly remembered Fred.
"Cos papa did when he was a little boy, an' he telled me sometimes so
could I--"
"Oh, you little rogues, it is well you can trace it back," laughed papa,
catching each small man, and placing upon his knees.
"Why, look here, your shoes are all wet, and your fingers red, and your
clothes sprinkled with water. This will never do. Take off your shoes,
Fred. Here, Anna," he called, as he heard her in the dining room,
"bring some dry stockings and aprons. These boys have been out in the
wet snow, and must be changed right away. Put a flannel round their
necks, too. I'm afraid they'll have the croup to-night." With as much
haste as possible, he stripped off their wet clothes, chafed their hands
and feet, and with an anxious look left them, to go and speak to his
wife who, when suffering from headache could allow no one to enter the
room except her husband or Anna.
That night the whole household were aroused by the hoarse and
unmistakable cough of croup. Jamie had taken cold, as his father feared
he would. The doctor was sent for in wild haste, and after several hours
of watchful care and frequent taking of hive syrup or ipecac, Jamie was
at last sleeping quietly, and every one felt that after this, at least,
those children should be so well guarded that escape would be
impossible, and the dreaded enemy kept out. This was always a result of
exposure, and Mr. and Mrs. Hayden had often wished for the time when
Jamie would outgrow the attacks as that really seemed the only thing in
which lay any hope.