LITERATURE.

Globe, Volume V, Issue 594, 15 May 1876, Page 3

LITERATURE.

ONE DAY IN A SETTLER’S LIFE. ( Concluded) Thoughts like these were Hitting through her brain as she struggled on, almost falling at every step. Oh, the cruelly lenghtened distance ! Would they never touch anything else but snow—blinding, stinging, bewildering snow? Had it swept away house, fence, trees, everything, and left them nothing but this endless plain, where, sooner or later, they must sink down to their fatal rest ? Roland staggered and fell heavily forward, casting her arm away from him. It was a gesture of farewell. For one instant it seemed to Jenny that it would b r very sweet to ding herself down beside him and fall asleep. An aching weariness filled her limbs; her very heart seemed turning to ice. Yet she would not give up. Energy, struggle, meant either life or death, as she should use or non-use them. She partly raised poor Roland from the snow, and tried to shout encouraging words, but her lips were benumbed, and it was like shouting behind the torrent of Niagara. It was when Jenny began desperately to drag him on by main force that Roland rallied a little, and showed signs of resistance. It was an ungallant thing for a man to permit a woman to carry him, or partially to carry him, he dimly thought, striving to free himself from her grasp. All his faculties were dulled. But the more he resisted, the more Jenny persevered. She always believed afterwards that God gave her strength. It was while she -was dragging, and coaxing, and lifting, and beating him, all at the same time, and luring him on with the sweetest and tenderest words, that a most heavenly sound swept across her halfdelirious senses. The lowing of the cow ! The cow. anxious for shelter and supper ! Then it was that the poor exhausted young woman felt that she should swoon herself; that she should die : the rebound from despair to hope was so sudden. On him, if he heard it, tire sound made no impression. In that stage of apathy he would have unresistingly passed away to death, though the very firelight of home, so to say, was beaming from its windows upon him, _ ‘ Oh, merciful Father, help him !—let him not die now ! ’ prayed Jenny. And with desperate energy she pulled him on; pulled, and pulled, and pulled. And the house was gained at last. Fortunately, the fire had almost gone out in the stove, and the room had a healthful chill in its atmosphere, that was better suited than comfortable warmth to partly frozen people. It seemed an eternity to Jenny before she could command her fingers sufficiently to light the lamp. _ The lamp lighted, she had to crawl upstairs and fling down blankets and pillows, in which she buried her husband, first gladdening herself with the assurance that he was alive, and probably not badly frozen. Then she turned her attention to the fire. She regretted having said so haughtily, in that far-off morning ages ago, it seemed—that there was plenty of wood. There was no wood left now; she had put the last on before going out. But Mrs Hardy had not survived the cruel tempest to perish for the lack of an armful of fuel. Her husband might die yet if not properly cared for. She could not rest, she could not breathe, until ho. should speak to her again, and assure her that he was going to live. She carried the lamp to the window, and shading her face with her hand, looked out The wood pile, whenever the driving snow permitted a glimpse, was a discouraging sight, only a log showing here and there,

like the fin of a buried whale. Jenny shrugged her shoulders ruefully and tumid away. Then she bethought herself of a stack of wonderful knots and grotesque little stumps, which Roland had from time to time stored in a corner of the loft, to be worked up when help in his labour should arrive and he had consequently more leisure, into vases and hanging baskets for the house plants. It seemed a pity to burn these, but pity must give way to necessity, and without a moment’s hesitation Jenny re-as'ended the stairs and made a plentiful selection from them. 1 hey were dry as tinder, and in a short time a noble fire crackled and roared in the big stove, and Roland Hardy was oh-ing and ah-ing under his blankets with the pain of returning warmth. The glowing consciousness that she had saved him bore Jenny up. Her own exhaustion was almost unfelt, her eyes sparkled triumphantly, and as she put the kettle over the fire, and got out Roland’s slippers and some dry clothing, and placed them by the stove to warm, her heart was giving vent to praises of thankfulness. She drew the wide, comfortable sofa to the lire, and heated its cushions. Then she stooped and took her husband’s face in her hands. ‘Oh Roland, do you know what a fearful tramp we have hail? Do you know that we were freezing to death only a short while ago ? ’ Roland did not know anything very clearly as yet; but he grew conscious of being by the fire, wrapped in warm blankets; when, as he vaguely remembered, his last act was to lie down in the snow. * What was done ? ’ he presently asked. ‘ How did we get here ? Who helped us ? ’ * Angels ! ’ replied Jenny. ‘ You must have brought me—and you may have killed yourself! ’ cried Roland : a glimmer of intelligence beginning to light up his eyes. ‘ Roland dear, lam not dead yet. I don’t mean to die, by heaven’s good will. ‘And now I am going to pull off your boots.’ ‘ Oh, Jenny ’ But remonstrance was idle. He was thrust back on the pillows, and his boots removed with great difficulty, and many tragic flourishes and solemn remarks concerning his inordinate vanity in wearing such tight ones. Poor Jenny, in the joy of th ir escape, strove to make merry. .She was saying, as she put them away, that she would next get him into bed, and make him a cup of coffee; and Roland was straggling to free himselfjfrom the blankets, and vowing Hat he would have no more nonsense, when the room began whirling around her. ‘ I feel so ridiculously faint,’ she said, as he started up; and the next moment she had fallen into his extended arms. Her first sensation on coming to herself was a consciousness of intense comfort, mingled with a luxurious, drowsy wish that it might last for ever. Present time had faded from her She fancied she was a child again, tenderly borne upon her mother’s breast, and nestling among soft pillows. She heard the lambs bleating upon the green hill sides, the brown thrush singing in the sweetbriar edges, the perfumes of clover blossoms and of June roses seemed softly to sweep over her, touching her face like cool, sweet, shadowy hands, and she nestled closer among the pillows and slept. Her next consciousness was that of a man stumbling over a ebair, and uttering in consequence a mild imprecation. She opened her eyes. The grey light of the late winter morning filled the little cabin. She was lying in one of her best nightgowns, tucked up in high state on the sofa, and it was the tea-kettle she had heard in her dreams, and the Cologne water on her face and hands that had seemed to her like the breath of summer fields. Close beside her was the arm-chair where Roland had sat and watched through the night. Her boots and snowwet clothes were strewn recklessly about the floor; wine, camphor, the coffee-pot, and the chapped hands lotion occupied the table; the bath-tub was tilted up by the wood-box: the wardrobe bore evidence of having been turned topsy-turvy; and David was calmly slumbering on her best shawl. The devastating power of man had been let loose in that orderly little house. Poor David. He had got home then. He must have lost his way as they did. Roland Hardy, awkwardly busy after man’s fashion, and alternately regarding his wife, lest his movements had awakened her, looked half-bewildered. His manly face was softened by a look of the keenest and tendersst solicitude, interspersed with perplexity as to the household arrangements. He had just poured some water into the tea kettle, and was looking helplessly about for the cover. * On the top of the coffee-mill,dear,’ spoke up Jenny encouragingly. And she was surprised at the weak, tired sound of her own voice. Pie came swiftly to her side, find knelt down. Jenny drew his head closely to her breast. ‘ Dear heart,’ she whispered, ‘I am so glad we are alive.’ It was a long while before Roland spoke : and when he did it was in a choking voice. ‘ I talked to you like a ruffian yesterday.’ ‘ No dear, it was I who did that.’ ‘ It all came back to me in the night; and with it how you dragged me out of the jaws of death. You saved my life, Jenny.’ 1 Because your life is so dear to me. I was only selfish, you see.’ ‘ And you risked your own life,’ he continued softly. ‘ I ought to have cut my tongue out, Jenny, before saying to you a cross word. Oh, my best and sweetest! ’ A beautiful blush stole over her face, a smile parted her lips. ‘ Roland, you know it was all my fault, all my temper. But my dear, I think this night has cured us both of ill temper for ever. And oh, how delightful seems to me the homo here that I grumbled at.’ Yes, it no doubt read an effectual lesson to both of them. There are enough real ills in life without creating imaginary ones. And this true picture of a day in a settler’s existence may perhaps serve as a lesson to ms, by making us more contented with our own civilised Jot.