Near by we see the barracks stored with yellow sheaves of wheat. Soon we shall hear the intermittent music of the beating flail on the old barn floor, now chinking soft on the broken sheaf, now loud and clear on the sounding boards. Upon the roof above we see the cooing doves, with nodding heads and necks gleaming with iridescent sheen. Turning, in another corner we look upon a miscellaneous group of ploughs and rakes and all the farm utensils, and harness hanging on the wooden pegs. There, too, is the little sleigh we love so well. Could it but speak, how sweet a story it could tell of lovely drives through romantic glens and moonlit woods, of tender squeezes of the little hand beneath the covering robe, of whispered vows, and of the encircling arm—a shelter from the cold and cruel wind! But no—I’ll say no more: these are memories too sacred for the common ear. And there’s the carry-all sleigh just by its side. How well you’ll remember the merry loads it carried, its three wide seats and space between packed full of jolly company! How the hard-pressed snow squeaked beneath the gliding runners, as with prancing span and jingling bells you sped down through the village street, with waving handkerchiefs and cheerful greetings right and left! How with “ducking” heads and muffled screams you ran the gauntlet past the school-house mob; saw them scrambling for “a hitch,” and with tantalizing beckonings tipped your horses with the whip. Away you go through the deep ravine, with a jing, jing, jing on the frosty air, with voices high in merry laughs, amid loud hurrahs from the “boysterous” crowd now far behind. Now you speed through a mist of drifting snow, and the rosy cheeks tingle with the stinging icy flakes flying before the wind. Now comes another chorus of piercing screams, as the laden hemlock bough, tapped with mischievous whip, hurls down its fleecy avalanche on coat and robe, on jaunty little hat—yes, and on a small pink ear, and even down a pretty neck. Ah me! How is it possible that a shriek like that could come from a throat so fair? But so you go, with a jing, jing, jing, now past the mill-pond with its game, now up the hill, now through the woods and far away, now farther still, the silvery bells now scarcely heard, now fainter yet, till lost to sight and sound—but not to memory dear; for all through life we shall hear those happy jingling bells.
And when, with ruddy faces and stamping feet, we all rush in and crowd the old fireplace, how welcome the glowing warmth, how keen the relish for the appetizing spread upon the snow-white table-cloth: the smoking dish of beans, with crisp accompaniment of luscious pork; the hot brown bread so sweet; and, last of all, the far-famed Indian pudding, fresh and steaming from the old brick oven!
How distinctly I recall those long and happy evenings around that radiant hearth, the games, the stories read from welcome magazines! Little we cared for the howling storm without. I hear the tick of the ancient clock in the corner shadowed by the old arm-chair; I see the glimmer on the whitewashed wall, the festooned strings of apples, sliced and hung above the fire to dry; I hear the patient, expectant stroke of hammer on the upturned log, and now the crackling burst of the rough-shelled butternut, yielding up its long and filmy kernel; I hear the apples sizzling on the hearth, the puffy snap of pop-corn jumping in its fiery cage, the kettle singing on the pendent hook—a thousand things; and what a precious living picture of sweet home-life they all bring back to me!
But look! there is another hidden picture in the book of life—a shadowed page, which we had well-nigh forgotten. See that crouching figure in the dark, deserted street—that spurned and wretched outcast, without a home, without a friend! Perhaps if that broken heart has not already ceased to yearn, if the last spark has not yet been smothered by the driving, covering snow, we might still hear the faint and stifled sobs:
“Once I was loved for my innocent grace,
Flattered and sought for the charm of my face.
Father, mother, sisters, all,
God, and myself, I have lost in my fall.
The veriest wretch that goes shivering by
Will take a wide sweep lest I wander too nigh,
For of all that is on or about me, I know,
There is nothing that’s pure but the beautiful snow.
How strange it should be that this beautiful snow
Should fall on a sinner with nowhere to go!
How strange it would be, when the night comes again,
If the snow and the ice struck my desperate brain,
Fainting, freezing, dying alone!”
Life’s book is full of shadowed pages such as this; and it were well if in the midst of our contented homes, around our cheerful fires, we stopped to think and give a silent, heart-felt prayer for those who, by some strange, inexplicable fatality, seem doomed to walk with cruel burdens and with bleeding feet the path of life: no helping hand, no friend, no hope, no God.
What a terrible night! Hark how the wind moans, like a long wail from some despairing soul shut out in the awful storm! The air is filled with dense clouds of flying snow and sleet chased along by the gale. The trees bend and writhe, and, as if in fear, scratch their boughs upon the roof; the driving flakes beat with an angry, hissing sound upon the window-panes, and for a moment there is a muffled, ominous silence. Now comes a wild and furious gust, and a great white whirlwind sweeps with serpentine contortions past the window and disappears in the thick darkness of the night. Our very walls sway and tremble to their foundation. The clap-boards snap, and some loosened blind is torn from its hinges and hurled as a feather before the raging wind. We hear a crash of breaking glass, the shaking of the old barn doors, and now a frightened neigh, half smothered in the storm.