THE SNOW STORM. "Surely he has," I answered. you here, my boy?" "But how came "We went into town this morning to see grandma. It was snowing when we left home." "And where is your home?" I asked, "and who is your father?" "Farmer Rutland," he replied; Farm." 66 66 we live at High High Farm" lay on the road to my own house; so I told Johnnie we would all go home together. He was glad when he heard my name, and said to himself" How well it was I said my prayers." I found Nellie indeed half asleep, wrapped in a heavy cape, which the little fellow had taken off himself in his wish to keep her warm. Nor could I get him to put it on until he saw me raise Nellie tenderly in my arms, and wrapping her in my great plaid, gathered her close to my bosom, ready to carry her. "Now, Johnnie," I said, "you keep hold of the skirt of my coat, and we shall soon be at High Farm." The cold seemed to have become more intense. Manfully the little fellow kept up to my side, though the snow by this time reached above his knees. I tried to cheer him as we trudged along, but I felt the drag upon my coat getting greater, and it THE SNOW STORM. was clear his strength and heart were failing him -then a sob broke from him, and he clung more closely to me as I bent down trying to soothe and comfort him. "You are a brave little man," ," I said; " we shall soon reach the farm now; think of the bright fire there, the nice warm bread and milk, and mother's loving kiss, all waiting for you." "I cannot walk further," he sobbed. "O, take Nellie home, but let me lie down here. I will say my prayers again, and perhaps Jesus will send some one else to help me." "No, no," I answered cheerily, "I cannot leave you behind, Johnnie; you must just make a horse of me, and mount my back. There you are now; hold me fast around the neck, and whip hard to make me go better." And again I started forward, trying to keep him awake with questions and little nice talk; but I felt the burden in such a storm was getting beyond my strength, when suddenly a wavering speck of light shot out of the darkness, then vanished, then appeared once more, getting nearer and brighter. I hallooed loudly, and my shout was answered, and Johnnie called out in a faint and glad voice, "O, that's father!" And happily so it was: THE SNOW STORM. the poor farmer getting alarmed at the long absence of his children, had started, with his two men and a lantern, in search of them, and great tears of thankfulness fell from his eyes when he beheld his loved ones. Johnnie was at once taken into his loving arms, and a quarter of an hour's walk brought us to the farm, where the anxious mother welcomed us. Nellie was soon aroused by the warmth and light of the great fire, little or none the worse for the night's storm, but poor Johnnie was sadly frost-bitten, and it was long before he got better. Deep was the gratitude of the honest couple for the aid I had given their beloved children, who doubtless, over-powered with sleep, would have been hidden in the snow ere their father had reached them, and must have perished, but for the prayer which Johnnie's trusting, simple heart had prompted, and had been the means, with God's blessing, of my saving them. Johnnie lived long after that to tell the tale of this night in the snow-storm. But he never forgot how kind the stranger was to himself and little Nellie, and still thinks that it was because of his humble and real trust in the good Father above that he got home safely. THE YEARS' TWELVE CHILDREN. THE YEARS' TWELVE CHILDREN. JANUARY, worn and gray, Like an old pilgrim by the way, Watches the snow, and shivering sighs, As the wild curlew round him flies; FEBRUARY, bluff and bold, O'er furrows striding, scorns the cold; Rough MARCH comes blustering down the road, APRIL, a child, half tears, half smiles, JUNE, with the mower's scarlet face, THE YEARS' TWELVE CHILDREN. JULY-the farmer-happy fellow, AUGUST-the reaper-cleaves his way SEPTEMBER, with his baying hound, OCTOBER comes, a woodman old, Fenced with tough leather from the cold; NOVEMBER COwers before the flame, Bleared crone, forgetting her own name! DECEMBER, fat and rosy, strides His old heart warm, well clothed his sides- -Chamber's Journal. |