“Father! father!” I shouted.
“Don’t be frightened, my boy,” cried my father, his voice seeming to come from far away. “We are in God’s hands. I can’t help you now, but as soon as Missy has got quieter, I shall come to you. I think I know whereabouts we are. We’ve dropped right off the road. You’re not hurt, are you?”
“Not in the least,” I answered. “I was only frightened.”
A few moments more, and my mare lay or rather stuck quiet, with her neck and head thrown back, and her body deep in the snow. I put up my hands to feel. It rose above my head farther than I could reach. I got clear of the stirrups and scrambled up, first on my knees, and then on my feet. Standing thus upon the saddle, again I stretched my hands above my head, but still the broken wall of snow ascended above my reach. I could see nothing of my father, but I heard him talking to Missy. My mare soon began floundering again, so that I tumbled about against the sides of the hole, and grew terrified lest I should bring the snow down. I therefore cowered upon the mare’s back until she was quiet again. “Woa! Quiet, my lass!” I heard my father saying, and it seemed his Missy was more frightened than mine.
My fear was now quite gone, and I felt much inclined to laugh at the fun of the misadventure. I had as yet no idea of how serious a thing it might be. Still I had sense enough to see that something must be done—but what? I saw no way of getting out of the hole except by trampling down the snow upon the back of my poor mare, and that I could not think of; while I doubted much whether my father even could tell in what direction to turn for help or shelter.
Finding our way home, even if we got free, seemed out of the question. Again my mare began plunging violently, and this time I found myself thrown against some hard substance. I thrust my hand through the snow, and felt what I thought the stones of one of the dry walls common to the country. I might clear away enough of the snow to climb upon that; but then what next—it was so dark?
“Ranald!” cried my father; “how do you get on?”
“Much the same, father,” I answered.
“I’m out of the wreath,” he returned. “We’ve come through on the other side. You are better where you are I suspect, however. The snow is warmer than the air. It is beginning to blow. Pull your feet out and get right upon the mare’s back.”
“That’s just where I am, father—lying on her back, and pretty comfortable,” I rejoined.