And its eyes are shining bright;
The pines in their arms the moon must take
And rock him to sleep to-night,
Rock him to sleep to-night!
Kittie’s voice was a soft contralto, and though not strong, was very sweet. There were hand-clapping and thanks in profusion; then a unanimous cry for a story—something about a thunder-shower.
These young people, be it said, always called on their uncle Will for a story upon any subject, with as much confidence as you would have in ordering roast beef or cake at a hotel, without looking at the bill.
“Very well,” said the story-teller, after a moment’s reflection, “I’ll tell you about Patsy’s Prayer.”
“It was a sultry afternoon in August. In the government offices, from the Alleghanies to Eastport, men were busily making up weather reports of what promised to be the hottest day of the season. Pretty soon, some of them began to find difficulty in managing their telegraph wires; the air seemed charged with electricity; the men took their observations, and worked harder than ever. At length the sergeant in charge of one of the largest and busiest stations glanced up quickly from a bunch of dispatches he had just read, examined the barometer with a great deal of care, made a few notes in a huge memorandum book, and scratched off a message, which was handed at once to the telegraph operator sitting a few feet away. In five minutes the government weather officials throughout New England knew that a dangerous storm-centre was rapidly moving toward them; and up went their signals accordingly.
“The Brookville farmers had heard nothing of all this, but they looked at the sky knowingly, and hurried a little at their work. At the quiet old Coburn house the ‘women folks’ were up-stairs asleep, in the lull between dinner and supper; the men were afield, working with all their might.
“‘I dunno,’ said Patsy, ‘but I’ll take a bit av a walk wid Shock. Sure, they won’t mind ef I’m back before tay.’