Mr. and Mrs. Allis lived away out West, on a broad prairie, where Mr. Allis was busily engaged in "making a farm." Perhaps some of my young readers, who have always been accustomed to see farms already "made," will not understand what I mean by " making a farm;" and I will try to tell them.
First of all, let them try to fancy a large meadow, either perfectly flat
or a little uneven, as large, perhaps, as can be measured with the eye, and
sometimes without a single tree, or scarcely a clump of bushes. There will
be no fences in sight, and sometimes no streams of water, but the surface
of the ground is covered with high, coarse grass. This is what Western
people call a "prairie."
In order to "make a farm," this ground must be ploughed, or, as Western
people say, "broken up." Some of the children would smile, I think, if they
were to see a regular "breaking team" before a "breaking plough." This
plough is quite unlike that which is used in the older States, and it takes
five, six, and sometimes as many as eight yoke of oxen to draw it. This
ploughing is usually done in June. After ploughing, the ground must be
enclosed, and then it is ready for the seed.
Some people make curious mistakes when they undertake to make a new farm.
Mr. Allis was one of these persons. He arrived at the little town of B——,
with his family, late in the fall, and immediately set about looking for a
location. Several miles from B—— he found a place that seemed to suit
him. The soil was rich, and apparently inexhaustible; but it was poorly
watered, and destitute of any timber suitable for building or fencing, and
there was very little which was fit for fuel. The great thing he thought of
was a large farm.
After a while he found out his mistake, but it was too late for him to help
it, for his money was nearly all expended for land. But Mr. Allis was a
resolute man, and he immediately set himself to work to do the best he
could. It was a long walk to the grove where he went every day to cut down
trees for his cabin, and to split rails for his fence, and a whole day's
work to go twice with his oxen to draw the logs and rails to his farm. But
he rose early, and was ready to begin his work with the dawn. On rainy and
stormy days, when he could not be out, he was at work in a shop near his
house, making doors and window-frames, and cupboards, and other things for
his new house.
Early in the spring the cabin was reared, and soon all was in readiness for
the removal of the family, which consisted of Mrs. Allis, Mary, a distant
relative whose home was with her, and two little twin-daughters, Annie and
Susie, who were about five years old at this time. These little girls loved
each other very much, and usually played very pleasantly together. But it
was sometimes the case that, like other children, they had their little
troubles, and were selfish, and of course unhappy.
One day Mrs. Allis was very sick, and she called the little girls to her,
and told them they might go up-stairs and play, but they must try to be
very good girls, and very quiet, for she could not bear the noise of their
voices. The little girls loved their mother very dearly, and were very
sorry that she was so sick. So they promised to be good children, and then
away they skipped up-stairs on tip-toe, that they might not disturb their
mother.
At first there was the patter of light feet and a subdued murmur of voices,
but after a while scarcely a sound could be heard. Thus passed two hours,
or more, and at last Mrs. Allis sent Mary to see what they were about. Mary
reported that they were playing very pleasantly together, and seemed very
happy.
"But what can they be doing, Mary?"
"Oh, they have a whole regiment of ragbabies, besides the kittens, for
scholars. Susie says they are playing school."
At last it was tea-time, and, when the girls had eaten their supper, their
mother called them to her.
"Oh, mother! mother! we have had such a nice time."
"Softly, softly, children," said Mr. Allis; "be careful, or you will make
your mother sick again."
"Are you better now, mother?" said little Susie, going softly towards her
bed.
"Yes, my dear child, I am much better, and you two little girls have helped
to make me so."
"We, mother?" said Susie, while her black eyes sparkled at the thought. "I
wonder how
we
could make you better, when we have been all the while at
play up-stairs."
"I can guess how," said Annie. "Mother means we didn't make any noise:
don't you, mother?"
"Not just that, or rather a good deal more than that; but first tell me what you played up-stairs."
"Oh, it was so pleasant: wasn't it? Why, mother, don't you think, we played
school; and first I let Susie be teacher, and then she let me; and we
played I was a little girl come to school, and by-and-by, when we got tired
of that, we got out the dolls, Bessie and Jessie, and the pussy, and then
we made three more little girls out of our sun-bonnets and Susie's pink
apron, and then we both played teacher, like Miss Jackson and Miss Williams
in the academy where we used to live, you know."
"Oh, yes, mother," interrupted Susie; "and, don't you think, sometimes
Annie would pull pussy's tail and make her say 'Mew,' and we made believe
that one of the little girls cried to go to her mother."
"Yes," said Annie, "and after a while we made believe she was naughty, and
sent her home."
"Very well, my dear; I see you have had a very pleasant time,—much more
pleasant than if you had been cross and unkind to each other, or had made a
noise to disturb me. I see you have loved one another, and this is what has
made you so happy this afternoon. Tell me, now, which you had rather be,
teacher or scholar, when you play school."
"Oh! a teacher, a great deal, mother," said Annie.
"Then why did you not be teacher all the time, and let Susie be the
scholar?"
"That wouldn't be right. Susie likes to be teacher as well as I," replied
Annie, timidly.
"But don't you think you would have been happier to have been teacher all
the time, Annie?"
"I did want to be at first, but then I thought Susie would like it too;
and, after all, it was just as pleasant."
"I presume it was, my dear, and much more pleasant; no person can be happy
who is selfish. Do you know what it is to be selfish, my little Susie?"
"Yes, mother; you told Annie and I one day that it was selfish to want
every thing just to please ourselves."
"Do you love to run about the room, and laugh and play?"
"Oh, yes; you know we do, mother."
"Would you not rather have stayed down-stairs to play to-day?"
"Oh, yes," said Annie; "only——"
"Only what, my dear?"
"Annie means that you were sick, and didn't want us to make a noise; and,
really, we did try to play just as still as we possibly could."
"Why did you take so much pains to be quiet?"
"You told us to be still, didn't you, mother?"
"I did; but were you afraid I would punish you if you made a noise, Susie?"
"Oh, no, indeed; but we did not want to make you sick," said Susie,
clinging to her mother, and looking into her face with her loving eyes.
"Then you love your mother, do you, girls?"
"Indeed we do," said the children, in one breath.
"Well, supposing your mother had been well, and some poor sick woman, whom you had never seen before, lay here sick in my bed: would it have been more pleasant then for you to be very still, so as not to disturb her?"
The girls hesitated a moment, and then Annie said,—
"I think it would, mother; for it would be very cruel to make anybody
suffer, I have heard you say."
"Then you could love a poor stranger enough to deny yourself some of your
own pleasures for her sake; and you think it would make you happier to do
so, do you?"
"Oh, yes, I am sure we should be happier," said little Susie.
"Well, my dear children, I cannot talk any longer now, but I want you to
repeat this little verse after me until you can remember it:—
"Love is the golden chain that binds The happy souls above; And he's an heir of heaven that finds His bosom glow with love."
* * * * *
THE PRAIRIE FIRE
It was a trying summer for the Allis family. The weather was hot and dry,
and Mr. Allis, unaccustomed to labour in the fields, often almost fainted
in the sun. His work seemed to him to progress very slowly. He had no one
to assist him in sowing and planting and gathering in his crops; for, in
the first place, there were few people to be hired, and, more than that, he
had no money to pay his workmen if he had been able to obtain them. Every
morning he had to go more than a mile with his oxen for water, which he
brought in a barrel for family use; and it was often nine o'clock before he
got to his work in the fields.
At length November came and found his summer's work completed. He had no
barn in which to store his grain, and could only secure it by "stacking" it
until it could be threshed.
The potatoes, squashes, pumpkins, beets, turnips and other vegetables which
the garden had produced for winter use were as securely housed as possible
and protected from the frost; and Mr. Allis began to hope that now he might
take that rest which he so much required.
For a number of weeks the children had been excited by wonderful lights in
the sky, just above the horizon. Sometimes eight or ten of these could be
seen in different directions at once, and occasionally some one of them
would seem to shoot up suddenly, not unlike the flame of a distant volcano.
To the eager inquiries of the little ones, they were answered that these
singular lights were called prairie-fires.
"What is a prairie-fire, father?" asked both the children at once.
"It is the burning of the long coarse grass which covers the prairie in
summer. This becomes very dry, and then, if a spark of fire chances to fall
upon it, it is at once all in blaze."
"Does it make a very big fire, father?" asked Susie.
"That depends upon circumstances, my child. If the grass is very high and
thick, as it sometimes is in the sloughs and moist places, it makes a big
fire, as you call it."
"Oh, how I wish I could see a prairie-fire close by us! Don't you, mother?"
"I cannot say that I do, my child; they are sometimes rather mischievous
visitors, and I would much prefer that they should keep at a respectful
distance."
"Mr. Jenkins told me that a man some ten miles from here had his stacks and
house and every thing he had, destroyed, a few days since, losing his whole
year's labour and all his clothing and furniture. The family barely escaped
with their lives.
"Is there any danger that the fire will come here, husband?" said Mrs.
Allis.
"There is danger, I suppose; but I hope we shall have no trouble of that
kind."
"Is there nothing that can be done to protect your property?"
"I shall try to
burn
up what grows around the house and stack-yard in a
day or two, I think; but just now it does not seem possible for me to spare
the time."
One day, not long after, a long line of fire appeared on the prairie,
several miles distant. It was, however, so distant that Mrs. Allis and the
children did not feel alarmed, as the evening was still; and they were
watching it with interest, as the flames assumed various fantastic shapes,
now darting upwards like tongues of fire, and now weltering and bubbling
like a sea of melted lava. Mr. Allis had not yet returned from town, where
he had been engaged all that day, entirely unsuspicious of any approaching
calamity; and Mrs. Allis was not aware how rapidly the flames were
approaching her home, until she was startled by seeing a horseman ride
rapidly to her door and hastily dismount, inquiring for Mr. Allis.
"He is at ——. I expect him home in the course of an hour or so. But what
is the matter, Mr. Jenkins? Is anybody sick?"
"Matter, woman! Don't you see that prairie-fire yonder? You'll be burnt out
if you don't stir round lively."
"Burnt out, Mr. Jenkins! What do you mean? What shall we do?"
"Do? Why, we must go to work right away and set a
back-fire
,—as quick as
we can, too. Call your girl there, and come out both of you as soon as
possible!"
Not many minutes passed before Mr. Allis reached home. He had seen the fire
at a distance, and, understanding the danger far better than his wife,
hurried home as rapidly as possible.
Poor Annie and Susie were sadly frightened. When they saw the smoke and
fire so near the house and stacks of grain, they cried as if their little
hearts would break; but there was no one to hear them, for their mother
could not be spared a moment until the danger was past. Poor children! They
soon had enough of prairie-fires, and they thought they would be very
thankful if ever they could see their father and mother and Mary alive
again. Sometimes they were almost suffocated by the smoke which the rising
wind drove into the house, and then they thought they should surely be
burned to death. Still, lonely and frightened as they were, they did not
attempt to go out. They remembered that their mother had told them not on
any account
to leave the house, and, like obedient children, they did as
she had told them.
It was two hours—but it seemed much longer to the poor little
girls—before their mother came in; and then they scarcely knew her, for
her face was blackened with smoke and dust, her hands were burned sadly,
and the skirt of her dress torn and burned in many places. Although they
were excited and curious, yet these good children undressed and went to
bed, helping themselves all they could, that their mother might rest,
and trying to wait until morning for all they wished to know.
Meanwhile, Mrs. Allis busied herself, weary as she was, in providing
a comfortable supper for her husband, who had eaten nothing since
dinner-time. It was past midnight when Mr. Allis and Mary came to the
house, and they too were tired enough, as we may suppose.
But, above all, they were grateful to that kind heavenly Father who had so
mercifully preserved and protected them from harm amid such dangers. Little
did any of them sleep that night; and it was not strange that the morning,
which came on wet and showery, found them but little refreshed after the
unusual fatigue of the preceding night. But the children were awake with
the first light, and eagerly asking questions about the fire.
"But what is a
back-fire?
" said Annie, when her father had finished
telling them about the matter. "How do you set a back-fire?"
"Well, Annie, we light
another fire
, nearer the house or fence which
we are trying to save, and then, with a brush or broom, or sometimes a
little stick,
whip it out
, so that it cannot burn very fast. When the
grass is burnt off in this way there is nothing left for what we call the
'prairie-fire' to burn, you see. If we can do this in season, the house
or stacks are generally safe."
* * * * *
THE BABY
How tired every one was all day after the prairie-fire! Well would it have
been if the matter had terminated in fatigue. Early in the day the feeble
mother had to betake herself to her bed; and on the following morning Mr.
Allis, to his great surprise, found himself rudely shaken by the ague. Not
many days passed ere Mrs. Allis and Mary found themselves at the mercy of
the same annoying visitor. Sometimes the three shook in concert; and then
you may imagine that the little girls had enough to do to carry water to
satisfy their thirst. Occasionally the chills would seem to be broken up
for a few days, and then they would most unexpectedly return. Several times
Mr. Allis thought himself perfectly well, and once or twice he went to the
grove a number of miles distant, with his team, for a load of wood, and on
the way there or back would be attacked with a chill, and it was only by a
great effort that he reached home. The little girls were quite well; but
they did not find their prairie home as pleasant in the cold winter as it
was in the glad summer-time. Oh, how they longed for spring! And when it
came how they rejoiced over the little lambs and calves in their father's
yard, and how delighted were they when the first sweet violets peeped
forth! Still their joy was to be increased: a sweeter prairie-flower than
any of these bloomed in their humble cabin, opening a fount of untold
gladness in the hearts of all. One bright morning a sweet little sister was
presented to the delighted children.
It was long before they could be made to realize that it was their own dear
babe, and always to be theirs and to stay with them. At last they
recovered themselves sufficiently to ask its name.
"It has no name, Annie," said her father.
"Oh, mother! mother!" cried the enthusiastic Susie, "let us call it Love! "
What a blessing that little unconscious one was to all beneath that lowly roof! Annie and Susie would sit beside its little cradle and watch it for hours; and if permitted to hold the tiny creature for a few moments they were never weary of caressing her. Daily and almost hourly they discovered some new beauty or perfection in the dear object of their most tender regard, and the day of her birth was made an era in the house; for almost every thing that was spoken of was said to have taken place either so long before or so long after the Baby came.
At length a school was opened about a mile distant, and the parents thought
best that the little girls should have the advantage of attending it
through the summer. At first they were quite reluctant to go; for they were
strangers still to the children around them, and the young lady who taught
them they had never seen until they met her among her pupils. After a few
days they became very fond of their school and their young playmates, and
the only drawback to their happiness was leaving the little darling Mary
for so many long hours every day. But it was soon evident that they learned
some
evil
things as well as
good
things. They grew less willing to
submit to the gentle control of their parents, and were quite inclined to
think the rules under whose influence they had been educated were
altogether
too strict
, fortifying their occasional remonstrances with
"Mary Jones says so," or "Fanny Adams thinks so." This gave their
affectionate parents much solicitude and pain.
One evening the little girls came home with a petition that they might "go
to school barefooted," and, as usual for the last few weeks, Susie said,
"All the girls go without shoes."
"That, my child, is no reason why
you
should do so if we prefer you
should wear your shoes."
"But, mother, it is so warm!" said Annie.
"What would you have thought, Annie, if I had told you to go to school
barefooted while we lived in Massachusetts?"
"All the girls wore shoes and stockings there, mother."
"But was it not quite as warm there as here, my child?"
"I suppose so; but, mother, all the girls and boys laugh at us so. They say
we are 'proud,' because we wear shoes and stockings."
"You must not mind being laughed at when you are doing right."
"But I can't see what wrong there is in going barefooted," said Annie.
"You are not now required to see the harm in it. All you have to do in this
case is to obey."
"But won't you tell us why, mother?" persisted Susie.
"No, children, I shall not now tell you why. I have my reasons; and you must trust me now, and wait for an explanation until some future time."
* * * * *
ANNIE'S TEMPTATION
A few days after, Susie was not very well, and her mother thought best to
keep her at home. Annie, however, was sent to school, as usual. As she was
preparing to set out, she thought to herself,—
"Now I am going all alone, and mother will never know it; I will not wear
my shoes to-day." So, when she was just starting, she stole softly round to
the back-side of the house, and hid her shoes behind the rain-barrel. On
she skipped, but not so light-hearted and happy as usual. It was her first
act of wilful disobedience. As she went on she at last repented that she
had ventured to disobey her kind mother; but something seemed to whisper in
her heart, "It will do you no harm: your mother will never find it out."
Do any of my little readers know whose voice that was in Annie's heart? It was the voice of him who spoke the first lie ever uttered in this beautiful world; who in the garden of Eden said to our first mother, " Ye shall not surely die."
As she approached the school-room, she stopped near a huge pile of rocks at
the road-side to gather some flowers for her teacher. She found a great
many, and, among others, some which she had never seen before. As she
stooped forward hastily to pluck them, she heard a sound close by her.
Looking quickly about her, she spied a large snake just below her naked
feet, among the loose stones. Uttering a loud scream, she sprang terrified
from the spot; nor did she slacken her speed until she reached the
schoolhouse, her delicate feet cut and bleeding in several places, and a
large thorn in the side of one foot, which pained her sadly. The girls
laughed at her fright, and one rude boy ran out, shouting, at the top of
his voice,—
"Hallo, boys! hallo! Annie Allis has come to school barefooted."
Poor, foolish child! what would she have given if she had only obeyed her
mother!
The little white feet swelled and ached all the day long. Annie had hardly
ever felt so much pain in all her life, and there was nobody to pity her.
But the pain in her feet was nothing to the pain in her heart. How could
she meet her dear mother, after having so wickedly disobeyed her? At length
school was out. Slowly and painfully she walked homeward. As she approached
the house she shook with pain and dread. Down in the little grove at her
right hand she saw Susie and Mary with the dear little baby, and they
beckoned her to come to them; but she could not. Oh, how could the guilty
child look into the clear, sweet eyes of that innocent one, with such a
load of sin and disobedience on her heart?
Softly—just like a
thief
—she stole round the house, as she thought,
unobserved. She sat down on the little green mound beside the rain-barrel,
and reached behind it. Suddenly she started back as if a serpent had stung
her. Again she reached quite around the barrel, as far as she could stretch
her little arms; but nothing was there. Then she peered carefully into the
place; but no shoes were to be found. It is plain now,—quite plain. What
shall be done? Some one has taken the shoes away! Overpowered entirely, she
bursts into a passionate fit of crying. Who is it that approaches the
erring child and so kindly and tenderly inquires,—
"What is the matter, Annie?"
It is the mother, weary as she can be, and made still more weary and
sorrowful by her little daughter's disobedience. She takes the child into
the house and lays her upon the bed. The aching feet are bathed in water,
the dirt is washed from the scratches and wounds, while poor Annie weeps
and sobs as if her little heart would break. But the ugly thorn would not
come out: it must ache on until father comes. Silently and sadly the mother
bends over her suffering child, bathing her aching head. At length Annie
said,—
"Dear, dear mother, forgive me; and I will never,
never
want to disobey
you again!"
I suppose every child knows just what this good Christian mother said to her little unhappy daughter,—how she told her that she had offended God as well as her mother, and broken his good law. She told her, too, how sinful it was to try to deceive, and then comforted her with her full and free pardon, and said that her heavenly Father would pardon her even more freely than her mother did, if she truly repented of her fault and asked his forgiveness with her whole heart. Then she taught Annie to pray, "Lead me not into temptation, but deliver me from evil;" and, although the little one had said that prayer many times, never, never had she understood its meaning so perfectly before: now she felt her dependence on God.
Soon Susie and Mary came in with the baby; and, while they were pitying
poor Annie and asking questions, they placed the child on the bed beside
her. There it laughed and crowed merrily and stretched out its little
dimpled hands, while Annie, unable to smile in return, wondered how it
could be so happy when she was so wretched.
It was late when Mr. Allis came in; and upon examining the foot he said the thorn would have to be cut out in the morning. In vain a soothing poultice was applied to the wound. Annie scarcely closed her eyes all night. Worse than that: she kept her mother awake, although she tried hard to be patient and bear the pain as well as she could. In the morning her father sharpened his penknife and cut out the thorn. Of course he was very careful, but it did hurt sadly. It was many days before the poor foot got well; and I think Annie Allis will remember her mother's " reasons " for refusing to go without her shoes for many a day.
* * * * *
SUSIE'S TEMPTATION
No sooner had Annie and Susie made acquaintance with some of the children
in the neighbourhood than they began to make frequent visits at Mr. Allis's
house. Both father and mother thought it desirable that the little girls
should associate with other children; but they dreaded the effect of so
much society and so many new influences on the hearts of the little girls.
More than this: there were some among those that visited them frequently,
who seemed to be almost any thing but desirable companions for the
children. Once or twice Mrs. Allis had observed something in the manners
and conversation of Jane Smith which led her to suspect that she was a bad
girl. Accordingly, she told Annie and Susie that she wished they would, as
much as possible, avoid her society. Notwithstanding all she could say,
however, Jane was often at the house; and the children became very fond of
her. She could tell so many interesting stories and say so many witty
things, and had so much to communicate that was new to them, that they
seemed almost fascinated by her.
One Saturday afternoon Mrs. Allis was unusually busy, and Jane came to pay
another visit. In spite of her cares, she, however, contrived to find
amusement for the girls in her own presence. After tea, Jane took her
bonnet to go home, and Susie begged permission to walk a short distance
with her, to gather prairie-flowers. Mrs. Allis hesitated, but at length
gave her consent, specifying the distance which she might go.
Scarcely had they started on their walk, when Jane remarked,—
"I declare! it's mean in your mother to keep you so dreadful close, just as
though you didn't know enough to take care of yourself!"
"Mother isn't mean; and you must not say so, Jane, or I shall go right
home."
"What! You're mad, are you? Well, I'm sure I don't care, if
you
don't;
but I'm glad my mother don't do so, anyway!"
Susie now turned the conversation, and told Jane that Miss Wilson was
making new bonnets for her and Annie. After some questions as to what kind
of bonnets they were, and how they were trimmed, Jane asked,—
"When are they going to be done?"
"I suppose they are done to-day; but we shall not get them until some time
next week, for it is too late for father to go to-night, and he is very
tired besides."
"Why don't you go and get them yourself? I would."
"Oh, it's too far to go."
"Nonsense! It's only two miles."
"But mother did not send me: she would have sent me if she had wished me to
go."
"Pooh! she thought you would be afraid to go! I'll warrant she would be
glad enough to see the bonnets home. Come along, now! I'll go with you. You
know you can't go to meeting tomorrow if you don't get your bonnet."
"Oh, yes: we can wear our clean sun-bonnets."
"Wear your sun-bonnet to meeting! I'd stay at home first!"
"I wouldn't stay at home first! But I would like a new bonnet, too. I would go and get it if I thought mother would like it."
"Like it! why, to-be-sure she will! Come along."
With hesitating steps Susie went on. Just before her was the point which
her mother had made the limit of her walk. She felt no desire to disobey
her mother; but the thought of surprising her by bringing home the new
bonnets unexpectedly was quite a temptation. Then it would be so pleasant
to have them, too; she wanted to see how they looked very much indeed. Why
could she not walk very fast and get back soon? She looked at the sun, to
see how much time there would be. It was almost setting; and she
exclaimed,—
"Jane! I can't go! See; it is almost sundown!"
"It will be light for two hours. There is time enough; we can run, and get
back before dark."
"What if I shouldn't get the bonnets after all? What would mother say?"
"You'll get them fast enough; and, even if you don't, you needn't tell her.
She'll never know it! Come along!"
Jane had said
one word too many now
. The frightened child had done the
best thing she could have done. The idea of deceiving her mother had put
the matter in an entirely new light, and she ran homeward, without one word
of reply, as fast as her little feet could carry her. As soon as she
reached the house she told the story to Annie and Mary, through whom it
soon reached the mother's ears. She had no more occasion to caution her
little girls to avoid Jane Smith.
"How much our mother knows! Don't she, Susie?" said Annie; "she told us
long ago that Jane was a naughty girl; but we didn't see how it could be!"
* * * * *
THE COLD DAY
Both Susie and Annie Allis had learned a good lesson, and both of them profited by it. They found, each for herself, how much safer and better it was to trust their parents and obey their commands, whether they understood all about them or not. These kind parents often reminded their little ones that their good Father in heaven knew just what kind of parents he had given the children, and that he required them to yield a willing and cheerful obedience to all their parents' will, unless their commands involved the breaking of his holy law. That this would be the case the little girls did not fear, and, taught, as we believe, by the good Spirit from above, they tried very hard to please God by honouring their parents.
The winter was quite mild and pleasant, and Mrs. Allis thought best that
Annie and Susie should continue to attend school as long as the weather
would permit. It was a long walk for little girls not quite seven years
old; but when the sky was bright and the path good they did not mind the
cold air, for they were warmly clad and full of health and animation; they
ran gayly along, scarcely heeding the distance they had to go.
One morning Mr. and Mrs. Allis had occasion to go to a neighbouring town on
business, and Mary was left at home alone with the baby. The children rode
to school with their parents, and, when they got out of the wagon at the
door of the log school-house, Annie said,—
"Will you get back before night, father?"
"Probably not. If we do we will call and take you home."
The morning was somewhat dark and cloudy, and a dense fog settled in the
hollows and ravines. Towards noon, however, there was a change; a cold
north wind began to blow, as it blows nowhere except on the wide open
prairies, unless it be on the sea. The clouds soon disappeared and the
bright sun shone out clear and bright. Every hour the cold increased, until
it became intense. The school-mistress dismissed the children somewhat
earlier than usual and called them all around the huge fireplace to warm
themselves. Then, after she had carefully fastened their cloaks and tippets
and charged them to run home as fast as they could, they started out.
Poor little Annie and Susie had to go alone. None of the children lived in
the direction of their home; and, worse than all, they had the cold, fierce
wind directly in their faces. But they thought of no danger while the sun
was shining so brightly; and so on they went, running backwards to keep the
wind out of their faces. Somewhat more than half-way home, a little aside
from the road, lived a family by the name of Staunton. When they were just
opposite to the house they found themselves very cold.
"Oh, Annie! do let's go in and warm, ourselves," said Susie; "I am so
cold!"
"I can't stop, Susie," said Annie; "don't you know mother said we mustn't
stop on the way home from school?"
"Well, I don't think mother would care if we stopped now; I am so very
cold. Do you?"
"I don't know; I guess we had better hurry home as fast as we can. It would
be hard work to start again, you know."
At this juncture the wind tore away Annie's cloak, and the little girls
forgot their cold hands as they chased it away off towards the pile of
rocks where Annie saw the snake in the summer. Under the shelter of those
rocks they sat down a moment to put on the cloak. Of course, mittens must
be laid aside, and the little, stiff, benumbed fingers had hard work to
fasten the garment, which had lost one of its strings in the encounter with
the rude north wind. When at last it was made fast with a pin, Susie
said,—
"I am going to rub my hands with snow, Annie! You know Dick Matthews said
that he could warm his hands with snow when they were cold!"
Both the little ones rubbed their hands with the snow, and again set out,
holding each other firmly by the hand. Several times they repeated the
experiment, baring the little delicate fingers to the biting wind. At last
they ceased to ache; but the feet were stiff and their limbs tired and
weary.
"Do your hands ache now, Susie?"
"No; but my feet do, and my face. Oh, I'm afraid we'll never get home!
a'n't you, Annie?"
"It's hard work to walk, and I can hardly stir one step; when I turn my
back it seems as if I should fall right down. I do wish Mary would come
down to the field and open the gate! don't you?"
"Yes, I do; for my hands are just as stiff as they can be."
"There come father and mother, Annie; let's wait and ride," said Susie.
"We'd better go and open the gate. See! there comes Mary! A'n't you glad?"
"I can't stay for any thing; I shall run right to the fire! My feet are
freezing, almost," said Susie.
At that moment Mary came. She had been watching for the children, and as
soon as they came in sight she laid down the baby and ran to help them come
in the house. She set the gate wide open for the wagon, and then hurried
the girls in to the fire. Soon the parents came in.
"How glad we are to see you, children! We were almost afraid you would be
frozen. We tried to get home in time to take you in the wagon. Are not your
hands very cold?"
"Our feet are cold; our hands were, too, but they are not now."
"Not now?" said Mary, hastily drawing off Annie's mittens.
Alas! the little fingers were frozen! Susie's were in the same sad
condition. And now there was a brisk rubbing with snow, and the most
intense suffering as the slow-coming warmth returned to the purple hands.
"Annie," said Mr. Allis, when the pain of the hands was somewhat relieved,
"why did you not stop at Mr. Staunton's and warm yourself?"
"Because, father," said Annie, looking up meekly through her tears, "mother
has told us
never to stop on our way home from school, and I always try to
mind what she tells us now!"