Select Literature.

Hawke's Bay Weekly Times, Volume 2, Issue 69, 27 April 1868, Page 101

Select Literature.

GRA STORY: THE GREAT SNOW.

([Atlantic Monthly.]

“I don’t know what made me do it, but upon this I rose and went over to where they were standing, arid said that Elihn Parsons was going directly past Deacon Lee’s, and would be happy to take Semantha, and that I would rather Ephraim did not go. Prudence lifted up both hands; ,as if she was too horrified to speak, and looked at Seinantha. Semantha giggled. Site was one of those girls who are always laughing foolishly. As for Ephraim, Iris face was dark, and Ms voice was cold and hard, as lie said—- “ ‘ From what we have seen to-night, Mercy, I don’t think it can make much difference to yon what-I do;* and_ then; without another word, went out. ** Presently I heard the sleigh-bells, and in a moment Ephraim came in at the front door. I hurried out to him. I would make one more effort, I thought. He stopped on seeing me. “ * Are yon going to leave me for Semantha P You are very.unkind to me!’ I said passionately. “ ‘ You are very foolish, Mercy. Semantha is our guest,, and I have shown her no more attention than she has a right to.’ .. .“ ‘ Can’t you see, Ephraim ? ’ I cried. “ Don’t you know that she came here on purpose to make trouble between yon and me, and that Prudence is helping herP* He looked surprised, then wholly incredulous.. “‘You are mistaken, Mercy. You are prejudiced against Semantha.* “ I grew angry. I did not know that many men, acute enough to all else, are stone-blind where the wiles, of a woman are concerned. “‘You may go, then, if you like. I see you don’t care for me,’ I said bitterly. ‘“You know I do care for you,’ said Ephraim. His voice was softer. I might have won him then if I would have stooped to persuade. But I would not. My pride was hurt. I turned away from him. Presently Semantha came out and they . drove, off. Pretty soon Elihn Parsons brought his eleigh round, flung down the reigns, and came in .to say ‘ Good night.’ He held my hand and linSred talking, when I was eager for his going. y gaiety had fled, and every word cost me a pang. At last he said—‘“lam going by your house. Can I carry any message for yon P ’ A wild thought darted into my mind. ‘ Going by our house P O, if I might go too! ’ “‘Youcan!’ he said eagerly. ‘I will take C with the greatest pleasure.’ In an instant I resolved to go. It seemed to me that I should die if I stayed under that roof another night. So A begged’him to wait a minute, ran upstairs, packed my tilings, and came down and told the . family that I was going home. They seemed thunderstruck. Only Prudence spoke. , “‘ Very well,’ said she. ‘But I suppose you 1 . know it is alLovier between yon and Ephraim if ; .you.KOoffinthiswayP’ '/ ." I; tdld.her;that I knew it was all over, thanks • to herj and T hoped it was a pleasure to her to .• 1 refleetthrit she 1 - had separated two persons who ,>. would.never k have had a hard thought of each other ... bntforher. Mary, came out into trie entry to me r cryingj and said she hoped we should make it up. - ; ButXtold her that was not likely. 'Anil so we drove away., * ;’.‘llwas duR enough now, and Elihn had the ; ; himself. If was not till we were - almdst home that be said something, which roused • me T' was angry with, him, and asked hinrwhathe’ thought of me to • suppose I v would so readily.on with- the new love before I ; j * But.lliad no. sooner, made this speech than. I .burst -into tears, and prayed I.lnieiiir Ihad.done wrong, Tand. nofsay any.morb fo me, since'l.was-so wretV!' clied^ 5 1l ao : not knbur well what' reply : he made, '■for be.fore;;l had'done“speaking I. was at home. '•/;; -Tliefe wariftlie dear old house' I had so longed for \ — : homely,' unjpainted^house;’ with the ■"'- tallerlthan iitselfi' and the great clump

? I went\n tli^ato-iin^teadily; my head was' swimming, aridituergwas l a curious 1 noise' in mV ears.. I, pushed open the, door. There .was Fatherwith the.open Bible before liim,' nridftis spectacles lying upon it; the room was bright with the fis3 and the light of the pine-knot, and Mother wife spinning, on the little wheel, as she frequently, dlf m the evening. Her face wore its own svve^t 1 peaceful look, but when she saw me the exprel- ! sion changed to one of alarm. She said aftefv wards that I looked more like a' ghost than anyi tMngelse. ‘“Why, Mercy!’ she cried.

“Father turned slowly round, and beyond that I remember nothing. I fell ou the floor in a dead faint. Mother said I talked all night about wlutt had been troubling me. Through all my delirium I had an aching consciousness that Ephraim was lost to me for ever. I would rise to go to him as I thought, hut when I reached the place where he had been, there was only Prudence or Semantic In the morning the doctor came, and said it was scarlet, fever. The other children had got over it iu childhood, but it had waited for me till now.

“I was very sick for a whole month. All that time Mother was an angel of goodness to me. When I was able to sit up, she told me that Ephraim had been to inquire for me often., But she said no more, and I could not tell her the trouble then. I was wasted to .a shadow, and was as weak as an hour-old babe. Mother nsed to tuck me up in the great arm-chair, and then the boys would push the chair to the window, where I could look out.

“ A great snow had fallen dnring my sickness. It had began the night I came home, as Semantha predicted, and the roads had been almost impassable. But they were quite good again now, and Father said the time had come for liim-to go down below. It was late in February and he said we should not have a great deal more snow, he thought, and ; if he waited till the spring thaws came there would be no getting to Boston. It was arranged that the oldest hoy at home should go with Father, so that there would be nobody left with Mother and me bat Jem and David. Jem was eight years old;, and David six come May; but they were both smart, and we thought,, with their help, we could take care of the cattle till Father came hack. I could not do much yet, and I sat in my arm-chair while Mother fried doughnuts, and baked great loaves of bread, and puddings, and roasted chickens, for them to take for food on the journey. Father’s way was to carry his own provisions, and stay at night with friends and relations along the road; even if the sleighing was good, and nothing happened, -he would be a week or more in going to Boston. So, of course, the supply must he pretty generous. “It was a still, bright morning when they set off, with a sky so clear that Father thought there would be no storm for many days. After the excitement of their parting passed away, it seemed very quiet and lonesome; for you remember, though I have not said anything about it, that my heart was aching for its lost love., I had said no; thing about it to Mother yet, but after they were gone, and the chores done up for the night, and the boys playing with their cob-houses in the corner, she sat down beside me, saying—- “ * Now, Mercy, tell me all about, this trouble between yon and Ephraim.’ “ As well as I could for crying, I told her, feeling very much ashamed when I came to the part about Elihu. But Mother was very gentle, and only said—

“ ‘ I fear, my child, that savors of an nnregenerate heart.’

“ That was true. Bnt while I had been sick I had thought very seriously, and I was thankful I had not been taken away while my heart was in such a state. I did not dare to tell Mother how God’s goodness had shone down upon me while I lay ill in my bed, but I hoped and prayed that it would not leave me.

“ It was a relief as well as pain to see that Mother blamed Ephraim. She said he should not have allowed himself to be deceived and inflnepeod by Prudence. I told her I was sure he could riot have loved me as he ought, and that I thought I would send back to him the little presents he had made me, and say that I did not hold him to his promise. Mother agreed with me, and the next day I made up the package. There was a string of gold beads, a pair of silver shoe-buckles, and a Chinese fen, and a hymn-book, the bunch of witch-hazel blossoms he picked for me that day in the woods, and, more precious than all the rest, a letter, six foolscap pages in length, that he had written in the fell, while I was visiting ray cousin in Keene. I could not help crying while I was putting them up, and I took out the letter twice, thinking I might keep that. But Mother said, if we were indeed to he separated, it was ray duty to forget my love for Ephraim, else it would darken all my life; and life, she said was given us for cheerful praise, and work, which is also praise. “After I had sent my package by the mail-rider, who passed Mr Allen’s house every other day,' I thought my trouble would be easier to bear. But every day made it harder. I fell into a miserable torpid state, taking no interest in anything, and feeling only my misery acutely. I could not even pray for help, for prayer itself was a cross. Mother was very good to me; she gave me light, pleasant work to do, thinking to keep me busy. But however busy my hands were, my thoughts were free, and used tlieir freedom to make me suffer. Father had been gone eight days, when one afternoon Mother came down from the - barn, where she had been to shake down some hay for the cows, with a fece so sober that I was frightened at once.

Why,mother! what-is the matter?* I cried. *‘‘l’m worried about your father, child,’ she said, and then she went to the window and looked out.

“ ‘ Why, Mother, if he started for home yesterday ’

“‘He would be just in scason.to he caught in the snow,’ she interrupted, with a vehemence unnatural to her.

“‘Snow, mother!’

“ 1 rose and went to the 1 window. The sky was full of great masses of grey clouds, that sometimes parted, and showed a steel-colored back-ground, intense and cold, and immeasurably distant. Wide before us was spread the waste, white, uninhabited fields—the nearest honse a mile away,- and its chimney only visible over the hills which , bid it. A tawny, brazen belt' of light lying airing the west, where the sun had gone, .down, illuminated the snow, and gave a weird character to the whole scene. There was a high'wind swaying the tops of the tall trees before the houseand once in a while you would see a fragment of' cloud caught from the great grey curtain and torn into shreds, of . ravelled into a thin web, • which seethed for a moment to settle down upon. us. It wasa strange night, a strange., sky. L felt a vague alarm. But I tried to speak cheerfully. “‘•lt is too cold to snow; mother*

pointed to the window. Even as I spoke theVairwas suddenly; darkened by a multitude of flakes, that crowded faster and faster, and were swirledaiput by the wind, and quickly built up a .wall around the door. As it grew dark the atom increased. The wind, which had been: baring steadily all day, rose to a gale. It tugged; jJfyijKe doors and r windows, it thundered down the efflmney, it eaught the little house and shook- itj fill the timbers creaked: the noise jyas truly awful. W#got- tlie boys into the trundle-fbcd as soon as we could,'and then Mother brougliirout her wheel, aiid I took my knitting. There was a great biasing fire on the hearth, and the room was so warm that the yarn ran out beautifully. Mother made out her night; she was a famous spianer, and tlm wheel went as fast and the yarn was even as if she bad not been so dreadfully worried about leather. But every few minutes she would stop and say she hoped lie had not started, or that, having set out, he would be warned iu time, and stop by the way. “It was sostrange to see Mother, who was usually calm, so put about, that I got very nervous, aud was glad when she stopped the wheel, and twisted up the yarn she had spun. But as she turned around toward me with her hand she looked so j strange tiiat I cried out to know what was the matter

[sharpening of her features as the relentless disease iworked upon them. ,O, it was hard! I don’t think many lives know so much and such lutter misery. In my anxiety and grief, and the mental bewilderment, resulting from loss of sleep, I forgot to reckon the days as they pissed. “ Bjtt one day, as I sat by. my mother’s pillow, my mind full of the dread that seemed now as if it might at any moment be realized—of tiie awfulness of being left alone Jin that living tomb with the marble image of what was aiid yet was not my mother, the clock struck nine in the morning. Somewhere the sun was shining, I thought: somewhere there were happy lovers, merry-makings-in divers places, wedding-hells ringing. “ A faint sound disturbed my reverie. I started up and listened intently; but the noise did not, recur, and I dropped my head again, thinking my fancy had cheated me. I don’t know why it! was that what failed to reach my strained car found! its way to Mother’s ; hut all at once, from having been in a stupid state from which I could hardly arouse her, she opened her eyes and said—- “ ‘ What is that ? ’ “ ‘ Do you hear anything ? ’ I asked, trembling. “But before she could answer, I too heard, ashout. I “ Help was at hand; and Mother might yet be! saved! I burst into tears, and Jem and David |

w ‘lt is nothing,’ she whispered; but I took hold of her, and steadied her down into the armchair, and then ran for the camphor. That brought her round; but now she looked feverish, and was shaking all over, and I knew that she was going to have one of her ill turns—possibly lung fever—for her lungs were but weak, and she rarely got over the winter without a fever. The thought made me half wild, but I dared not wait to cry or fret. I knew there was no time to be lost, and I hnrried around, and gave her a warm footbath, and kept'hot flannels on her chest, and made her drink a nice bowl of herb tea as soon as she was in bed; for I thought when the perspiration started she would be relieved. I was glad enough when the great drops stood on her forehead. Yet the hard breathing and the rattling in the chest was not cured. 1 I kept renewing the steaming flannels, as the doctor always directed, till she fell asleep. She slept almost all night, and I sat in the chair by her, occasionally rousing up to put more wood on the fire, and listen to the wind, which still held as fierce as it did at sundown.

“By-and-by I dozed—l don’t know how long, but I was awakened by hearing Jem call out—- “ ‘ Mercy, why don’t it come day ? ’ “ I started up. My fire had gone down, and the room was dark.* Mother ‘ was breathing heavily beside me.

“‘ I say, Mercy, isn’t it morning ? Why don’l we get up ? ’ persisted Jem. -1 begged him to be still, and rising, made my way to the clock. I could not see the face, but by touching the hands I made oat that it was eight o’clock. I knew now that we were snowed up, and that was the reason why it was so dark. I kindled up the fire, and lighted up a pine-knot. Jem and David came up to the hearth to dress, half erying and fretting for Mother. But I pacified them with a breakfast of bread and milk, and while they were eating it I ventured to open a door. There was a wall oflsnowi' I looked into the fore-room—-it was as dark as a cellar. Thifen I ran np the stairs, and here the little courage I had forsook me, and I grew weak and sick. For the snow was already even with the ledge of the chamber window, and all the outbuildings were as completely hidden as if tlie earth had swallowed them in the night. I ran down-stairs hastily, for I heard Mother call. She looked up at me anxiously. “ * How is it, Mercy ? * “‘lam afraid, Mother, we are snowed up,’ I said.

“ * And I’m sick! * “ Mother was sick. That was the worst side of the trouble. It was a settled fever by this time, I was sure. We both kuew it, we both knew that no help was to be had, and that she might die for want of it. We were both silent, neither daring to speak, not knowing how to encourage and strengthen the other. Mother grew worse all day, in spite of all that I could do for her. The darkness in the house was most depressing, and made the situation tenfold more painful; though I kept a fire and a light burning as at evening, I had to be economical of both, for there was only a small stock of fuel and a handful of pine-knots in the house. It was painful to hear the poor cows at the barn lowing for food, and to know that it was impossible to reach them. I might, perhaps, have gone out on snow-shoes ana managed to get into the barn by the window in the loft; but .Father’s shoes were loaned to a neighbor, and* even if they had been at hand, I should hardly dare to risk my streugth, not yet renovated after my sickness, and which was so essential to Mother’s safety, in an effort that might fail.

_ “So the hours went on, and the day that was like night wore to a close. In the evening Mother brightened up a little. She was calm now, and for the time free, from pain. There was an unearthly beauty in the large, bright hollow eyes, and the thin cheeks, where the rose of fever burned. The disease had worked swiftly.. Even this revival might only be a forerunner of death. “‘ I want to tell you, dear,’. she said, * what to do in case I should not get well.’ “ I hid ray face in the quilt and tried not to sob, while she went on, in a sweet, calm, thoughtful way, to tell me of the things that in my inexperience I.might forget. I must not be wasteful of food or fuel; if the snow-rwhich was still falling—should cover the chimney so that I could not make a fire, I must wrap myself and the children in all the warm things I could find—there were some new blankets in the chest in the chamber, she said, that she had meant for me. I must get those if I needed them.

‘“And if I am not here to encourage yon, mv cluld,’ she said tenderly, ‘ don’t give up hoping. Help cannot be very far off. Some of the neighbors will -come to us, or Father will work his way through the snow, and get home. And, Mercy, don’t be afraid' of the poor body that I shall leave behind me. Think of it as the empty house that I have used for a little while,' and be sure it can do yon no harm.’ • ' • " ' “ I promised all she asked, and hid ray tears as well as I could. While she slept, and I could do notlung for her, I kept the children quiet with playthings and stories. I cooked bread aud meat, and'made a great kettle of porridge against the time when we might not be able to bave a fire; I hnnted in the garrets for. old boards and broken furniture that might serve as fuel. For two days held, and.then there fell an awful silence as of;'the; grave.- '■ Sometimes"l. read from the PsalmSj Cir from the Grospel of John, which Motherdearly loved j aiid though she did hot take much notice, bat lay in a stupor most of the time, thejholy-words were comfort and company to me. At other times I sat in. mute, grief watching her painful breathing, and the- gradual pinching and

set up a loud cry for company. -Those outside heard it, for the next instant there was a great halloo. They were cutting their way through the drift—they came every minute nearer and nearer. Pretty soon I heard a voice that set my heart beating, and made me sob again. It was Ephraim’s. “ ‘ Are you all alive ? ’ he cried. “* We are all alive; but Mother is very sick.’ “ I don’t know how long it took to tunnel that huge snow-drift. I sat holding Mother’s hand till there was a_ noise at the door. I sprang up then, and the neSt moment stood face to face with Ephraim. SAud we did not meet as we had parted. i

“ I was glad to think that we owed our deliverance to hint. He had roused up the neighbors, and they cjwuc over that trackless waste on snowshoes. Oft snow-shoes Ephraim went for the doctor, and Mother began to mend from the time of his coming. It was a week before Father got home. Yet he had come as hist as the roads would let him, travelling night and day in his eagerness to reach us. He told us of houses snowed up, and people and animals perishing miserably. And by God’s grace we were saved, even to the cows, which in their hunger had broken loose from their stalls, and eaten the hay from the mow. “And so my life’s greatest joy and pain came to me by the storm. It gave Ephraim back to me. For forty years as man and wife we had never a hard word. ’Tis thirty years since he went—thirty years of Heaven’s peace for him. I did not think to wait so long when he went. The children have been very good to me, but I’ve missed their father always. But I shall go to him soon. Son Ephraim, lam niuety-two to-morrow! ”