The snow had fallen very deep. In the valleys, it had drifted into vast heaps; and one poor little cottage was so covered, that it looked more like a mound than a dwelling; nor door, nor window, nor even wall, could be seen,—all was one pile of cold, shining, white snow.
A sick widow and her little girl lived in this cot; far away from neighbour or hamlet: but they lived there because it was cheap, and the poor widow had no money but what her feeble hands earned.
Jessy was too young to work, yet she was a marvellous help to her mother; and the pale faced woman said, she did not believe she could live at all but for her child's services. She was so quick, and neat, and handy; and then she was always merry, and her gay voice sounded like music; and then she was always dutiful, doing instantly whatever she was bid: and tender, often running up to kiss her mother, stroke her cheek, and press her hand. The poor woman was quite sure, Jessy kept her alive.
Cottage in the Snow.
Pubd. May 1, 1831, by J. Harris, St. Pauls Church Yd.
When the snow fell around so thick, of course no daylight could enter the cottage; and Jessy wondered much at the strangely continued darkness. Her mother guessed what had happened, and knew not what to do. Her feeble hands could not remove the heavy snow. What little she could remove, seemed not to benefit them, for no light was let in, and no path made out.
Two, three, many days passed; the small hoard of bread and potatoes was consumed, and the candles too. Happily, there was a tolerable provision of wood, and they contrived to keep up fire for warmth and light, but it was a melancholy light, fitful and uncertain.
"I would not care, were it not for you, my child!" said the widow, with tears in her eyes. "Ah! mamma! I am sure I should not care but for you," said Jessy, smiling, and kissing her mother.