“I see the eagle’s nest on the tall pine,” said Charlie, “and the point of the Bull.”
“That’s what I call a good ‘land-fall,’ when you can’t see a thing,” said Joe.
They were now soon at the island, where a roaring fire, smoking supper, and joyous welcome awaited the chilled and hungry boy.
“O, mother!” said Charlie (as with a cloth dipped in warm water she washed the frozen tears, and the white crust of salt left by the spray, from his cheek, and kissed him), “I didn’t think I should ever see you again.”
How great a matter sometimes hinges upon a very little thing! Ben and Joe were in the thickest part of the woods, so busily at work getting down a tree that had lodged as not to notice the sudden change in the weather. As soon as they heard the roar of the wind they ran for the beach. On the White Bull was a breastwork of stones that Ben had made, to stand behind and shoot ducks.
“Joe,” he cried, “get the range of that canoe over the breastwork, and keep it, while I go and get the compass.” When he returned with the compass, Charlie’s canoe was entirely hidden by the snow; but as Joe had not moved from the spot, they took the range over the rock, and ran directly upon him. Had it not been for this he would have perished, while they were endeavoring to find him by guess in the snow, for it was pitch dark in an hour after they reached the island.
About eight o’clock the gale came on with tremendous fury; and as Charlie lay in his warm bed that night, and listened to the roar of the surf and the sough of the tempest, he drew the blankets over him, and nestling in their warm folds, lifted up his heart in gratitude to the Being his mother had taught him to call upon in the hour of peril, and not forget in that of deliverance.
When the gale was over, the wind coming to the north, the sea fell, and it was soon smooth, and Charlie wanted to go a-fishing.
“No, Charlie,” said Ben, “the weather is too catching; you have fished enough for this fall.”
“But I must have my anchor.”