It was late of an afternoon when Dave found himself still two miles from home. The Germans had parted with him in the morning and he was alone on the trail. He had passed the bee tree and saw that his uncle had claimed the prize. It was again snowing and the sky was heavily overcast, but with home so close, he was in the best of spirits and as he rode along he broke out into his favorite tune “Lucy Locket Lost Her Pocket,” whistling with all the strength of his lungs.
Soon the snow began to come down faster and faster, until the trail was almost hidden by the flakes, which whirled and swirled in every direction. The snow was thick and clinging and shut out the landscape on every side.
“Hullo, this won’t do,” he said to himself. “This is getting too thick for comfort!” And he struck his steed, to get him off a walk. But the horse was tired, and after cantering a few steps dropped again into a walk.
The wind was rising through the timberlands with a dull, moaning sound and now it became darker, so that Dave could not see where his horse was going. He calculated that he had still a mile and more to cover, and it must be owned that he heartily wished the journey was at an end. Of a sudden his hat was knocked off by a tree branch and his horse came to a halt.
Getting down to pick up his hat, Dave made the discovery that he had missed the trail, and by certain marks on the trees saw that he was moving into the woodland to the north of the homestead instead of for the cabin itself. The snow was now several inches deep and coming down harder than ever, blotting out the little light which remained.
Growing thoroughly alarmed, the youth concluded to remain on the ground and lead his steed. He turned the animal about and step by step left the woodland slowly, not desiring to make another false turn. Had he been less experienced in woodcraft the storm and growing darkness would have completely bewildered him.
When he at last gained the trail the storm was at its height and the wind sent the snow sharply into his face. “I can’t keep this trail now,” was his thought, and so, crossing the path, led his steed down into the hollow, where the creek ran. Then, at the risk of sinking into the mud and water over his boot-tops, he continued along the edge of this watercourse until he gained the brook which flowed up past the cabin.
“Thank fortune I am this far!” he murmured to himself, and after resting for a moment, started forward again, up the slight rise of ground upon which the cabin was erected. At last through the downfall of snow he saw the light of a candle, shining through one of the kitchen windows. Immediately he set up a loud shout. A moment later the cabin door was flung open and his uncle appeared, backed up by his aunt and the others.
“Dave! And in such a storm as this!” cried Joseph Morris. “Why, lad, it’s a wonder you didn’t lose your way!”
“I did lose my way, Uncle Joe,” was the panting answer. “But let me come inside, my feet are like chunks of ice!” And leaving his steed at the doorstep, Dave staggered into the kitchen and shook the snow from his clothing. A handshaking, and kisses from his Aunt Lucy and little Nell, followed, and soon he was sitting before the roaring fire and the others were doing all they could to make him comfortable.