The Jones’s cabin had been well chosen for safety on ordinary occasions; but, on the night in question, Tom was awakened by something cold touching his hand; for, in throwing it out of bed in his sleep, it had been immersed in the water, which had entered the room, and was rapidly rising. Shouting to his mother and the children, he struck a light, and leaped into the water; and, taking Bub in his arms, and directing the movements of the rest, he hurried them out of the door, away from the river bank, as fast as they could go. How providential it was that he should have, in his restlessness, dropped his hand over the bedside! for scarcely had they ascended a swell of ground beyond the field when 168 the cabin went down with a crash, and the fragments, whirling about and jarring together, disappeared from view.
They were now poorer than ever; but, cold and wet, with the lightning flashing about them, in the pouring rain, they clung together for mutual protection, while they took their toilsome and difficult way from the scene of danger.
There was an unoccupied shanty in the edge of the town farthest from the river, and to that Tom led the terrified and shivering group. It was three full hours before they reached it; and then they had nothing but the bare walls and the bare floor, with the shelter over their heads, for a resting-place, where, the next day, the missionary found them as he went about assisting to succor the sufferers; and, at his suggestion, from the scanty stores of the settlers about, their cabin was fitted out with eatables and housekeeping articles.
During all this time Mr. Payson had been so occupied in benevolent labor among those whose cabins had been flooded, that it had not occurred to him that he had sustained any damage; but, after the subsiding of the waters, as he took his way down his favorite path through the grove, he saw that the waters had borne away every vestige of fencing around his cherished ten-acre lot. The highest part of the fence had 169 been under water many feet on that calamitous night, and with the loss of the rails had gone down another of the earthly props on which he had leaned for his daily bread in the wilderness.
CHAPTER XIII.
THE INDIAN LODGE.
Spring on a north-western prairie. What a glorious scene! Suddenly, you scarcely know when, the snow has disappeared, leaving the long, dead grass lying in matted unsightliness, and you would think it was dead forever; but soon, in little clusters of from three to seven, you see dotting the landscape a purple flower, a tough, membranous, hairy sheath protecting each floweret from the chilling winds, for it opens at once to your gaze. Then, as the weather waxes genial, the blossoms shoot up from their hirsute guardianship, and nod brightly in the breeze. It is the “spring beauty,”–as the frontier folk call it,–the first vegetation of the season, presenting the phenomenon of rich blooming flowers, while yet the lifeless turf shows no signs of vitality. But life is there; for at once, as if by magic, the whole expanse is green with verdure, growing with marvellous rapidity, decked with flowers.
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“Garden without path or fence, Rolling up its billowy blooms.” |