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Nature's Serial Story

by Edward Payson Roe · English · Gutenberg #6412 · 875,422 chars · public domain (US)

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Title: Nature's Serial Story

Author: Edward Payson Roe


        
Release date: September 1, 2004 [eBook #6412]
                Most recently updated: September 8, 2012

Language: English

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*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK NATURE'S SERIAL STORY ***




Produced by Tom Allen, Charles Franks and the Online
Distributed Proofreading Team.











THE WORKS OF E. P. ROE

VOLUME ONE

NATURE'S SERIAL STORY


[Illustration: UNDER THE MISTLETOE]




PREFACE

"I am getting very tired," said a hard brain-worker to me once. "Life is
beginning to drag and lose its zest." This is an experience that can
scarcely happen to one who has fallen in love with Nature, or become
deeply interested in any of her almost infinite manifestations. Mr. and
Mrs. Clifford of my story are not wholly the creations of fancy. The aged
man sketched in the following pages was as truly interested in his garden
and fruit-trees after he had passed his fourscore years as any enthusiastic
horticulturist in his prime, and the invalid, whose memory dwells in my
heart, found a solace in flowers which no words of mine have exaggerated.
If this book tends to bring others into sympathy with Nature, one of its
chief missions will be fulfilled.

A love for the soil and all the pursuits of outdoor life is one of the
most healthful signs in a people. Our broad and diversified land affords
abundant opportunity for the gratification of every rural taste, and
those who form such tastes will never complain that life is losing its
zest. Other pleasures pall with time and are satiated. We outgrow them.
But every spring is a new revelation, every summer a fresh, original
chapter of experience, and every autumn a fruition of hopes as well as of
seeds and buds. Nothing can conduce more to happiness and prosperity than
multitudes of rural homes. In such abodes you will not find Socialists,
Nihilists, and other hare-brained reformers who seek to improve the world
by ignoring nature and common-sense. Possession of the soil makes a man
conservative, while he, at the same time, is conserved.

The culture of the land is no longer plodding, ox-like drudgery, nor is
the farm a place of humdrum, brainless routine. Science offers her aid on
every hand, and beauty, in numberless forms, is ever present to those who
have eyes and hearts capable of recognizing it. The farmer has a literature
of his own, which every year is growing in proportions and value. He also
has time for the best literature of the world. It is his own fault if he
remains akin to the clod he turns. Is it not more manly to co-work with
Nature for a livelihood than to eke out a pallid, pitiful existence behind
a counter, usurping some woman's place?

Nature is a good mother, after all, in our latitude. She does not coddle
and over-indulge her children, but rewards their love abundantly,
invigorates them if they dwell in her presence, and develops mind and
muscle, heart and soul, if they obey her laws and seek to know her well.
Although infinitely rich, she has not the short-sighted folly of those
parents who seek to place everything in the hand of a child without cost.
On the contrary, she says, "See what you may win, what you may attain."
Every crop is a prize to knowledge, skill, industry. Every flower is a
beautiful mystery which may be solved in part; every tree is stored
sunshine for the hearth, shelter from the storm, a thing of beauty while
it lives, and of varied use when its life is taken. In animals, birds,
insects, and vegetation we are surrounded by diversified life, and our
life grows richer, more healthful and complete, as we enter into their
life and comprehend it. The clouds above us are not mere reservoirs of
water for prosaic use. In their light, shade, and exquisite coloring they
are ever a reproach to the blindness of coarse and earthy minds.

The love of Nature is something that may be developed in every heart, and
it is a love that rarely fails to purify and exalt. To many she is a
cold, indifferent beauty. They see, but do not know and appreciate her,
and she passes on her way as if they were nothing to her. But when wooed
patiently and lovingly, she stops to smile, caress, and entertain with
exhaustless diversion.

In this simple home story I have talked, perhaps, like a garrulous lover
who must speak of his mistress, even though his words weary others. I
console myself, however, with the thought that my text has proved the
prosaic root and stem which have given being to the exquisite flowers of
art that adorn these pages. In Mr. Gibson and Mr. Dielman I have had
ideal associates in the work. They have poured light on a landscape that
would otherwise be dull and gray.

My characters may seem shadows to others, but they have become real, or
were real, to me. I meet them still in walks and drives where in fancy I
had placed them before. I would not have to go very far to find types of
the children introduced, but the lovers, and the majority of the others,
began as shadows in the background of imagination, and took form and
substance with time. Dr. Marvin, however, is a reality and a most valued
friend, who has assisted me greatly in my work. Any one who has the
good-fortune to meet Dr. E. A. Mearns, surgeon in the regular army, can
scarcely fail to recognize in him the genial sportsman for whom the birds
were "always in season." There are others to whom I am indebted, like
John Burroughs, Thoreau, Baird, Brewer, and Ridgway, true lovers and
interpreters of Nature. Those living stand near her queenly presence;
those who have passed on are doubtless nearer still.




CONTENTS


I. A COUNTRY HOME

II. AMY WINFIELD

III. A COUNTRY FIRESIDE

IV. GUNNING BY MOONLIGHT

V. CHRISTMAS EVE AND MORNING

VI. NATURE'S HALF-KNOWN SECRETS

VII. NEIGHBORS DROP IN

VIII. EAGLES

IX. SLEIGHING IN THE HIGHLANDS

X. A WINTER THUNDER-STORM

XI. NATURE UNDER GLASS

XII. A MOUNTAINEER'S HOVEL

XIII. ALMOST A TRAGEDY

XIV. HINTS OF SPRING

XV. NATURE'S BUILDING MATERIALS

XVI. GOSSIP ABOUT BIRD NEIGHBORS

XVII. FISHING THROUGH THE ICE

XVIII. PLANNING AND OPENING THE CAMPAIGN

XIX. WINTER'S EXIT

XX. A ROYAL CAPTIVE

XXI. SPRING'S HARBINGERS

XXII. FIRST TIMES

XXIII. REGRETS AND DUCK-SHOOTING

XXIV. APRIL

XXV. EASTER

XXVI. VERY MOODY

XXVII. SHAD-FISHING BY PROXY

XXVIII. MAY AND GIRLHOOD

XXIX. NATURE'S WORKSHOP

XXX. SPRING-TIME PASSION

XXXI. JUNE AND HONEY-BEES

XXXII. BURT BECOMES RATIONAL

XXXIII. WEBB'S ROSES AND ROMANCE

XXXIV. A SHAM BATTLE AT WEST POINT

XXXV. CHASED BY A THUNDER-SHOWER

XXXVI. THE RESCUE OF A HOME

XXXVII. A MIDNIGHT TEMPEST

XXXVIII. THE TWO LOVERS

XXXIX. BURT'S ADVENTURE

XL. MISS HARGROVE

XLI. A FIRE IN THE MOUNTAINS

XLII. CAMPING OUT

XLIII. AN OLD TENEMENT

XLIV. "BUT HE RISKED HIS LIFE?"

XLV. SUMMER'S WEEPING FAREWELL

XLVI. FATHER AND DAUGHTER

XLVII. DISQUIET WITHIN AND WITHOUT

XLVIII. IDLEWILD

XLIX. ECHOES OF A PAST STORM

L. IMPULSES OF THE HEART

LI. WEBB'S FATEFUL EXPEDITION

LII. BURT'S SORE DILEMMA

LIII. BURT'S RESOLVE

LIV. A GENTLE EXORCIST

LV. BURT TELLS HIS LOVE AGAIN

LVI. WEBB'S FOUR-LEAVED CLOVER

LVII. OCTOBER HUES AND HARVESTS

LVIII. THE MOONLIGHT OMEN

LIX. THE ROSE REVEALS ITS HEART

LX. CHRISTMAS LIGHTS AND SHADOWS




NATURE'S SERIAL STORY




THIS BOOK
IS AFFECTIONATELY DEDICATED
TO MY WIFE




NATURE'S SERIAL STORY

CHAPTER I

A COUNTRY HOME


How much it means--what possibilities it suggests! The one I shall
describe was built not far from half a century ago, and the lapsing years
have only made it more homelike. It has long ceased to be a new object--an
innovation--and has become a part of the landscape, like the trees
that have grown up around it. Originally painted brown, with the flight
of time it has taken a grayish tinge, as if in sympathy with its venerable
proprietor. It stands back from the roadway, and in summer has an air of
modest seclusion. Elms, maples, and shrubbery give to the passer-by but
chance glimpses of the wide veranda, which is indicated, rather than
revealed, beyond the thickly clustering vines.

It is now late December, and in contrast with its leafy retirement the
old homestead stands out with a sharp distinctness in the white landscape;
and yet its sober hue harmonizes with the dark boles of the trees, and
suggests that, like them, it is a natural growth of the soil, and quite
as capable of clothing itself with foliage in the coming spring. This in
a sense will be true when the greenery and blossoms of the wistaria,
honeysuckle, and grape-vines appear, for their fibres and tendrils have
clung to the old house so long that they may well be deemed an inseparable
part of it. Even now it seems that the warmth, light, and comfort within
are the sustaining influences which will carry them through, the coming
days of frost and storm. A tall pine-tree towers above the northern gable
of the dwelling, and it is ever sighing and moaning to itself, as if it
possessed some unhappy family secret which it can neither reveal nor
forget. On the hither side of its shade a carriage-drive curves toward an
ancient horse-block, with many a lichen growing on the under side of the
weather-beaten planks and supports. From this platform, where guests have
been alighting for a generation or more, the drive passes to an
old-fashioned carriage-house, in which are the great family sleigh and a
light and gayly painted cutter, revealing that the home is not devoid of
the young life to which winter's most exhilarating pastime is so dear. A
quaint corn-crib is near, its mossy posts capped with inverted tin pans
much corroded by rust. These prevent prowling rats and mice from climbing
up among the golden treasures. Still further beyond are the gray old barn
and stables, facing the south. Near their doors on the sunny side of the
ample yard stand half a dozen ruminating cows, with possibly, between
their wide-branching horns, a dim consciousness of the fields, now so
white and cold, from which were cropped, in the long-past summer, far
juicier morsels than now fall to their lot. Even into their sheltered
nook the sun, far down in the south, throws but cold and watery gleams
from a steel-colored sky, and as the northern blast eddies around the
sheltering buildings the poor creatures shiver, and when their morning
airing is over are glad to return to their warm, straw-littered stalls.
Even the gallant and champion cock of the yard is chilled. With one foot
drawn up into his fluffy feathers he stands motionless in the midst of
his disconsolate harem with his eye fixed vacantly on the forbidding
outlook. His dames appear neither to miss nor to invite his attentions,
and their eyes, usually so bright and alert, often film in weary
discontent. Nature, however, is oblivious to all the dumb protests of the
barnyard, and the cold steadily strengthens.

Away on every side stretch the angular fields, outlined by fences that
are often but white, continuous mounds, and also marked by trees and
shrubs that, in their earlier life, ran the gantlet of the bush-hook.
Here and there the stones of the higher and more abrupt walls crop out,
while the board and rail fences appear strangely dwarfed by the snow that
has fallen and drifted around them. The groves and wood-crowned hills
still further away look as drearily uninviting as roofless dwellings with
icy hearthstones and smokeless chimneys. Towering above all, on the
right, is Storm King mountain, its granite rocks and precipices showing
darkly here and there, as if its huge white mantle were old and ragged
indeed. One might well shiver at the lonely, desolate wastes lying beyond
it, grim hills and early-shadowed valleys, where the half-starved fox
prowls, and watches for unwary rabbits venturing from their coverts to
nibble the frozen twigs. The river, which above the Highlands broadens
out into Newburgh Bay, has become a snowy plain, devoid, on this bitter
day, of every sign of life. The Beacon hills, on the further side, frown
forbiddingly through the intervening northern gale, sweeping southward
into the mountain gorge.

On a day like this the most ardent lover of Nature could scarcely fail to
shrink from her cold, pallid face and colder breath. Our return to the
home, whose ruddy firelight is seen through the frosted window-panes,
will be all the more welcome because we have been shivering so long
without. The grace of hospitality has been a characteristic of the master
of the house for over half a century, and therefore the reader need not
fear to enter, especially at this Christmas-time, when the world, as if
to make amends for the churlish welcome it gave to its Divine Guest, for
whom no better place was found than a stable, now throws open the door
and heart in kindly feeling and unselfish impulses.

We propose to make a long visit at this old-fashioned homestead. We shall
become the close friends of its inmates, and share in their family life;
they will introduce us to some of their neighbors, and take us on many
breezy drives and pleasant excursions, with which it is their custom to
relieve their busy life; we shall take part in their rural labors, and
learn from them the secret of obtaining from nature that which nourishes
both soul and body; they will admit us to their confidence, and give us
glimpses of that mystery of mysteries, the human heart; and we shall
learn how the ceaseless story of life, with its hopes and fears, its joys
and sorrows, repeats itself in the quiet seclusion of a country home as
truly as in the turmoil of the city. Nor would our visit be complete did
we not witness among the ripened fruits of conjugal affection the bud and
blossom of that immortal flower which first opened in Eden, and which
ever springs unbidden from the heart when the conditions that give it
life and sustenance are present.

The hallway of this central scene of our story is wide, and extends to a
small piazza in the rear. The front half of this family thoroughfare,
partitioned off by sliding-doors, can thus be made into a roomy apartment.
Its breezy coolness causes it to be a favorite resort on sultry days, but
now it is forsaken, except that a great heater, with its ample rotundity
and glowing heart, suggests to the visitor that it stands there as a
representative of the host until he shall appear. Some portraits, a fine
old engraving, a map of the county, and some sprays of evergreen
intermingled with red berries, take away all bareness from the walls,
while in a corner near the door stands a rack, formed in part by the
branching antlers of a stag, on which hang fur caps and collars, warm
wraps and coats, all suggesting abundant means of robbing winter of its
rigor. On hooks above the sliding-doors are suspended a modern rifle and
a double-barrelled shot-gun, and above these is a firelock musket that
did good service in the Revolution.

The doors opening into the rear hall were pushed back, revealing a broad
stairway, leading with an abrupt turn and a landing to the upper chambers.
A cheerful apartment on the left of this hall was the abode of an invalid,
whose life for many years disease had vainly sought to darken. There were
lines of suffering on her thin, white face, and her hair, once black, was
silvered; but it would seem that, in the dark, lustrous eyes of the patient
woman, courage and hope had been kindled, rather than quenched, by pain.
She was now reclining on a sofa, which had been wheeled near to a wood-fire
glowing on the hearth of a large Franklin stove; and her dreamy, absent
expression often gave place to one of passing interest as her husband,
sitting opposite, read from his paper an item of news--some echo from the
busy, troubled world, that seemed so remote from their seclusion and
peaceful age. The venerable man appeared, however, as if he might still do
his share in keeping the world busy, and also in banishing its evils.
Although time had whitened his locks, it had touched kindly his stalwart
frame, while his square jaw and strong features indicated a character that
had met life's vicissitudes as a man should meet them. His native strength
and force, however, were like the beautiful region in which he dwelt--once
wild and rugged indeed, but now softened and humanized by generations of
culture. Even his spectacles could not obscure the friendly and benevolent
expression of his large blue eyes. It was evident that he looked at the
world, as mirrored before him in the daily journal, with neither cynicism
nor mere curiosity, but with a heart in sympathy with all the influences
that were making it better.

The sound of a bell caused the old man to rise and assist his wife to her
feet; then, with an affectionate manner, tinged with a fine courtesy of
the old school, he supported her to the dining-room, placed her in a
cushioned chair on his right, at the head of the table, and drew a
footstool to her feet. There was a gentleness and solicitude in his
bearing which indicated that her weakness was more potent than strength
would have been in maintaining her ascendency!

Meanwhile the rest of the family flocked in with an alacrity which proved
either that the bitter cold had sharpened their appetites, or that the
old-fashioned one-o'clock dinner was a cheerful break in the monotony of
the day. There was a middle-aged man, who was evidently the strong stay and
staff on which the old people leaned. His wife was the housekeeper of the
family, and she was emphatically the "house-mother," as the Germans phrase
it. Every line of her good, but rather care-worn, face bespoke an anxious
solicitude about everybody and everything except herself. It was apparent
that she had inherited not a little of the "Martha" spirit, and "was
careful about many things;" but her slight tendency to worry saved others a
world of worriment, for she was the household providence, and her
numberless little anxieties led to so much prevention of evil that there
was not much left to cure. Such was her untiring attention that her
thoughtless, growing children seemed cared for by the silent forces of
nature. Their clothes came to them like the leaves on the trees, and her
deft fingers added little ornaments that cost the wearers no more thought
than did the blossoms of spring to the unconscious plants of the garden.
She was as essential to her husband as the oxygen in the air, and he knew
it, although demonstrating his knowledge rather quietly, perhaps. But she
understood him, and enjoyed a little secret exultation over the strong
man's almost ludicrous helplessness and desolation when her occasional
absences suspended for a brief time their conjugal partnership. She
surrounded the old people with a perpetual Indian-summer haze of
kindliness, which banished all hard, bleak outlines from their late
autumnal life. In brief, she was what God and nature designed woman to
be--the gracious, pervading spirit, that filled the roomy house with
comfort and rest. Sitting near were her eldest son and pride, a lad about
thirteen years of age, and a girl who, when a baby, had looked so like a
boy that her father had called her "Johnnie," a sobriquet which still clung
to her. Close to the mother's side was a little embodiment of vitality,
mischief, and frolic, in the form of a four-year-old boy, the dear torment
of the whole house.

There remain but two others to be mentioned, and the Clifford family will
be complete, as constituted at present. The first was the youngest son of
the aged man at the head of the table. He had inherited his father's
features, but there was a dash of recklessness blended with the manifest
frankness of his expression, and in his blue eyes there was little trace of
shrewd calculation or forethought. Even during the quiet midday meal they
flashed with an irrepressible mirthfulness, and not one at the table
escaped his aggressive nonsense. His brother, two or three years his
senior, was of a very different type, and seemed somewhat overshadowed by
the other's brilliancy. He had his mother's dark eyes, but they were deep
and grave, and he appeared reserved and silent, even in the home circle.
His bronzed features were almost rugged in their strength, but a heavy
mustache gave a touch of something like manly beauty to his rather sombre
face. You felt instinctively that he was one who would take life
seriously--perhaps a little too seriously--and that, whether it brought him
joy or sorrow, he would admit the world but charily to his confidence.

Burtis, the youngest brother, had gone through college after a sort of
neck-or-nothing fashion, and had been destined for one of the learned
professions; but, while his natural ability had enabled him to run the
gantlet of examinations, he had evinced such an unconquerable dislike for
restraint and plodding study that he had been welcomed back to the paternal
acres, which were broad enough for them all. Mr. Clifford, by various
means, had acquired considerable property in his day, and was not at all
disappointed that his sons should prefer the primal calling to any other,
since it was within his power to establish them well when they were ready
for a separate domestic life. It must be admitted, however, that thus far
the rural tastes of Burtis were chiefly for free out-of-door life, with its
accessories of rod, gun, and horses. But Leonard, the eldest, and Webb, the
second in years, were true children of the soil, in the better sense of the
term. Their country home had been so replete with interest from earliest
memory that they had taken root there like the trees which their father had
planted. Leonard was a practical farmer, content, in a measure, to follow
the traditions of the elders. Webb, on the other hand, was disposed to look
past the outward aspects of Nature to her hidden moods and motives, and to
take all possible advantage of his discoveries. The farm was to him a
laboratory, and, with something of the spirit of the old alchemists, he
read, studied, and brooded over the problem of producing the largest
results at the least cost. He was by no means deficient in imagination, or
even in appreciation of the beautiful side of nature, when his thoughts
were directed to this phase of the outer world; but his imagination had
become materialistic, and led only to an eager quest after the obscure laws
of cause and effect, which might enable him to accomplish what to his
plodding neighbors would seem almost miraculous. He understood that the
forces with which he was dealing were wellnigh infinite; and it was his
delight to study them, to combine them, and make them his servants. It was
his theory that the energy in nature was like a vast motive power, over
which man could throw the belt of his skill and knowledge, and so produce
results commensurate with the force of which he availed himself. There was,
therefore, an unfailing zest in his work, and the majority of his labors
had the character of experiments, which, nevertheless, were so guided by
experience that they were rarely futile or unremunerative. On themes that
accorded with his tastes and pursuits he would often talk earnestly and
well, but his silence and preoccupation at other times proved that it is
not best to be dominated by one idea, even though it be a large one.




CHAPTER II

AMY WINFIELD


The reader may now consider himself introduced to the household with whom
he is invited to sojourn. In time he will grow better acquainted with the
different members of the family, as they in their several ways develop
their own individuality. A remark from old Mr. Clifford indicates that
another guest is expected, who, unlike ourselves, will be present in
reality, not fancy, and who is destined to become a permanent inmate of
the home.

"This is a bitter day," he said, "for little Amy to come to us; and yet,
unless something unforeseen prevents, she will be at the station this
evening."

"Don't worry about the child," Burtis responded, promptly; "I'll meet
her, and am glad of an excuse to go out this horrid day. I'll wrap her up
in furs like an Esquimau."

"Yes, and upset her in the drifts with your reckless driving," said
good-natured Leonard. "Thunder is wild enough at any time; but of late,
between the cold, high feeding, and idleness, he'll have to be broken
over again; lucky if he don't break your neck in the operation. The
little girl will feel strange enough, anyway, coming among people that
she has never seen, and I don't intend that she shall be frightened out
of her wits into the bargain by your harum-scarum ways. You'd give her
the impression that we were only half-civilized. So I'll drive over for
her in the family sleigh, and take Alf with me. He will be nearer her own
age, and help to break the ice. If you want a lark, go out by yourself,
and drive where you please, after your own break-neck style."

"Leonard is right," resumed Mr. Clifford, emphatically. "The ward
committed to me by my dear old friend should be brought to her home with
every mark of respect and affection by the one who has the best right to
represent me. I'd go myself, were not the cold so severe; but then
Leonard's ways are almost as fatherly as my own; and when his good wife
there gets hold of the child she'll soon be fused into the family, in
spite of the zero weather. She'll find all the cold without the door."

"I yield," said Burtis, with a careless laugh. "Len shall bring home the
little chick, and put her under his wife's wing. I should probably
misrepresent the family, and make a bad first impression; and as for
Webb, you might as well send the undertaker for her."

"I don't think she will feel strange among us very long," said Leonard's
wife. "She shall hang up her stocking to-night, like the other children,
and I have some nice little knick-knacks with which to fill it. These,
and the gifts which the rest of you have provided, will delight her, as
they do all little people, and make her feel at once that she is part of
the family."

"Maggie expresses my purpose fully," concluded Mr. Clifford. "As far as
it is within our power, we should make her one of the family. In view of
my friend's letters, this is the position that I desire her to sustain,
and it will be the simplest and most natural relation for us all. Your
mother and I will receive her as a daughter, and it is my wish that my
sons should treat her as a sister from the first."

Amy Winfield, the subject of the above remarks, was the only daughter of a
gentleman who had once been Mr. Clifford's most intimate friend, and also
his partner in many business transactions. Mr. Winfield had long resided
abroad, and there had lost the wife whom he had married rather late in
life. When feeling his own end drawing near, his thoughts turned wistfully
to the friend of his early manhood, and, as he recalled Mr. Clifford's
rural home, he felt that he could desire no better refuge for his child. He
had always written of her as his "little girl," and such she was in his
fond eyes, although in fact she had seen eighteen summers. Her slight
figure and girlish ways had never dispelled the illusion that she was still
a child, and as such he had commended her to his friend, who had responded
to the appeal as to a sacred claim, and had already decided to give her a
daughter's place in his warm heart. Mr. Winfield could not have chosen a
better guardian for the orphan and her property, and a knowledge of this
truth had soothed the last hours of the dying man.

It struck Leonard that the muffled figure he picked up at the station and
carried through the dusk and snow to the sleigh was rather tall and heavy
for the child he was expecting; but he wrapped her warmly, almost beyond
the possibility of speaking, or even breathing, and spoke the hearty and
encouraging words which are naturally addressed to a little girl. After
seeing that her trunks were safely bestowed in a large box-sledge, under
the charge of black Abram, one of the farm-hands, he drove rapidly
homeward, admonishing Alfred, on the way, "to be sociable." The boy,
however, had burrowed so deep under the robes as to be invisible and
oblivious. When Leonard was about to lift her out of the sleigh, as he
had placed her in it, the young girl protested, and said:

"I fear I shall disappoint you all by being larger and older than you
expect."

A moment later he was surprised to find that the "child" was as tall as
his wife, who, with abounding motherly kindness, had received the girl
into open arms. Scarcely less demonstrative and affectionate was the
greeting of old Mr. Clifford, and the orphan felt, almost from the first,
that she had found a second father.

"Why, Maggie," whispered Leonard, "the child is as tall as you are!"

"There's only the more to welcome, then," was the genial answer, and,
turning to the young girl, she continued, "Come with me, my dear; I'm not
going to have you frightened and bewildered with all your new relations
before you can take breath. You shall unwrap in your own room, and feel
from the start that you have a nook where no one can molest you or make
you afraid, to which you can always retreat;" and she led the way to a
snug apartment, where an air-tight stove created summer warmth. There was
a caressing touch in Mrs. Leonard's assistance which the young girl felt
in her very soul, for tears came into her eyes as with a deep sigh of
relief she sat down on a low chair.

"I feared I should be a stranger among strangers," she murmured; "but I
already feel as if I were at home."

"You are, Amy," was the prompt reply, spoken with that quiet emphasis
which banishes all trace of doubt. "You are at home as truly as I am.
There is nothing halfway in this house. Do you know we all thought that
you were a child? I now foresee that we shall be companions, and very
companionable, too, I am sure."

There was a world of grateful good-will in the dark hazel eyes which Amy
lifted to the motherly face bending over her.

"And now come," pursued Mrs. Leonard; "mother Clifford, the boys, and the
children are all eager to see you. You won't find much ice to break, and
before the evening is over you will feel that you belong to us and we to
you. Don't be afraid."

"I am not afraid any more. I was, though, on my way here. Everything looked
so cold and dismal from the car windows, and the gentleman in whose care I
was had little to say, though kind and attentive enough. I was left to my
own thoughts, and gave way to a foolish depression; but when your husband
picked me up in his strong arms, and reassured me as if I were a little
girl, my feeling of desolation began to pass away. Your greeting and dear
old Mr. Clifford's have banished it altogether. I felt as if my own father
were blessing me in the friend who is now my guardian, and of whom I have
heard so often; and, after my long winter journey among strangers, you've
no idea what a refuge this warm room has already become. Oh, I know I shall
be happy. I only wish that dear papa knew how well he has provided for me."

"He knows, my dear. But come, or that incorrigible Burt will be bursting
upon us in his impatience, and the little mother must not be kept
waiting, either. You will soon learn to love her dearly. Weak and gentle
as she is, she rules us all."

"Mother's room" was, in truth, the favorite haunt of the house, and only
her need of quiet kept it from being full much of the time. There was
nothing bleak or repelling in the age it sheltered, and children and
grandchildren gathered about the old people almost as instinctively as
around their genial open fire. This momentous Christmas-eve found them
all there, a committee of reception awaiting the new inmate of their
home. There was an eager desire to know what Amy was like, but it was a
curiosity wholly devoid of the spirit of criticism. The circumstances
under which the orphan came to them would banish any such tendency in
people less kindly than the Cliffords; but their home-life meant so much
to them all that they were naturally solicitous concerning one who must,
from the intimate relations she would sustain, take from or add much to
it. Therefore it was with a flutter of no ordinary expectancy that they
waited for her appearance. The only one indifferent was Leonard's youngest
boy, who, astride his grandpa's cane, was trotting quietly about,
unrestricted in his gambols. Alfred had thawed out since his return from
the station, and was eager to take the measure of a possible playmate; but,
with the shyness of a boy who is to meet a "strange girl," he sought a
partial cover behind his grandfather's chair. Little "Johnnie" was flitting
about impatiently, with her least mutilated doll upon her arm; while her
uncle Burtis, seated on a low stool by his mother's sofa, pretended to be
exceedingly jealous, and was deprecating the fact that he would now be no
longer petted as her baby, since the child of her adoption must assuredly
take his place. Webb, who, as usual, was somewhat apart from the family
group, kept up a poor pretence of reading; and genial Leonard stood with
his back to the fire, his hands clasped behind him, beaming upon all, and
waiting to shine on the new-comer. Only Mr. Clifford seemed uninfluenced by
the warm, bright present. He gazed fixedly into the flickering blaze, and
occasionally took off his spectacles to wipe away the moisture that
gathered in his eyes. His thoughts, evidently, were busy with years long
past, and were following that old, tried friend who had committed to his
hands so sacred a trust.

The door opened, and Mrs. Leonard led Amy forward. The latter hesitated a
moment, bewildered by the number of eyes turned toward her, and the new
relations into which she was entering. She proved that she was not a
child by her quick, blushing consciousness of the presence of two young
men, who were as yet utter strangers; and they, in turn, involuntarily
gave to the lender, brown-haired girl quite a different welcome from the
one they had expected to bestow upon a child. Old Mr. Clifford did not
permit her embarrassment to last a moment, but, stepping hastily forward,
and encircling her with his arm, he led her to his wife, who brought
tears into the eyes of the motherless girl by the gentle warmth of her
greeting. She monopolized her ward so long that impatient Burtis began to
expostulate, and ask when his turn was coming. The young girl turned a
shy, blushing face toward him, and her cheeks, mantling under the full
rays of the lamp, rendered the exquisite purity of her complexion all the
more apparent. He also began to feel that he was flushing absurdly, but
he carried it off with his usual audacity.

"I am much embarrassed and perplexed," he said. "I was led to expect a
little sister that I could romp with, and pick up and kiss; but here is a
young lady that almost paralyzes me with awe."

"I'd like to see you paralyzed from any such cause just once," Leonard
remarked, laughingly. "Go kiss your sister, like a little man."

The young fellow seemed to relish the ceremony exceedingly, and responsive
mirthfulness gleamed for a moment in Amy's eyes. Then he dragged Webb
forward, saying, "Let me introduce to you the grave and learned member of
the family, to whom we all speak with bated breath. You must not expect him
to get acquainted with you in any ordinary way. He will investigate you,
and never rest until he has discovered all the hidden laws of your being.
Now, Webb, I will support you while Amy kisses you, and then you may sit
down and analyze your sensations, and perhaps cipher out a method by which
a kiss can be rendered tenfold more effective."

Unmoved by his brother's raillery, Webb took the young girl's hand, and
looked at her so earnestly with his dark, grave eyes, that hers drooped.
"Sister Amy," he said, gently, "I was prepared to welcome you on general
principles, but I now welcome you for your own sake. Rattle-brain Burt
will make a good playmate, but you will come to me when you are in
trouble;" and he kissed her brow.

The girl looked up with a swift, grateful glance; it seemed odd to her,
even at that moment of strong and confused impressions, and with the
salutes of her guardians still warm upon her cheek, that she felt a sense
of rest and security never known before. "He will be my brother in very
truth," was the interpretation which her heart gave to his quiet words.
They all smiled, for the course of the reticent and undemonstrative young
man was rather unexpected. Burtis indulged in a ringing laugh, as he
said:

"Father, mother, you must both feel wonderfully relieved. Webb is to look
after Amy in her hours of woe, which, of course, will be frequent in this
vale of tears. He will console you, Amy, by explaining how tears are
formed, and how, by a proper regard for the sequence of cause and effect,
there might be more or less of them, according to your desire."

"I think I understand Webb," was her smiling answer.

"Don't imagine it. He is a perfect sphinx. Never before has he opened his
mouth so widely, and only an occasion like this could have moved him. You
must have unconsciously revealed a hidden law, or else he would have been
as mum as an oyster."

Leonard, meanwhile, had seated himself, and was holding little Ned on his
knee, his arm at the same time encircling shy, sensitive Johnnie, who was
fairly trembling with excited expectancy. Ned, with his thumb in his
mouth, regarded his new relative in a nonchalant manner; but to the
little girl the home-world was _the_ world, and the arrival in its midst
of the beautiful lady never seen before was as wonderful as any fairy
tale. Indeed, that such a June-like creature should come to them that
wintry day--that she had crossed the terrible ocean from a foreign realm
far more remote, in the child's consciousness, than fairy-land--seemed
quite as strange as if Cinderella had stepped out of the storybook with
the avowed purpose of remaining with them until her lost slipper was
found. Leonard, big and strong as he was, felt and interpreted the
delicate and thrilling organism of his child, and, as Amy turned toward
him, he said, with a smile:

"No matter about me. We're old friends; for I've known you ever since you
were a little girl at the station. What if you did grow to be a young
woman while riding home! Stranger things than that happen every day in
storybooks, don't they, Johnnie? Johnnie, you must know, has the advantage
of the rest of us. She likes bread-and-butter, and kindred realities of our
matter-of-fact sphere, but she also has a world of her own, which is quite
as real. I think she is inclined to believe that you are a fairy princess,
and that you may have a wand in your pocket by which you can restore to her
doll the missing nose and arm."

Amy scarcely needed Leonard's words in order to understand the child, for
the period was not remote when, in her own mind, the sharp outlines of
fact had shaded off into the manifold mysteries of wonderland. Therefore,
with an appreciation and a gentleness which won anew all hearts, she took
the little girl on her lap, and said, smilingly:

"I have a wee wand with which, I'm sure, I can do much for you, and
perhaps something for dolly. I can't claim to be a fairy princess, but I
shall try to be as good to you as if I were one."

Webb, with his book upside down, looked at the young girl in a way which
proved that he shared in Johnnie's wonder and vague anticipation. Alfred,
behind his grandfather's chair, was the only one who felt aggrieved and
disappointed. Thus far he had been overlooked, but he did not much care,
for this great girl could be no companion for him. Amy, however, had
woman's best grace--tact--and guessed his trouble. "Alf," she said,
calling him by his household name, and turning upon him her large hazel
eyes, which contained spells as yet unknown even to herself--"Alf, don't
be disappointed. You shall find that I am not too big to play with you."

The boy yielded at once to a grace which he would be years in learning to
understand, and which yet affected him subtilely, and with something of
the same influence that it had upon Webb, who felt that a new element was
entering into his life. Mercurial Burtis, however, found nothing peculiar
in his own pleasant sensations. He had a score of young lady friends, and
was merely delighted to find in Amy a very attractive young woman,
instead of a child or a dull, plain-featured girl, toward whom brotherly
attentions might often become a bore. He lived intensely in the present
hour, and was more than content that his adopted sister was quite to his
taste.

"Well, Amy," said Mr. Clifford, benignantly, "you seem to have stepped in
among us as if there had always been a niche waiting for you, and I think
that, after you have broken bread with us, and have had a quiet sleep
under the old roof, you will feel at home. Come, I'm going to take you
out to supper to-night, and, Burt, do you be as gallant to your mother."

The young fellow made them all laugh by imitating his father's old-style
courtesy; and a happy circle of faces gathered around the board in the
cheerful supper-room, to which a profuse decoration of evergreens gave a
delightfully aromatic odor. Mr. Clifford's "grace" was not a formal
mumble, but a grateful acknowledgment of the source from which, as he
truly believed, had flowed all the good that had blessed their life; and
then followed the genial, unrestrained table-talk of a household that, as
yet, possessed no closeted skeleton. The orphan sat among them, and her
mourning weeds spoke of a great and recent sorrow, which might have been
desolation, but already her kindling eyes and flushed cheeks proved that
this strong, bright current of family life would have the power to carry
her forward to a new, spring-like experience. To her foreign-bred eyes
there was an abundance of novelty in this American home, but it was like
the strangeness of heaven to the poor girl, who for months had been so
sad and almost despairing. With the strong reaction natural to youth
after long depression, her heart responded to the glad life about her,
and again she repeated the words to herself, "I'm sure--oh, I am sure I
shall be happy here."




CHAPTER III

A COUNTRY FIRESIDE


After supper they all gathered for a time in the large general
sitting-room, and careful Leonard went the rounds of the barn and
out-buildings. Mr. Clifford, with considerate kindness, had resolved to
defer all conversation with Amy relating to her bereavement and the
scenes that had ensued. At this holiday-time they would make every effort
within their power to pierce with light and warmth the cold gray clouds
that of late had gathered so heavily over the poor child's life. At the
same time their festivities would be subdued by the memory of her recent
sorrow, and restricted to their immediate family circle. But, instead of
obtrusive kindness, they enveloped her in the home atmosphere, and made
her one of them. The manner in which old Mrs. Clifford kept her near and
retained her hand was a benediction in itself.

Leonard was soon heard stamping the snow from his boots on the back
piazza, and in a few moments he entered, shivering.

"The coldest night of the year," he exclaimed. "Ten below zero, and it
will probably be twelve before morning. It's too bad, Amy, that you have
had such a cold reception."

"The thermometer makes a good foil for your smile," she replied. "Indeed,
I think the mercury rose a little while you were looking at it."

"Oh no," he said, laughing, "even you could not make it rise to-night.
Heigho, Ned! coming to kiss good-night? I say, Ned, tell us what mamma
has for Amy's stocking. What a good joke it is, to be sure I We all had
the impression you were a little girl, you know, and selected our gifts
accordingly. Burt actually bought you a doll. Ha! ha! ha! Maggie had
planned to have you hang up your stocking with the children, and such a
lot of little traps and sweets she has for you!"

The boy, to whom going to bed at the usual hour was a heavy cross on this
momentous evening, promptly availed himself of a chance for delay by
climbing on Amy's lap, and going into a voluble inventory of the contents
of a drawer into which he had obtained several surreptitious peeps. His
effort to tell an interminable story that he might sit up longer, the
droll havoc he made with his English, and the naming of the toys that
were destined for the supposed child, evoked an unforced merriment which
banished the last vestige of restraint.

"Well, I'm glad it has all happened so," said Amy, after the little
fellow had reluctantly come to the end of his facts and his invention
also. "You make me feel as if I had known you for years--almost,
indeed, as if I had come to you as a little girl, and had grown up among
you. Come, Ned, it shall all turn out just as you expected. I'll go with
you upstairs, and hang my stocking beside yours, and mamma shall put into
it all the lovely things you have told me about. Santa Claus does not
know much about my coming here, nor what kind of a girl I am, so your
kind mamma meant to act the part of Santa Claus in my behalf this year,
and give him a chance to get acquainted with me. But he knows all about
you, and there's no telling how soon he may come to fill your stocking.
You know he has to fill the stockings of all the little boys and girls in
the country, and that will take a long time. So I think we had better go
at once, for I don't believe he would like it if he came and found you up
and awake."

This put a new aspect upon going to bed early, and having seen his short,
chubby stocking dangling with a long, slender one of Amy's by the
chimney-side, Ned closed his eyes with ineffable content and faith. Amy
then returned to the sitting-room, whither she was soon followed by Maggie,
and after some further light and laughing talk the conversation naturally
drifted toward those subjects in which the family was practically
interested.

"What do you think, father?" Leonard asked. "Won't this finish the peach
and cherry buds? I've always heard that ten degrees of cold below zero
destroyed the fruit germs."

"Not always," replied the man of long experience. "It depends much upon
their condition when winter sets in, and whether, previous to the cold
snap, there have been prolonged thaws. The new growth on the trees
ripened thoroughly last fall, and the frost since has been gradual and
steady. I've known peach-buds to survive fifteen below zero; but there's
always danger in weather like this. We shall know what the prospects are
after the buds thaw out."

"How will that be possible?" Amy asked, in surprise.

"Now, Webb, is your chance to shine," cried Burtis. "Hitherto, Amy, the
oracle has usually been dumb, but you may become a priestess who will
evoke untold stores of wisdom."

Webb flushed slightly, but again proved that his brother's banter had
little influence.

"If you are willing to wait a few days," he said, with a smile, "I can
make clear to you, by the aid of a microscope, what father means, much
better than I can explain. I can then show you the fruit germs either
perfect or blackened by the frost."

"I'll wait, and remind you of your promise, too. I don't know nearly as
much about the country as a butterfly or a bird, but should be quite as
unhappy as they were I condemned to city life. So you must not laugh at
me if I ask no end of questions, and try to put my finger into some of
your horticultural pies."

His pleased look contained all the assurance she needed, and he resumed,
speaking generally: "The true places for raising peaches--indeed, all the
stone-fruits--successfully in this region are the plateaus and slopes of
the mountains beyond us. At their height the mercury never falls as low
as it does with us, and when we have not a peach or cherry I have found
such trees as existed high up among the hills well laden."

"Look here, uncle Webb," cried Alf, "you've forgotten your geography. The
higher you go up the colder it gets."

The young man patiently explained to the boy that the height of the
Highlands is not sufficient to cause any material change in climate,
while on still nights the coldest air sinks to the lowest levels, and
therefore the trees in the valleys and at the base of the mountains
suffer the most. "But what you say," he concluded, "is true as a rule.
The mercury does range lower on the hills; and if they were a thousand or
fifteen hundred feet higher peaches could not be grown at all."

Amy mentally soliloquized: "I am learning not only about the mercury, but
also--what Alf has no doubt already found out--that Webb is the one to go
to if one wishes anything explained. What's more, he wouldn't, in giving
the information, overwhelm one with a sense of deplorable ignorance."

In accordance with his practical bent, Webb continued: "I believe that a
great deal of money could be made in the Highlands by raising peaches. The
crop would be almost certain, and the large late varieties are those which
bring the extraordinary prices. What is more, the mountain land would
probably have the quality of virgin soil. You remember, father, don't you,
when peaches in this region were scarcely troubled by disease?"

"Indeed I do. There was a time when they would live on almost like
apple-trees, and give us an abundance of great luscious fruit year after
year. Even with the help of the pigs we could not dispose of the crops,
the bulk of which, in many instances, I am sorry to say, went into
brandy. What was that you were reading the other day about peaches in
Hawthorne's description of the Old Manse?"

Webb took the book and read: "Peach-trees which, in a good year, tormented
me with peaches neither to be eaten nor kept, nor, without labor and
perplexity, to be given away."

"That hits it exactly," resumed the old gentleman, laughing, "only every
year was a good year then, and we had not the New York market within
three hours of us. Even if we had, a large modern orchard would have
supplied it. One of the most remarkable of the changes I've witnessed in
my time is the enormous consumption of fruit in large cities. Why, more
is disposed of in Newburgh than used to go to New York. But to return to
peaches; our only chance for a long time has been to plant young trees
every year or two, and we scarcely secured a crop more than once in three
years. Even then the yellows often destroyed the trees before they were
old enough to bear much. They are doing far better of late along the
Hudson, and there is good prospect that this region will become the
greatest peach-growing locality in the country."

"I'm sure you are right," assented Webb, "and I think it will pay us to
plant largely in the spring. I don't suppose you ever saw a peach-orchard
in England, Amy?"

"I don't think I ever did. They were all grown in front of sunny walls,
_espalier_, as papa termed it. We had some in our garden."

"Yes," resumed Webb, "the climate there is too cool and humid for even
the wood to ripen. Here, on the contrary, we often have too vivid
sunshine. I propose that we put out all the north slope in peaches."

"Do you think a northern exposure best?" Leonard asked.

"I certainly do. In my opinion it is not the frost, unless it be very
severe, that plays the mischief with the buds, but alternate freezing and
thawing, especially after the buds have started in spring. On a northern
slope the buds usually remain dormant until the danger of late frosts is
over. I am quite sure, too, that the yellows is a disease due chiefly to
careless or dishonest propagation. Pits and buds have been taken from
infected trees, and thus the evil has been spread far and wide. There is
as much to be gained in the careful and long-continued selection of
fruits and vegetables as in the judicious breeding of stock."

"Has no remedy for the yellows been discovered?" Leonard again queried.

"Only the axe and fire. The evil should be extirpated as fast as it
appears. Prevention is far better than any attempt at cure. The thing to
do is to obtain healthier trees, and then set them out on new land.
That's why I think the north slope will be a good place, for peaches have
never been grown there in my memory."

"Come, Amy," said Burt. "Len and Webb are now fairly astride of their
horticultural hobbies. Come with me, and see the moon shining on old
Storm King."

They pushed aside the heavy crimson curtains, which added a sense of warmth
to the cheerful room, and looked at the cold white world without--a ghost
of a world, it seemed to Amy. The moon, nearly full, had risen in the gap
of the Highlands, and had now climbed well above the mountains, softening
and etherealizing them until every harsh, rugged outline was lost. The
river at their feet looked pallid and ghostly also. When not enchained by
frost, lights twinkled here and there all over its broad surface, and the
intervals were brief when the throbbing engines of some passing steamer
were not heard. Now it was like the face of the dead when a busy life is
over.

"It's all very beautiful," said Amy, shivering, "but too cold and still.
I love life, and this reminds one of death, the thoughts of which, with
all that it involves, have oppressed me so long that I must throw off the
burden. I was growing morbid, and giving way to a deeper and deeper
depression, and now your sunny home life seems just the antidote for it
all."

The warm-hearted fellow was touched, for there were tears in the young
girl's eyes. "You have come to the right place, Amy," he said, eagerly.
"You cannot love life more than I, and I promise to make it lively for
you. I'm just the physician to minister to the mind diseased with
melancholy. Trust me. I can do a hundred-fold more for you than delving,
matter-of-fact Webb. So come to me when you have the blues. Let us make
an alliance offensive and defensive against all the powers of dulness and
gloom."

"I'll do my best," she replied, smiling; "but there will be hours, and
perhaps days, when the past with its shadows will come back too vividly
for me to escape it."

"I'll banish all shadows, never fear. I'll make the present so real and
jolly that you will forget the past."

"I don't wish to forget, but only to think of it without the dreary
foreboding and sinking of heart that oppressed me till I came here. I
know you will do much for me, but I am sure I shall like Webb also."

"Oh, of course you will. He's one of the best fellows in the world. Don't
think that I misunderstand him or fail to appreciate his worth because I
love to run him so. Perhaps you'll wake him up and get him out of his
ruts. But I foresee that I'm the medicine you most need. Come to the
fire; you are shivering."

"Oh, I'm so glad that I've found such a home," she said, with a grateful
glance, as she emerged from the curtains.




CHAPTER IV

GUNNING BY MOONLIGHT


Webb saw the glance from eyes on which were still traces of tears; he
also saw his brother's look of sympathy; and with the kindly purpose of
creating a diversion to her thoughts he started up, breaking off his
discussion with Leonard, and left the room. A moment later he returned
from the hall with the double-barrelled gun.

"What now, Webb?" cried Burt, on the _qui vive_. "You will make Amy
think we are attacked by Indians."

"If you are not afraid of the cold, get your gun, and I think I can give
you some sport, and, for a wonder, make you useful also," Webb replied.
"While you were careering this afternoon I examined the young trees in
the nursery, and found that the rabbits were doing no end of mischief. It
has been so cold, and the snow is so deep, that the little rascals are
gathering near the house. They have gnawed nearly all the bark off the
stems of some of the trees, and I doubt whether I can save them. At first
I was puzzled by their performances. You know, father, that short nursery
row grafted with our seedling apple, the Highland Beauty? Well, I found
many of the lower twigs taken off with a sharp, slanting cut, as if they
had been severed with a knife, and I imagined that a thrifty neighbor had
resolved to share in our monopoly of the new variety, but I soon discovered
that the cuttings had been made too much at random to confirm the
impression that some one had been gathering scions for grafting. Tracks on
the snow, and girdled trees, soon made it evident that rabbits were the
depredators. One of the little pests must have climbed into a bushy tree at
least eighteen inches from the snow, in order to reach the twigs I found
cut."

"A rabbit up a tree!" exclaimed Leonard. "Who ever heard of such a
thing?"

"Well, you can see for yourself to-morrow," Webb resumed. "Of course we
can't afford to pasture the little fellows on our young trees, and so
must feed them until they can be shot or trapped. The latter method will
be good fun for you, Alf. This afternoon I placed sweet apples,
cabbage-leaves, and turnips around the edge of a little thicket near the
trees; and, Burt, you know there is a clump of evergreens near, from
whose cover I think we can obtain some good shots. So get your gun, and
we'll start even."

At the prospect of sport Burt forgot Amy and everything else, and dashed
off.

"Oh, papa, can't I go with them?" pleaded Alf.

"What do you think, Maggie?" Leonard asked his wife, who now entered.

"Well, boys will be boys. If you will let mamma bundle you up--"

"Oh, yes, anything, if I can only go!" cried Alf, trembling with
excitement.

"Sister Amy," Webb remarked, a little diffidently, "if you care to see
the fun, you can get a good view from the window of your room. I'll load
my gun in the hall."

"Can I see you load?" Amy asked, catching some of Alf's strong interest.
"It's all so novel to me."

"Certainly. I think you will soon find that you can do pretty much as you
please in your new home. You are now among republicans, you know, and we
are scarcely conscious of any government."

"But I have already discovered one very strong law in this household,"
she smilingly asserted, as she stood beside him near the hall-table, on
which he had placed his powder-flask and shot-pouch.

"Ah, what is that?" he asked, pouring the powder carefully into the
muzzles of the gun.

"The law of kindness, of good-will. Why," she exclaimed, "I expected to
be weeks in getting acquainted, but here you are all calling me sister
Amy as if it were the most natural thing in the world. It seems so odd,"
she laughed, "that I am not a bit afraid of you, even with your gun, and
yet we have just met, as it were. The way you and your brothers say
'sister Amy' makes the relation seem real. I can scarcely believe that I
am the same girl that stepped down at the station this evening, nor can I
get over my pleased wonder at the transformation."

"Amy," said the young man, earnestly, "your coming promises so much to us
all! You were just the one element lacking in our home. I now see that it
was so. I already have the presentiment that you will do more for us than
we can for you."

"I ought to do all that the deepest gratitude could prompt. You have
never known what it is to be desolate one hour, and to find an ideal home
the next."

"I wish it might be an ideal home to you; but don't expect too much. You
will find some of us very human."

"Therefore I shall feel the more at home. Papa always spoiled me by
letting me have my own way, and I shall often tax your patience. Do you
know, I never saw a gun loaded before. There seems to be so much going on
here, and I have lived such a quiet life of late. How will you make the
thing go off?"

"These little precussion-caps will do the business. It seems to me that
I've always been quiet, and perhaps a trifle heavy. I hope you will think
it your mission to render me less matter-of-fact. I'm ready now, and here
comes Burt with his breech-loader. If you will go to your room now, you
can see our shots."

A moment later she stood with Johnnie at her window, both almost holding
their breath in expectation as they saw the young men, with Alf following,
steal toward a clump of evergreens behind the house.

"Quiet and steady now," Webb cautioned his eager brother; "and, Alf, you
step in my tracks, so there may be no noise." Thus they made their way
among the pines, and peered cautiously out. "Hold on, Burt," Webb
whispered, as the former was bringing his gun to his shoulder; "I want a
crack at them as well as yourself. Let's reconnoitre. Yes, there are
three or four of the scamps. Let Alf see them. They look so pretty in the
moonlight that I've scarcely the heart to disturb, much less to kill
them."

"Oh, stop your sentimental nonsense!" muttered Burt, impatiently. "It's
confoundedly cold, and they may take fright and disappear."

"Black ingratitude!" Webb exclaimed. "If there isn't one in the apple
nursery in spite of all my provision for them! That ends my compunctions.
I'll take him, and you that big fellow munching a cabbage-leaf. We'll
count three--now, one, two--" The two reports rang out as one, and the
watchers at the window saw the flashes, and thrilled at the reverberating
echoes.

"It's almost as exciting as if they were shooting Indians, robbers, or
giants," cried Johnnie, clapping her hands and jumping up and down.

"Back," said Webb to Alf, who was about to rush forward to secure the
game; "we may get another shot."

They waited a few moments in vain, and then succumbed to the cold. To Alf
was given the supreme delight of picking up the game that lay on the
snow, making with their blood the one bit of color in all the white
garden.

"Poor little chaps!" Webb remarked, as he joined the family gathered
around Alf and the rabbits in the sitting-room. "It's a pity the world
wasn't wide enough for us all."

"What has come over you, Webb?" asked Burt, lifting his eyebrows. "Has
there been a hidden spring of sentiment in your nature all these years,
which has just struck the surface?"

It was evident that nearly all shared in Webb's mild regret that such a
sudden period had been put to life at once so pretty, innocent, and
harmful. Alf, however, was conscious of only pure exultation. Your boy is
usually a genuine savage, governed solely by the primal instinct of the
chase and destruction of wild animals. He stroked the fur, and with eyes
of absorbed curiosity examined the mischievous teeth, the long ears, the
queer little feet that never get cold, and the places where the lead had
entered with the sharp deadly shock that had driven out into the chill
night the nameless something which had been the little creature's life.
Amy, too, stroked the fur with a pity on her face which made it very
sweet to Webb, while tender-hearted Johnnie was exceedingly remorseful,
and wished to know whether "the bunnies, if put by the fire, would not
come to life before morning." Indeed, there was a general chorus of
commiseration, which Burt brought to a prosaic conclusion by saying:
"Crocodile tears, every one. You'll all enjoy the pot-pie to-morrow with
great gusto. By the way, I'll prop up one of these little fellows at the
foot of Ned's crib, and in the morning he'll think that the original
'Br'er Rabbit' has hopped out of Uncle Remus's stories to make him a
Christmas visit."




CHAPTER V

CHRISTMAS EVE AND MORNING


Old Mrs. Clifford now created a diversion by asking: "How about our
plants to-night, Maggie? Ought we not to take some precautions? Once
before when it was as cold as this we lost some, you know."

"Leonard," said his wife, in response to the suggestion, "it will be
safer for you to put a tub of water in the flower-room; that will draw
the frost from the plants. Mother is the queen of the flowers in this
house," continued Mrs. Leonard, turning to Amy, "and I think she will be
inclined to appoint you first lady in attendance. She finds me cumbered
with too many other cares. But it doesn't matter. Mother has only to look
at the plants to make them grow and bloom."

"There you are mistaken," replied the old lady, laughing. "Flowers are
like babies. I never made much of a fuss over my babies, but I loved
them, and saw that they had just what they needed at the right time."

"That accounts for Webb's exuberant growth and spirit, and the ethereal
beauty of Len's mature blossoming," remarked Burt.

"You are a plant that never had enough pruning," retorted his portly
eldest brother.

"I shall be glad to help you, if you will teach me how," Amy said to Mrs.
Clifford.

"In the pruning department?" asked Burt, with assumed dismay.

"Possibly," was the reply, with an arch little look which delighted the
young fellow.

"Come, Maggie," said Mrs. Clifford, "sing a Christmas carol before we
separate. It will be a pleasant way of bringing our happy evening to a
close."

Mrs. Leonard went to the piano. "Amy," she asked, "can't you help me?"

"I'll do my best, if you will choose something I know."

A selection was soon made, and Amy modestly blended a clear, sweet voice
with the air that Mrs. Leonard sang, and as the sympathetic tones of the
young girl swelled the rich volume of song the others exchanged looks of
unaffected pleasure.

"Oh, Amy, I am so glad you can sing!" cried Mrs. Clifford, "for we have
always made so much of music in our home."

"Papa," she replied, with moist eyes, "felt as you do, and he had me sing
for him ever since I can remember."

"Amy dear," said Mrs. Leonard, in a low voice, "suppose you take the
soprano and I the alto in the next stanza."

They were all delighted with the result, and another selection was made,
in which Burt's tenor and Webb's bass came in with fine effect.

"Amy, what a godsend you are to us all!" said Leonard, enthusiastically. "I
am one of the great army of poets who can't sing, but a poet nevertheless."

"Yes, indeed, Len," added Burt; "it needs but a glance to see that you
are of that ethereal mold of which poets and singers are made. But isn't
it capital! We now have all the four parts."

"Amy," said Mr. Clifford, "do you know an old Christmas hymn that your
father and I loved when we were as young as you are?" and he named it.

"I have often sung it for him, and he usually spoke of you when I did
so"; and she sang sweet, undying words to a sweet, quaint air in a voice
that trembled with feeling.

The old gentleman wiped his eyes again and again. "Ah!" he said, "how
that takes me back into the past! My friend and I knew and loved that air
and hymn over sixty years ago. I can see him now as he looked then. God
bless his child, and now my child!" he added, as he drew Amy caressingly
toward him. "A brief evening has made you one of us. I thank God that he
has sent one whom it will be so easy for us all to love; and we gratefully
accept you as a Christmas gift from Heaven."

Then, with the simplicity of an ancient patriarch, he gathered his
household around the family altar, black Abram and two maids entering at
his summons, and taking seats with an air of deference near the door. Not
long afterward the old house stood silent and dark in the pallid landscape.

Though greatly wearied, Amy was kept awake during the earlier part of the
night by the novelty of her new life and relations, and she was awakened
in the late dawn of the following day by exclamations of delight from
Mrs. Leonard's room. She soon remembered that it was Christmas morning.
The children evidently had found their stockings, for she heard Johnnie
say, "Oh, mamma, do you think Aunt Amy is awake? I would so like to take
her stocking to her!"

"Yes," cried Amy, "I'm awake"; and the little girl, draped in white, soon
pushed open the door, holding her own and Amy's stockings in hands that
trembled with delightful anticipation.

"Jump into bed with me," said Amy, "and we will empty our stockings
together."

The years rolled back, the previous months of sorrow and suffering were
forgotten; the day, the hour, with its associations, the eager child that
nestled close to her, made her a child again. She yielded wholly to her
mood; she would be a little girl once more, Johnnie's companion in
feeling and delight; and the morning of her life was still so new that
the impulses of that enchanted age before the light of experience has
defined the world into its matter-of-fact proportions came back unforced
and unaffected. Her voice vied with Johnnie's in its notes of excitement
and pleasure, and to more than one who heard her it seemed that their
first impression was correct, that a little child had come to them, and
that the tall, graceful maiden was a myth.

"Merry Christmas, Amy!" cried the voice of Webb on the stairs.

The child vanished instantly, and a blushing girl let fall the half-emptied
stocking. Something in that deep voice proved that if she were not yet a
woman, she had drawn so near that mystery of life that its embarrassing
self-consciousness was beginning to assert itself. "How silly he will think
me!" was her mental comment, as she returned his greeting in a voice that
was rather faint.

The "rising bell" now resounded through the house, and she sprang up with
the purpose of making amends by a manner of marked dignity. And yet there
remained with her a sense of home security, of a great and new-found
happiness, which the cold gray morning could not banish. The air-tight
stove glowed with heat and comfort, and she afterward learned that Mrs.
Leonard had replenished the fire so noiselessly as not to awaken her. The
hearty Christmas greetings of the family as she came into the
breakfast-room were like an echo of the angels' song of "good-will." The
abounding kindliness and genuine pleasure at her presence made the feeling
that she had indeed become one of the household seem the most natural thing
in the world, instead of a swiftly wrought miracle.

Little Ned had in his arms one of the rabbits that had been shot on the
previous evening, and to him it was more wonderful than all his toys.
"You should have seen him when he awoke," said his mother, "and saw the
poor little thing propped up at the foot of his crib. His eyes grew wider
and rounder, and at last he breathed, in an awed whisper, 'Br'er Rabbit.'
But he soon overcame his surprise, and the jargon he talked to it made
our sides ache with laughing."

The gifts that had been prepared for the supposed child were taken by Amy
in very good part, but with the tact of a well-bred girl who would not
spoil a jest, rather than with the undisguised delight of Johnnie.

"Only Johnnie and I have seen little Amy," said Leonard--"I at the depot
before she grew up; and this morning she became a little girl again as a
Christmas wonder for my little girl. Johnnie's faith and fairy lore may
make the transformation possible to her again, but I fear the rest of us
will never catch another glimpse of the child we expected"; for Amy's
grown-up air since she had appeared in the breakfast-room had been almost
a surprise to him after hearing through the partition her pretty nonsense
over her stocking.

"I fear you are right," said Amy, with a half-sigh; "and yet it was
lovely to feel just like Johnnie once more;" and she stole a shy glance
at Webb, who must have heard some of her exclamations. The expression of
his face seemed to reassure her, and without further misgiving she joined
in a laugh at one of Burt's sallies.




CHAPTER VI

NATURE'S HALF-KNOWN SECRETS


Amy's thoughts naturally reverted before very long to Mrs. Clifford's
pets--the flowers--and she asked how they had endured the intense cold of
the night.

"They have had a narrow escape," the old lady replied. "If Maggie had not
suggested the tub of water last night, I fear we should have lost the
greater part of them."

"Yes," said Mrs. Leonard, "I went to the flower-room with fear and
trembling this morning, and when I found the water frozen thick I was in
despair."

"It was the water freezing that saved the plants," Webb remarked,
quietly. "I put water in the root-cellar before I went to bed last night,
with like good effect."

"Well, for the life of me," said Maggie, "I can't understand why the
plants and roots don't freeze when water does."

"Come, Burt," added her husband, "you are a college-bred man. You explain
how the water draws the frost from the plants."

"Oh, bother!" Burt answered, flushing slightly, "I've forgotten. Some
principle of latent heat involved, I believe. Ask Webb. If he could live
long enough he'd coax from Nature all her secrets. He's the worst Paul
Pry into her affairs that I ever knew. So beware, Amy, unless you are
more secretive than Nature, which I cannot believe, since you seem so
natural."

"I'm afraid your knowledge, Burt, resembles latent heat," laughed
Leonard. "Come, see what you can do, Webb."

"Burt is right," said Webb, good-naturedly; "the principle of latent heat
explains it all, and he could refresh his memory in a few moments. The
water does not draw the frost from the plants, but before it can freeze
it must give out one hundred and forty degrees of latent heat. The
flower-room and root-cellar were therefore so much warmer during the
night than if the water had not been there. The plants that were nipped
probably suffered after the ice became so thick as to check in a great
measure the freezing process."

"How can ice stop water from freezing?" Alf asked, in much astonishment.

"By keeping it warm, on the same principle that your bed-clothes kept you
warm last night. Heat passes very slowly through ice-that is, it is a
poor conductor. With the snow it is the winter wrap of nature, which
protects all life beneath it. When our ponds and rivers are once frozen
over, the latent heat in the water beneath can escape through the ice but
very gradually, and every particle of ice that forms gives out into the
water next to it one hundred and forty degrees of heat. Were it not for
these facts our ponds would soon become solid. But to return to the tub
of water in the flower-room. The water, when placed there, was probably
warmer than the air, and so would give out or radiate its heat until a
thermometer, placed either in the room or in the water, would mark
thirty-two degrees above zero. At this point the water would begin to
freeze, but plants or vegetables would not. They would require slightly
severer cold to affect them. But as soon as the water begins to freeze it
also gradually gives out its latent heat, and before a particle of ice
can form it must give out one hundred and forty degrees of heat to the
air and water around it. Therefore the freezing process goes on slowly,
and both the air and water are kept comparatively warm. After a time,
however, the ice becomes so thick over the surface that the freezing goes
on more and more slowly, because the latent heat in the unfrozen water
cannot readily escape through the ice. It is therefore retained, just as
the latent heat in the water of an ice-covered pond is retained."

"It follows, then," said Leonard, "that after the water beneath the ice
in the tub began to freeze slowly, the flower-room, in that same degree,
began to grow cold."

"Certainly, for only as the water freezes can it give out its latent
heat. The thick wooden side of the tub is a poor conductor; the ice that
has formed over the surface is even a worse, and so the water within is
shielded from the cold. It therefore almost ceases to freeze, and so
becomes of no practical use. An intelligent understanding of these
principles is of great practical value. If I could have waked up and
placed another tub of water in the room at two or three o'clock, or else
taken all of the ice out of the first one, the process of freezing and
giving out heat would have gone on rapidly again, and none of the plants
would have suffered. I have heard people say that putting water in a
cellar was all a humbug--that the water froze and the vegetables also. Of
course the vegetables froze after the water congealed, or the cellar may
have been so defective that both froze at the same time. The latent heat
given out by a small amount of freezing water cannot counteract any great
severity of frost."

"The more water you have, then, the better?" said his father.

"Yes, for then there is more to freeze, and the effect is more gradual
and lasting."

"I feel highly honored, Webb," said his mother, smiling, "that so much
science should minister to me and my little collection of plants. I now
see that the why and wherefore comes in very usefully. But please tell me
why you put the plants that were touched with frost into cold water, and
why you will not let the sunlight fall on them?"

"For the same reason that you would put your hand in cold water if
frost-bitten. Your expression, 'touched with frost,' shows that there is
hope for them. If they were thoroughly frozen you would lose them. Your
plants, you know, are composed chiefly of water, which fills innumerable
little cells formed by the vegetable tissue. If the water in the cells is
chilled beyond a certain point, if it becomes solid ice, it expands and
breaks down the tissue of the cells, and the structure of the plant is
destroyed. If the frost can be gradually withdrawn so as to leave the
cells substantially intact, they can eventually resume their functions,
and the plant receive no very great injury."

"But why does sudden heat or sunlight destroy a frosted plant?"

"For the same reason that it breaks down the vegetable tissue. Heat
expands, and the greater the heat the more rapid the expansion. When the
rays of the sun, which contain a great deal of heat, fall on any part of
a frost-bitten plant, that part begins to expand so rapidly and violently
that the cellular tissues are ruptured, and life is destroyed. What is
more, the heat does not permeate equally and at once the parts affected
by frost. The part furthest away from the heat remains contracted, while
the parts receiving it expand rapidly and unequally, and this becomes
another cause for the breaking up of the vegetable tissue. The same
principle is illustrated when we turn up the flame of a lamp suddenly.
The glass next to the flame expands so rapidly that the other parts
cannot keep pace, and so, as the result of unequal expansion, the chimney
goes to pieces. With this principle in mind, we seek to withdraw the
frost and to reapply the vivifying heat very gradually and equally to
every part, so that the vegetable tissues may be preserved unbroken. This
is best done by immersing them in cold water, and then keeping them at a
low temperature in a shady place. As the various parts of the plant
resume their functions, the light and heat essential to its life and
growth can gradually be increased."

"It seems to me that your theory is at fault, Webb," said Leonard. "How
is it that some plants are able to endure such violent alternations of
heat and cold?"

"We don't have to go far--at least I do not--before coming to the
limitations of knowledge. What it is in the structure of a plant like the
pansy, for instance, which makes it so much more hardy than others that
seem stronger and more vigorous, even the microscope does not reveal.
Nature has plenty of secrets that she has not yet told. But of all people
in the world those who obtain their livelihood from the soil should seek
to learn the wherefore of everything, for such knowledge often doubles
the prospect of success."

"Now, Amy," said Burtis, laughing, "you see what sort of a fellow Webb
is. You cannot even sneeze without his considering the wherefore back to
the remotest cause."

"Are you afraid of me, Amy?" asked Webb.

"No," was the quiet reply.

Amy spent the greater part of the day in unpacking her trunks, and in
getting settled in her home-like room. It soon began to take on a familiar
air. Hearts, like plants, strike root rapidly when the conditions are
favorable. Johnnie was her delighted assistant much of the time, and this
Christmas-day was one long thrill of excitement to the child. Her wonder
grew and grew, for there was a foreign air about many of Amy's things, and,
having been brought from such a long distance, they seemed to belong to
another world. The severe cold continued, and only the irrepressible Burtis
ventured out to any extent. When Alf's excitement over his presents began
to flag, Webb helped him make two box-traps, and the boy concealed them in
the copse where the rabbit-tracks were thickest. Only the biting frost kept
him, in his intense eagerness, from remaining out to see the result. Webb,
however, taught him patience by assuring him that watched traps never
caught game.

Beyond the natural home festivities the day passed quietly, and this was
also true of the entire holiday season. Cheerfulness, happiness abounded,
and there was an unobtrusive effort on the part of every one to surround
the orphan girl with a genial, sunny atmosphere. And yet she was ever
made to feel that her sorrow was remembered and respected. She saw that
Mr. Clifford's mind was often busy with the memory of his friend, that
even Burt declined invitations to country merrymakings in the vicinity,
and that she was saved the ordeal of meeting gay young neighbors with
whom the Clifford home was a favorite resort. In brief, they had received
her as a daughter of the house, and in many delicate ways proved that
they regarded her as entitled to the same consideration as if she were
one. Meanwhile she was shown that her presence cast no gloom over the
family life, and she knew and they knew that it would be her father's
wish that she should share in all the healing gladness of that life. No
true friend who has passed on to the unclouded shore would wish to leave
clouds and chilling shadows as a legacy, and they all felt that in Amy's
case it had been her father's desire and effort to place her under
conditions that would develop her young life happily and therefore
healthfully. There is the widest difference in the world between
cheerfulness and mirthfulness which arise from happy home life and
peaceful hearts, and the levity that is at once unfeeling, inconsiderate,
and a sure indication of a coarse-fibred, ill-bred nature. Amy was made
to feel this, and she found little indeed which jarred with memories that
were only sad, not bitter or essentially depressing. Every day brought
new assurance that her father's wishes and hopes in her behalf had been
fulfilled to a degree that must have added to his heavenly content, could
he have known how well he had provided for her. And so the busy days
glided on; and when the evening brought the household together, there
were music, reading aloud, and genial family talk, which usually was
largely colored by their rural calling. Therefore, on New-Year's morning
Amy stood as upon a sunny eminence, and saw her path leading away amid
scenes that promised usefulness, happiness, and content.




CHAPTER VII

NEIGHBORS DROP IN


One evening early in the year three neighbors dropped in. They were
evidently as diverse in character as in appearance. The eldest was known
in the neighborhood as Squire Bartley, having long been a justice of the
peace. He was a large landholder, and carried on his farm in the
old-fashioned ways, without much regard to system, order, or improvement.
He had a big, good-natured red face, a stout, burly form, and a
corresponding voice. In marked contrast with his aspect and past
experience was Mr. Alvord, who was thin almost to emaciation, and upon
whose pallid face not only ill-health but deep mental suffering had left
their unmistakable traces. He was a new-comer into the vicinity, and
little was known of his past history beyond the fact that he had exchanged
city life for country pursuits in the hope of gaining strength and vigor.
He ought to have been in the full prime of cheerful manhood, but his sombre
face and dark, gloomy eyes indicated that something had occurred in the
past which so deeply shadowed his life as to make its long continuance
doubtful. He had not reached middle age, and yet old Mr Clifford appeared a
heartier man than he. While he had little knowledge of rural occupations,
he entered into them with eagerness, apparently finding them an antidote
for sad memories. He had little to say, but was a good listener, and
evidently found at the Cliffords' a warmth and cheer coming not from the
hearth only. Webb and Leonard had both been very kind to him in his
inexperience, and an occasional evening at their fireside was the only
social tendency that he had been known to indulge. Dr. Marvin, the third
visitor, might easily compete with Burt in flow of spirits, and in his day
had been quite as keen a sportsman. But he was unlike Burtis in this, that
all birds were game to him, and for his purpose were always in season. To
Emerson's line,

  "Hast thou named all the birds without a gun?"

he could not reply in the affirmative, and yet to kill as many as
possible had never been his object. From earliest childhood he had
developed a taste for ornithology, and the study of the fauna of the
region had been almost his sole recreation for years. He too was a
frequent visitor at the Cliffords', where he ever found ready listeners
and questioners.

"I don't know what is the matter with my poultry," Squire Bartley
remarked, after the weather, politics, and harmless phases of local
gossip had been discussed; "they are getting as poor as crows. My boys
say that they are fed as well as usual. What's more, I've had them throw
down for 'em a warm mixture of meal and potatoes before they go to roost,
but we don't get an egg. What luck are you having, Leonard?"

"Well, I don't know that I'm having much luck in the matter," Leonard
replied, with his humorous smile; "but I can't complain. Until this very
cold weather set in we had eggs in plenty, and still have a fair supply.
I'm inclined to think that if your hens are the right kind, and are
properly cared for, they can't help producing eggs. That has usually been
my experience. I don't believe much in luck, but there are a few simple
things that are essential to success with poultry in winter. By the way,
do you give them well or spring water to drink?"

"Well, no, I don't believe we do, at this time of year. I've so arranged
it that the drippings from the eaves of the barn fall into a trough, and
that saves trouble. I expect the boys are careless, too, for I've seen
the fowls eating snow and ice."

"That accounts for your poultry being like crows, for, whatever the
reason may be, snow-water will soon reduce chickens to mere feathers and
bones."

"You don't say so!" cried the squire. "Well, I never heard that before."

"I don't think your system of feeding is the correct one, either,"
pursued Leonard. "You give your hens the warm meal to-morrow evening, as
usual, and then about midnight go to the roosts and feel of their crops.
I'll warrant you'll find them empty. The meal, you see, digests speedily,
and is soon all gone. Then come the long cold hours before morning, and
the poor creatures have nothing to sustain them, and they become chilled
and enfeebled. It takes some time for the grain you give them in the
morning to digest, and so they are left too long a time without support.
Give them the grain in the evening--corn and buckwheat and barley
mixed--and there is something for their gizzards to act on all night
long. The birds are thus sustained and kept warm by their food. Then in
the morning, when they naturally feel the cold the most, give them the
warm food, mixing a little pepper with it during such weather as this."

"Well," remarked the squire, "I guess you're right. Anyway, I'll try your
plan. One is apt to do things the same way year after year without much
thought about it."

"Then, again," resumed Leonard, "I find it pays to keep poultry warm,
clean, and well sheltered. In very cold weather I let them out only for an
hour or two. The rest of the time they are shut up in the chicken-house,
which has an abundance of light, and is well ventilated. Beneath the floor
of the chicken-house is a cellar, which I can fill with stable manure, and
graduate the heat by its fermentation. This acts like a steady furnace.
There is room in the cellar to turn the manure from time to time to prevent
its becoming fire-fanged, so that there is no loss in this respect. Between
the heat from beneath, and the sun streaming in the windows on the south
side of the house, I can keep my laying hens warm even in zero weather; and
I make it a point not to have too many. Beyond a certain number, the more
you have the worse you're off, for poultry won't stand crowding."

"You farmers," put in Dr. Marvin, "are like the doctors, who kill or cure
too much by rule and precedent. You get into certain ways or ruts, and
stick to them. A little thought and observation would often greatly
modify your course. Now in regard to your poultry, you should remember
that they all existed once as nature made them--they were wild, and
domestication cannot wholly change their character. It seems to me that
the way to learn how to manage fowls successfully is to observe their
habits and modes of life when left to themselves. In summer, when they
have a range, we find them eating grass, seeds, insects, etc. In short,
they are omnivorous. In winter, when they can't get these things, they
are often fed one or two kinds of grain continuously. Now, from their
very nature, they need in winter all the kinds of food that they
instinctively select when foraging for themselves--fresh vegetables,
meat, and varieties of seeds or grain. We give to our chickens all the
refuse from the kitchen--the varied food we eat ourselves, with the
exception of that which contains a large percentage of salt--and they
thrive and lay well. Before they are two years old we decapitate them.
Old fowls, with rare exceptions, will not lay in winter."

Sad-eyed Mr. Alvord listened as if there were more consolation and cheer
in this talk on poultry than in the counsel of sages. The "chicken fever"
is more inevitable in a man's life than the chicken-pox, and sooner or
later all who are exposed succumb to it. Seeing the interest developing
in his neighbor's face, Leonard said, briskly:

"Mr. Alvord, here's an investment that will pay you to consider. The care
of poultry involves light and intelligent labor, and therefore is adapted
to those who cannot well meet the rough and heavy phases of outdoor work.
The fowls often become pets to their keepers, and the individual oddities
and peculiarities of character form an amusing study which is not wanting
in practical advantages. The majority of people keep ordinary barn-door
fowls, which are the result of many breeds or strains. The consequence is
almost as great diversity of character within gallinaceous limits as
exists in the families that care for them. For instance, one hen is a
good, persistent layer; another is a patient, brooding mother; a third is
fickle, and leaves her nest so often and for such long intervals that the
eggs become chilled, and incubation ceases. Some are tame and tractable,
others as wild as hawks, and others still are not of much account in any
direction, and are like commonplace women, who are merely good to count
when the census is taken."

"I hope you make no reference to present company," Maggie remarked.

Leonard gave his wife one of his humorous looks as he replied, "I never
could admit that in regard to you, for it would prove too much against
myself. The idea of my picking out a commonplace woman!"

"Leonard knows, as we all do, that he would be like a decapitated chicken
himself without her," said Mrs. Clifford, with her low laugh.

Maggie smiled. This was re-assuring from the mother of the eldest and
favorite son.

"Well," remarked Squire Bartley, sententiously, "there are old housewives
in the neighborhood that have more luck with poultry than any of you,
with all your science."

"Nonsense," replied Dr. Marvin. "You know a little about law, squire, and
I less about medicine, perhaps, and yet any good mother could take care
of a lot of children better than we could. There is old Mrs. Mulligan, on
the creek road. She raises ducks, geese, and chickens innumerable, and
yet I fail to see much luck in her management; but she has learned from
experience a better skill than the books could have taught her, for she
said to me one day, 'I jis thries to foind out what the crathers wants,
and I gives it to 'em,' She knows the character of every hen, duck, and
goose she has, and you don't catch her wasting a sitting of eggs under a
fickle biddy. And then she watches over her broods as Mrs. Leonard does
over hers. Don't talk about luck. There has been more of intelligent care
than luck in bringing up this boy Alf. I believe in book-farming as much
as any one, but a successful farmer could not be made by books only; nor
could I ever learn to be a skilful physician from books, although all the
horses on your place could not haul the medical literature extant. I must
adopt Mrs. Mulligan's tactics, and so must you. We must find out 'what
the crathers want,' be they plants, stock, or that most difficult subject
of all, the human crather. He succeeds best who does this _in_ season,
and not out of season."

"You are right, doctor," said Leonard, laughing. "I agree with what you
say about the varied diet of poultry in general, and also in particular,
and I conform my practice to your views. At the same time I am convinced
that failure and partial success with poultry result more from inadequate
shelter and lack of cleanliness than from lack of proper food. It does
not often happen in the country that fowls are restricted to a narrow
yard or run, and when left to themselves they pick up, even in winter,
much and varied food in and about the barn. But how rarely is proper
shelter provided! It is almost as injurious for poultry as it would be
for us to be crowded, and subjected to draughts, dampness, and cold. They
may survive, but they can't thrive and be profitable. In many instances
they are not even protected from storms, and it's a waste of grain to
feed poultry that roost under a dripping roof."

"Well," said the squire, "I guess we've been rather slack. I must send my
boys over to see how you manage."

"Amy," remarked Burtis, laughing, "you are very polite. You are trying to
look as if you were interested."

"I am interested," said the young girl, positively. "One of the things I
liked best in English people was their keen interest in all rural
pursuits. Papa did not care much for such things; but now that I am a
country girl I intend to learn all I can about country life."

Amy had not intended this as a politic speech, but it nevertheless won
her the increased good-will of all present. Burtis whispered,

"Let me be your instructor."

Something like a smile softened Webb's rugged face, but he did not raise
his eyes from the fire.

"If her words are not the result of a passing impulse," he thought,
"sooner or later she will come to me. Nature, however, tolerates no
fitful, half-hearted scholars, and should she prove one, she will be
contented with Burt's out-of-door fun."

"Miss Amy," remarked Dr. Marvin, vivaciously, "if you will form some of
my tastes you will never suffer from _ennui_. Don't be alarmed; I have
not drugs in my mind. Doctors rarely take their own medicine. You don't
look very strong, and have come back to your native land with the
characteristics of a delicate American girl, rather than the vigor of an
English one. I fear you slighted British beef and mutton. If I were so
officious as to prescribe unasked, I should put you on birds for several
months, morning, noon, and evening. Don't you be officious also, Burt.
It's on the end of your tongue to say that you will shoot them for her. I
had no such commonplace meaning. I meant that Miss Amy should enjoy the
birds in their native haunts, and learn to distinguish the different
varieties by their notes, plumage, and habits. Such recreation would take
her often out-of-doors, and fill every spring and summer day with zest."

"But, Dr. Marvin," cried Amy, "is not the study of ornithology rather a
formidable undertaking?"

"Yes," was the prompt reply. "I sometimes feel as if I could devote
several lifetimes to it. But is it such a formidable thing to begin with
a few of our commonest birds, like the robin or wren, for instance; to
note when they first arrive from their southern sojourn, the comical
scenes of courtship and rivalry in the trees about the door, the building
of their homes, and their housekeeping? I am sorry to say that I find
some of my patients consumed with a gossipy interest in their neighbors'
affairs. If that interest were transferred to the families residing in
the cherry and apple trees, to happy little homes that often can be
watched even from our windows, its exercise would have a much better
effect on health and character. When a taste for such things is once
formed, it is astonishing how one thing leads to another, and how fast
knowledge is gained. The birds will soon begin to arrive, Miss Amy, and a
goodly number stay with us all winter. Pick out a few favorite kinds, and
form their intimate acquaintance. I would suggest that you learn to
identify some of the birds that nest near the house, and follow their
fortunes through the spring and as late in the summer as their stay
permits, keeping a little diary of your observations. Alf here will be a
famous ally. You will find these little bird histories, as they develop
from day to day, more charming than a serial story."

It were hard to tell who was the more captivated by the science of
ornithology, Amy or Alf, when this simple and agreeable method for its
study was suggested. Mr. Alvord looked wistfully at the unalloyed
pleasure of the boy and the young girl as they at once got together on
the sofa and discussed the project. He quietly remarked to the doctor, "I
also shall make time to follow your suggestion, and shall look forward to
some congenial society without my home if not within it."

"See what comes from being enthusiastic about a thing!" laughed the
doctor. "I have made three converts."

Mrs. Leonard looked furtively and pityingly at the lonely Mr. Alvord. A
man without a wife to take care of him was to her one of the forlornest
of objects, and with secret satisfaction she thought, "Leonard, I
imagine, would find the birds' housekeeping a poor substitute for mine."




CHAPTER VIII

EAGLES


"Speaking of birds, doctor, there are some big fellows around this
winter," said Burtis. "While in the mountains with the wood teams some
days since I saw a gray and a bald eagle sailing around, but could not
get a shot at them. As soon as it grows milder I am going up to the
cliffs on the river to see if I can get within rifle range."

"Oh, come, Burt, I thought you were too good a sportsman to make such a
mistake," the doctor rejoined. "A gray eagle is merely a young bald
eagle. We have only two species of the genuine eagle in this country, the
bald, or American, and the golden, or ring-tailed. The latter is very
rare, for their majesties are not fond of society, even of their own
kind, and two nests are seldom found within thirty miles of each other.
The bald eagle has been common enough, and I have shot many. One morning
long ago I shot two, and had quite a funny experience with one of them."

"Pray tell us about it," said Burtis, glad of a diversion from his
ornithological shortcomings.

"Well, one February morning (I could not have been much over fourteen at
the time) I crossed the river on the ice, and took the train for
Peekskill. Having transacted my business and procured a good supply of
ammunition, I started homeward. From the car windows I saw two eagles
circling over the cliffs of the lower Highlands, and with the rashness
and inexperience of a boy I determined to leave the train while it was
under full headway. I passed through to the rear car, descended to the
lowest step, and, without realizing my danger, watched for a level place
that promised well for the mad project. Such a spot soon occurring, I
grasped the iron rail tightly with my right hand, and with my gun in my
left I stepped off into the snow, which was wet and slushy. My foot
bounded up and back as if I had been india-rubber, and maintaining my
hold I streamed away behind the car in an almost horizontal position.
About once in every thirty feet my foot struck the ground, bounded up and
back, and I streamed away again as if I were towed or carried through the
air. After taking a few steps of this character, which exceeded any
attributed to giants in fairy-lore, I saw I was in for it, and the next
time my foot struck I let go, and splashed, with a force that I even now
ache to think of, into the wet snow. It's a wonder I didn't break my
neck, but I scrambled up not very much the worse for my tumble. There
were the eagles; my gun was all right, and that was all I cared for at
the time. I soon loaded, using the heaviest shot I had, and in a few
moments the great birds sailed over my head. I devoted a barrel to each,
and down they both came, fluttering, whirling, and uttering cries that
Wilson describes as something like a maniacal laugh. One lodged in the
top of a tall hemlock, and stuck; the other came flapping and crashing
through another tree until stopped by the lower limbs, where it remained.
I now saw that their distance had been so great that I had merely
disabled them, and I began reloading, but I was so wild from excitement
and exultation that I put in the shot first. Of course my caps only
snapped, and the eagle in the hemlock top, recovering a brief renewal of
strength after the shock of his wound, flew slowly and heavily away, and
fell on the ice near the centre of the river. I afterward learned that it
was carried off by some people on an ice-boat. The other eagle, whose wing
I had broken, now reached the ground, and I ran toward it, determined that
I should not lose both of my trophies. As I approached I saw that I had an
ugly customer to deal with, for the bird, finding that he could not escape,
threw himself on his back, with his tail doubled under him, and was
prepared to strike blows with talons and beak that would make serious
wounds, I resolved to take my game home alive, and after a little thought
cut a crotched stick, with which I held his head down while I fastened his
feet together. A man who now appeared walking down the track aided me in
securing the fierce creature, which task we accomplished by tying some
coarse bagging round his wings, body, and talons. I then went on to the
nearest station in order to take the train homeward. Of course the eagle
attracted a great deal of attention in the cars--more than he seemed to
enjoy, for he soon grew very restless. I was approaching my destination,
and three or four people were about me, talking, pointing, and trying to
touch the bird, when he made a sudden dive. The bagging round his wings and
feet gave way, and so did the people on every side. Down through the aisle,
flapping and screaming, went the eagle; and the ladies, with skirts
abridged, stood on the seats and screamed quite as discordantly. Not a man
present would help me, but, mounting on their seats, they vociferated
advice. The conductor appeared on the scene, and I said that if he would
head the bird off I would catch him. This he agreed to do, but he no sooner
saw the eagle bearing down on him with his savage eye and beak than he, as
nimbly at the best of them, hopped upon a seat, and stood beside a woman,
probably for her protection. A minute or two later the train stopped at my
station, and I was almost desperate. Fortunately I was in the last car, and
I drove my eagle toward the rear door, from which, by the vigorous use of
my feet, I induced him to alight on the ground--the first passenger of the
kind, I am sure, that ever left the cars at that station. After several
minor adventures, I succeeded in getting him home. I hoped to keep him
alive, but he would not eat; so I stuffed him in the only way I could, and
he is now one of my specimens."

"Well," said Burt, laughing, "that exceeds any eagle adventure that I
have heard of in this region. In the car business you certainly brought
his majesty down to the prose of common life, and I don't wonder the
regal bird refused to eat thereafter."

"Cannot eagles be tamed--made gentle and friendly?" old Mrs. Clifford
asked. "I think I remember hearing that you had a pet eagle years ago."

"Yes, I kept one--a female--six months. She was an unusually large
specimen, and measured about eight feet with wings extended. The females of
all birds of prey, you know, are larger than the males. As in the former
case, I had broken one of her wings, and she also threw herself on her back
and made her defence in the most savage manner. Although I took every
precaution in my power, my hands were bleeding in several places before I
reached home, and, in fact, she kept them in a rather dilapidated condition
all the time I had her. I placed her in a large empty room connected with
the barn, and found her ready enough to eat. Indeed, she was voracious, and
the savage manner in which she tore and swallowed her food was not a
pleasant spectacle. I bought several hundred live carp--a cheap, bony
fish--and put them in a ditch where I could take them with a net as I
wanted them. The eagle would spring upon a fish, take one of her long hops
into a corner, and tear off its head with one stroke of her beak. While I
was curing her broken wing the creature tolerated me after a fashion, but
when she was well she grew more and more savage and dangerous. Once a
Dutchman, who worked for us, came in with me, and the way the eagle chased
that man around the room and out of the door, he swearing meanwhile in high
German and in a high key, was a sight to remember. I was laughing
immoderately, when the bird swooped down on my shoulder, and the scars
would have been there to-day had not her talons been dulled by their
constant attrition with the boards of her extemporized cage. Covering my
face with my arm--for she could take one's eye out by a stroke of her
beak--I also retreated. She then dashed against the window with such force
that she bent the wood-work and broke every pane of glass. She seemed so
wild for freedom that I gave it to her, but the foolish creature, instead
of sailing far away, lingered on a bluff near the river, and soon boys and
men were out after her with shot-guns. I determined that they should not
mangle her to no purpose, and so, with the aid of my rifle, I added her
also to my collection of specimens."

"Have you ever found one of their nests?" Webb asked.

"Yes. They are rather curious affairs, and are sometimes five feet in
diameter each way, and quite flat at the top. They use for the substratum
of the domicile quite respectable cord-wood sticks, thicker than one's
wrist. The mother-bird must be laying her eggs at this season, cold as it
is. But they don't mind the cold, for they nest above the Arctic Circle."

"I don't see how it is possible for them to protect their eggs and young
in such severe weather," Mrs. Clifford remarked.

"Nature takes care of her own in her own way," replied the doctor, with a
slight shrug. "One of the birds always remains on the nest."

"Well," said Squire Bartley, who had listened rather impatiently to so
much talk about an unprofitable bird, "I wish my hens were laying now.
Seems to me that Nature does better by eagles and crows than by any fowls
I ever had. Good-night, friends."

With a wistful glance at Amy's pure young face, and a sigh so low that
only pitiful Mrs. Leonard heard it, Mr. Alvord also bowed himself out in
his quiet way.

"Doctor," said Burtis, resolutely, "you have excited my strongest
emulation, and I shall never be content until I have brought down an
eagle or two."

"Dear me!" cried the doctor, looking at his watch, "I should think that
you would have had enough of eagles, and of me also, by this time.
Remember, Miss Amy, I prescribe birds, but don't watch a bald-eagle's
nest too closely. We are not ready to part with your bright eyes any more
than you are."




CHAPTER IX

SLEIGHING IN THE HIGHLANDS


During the night there was a slight fall of snow, and Webb explained at
the breakfast-table that its descent had done more to warm the air than
would have been accomplished by the fall of an equal amount of red-hot
sand. But more potent than the freezing particles of vapor giving off
their latent heat were the soft south wind and the bright sunshine, which
seemingly had the warmth of May.

"Come, Amy," said Burtis, exultantly, "this is no day to mope in the
house. If you will trust yourself to me and Thunder, you shall skim the
river there as swiftly as you can next summer on the fastest steamer."

Amy was too English to be afraid of a horse, and with wraps that soon
proved burdensome in the increasing warmth of the day, she and Burt
dashed down the slopes and hill that led to the river, and out upon the
wide, white plain. She was a little nervous as she thought of the fathoms
of cold, dark water beneath her; but when she saw the great loads of
lumber and coal that were passing to and fro on the track she was
convinced that the ice-bridge was safe, and she gave herself up to the
unalloyed enjoyment of the grand scenery. First they crossed Newburgh
Bay, with the city rising steeply on one side, and the Beacon Mountains
further away on the other. The snow covered the ice unbrokenly, except as
tracks crossed here and there to various points. Large flocks of crows
were feeding on these extemporized roadways, and they looked blacker than
crows in the general whiteness. As the sleigh glided here and there it
was hard for Amy to believe that they were in the track of steamers and
innumerable sail-boats, and that the distant shores did not slope down to
a level plain, on which the grass and grain would wave in the coming
June; but when Burt turned southward and drove under the great beetling
mountains, and told her that their granite feet were over a hundred yards
deep in the water, she understood the marvellous engineering of the
frost-spirit that had spanned the river, where the tides are so swift,
and had so strengthened it in a few short days and nights that it could
bear enormous burdens.

Never before had she seen such grand and impressive scenery. They could
drive within a few feet of the base of Storm King and Cro' Nest; and the
great precipices and rocky ledges, from which often hung long, glittering
icicles, seemed tenfold more vast than when seen from a distance. The
furrowed granite cliffs, surmounted by snow, looked like giant faces,
lined and wrinkled by age and passion. Even the bright sunshine could do
little to soften their frowning grandeur. Amy's face became more and more
serious as the majesty of the landscape impressed her, and she grew
silent under Burtis's light talk. At last she said:

"How transient and insignificant one feels among these mountains! They
could not have looked very different on the morning when Adam first saw
Eve."

"They are indeed superb," replied Burt, "and I am glad my home--our
home--is among them; and yet I am sure that Adam would have found Eve
more attractive than all the mountains in the world, just as I find your
face, flushed by the morning air, far more interesting than these hills
that I have known and loved so long."

"My face is a novelty, brother Burt," she answered, with deepening color,
for the young fellow's frequent glances of admiration were slightly
embarrassing.

"Strange to say, it is growing so familiar that I seem to have known you
all my life," he responded, with a touch of tenderness in his tone.

"That is because I am your sister," she said, quietly. "Both the word and
the relation suggest the idea that we have grown up together," and then
she changed the subject so decidedly that even impetuous Burt felt that
he must be more prudent in expressing the interest which daily grew
stronger. As they were skirting Constitution Island, Amy exclaimed:

"What a quaint old house! Who lives there all alone?"

"Some one that you know about, I imagine. Have you ever read 'The Wide,
Wide World'?"

"What girl has not?"

"Well, Miss Warner, the author of the book, resides there. The place has
a historical interest also. Do you see those old walls? They were built
over one hundred years ago. At the beginning of the Revolution, the
Continental authorities were stupid enough to spend considerable money,
for that period, in the building of a fort on those rocks. Any one might
have seen that the higher ground opposite, at West Point, commanded the
position."

"No matter about the fort. Tell me of Miss Warner."

"Well, she and her sister spend their summers there, and are ever busy
writing, I believe. I'll row you down in the spring after they return.
They are not there in winter, I am told. I have no doubt that she will
receive you kindly, and tell you all about herself."

"I shall not fail to remind you of your promise, and I don't believe she
will resent a very brief call from one who longs to see her and speak
with her. I am not curious about celebrities in general, but there are
some writers whose words have touched my heart, and whom I would like to
see and thank. Where are you going now?"

"I am going to show you West Point in its winter aspect. You will find it
a charming place to visit occasionally, only you must not go so often as
to catch the cadet fever."

"Pray what is that?"

"It is an acute attack of admiration for very young men of a military
cut. I use the word cut advisedly, for these incipient soldiers look for
all the world as if carved out of wood. They gradually get over their
stiffness, however, and as officers usually have a fine bearing, as you
may see if we meet any of them. I wish, though, that you could See a
squad of 'plebes' drilling. They would provoke a grin on the face of old
Melancholy himself."

"Where is the danger, then, of acute admiration?"

"Well, they improve, I suppose, and are said to be quite irresistible
during the latter part of their course. You need not laugh. If you knew
how many women--some of them old enough to be the boys' mothers--had
succumbed, you would take my warning to heart."

"What nonsense! You are a little jealous of them, Burt."

"I should be indeed if you took a fancy to any of them."

"Well, I suppose that is one of the penalties of having brothers. Are all
these houses officers' quarters?"

They had now left the ice, and were climbing the hill as he replied:

"No, indeed. This is Logtown--so named, I suppose, because in the earlier
days of the post log huts preceded these small wooden houses. They are
chiefly occupied by enlisted men and civilian employees. That large
building is the band barracks. The officers' quarters, with a few
exceptions, are just above the brow of the hill west and south of the
plain."

In a few moments Amy saw the wide parade and drill ground, now covered
with untrodden snow.

"What a strange formation of land, right in among the mountains," she
said.

"Yes," replied her companion. "Nature could not have designed a better
place for a military school. It is very accessible, yet easily guarded,
and the latter is an important point, for some of the cadets are very
wild, and disposed toward larks."

"I imagine that they are like other young fellows. Were you a saint at
college?"

"How can you think otherwise? There, just opposite to us, out on the
plain, the evening parade takes place after the spring fairly opens. I
shall bring you down to see it, and 'tis a pretty sight. The music also
is fine. Oh, I shall be magnanimous, and procure you some introductions
if you wish."

"Thank you. That will be the best policy. These substantial buildings on
our right are the officers' quarters, I suppose?"

"Yes. That is the commandant's, and the one beyond it is the
superintendent's. They are both usually officers of high rank, who have
made an honorable record for themselves. The latter has entire charge of
the post, and the position is a very responsible one; nor is it by any
means a sinecure, for when the papers have nothing else to find fault
with they pick at West Point."

"I should think the social life here would be very pleasant."

"It is, in many respects. Army ties beget a sort of comradeship which
extends to the officers' wives. Frequent removal from one part of the
country to another prevents anything like vegetating. The ladies, I am
told, do not become overmuch engrossed in housekeeping, and acquire
something of a soldier's knack of doing without many things which would
naturally occupy their time and thought if they looked forward to a
settled life. Thus they have more time for reading and society. Those
that I have met have certainly been very bright and companionable, and
many who in girlhood were accustomed to city luxury can tell some strange
stories of their frontier life. There is one army custom which often
bears pretty hard. Can you imagine yourself an officer's wife?"

"I'll try, if it will be of help to you."

"Then suppose you were nicely settled in one of those houses, your
furniture arranged, carpets down, etc. Some morning you learn that an
officer outranking your husband has been ordered here on duty. His first
step may be to take possession of your house. Quarters are assigned in
accordance with rank, and you would be compelled to gather up your
household goods and take them to some smaller dwelling. Then your
husband--how droll the word sounds!--could compel some other officer,
whom he outranked, to move. It would seem that the thing might go on
indefinitely, and the coming of a new officer produce a regular 1st of
May state of affairs."

"I perceive that you are slyly providing an antidote against the cadet
fever. What large building is this?"

"The cadet barracks. There are over two hundred young fellows in the
building. They have to study, I can tell you, nor can they slip through
here as some of us did at college. All must abide the remorseless
examinations, and many drop out. There goes a squad to the riding hall.
Would you like to see the drill and sabre practice?"

Amy assenting, they soon reached the balcony overlooking the arena, and
spent an amused half-hour. The horses were rather gay, and some were
vicious, while the young girl's eyes seemed to have an inspiriting effect
upon the riders. Altogether the scene was a lively one, and at times
exciting. Burt then drove southward almost to Fort Montgomery, and
returning skirted the West Point plain by the river road, pointing out
objects of interest at almost every turn, and especially calling the
attention of his companion to old Fort Putnam, which he assured her
should be the scene of a family picnic on some bright summer day, Amy's
wonder and delight scarcely knew bounds when from the north side of the
plain she saw for the first time the wonderful gorge through which the
river flows southward from Newburgh Bay--Mount Taurus and Breakneck on
one side, and Cro' Nest and Storm King on the other. With a deep sigh of
content, she said:

"I'm grateful that my home is in such a region as this."

"I'm grateful too," the young fellow replied, looking at her and not at
the scenery.

But she was too pre-occupied to give him much attention, and in less than
half an hour Thunder's fleet steps carried them through what seemed a
realm of enchantment, and they were at home. "Burt," she said, warmly, "I
never had such a drive before. I have enjoyed every moment."

"Ditto, ditto," he cried, merrily, as the horse dashed off with him
toward the barn.




CHAPTER X

A WINTER THUNDER-STORM


Even before the return of Burtis and Amy the sun had been obscured by a
fast-thickening haze, and while the family was at dinner the wind began
to moan and sigh around the house in a way that foretold a storm.

"I fear we shall lose our sleighing," old Mr. Clifford remarked, "for all
the indications now point to a warm rain."

His prediction was correct. Great masses of vapor soon came pouring over
Storm King, and the sky grew blacker every moment. The wind blew in
strong, fitful gusts, and yet the air was almost sultry. By four o'clock
the rain began to dash with almost the violence of a summer shower
against the windowpanes of Mr. and Mrs. Clifford's sitting-room, and it
grew so dark that Amy could scarcely see to read the paper to the old
gentleman. Suddenly she was startled by a flash, and she looked up
inquiringly for an explanation.

"You did not expect to see a thunder-storm almost in midwinter?" said Mr.
Clifford, with a smile. "This unusual sultriness is producing unseasonable
results."

"Is not a thunder-storm at this season very rare?" she asked.

"Yes; and yet some of the sharpest lightning I have ever seen has
occurred in winter."

A heavy rumble in the southwest was now heard, and the interval between
the flash and the report indicated that the storm centre was still
distant. "I would advise you to go up to Maggie's room," resumed Mr.
Clifford, "for from her south and west windows you may witness a scene
that you will not soon forget. You are not afraid, are you?"

"No, not unless there is danger," she replied, hesitatingly.

"I have never been struck by lightning," the old man remarked, with a
smile, "and I have passed through many storms. Come, I'll go with you. I
never tire of watching the effects down among the mountains."

They found Mrs. Leonard placidly sewing, with Johnnie and Ned playing
about the room. "You, evidently, are not afraid," said Amy.

"Oh no!" she replied. "I have more faith in the presence of little
children than in the protection of lightning-rods. Yes, you may come in,"
she said to Webb, who stood at the door. "I suppose you think my sense of
security has a very unscientific basis?"

"There are certain phases of credulity that I would not disturb for the
world," he answered: "and who knows but you are right? What's more, your
faith is infectious; for, whatever reason might tell me, I should still
feel safer in a wild storm with the present company around me. Don't you
think it odd, Amy, that what we may term natural feeling gets the better
of the logic of the head? If that approaching storm should pass directly
over us, with thickly flying bolts, would you not feel safer here?"

"Yes."

Webb laughed in his low, peculiar way, and murmured, "What children an
accurate scientist would call us!"

"In respect to some things I never wish to grow up," she replied.

"I believe I can echo that wish. The outlook is growing fine, isn't it?"

The whole sky, which in the morning had smiled so brightly in undimmed
sunshine, was now black with clouds. These hung so low that the house
seemed the centre of a narrow and almost opaque horizon. The room soon
darkened with the gloom of twilight, and the faces of the inmates faded
into shadowy outlines. The mountains, half wrapped in vapor, loomed vast
and indefinite in the obscurity. Every moment the storm grew nearer, and
its centre was marked by an ominous blackness which the momentary flashes
left all the more intense. The young girl grew deeply absorbed in the
scene, and to Webb the strong, pure profile of her awed face, as the
increasingly vivid flashes revealed it, was far more attractive than the
landscape without, which was passing with swift alternations from ghastly
gloom to even more ghastly pallor. He looked at her; the rest looked at
the storm, the children gathering like chickens under the mother's wing.

At last there came a flash that startled them all. The mountains leaped
out of the darkness like great sheeted spectres, and though seen but a
second, they made so strong an impression that they seemed to have left
their solid bases and to be approaching in the gloom. Then came a
magnificent peal that swept across the whole southern arch of the sky.
The reverberations among the hills were deep, long, and grand, and the
fainter echoes had not died away before there was another flash--another
thunderous report, which, though less loud than the one that preceded it,
maintained the symphony with scarcely diminished grandeur.

"This is our Highland music, Amy," Webb remarked, as soon as he could be
heard. "It has begun early this season, but you will hear much of it
before the year is out."

"It is rather too sublime for my taste," replied the young girl,
shrinking closer to Mr. Clifford's side.

"You are safe, my child," said the old man, encircling her with his arm.

"Let me also reassure you in my prosaic way," Webb continued. "There, do
you not observe that though this last flash seemed scarcely less vivid,
the report followed more tardily, indicating that the storm centre is
already well to the south and east of us? The next explosion will take
place over the mountains beyond the river. You may now watch the scene in
security, for the heavenly artillery is pointed away from you."

"Thank you. I must admit that your prose is both reassuring and inspiring.
How one appreciates shelter and home on such a night as this! Hear the rain
splash against the window! Every moment the air seems filled with
innumerable gems as the intense light pierces them. Think of being out
alone on the river, or up there among the hills, while Nature is in such an
awful mood!--the snow, the slush, everything dripping, the rain rushing
down like a cataract, and thunder-bolts playing over one's head. In
contrast, look around this home-like room. Dear old father's serene
face"--for Mr. Clifford had already taught her to call him father--"makes
the Divine Fatherhood seem more real. Innocent little Ned here does indeed
seem a better protection than a lightning-rod, while Johnnie, putting her
doll to sleep in the corner, is almost absolute assurance of safety. Your
science is all very well, Webb, but the heart demands something as well as
the head. Oh, I wish all the world had such shelter as I have to-night!"

It was not often that Amy spoke so freely and impulsively. Like many with
delicate organizations, she was excited by the electrical condition of
the air. The pallor of awe had given place to a joyous flush, and her
eyes were brilliant.

"Sister Amy," said Webb, as they went down to supper, "you must be
careful of yourself, and others must be careful of you, for you have not
much _vis inertiae_. Some outside influences might touch you, as I would
touch your piano, and make sad discord."

"Should I feel very guilty because I have not more of that substantial
quality which can only find adequate expression in Latin?" she asked,
with a humorous glance.

"Oh, no! At least not in my opinion. I much prefer a woman in whom the
spirit is pre-eminent over the clay. We are all made of dust, you know,
and we men, I fear, often smack of the soil too strongly; therefore we
are best pleased with contrasts. Moreover, our country life will brace
you without blunting your nature. I should be sorry for you, though, if
you were friendless, and had to face the world alone."

"That can scarcely happen now," she said, with a grateful glance.

During the early part of the evening they all became absorbed in a story,
which Webb read aloud. At last Mr. Clifford rose, drew aside the
curtains, and looked out. "Come here, Amy," he said. "Look where the
storm thundered a few hours since!"

The sky was cloudless, the winds were hushed, the stars shining, and the
mountains stood out gray and serene in the light of the rising moon.

"See, my child, the storm has passed utterly away, and everything speaks
of peace and rest. In my long life I have had experiences which at the
time seemed as dark and threatening as the storm that awed you in the
early evening, but they passed also, and a quiet like that which reigns
without followed. Put the lesson away in your heart, my dear; but may it
be long before you have occasion for its use! Good-night."




CHAPTER XI

NATURE UNDER GLASS


The next morning Amy asked Mrs. Clifford to initiate her more fully into
the mysteries of her flowers, promising under her direction to assume
their care in part. The old lady welcomed her assistance cordially, and
said, "You could not take your lesson on a more auspicious occasion, for
Webb has promised to aid me in giving my pets a bath to-day, and he can
explain many things better than I can."

Webb certainly did not appear averse to the arrangement, and all three were
soon busy in the flower-room. "You see," resumed Mrs. Clifford, "I use the
old-fashioned yellow pots. I long ago gave up all the glazed, ornamental
affairs with which novices are tempted, learning from experience that they
are a delusion and a snare. Webb has since made it clear to me that the
roots need a circulation of air and a free exhalation of moisture as truly
as the leaves, and that since glazed pots do not permit this, they should
never be employed. After all, there is nothing neater than these common
yellow porous pots. I always select the yellowest ones, for they are the
most porous. Those that are red are hard-baked, and are almost as bad as
the glazed abominations, which once cost me some of my choice favorites."

"I agree with you. The glazed pots are too artificial to be associated
with flowers. They suggest veneer, and I don't like veneer," Amy replied.
Then she asked Webb: "Are you ready for a fire of questions? Any one with
your ability should be able to talk and work at the same time."

"Yes; and I did not require that little diplomatic pat on the back."

"I'll be as direct and severe as an inquisitor, then. Why do you syringe
and wash the foliage of the plants? Why will not simple watering of the
earth in the pots answer?"

"We wash the foliage in order that the plants may breathe and digest
their food."

"How lucid!" said Amy, with laughing irony. "Then," she added, "please
take nothing for granted except my ignorance in these matters. I don't
know anything about plants except in the most general way."

"Give me time, and I think I can make some things clear. A plant breathes
as truly as you do, only unlike yourself it has indefinite thousands of
mouths. There is one leaf on which there are over one hundred and fifty
thousand. They are called _stomata_, or breathing-pores, and are on
both sides of the leaf in most plants, but usually are in far greater
abundance on the lower side. The plant draws its food from the air and
soil--from the latter in liquid form--and this substance must be
concentrated and assimilated. These little pores introduce the vital
atmosphere through the air-passages of the plant, which correspond in a
certain sense to the throat and lungs of an animal. You would be sadly
off if you couldn't breathe; these plants would fare no better. Therefore
we must do artificially what the rain does out-of-doors--wash away the
accumulated dust, so that respiration may be unimpeded. Moreover, these
little pores, which are shaped like the semi-elliptical springs of a
carriage, are self-acting valves. A plant exhales a great deal of
moisture in invisible vapor. A sunflower has been known to give off three
pounds of water in twenty-four hours. This does no harm, unless the
moisture escapes faster than it rises from the roots, in which case the
plant wilts, and may even die. In such emergencies these little stomata,
or mouths, shut up partly or completely, and so do much to check the
exhalation. When moisture is given to the roots, these mouths open again,
and if our eyes were fine enough we should see the vapor passing out."

"I never appreciated the fact before that plants are so thoroughly
alive."

"Indeed, they are alive, and therefore they need the intelligent care
required by all living creatures which we have removed from their natural
conditions. Nature takes care of her children when they are where she
placed them. In a case like this, wherein we are preserving plants that
need summer warmth through a winter cold, we must learn to supply her
place, and as far as possible adopt her methods. It is just because
multitudes do not understand her ways that so many house plants are in a
half-dying condition."

"Now, Amy, I will teach you how to water the pots," Mrs. Clifford began.
"The water, you see, has been standing in the flower-room all night, so
as to raise its temperature. That drawn directly from the well would be
much too cold, and even as it is I shall add some warm water to take the
chill off. The roots are very sensitive to a sudden chill from too cold
water. No, don't pour it into the pots from that pitcher. The rain does
not fall so, and, as Webb says, we must imitate nature. This watering-pot
with a fine rose will enable you to sprinkle them slowly, and the soil
can absorb the moisture naturally and equally. Most plants need water
much as we take our food, regularly, often, and not too much at a time.
Let this surface soil in the pots be your guide. It should never be
perfectly dry, and still less should it be sodden with moisture; nor
should moisture ever stand in the saucers under the pots, unless the
plants are semi-aquatic, like this calla-lily. You will gradually learn
to treat each plant or family of plants according to its nature. The
amount of water which that calla requires would kill this heath, and the
quantity needed by the heath would be the death of that cactus over
there."

"Oh dear!" cried Amy, "if I were left alone in the care of your
flower-room, I should out-Herod Herod in the slaughter of the innocents."

"You will not be left alone, and you will be surprised to find how
quickly the pretty mystery of life and growth will begin to reveal itself
to you."

       *       *       *       *       *

As the days passed, Amy became more and more absorbed in the genial family
life of the Cliffords. She especially attached herself to the old people,
and Mr. and Mrs. Clifford were fast learning that their kindness to the
orphan was destined to receive an exceeding rich reward. Her young eyes
supplemented theirs, which were fast growing dim; and even platitudes read
in her sweet girlish voice seemed to acquire point and interest. She soon
learned to glean from the papers and periodicals that which each cared for,
and to skip the rest. She discovered in the library a well-written book on
travel in the tropics, and soon had them absorbed in its pages, the
descriptions being much enhanced in interest by contrast with the winter
landscape outside. Mrs. Clifford had several volumes on the culture of
flowers, and under her guidance and that of Webb she began to prepare for
the practical out-door work of spring with great zest. In the meantime she
was assiduous in the care of the house plants, and read all she could find
in regard to the species and varieties represented in the little
flower-room. It became a source of genuine amusement to start with a
familiar house plant and trace out all its botanical relatives, with their
exceedingly varied character and yet essential consanguinity; and she drew
others, even Alf and little Johnnie, into this unhackneyed pursuit of
knowledge.

"These plant families," she said one day, "are as curiously diverse as
human families. Group them together and you can see plainly that they
belong to one another, and yet they differ so widely."

"As widely as Webb and I," put in Burt.

"Thanks for so apt an illustration."

"Burt is what you would call a rampant grower, running more to wood and
foliage than anything else," Leonard remarked.

"I didn't say that," said Amy. "Moreover, I learned from my reading that
many of the strong-growing plants become in maturity the most productive
of flowers or fruit."

"How young I must seem to you!" Burt remarked.

"Well, don't be discouraged. It's a fault that will mend every day," she
replied, with a smile that was so arch and genial that he mentally
assured himself that he never would be disheartened in his growing
purpose to make Amy more than a sister.




CHAPTER XII

A MOUNTAINEER'S HOVEL


One winter noon Leonard returned from his superintendence of the
wood-cutting in the mountains. At the dinner-table be remarked: "I have
heard to-day that the Lumley family are in great destitution, as usual.
It is useless to help them, and yet one cannot sit down to a dinner like
this in comfort while even the Lumleys are hungry."

"Hunger is their one good trait," said Webb. "Under its incentive they
contribute the smallest amount possible to the world's work."

"I shouldn't mind," resumed Leonard, "if Lumley and his wife were pinched
sharply. Indeed, it would give me solid satisfaction had I the power to
make those people work steadily for a year, although they would regard it
as the worst species of cruelty. They have a child, however, I am told,
and for its sake I must go and see after them. Come with me, Amy, and I
promise that you will be quite contented when you return home."

It was rather late in the afternoon when the busy Leonard appeared at the
door in his strong one-horse sleigh with its movable seat, and Amy found
that he had provided an ample store of vegetables, flour, etc. She
started upon the expedition with genuine zest, to which every mile of
progress added.

The clouded sky permitted only a cold gray light, in which everything
stood out with wonderful distinctness. Even the dried weeds with their
shrivelled seed-vessels were sharply defined against the snow. The beech
leaves which still clung to the trees were bleached and white, but the
foliage on the lower branches of the oaks was almost black against the
hillside. Not a breath of air rustled them. At times Leonard would stop
his horse, and when the jingle of the sleigh-bells ceased the silence was
profound. Every vestige of life had disappeared in the still woods, or
was hidden by the snow.

"How lonely and dreary it all looks!" said Amy, with a sigh.

"That is why I like to look at a scene like this," Leonard replied.
"When I get home I see it all again--all its cold desolation--and it
makes Maggie's room, with her and the children around me, seem like
heaven."

But oh, the contrast to Maggie's room that Amy looked upon after a ride
over a wood-road so rough that even the deep snow could not relieve its
rugged inequalities! A dim glow of firelight shone through the frosted
window-panes of a miserable dwelling, as they emerged in the twilight
from the narrow track in the growing timber. In response to a rap on the
door, a gruff, thick voice said, "Come in."

Leonard, with a heavy basket on his arm, entered, followed closely by
Amy, who, in her surprise, looked with undisguised wonder at the scene
before her. Never had she even imagined such a home. Indeed, it seemed
like profanation of the word to call the bare, uncleanly room by that
sweetest of English words. It contained not a home-like feature. Her eyes
were not resting on decent poverty, but upon uncouth, repulsive want; and
this awful impoverishment was not seen in the few articles of cheap,
dilapidated furniture so clearly as in the dull, sodden faces of the man
and woman who kennelled there. No trace of manhood or womanhood was
visible--and no animal is so repulsive as a man or woman imbruted.

The man rose unsteadily to his feet and said: "Evenin', Mr. Clifford.
Will yer take a cheer?"

The woman had not the grace or the power to acknowledge their presence,
but after staring stolidly for a moment or two at her visitors through
her dishevelled hair, turned and cowered over the hearth again, her
elfish locks falling forward and hiding her face.

The wretched smoky fire they maintained was the final triumph and
revelation of their utter shiftlessness. With square miles of woodland
all about them, they had prepared no billets of suitable size. The man
had merely cut down two small trees, lopped off their branches, and
dragged them into the room. Their butt-ends were placed together on the
hearth, whence the logs stretched like the legs of a compass to the two
further corners of the room. Amy, in the uncertain light, had nearly
stumbled over one of them. As the logs burned away they were shoved
together on the hearth from time to time, the woman mechanically throwing
on dry sticks from a pile near her when the greed wood ceased to blaze.
Both man and woman were partially intoxicated, and the latter was so
stupefied as to be indifferent to the presence of strangers. While
Leonard was seeking to obtain from the man some intelligible account of
their condition, and bringing in his gifts, Amy gazed around, with her
fair young face full of horror and disgust. Then her attention was
arrested by a feeble cry from a cradle in a dusky corner beyond the
woman, and to the girl's heart it was indeed a cry of distress, all the
more pathetic because of the child's helplessness, and unconsciousness of
the wretched life to which it seemed inevitably destined.

She stepped to the cradle's side, and saw a pallid little creature, puny
and feeble from neglect. Its mother paid no attention to its wailing, and
when Amy asked if she might take it up, the woman's mumbled reply was
unintelligible.

After hesitating a moment Amy lifted the child, and found it scarcely
more than a little skeleton. Sitting down on the only chair in the room,
which the man had vacated--the woman crouched on an inverted box--Amy
said, "Leonard, please bring me the milk we brought."

After it had been warmed a little the child drank it with avidity.
Leonard stood in the background and sadly shook his head as he watched
the scene, the fire-light flickering on Amy's pure profile and
tear-dimmed eye as she watched the starved babe taking from her hand the
food that the brutish mother on the opposite side of the hearth was
incapable of giving it.

He never forgot that picture--the girl's face beautiful with a divine
compassion, the mother's large sensual features half hidden by her snaky
locks as she leaned stupidly over the fire, the dusky flickering shadows
that filled the room, in which the mountaineer's head loomed like that of
a shaggy beast. Even his rude nature was impressed, and he exclaimed,

"Gad! the likes of that was never seen in these parts afore!"

"Oh, sir," cried Amy, turning to him, "can you not see that your little
child is hungry?"

"Well,--the woman, she's drunk, and s'pose I be too, somewhat."

"Come, Lumley, be more civil," said Leonard. "The young lady isn't used
to such talk."

"Oh, it all seems so dreadful!" exclaimed Amy, her tears falling faster.

The man drew a step or two nearer, and looked at her wonderingly; then,
stretching out his great grimy hand, he said: "I s'pose you think I
hain't no feelings, miss, but I have. I'll take keer on the young un, and
I won't tech another drop to-night. Thar's my hand on it."

To Leonard's surprise, Amy took the hand, as she said, "I believe you
will keep your word."

"That's right, Lumley," added Leonard, heartily. "Now you are acting like
a man. I've brought you a fair lot of things, but they are in trade. In
exchange for them I want the jug of liquor you brought up from the
village to-day."

The man hesitated, and looked at his wife.

"Come, Lumley, you've begun well. Put temptation out of the way. For your
wife and baby's sake, as well as your own, give me the jug. You mean
well, but you know your failing."

"Well, Mr. Clifford," said the man, going to a cupboard, "I guess it'll
be safer. But you don't want the darned stuff," and he opened the door
and dashed the vessel against an adjacent bowlder.

"That's better still. Now brace up, get your axe and cut some wood in a
civilized way. We're going to have a cold night. You can't keep up a fire
with this shiftless contrivance," indicating with his foot one of the
logs lying along the floor. "As soon as you get things straightened up
here a little we'll give you work. The young lady has found out that you
have the making of a man in you yet. If she'll take your word for your
conduct to-night, she also will for the future."

"Yes," added Amy, "if you will try to do better, we will all try to help
you. I shall come to see the baby again. Oh, Leonard," she added, as she
placed the child in its cradle, "can't we leave one of the blankets from
the sleigh? See, the baby has scarcely any covering."

"But you may be cold."

"No; I am dressed warmly. Oh! see! see! the little darling is smiling up
at me! Leonard, please do. I'd rather be cold."

"Bless your good heart, miss!" said the man, more touched than ever.
"Never had any sich wisitors afore."

When Amy had tucked the child in warm he followed her and Leonard to the
sleigh and said, "Good-by, miss; I'm a-going to work like a man, and
there's my hand on it agin."

Going to work was Lumley's loftiest idea of reformation, and many others
would find it a very good beginning. As they drove away they heard the
ring of his axe, and it had a hopeful sound.

For a time Leonard was closely occupied with the intricacies of the road,
and when at last he turned and looked at Amy, she was crying.

"There, don't take it so to heart," he said, soothingly.

"Oh, Leonard, I never saw anything like it before. That poor little
baby's smile went right to my heart. And to think of its awful mother!"

They paused on an eminence and looked back on the dim outline of the
hovel. Then Leonard drew her close to him as he said, "Don't cry any
more. You have acted like a true little woman--just as Maggie would have
done--and good may come of it, although they'll always be Lumleys. As
Webb says, it would require several generations to bring them up. Haven't
I given you a good lesson in contentment?"

"Yes; but I did not need one. I'm glad I went, however, but feel that I
cannot rest until there is a real change for the better."

"Well, who knows? You may bring it about"

The supper-table was waiting for them when they returned. The gleam of the
crystal and silver, the ruddy glow from the open stove, the more genial
light of every eye that turned to welcome them, formed a delightful
counter-picture to the one they had just looked upon, and Leonard beamed
with immeasurable satisfaction. To Amy the contrast was almost too sharp,
and she could not dismiss from her thoughts the miserable dwelling in the
mountains.

Leonard's buoyant, genial nature had been impressed, but not depressed,
by the scene he had witnessed. Modes of life in the mountains were
familiar to him, and with the consciousness of having done a kind deed
from which further good might result, he was in a mood to speak freely of
the Lumleys, and the story of their experience was soon drawn from him.
Impulsive, warm-hearted Burt was outspoken in his admiration of Amy's
part in the visit of charity, but Webb's intent look drew her eyes to
him, and with a strange little thrill at her heart she saw that he had
interpreted her motives and feelings.

"I will take you there again, Amy," was all he said, but for some reason
she dwelt upon the tone in which he spoke more than upon all the uttered
words of the others.

Later in the evening he joined her in the sitting-room, which, for the
moment, was deserted by the others, and she spoke of the wintry gloom of
the mountains, and how Leonard was fond of making the forbidding aspect a
foil for Maggie's room. Webb smiled as he replied:

"That is just like Len. Maggie's room is the centre of his world, and he
sees all things in their relation to it. I also was out this afternoon,
and I took my gun, although I did not see a living thing to fire at. But
the 'still, cold woods,' as you term them, were filled with a beauty and
suggestiveness of which I was never conscious before. I remembered how
different they had appeared in past summers and autumns, and I saw how
ready they were for the marvellous changes that will take place in a few
short weeks. The hillsides seemed like canvases on which an artist had
drawn his few strong outlines which foretold the beauty to come so
perfectly that the imagination supplied it."

"Why, Webb, I did not know you had so much imagination."

"Nor did I, and I am glad that I am discovering traces of it. I have always
loved the mountains, because so used to them--they were a part of my life
and surroundings--but never before this winter have I realized they were so
beautiful. When I found that you were going up among the hills, I thought I
would go also, and then we could compare our impressions."

"It was all too dreary for me," said the young girl, in a low tone. "It
reminded me of the time when my old life ceased, and this new life had
not begun. There were weeks wherein my heart was oppressed with a cold,
heavy despondency, when I just wished to be quiet, and try not to think
at all, and it seemed to me that nature looked to-day just I felt."

"I think it very sad that you have learned to interpret nature in this
way so early in life. And yet I think I can understand you and your
analogy."

"I think you can, Webb," she said, simply.




CHAPTER XIII

ALMOST A TRAGEDY


The quiet sequence of daily life was soon interrupted by circumstances
that nearly ended in a tragedy. One morning Burt saw an eagle sailing
over the mountains. The snow had been greatly wasted, and in most places
was so strongly incrusted that it would bear a man's weight. Therefore
the conditions seemed favorable for the eagle hunt which he had promised
himself; and having told his father that he would look after the wood
teams and men on his way, he took his rifle and started.

The morning was not cold, and not a breath of air disturbed the sharp,
still outlines of the leafless trees. The sky was slightly veiled with a
thin scud of clouds. As the day advanced these increased in density and
darkened in hue.

Webb remarked at dinner that the atmosphere over the Beacon Hills in the
northeast was growing singularly obscure and dense in its appearance, and
that he believed a heavy storm was coming.

"I am sorry Burt has gone to the mountains to-day," said Mrs. Clifford,
anxiously.

"Oh, don't worry about Burt," was Webb's response; "there is no more
danger of his being snowed in than of a fox's."

Before the meal was over, the wind, snow-laden, was moaning about the
house. With every hour the gale increased in intensity. Early in the
afternoon the men with the two teams drove to the barn. Amy could just
see their white, obscure figures through the blinding snow, Even old Mr.
Clifford went out to question them. "Yes, Mr. Burt come up in de mawnin'
an' stirred us all up right smart, slashed down a tree hisself to show a
new gawky hand dat's cuttin' by de cord how to 'arn his salt; den he put
out wid his rafle in a bee-line toward de riber. Dat's de last we seed ob
him;" and Abram went stolidly on to unhitch and care for his horses.

Mr. Clifford and his two elder sons returned to the house with traces of
anxiety on their faces, while Mrs. Clifford was so worried that,
supported by Amy, she made an unusual effort, and met them at the door.

"Don't be disturbed, mother," said Webb, confidently. "Burt and I have
often been caught in snowstorms, but never had any difficulty in finding
our way. Burt will soon appear, or, if he doesn't, it will be because he
has stopped to recount to Dr. Marvin the results of his eagle hunt."

Indeed, they all tried to reassure her, but, with woman's quick instinct
where her affections are concerned, she read what was passing in their
minds. Her husband led her back to her couch, where she lay with her
large dark eyes full of trouble, while her lips often moved in prayer.
The thought of her youngest and darling son far off and alone among those
cloud-capped and storm-beaten mountains was terrible to her.

Another hour passed, and still the absent youth did not return. Leonard,
his father, and Amy, often went to the hall window and looked out. The
storm so enhanced the early gloom of the winter afternoon that the
outbuildings, although so near, loomed out only as shadows. The wind was
growing almost fierce in its violence. Webb had so long kept up his
pretence of reading that Amy began in her thoughts to resent his seeming
indifference as cold-blooded. At last he laid down his book, and went
quietly away. She followed him, for it seemed to her that something ought
to be done, and that he was the one to do it. She found him in an upper
chamber, standing by an open window that faced the mountains. Joining
him, she was appalled by the roar of the wind as it swept down from the
wooded heights.

"Oh, Webb," she exclaimed--he started at her words and presence, and
quickly closed the window--"ought not something to be done? The bare
thought that Burt is lost in this awful gloom fills me with horror. The
sound of that wind was like the roar of the ocean in a storm we had. How
can he see in such blinding snow? How could he breast this gale if he
were weary?"

He was silent a moment, looking with contracted brows at the gloomy
scene. At last he began, as if reassuring himself as well as the agitated
girl at his side:

"Burt, you must remember, has been brought up in this region. He knows
the mountains well, and--"

"Oh, Webb, you take this matter too coolly," interrupted Amy, impulsively.
"Something tells me that Burt is in danger;" and in her deep solicitude she
put her hand on his arm. She noticed that it trembled, and that he still
bent the same contracted brow toward the region where his brother must be
if her fears were true. Then he seemed to come to a decision.

"Yes," he said, quietly, "I take it coolly. Perhaps it's well that I can.
You may be right, and there may be need of prompt, wise action. If so, a
man will need the full control of all his wits. I will not, however, give
up my hope--my almost belief--that he is at Dr. Marvin's. I shall
satisfy myself at once. Try not to show your fears to father and mother,
that's a brave girl."

He was speaking hurriedly now as they were descending the stairs. He
found his father in the hall, much disturbed, and querying with his
eldest son as to the advisability of taking some steps immediately.
Leonard, although evidently growing anxious, still urged that Burt, with
his knowledge and experience as a sportsman, would not permit himself to
be caught in such a storm.

"He surely must be at the house of Dr. Marvin or some other neighbor on
the mountain road."

"I also think he is at the doctor's, but shall see," Webb remarked,
quietly, as he drew on his overcoat.

"I don't think he's there; I don't think he is at any neighbor's house,"
cried Mrs. Clifford, who, to the surprise of all, had made her way to the
hall unaided. "Burt is thoughtless about little things, but he would not
leave me in suspense on such a night as this."

"Mother, I promise you Burt shall soon be here safe and sound;" and Webb
in his shaggy coat and furs went hastily out, followed by Leonard. A few
moments later the dusky outlines of a man and a galloping horse appeared
to Amy for a moment, and then vanished toward the road.

It was some time before Leonard returned, for Webb had said: "If Burt is
not at the doctor's, we must go and look for him. Had you not better have
the strongest wood-sled ready? You will know what to do."

Having admitted the possibility of danger, Leonard acted promptly. With
Abram's help a pair of stout horses were soon attached to the sled, which
was stored with blankets, shovels to clear away drifts, etc.

Webb soon came galloping back, followed a few moments later by the
doctor, but there were no tidings of Burt.

Amy expected that Mrs. Clifford would become deeply agitated, but was
mistaken. She lay on her couch with closed eyes, but her lips moved
almost continuously. She had gone to Him whose throne is beyond all
storms.

Mr. Clifford was with difficulty restrained from joining his sons in the
search. The old habit of resolute action returned upon him, but Webb
settled the question by saying, in a tone almost stern in its authority,
"Father, you _must_ remain with mother."

Amy had no further reason to complain that Webb took the matter too
coolly. He was all action, but his movements were as deft as they were
quick. In the basket which Maggie had furnished with brandy and food he
placed the conch-shell used to summon Abram to his meals. Then, taking
down a double-barrelled breech-loading gun, he filled his pocket with
cartridges.

"What is that for?" Amy asked, with white lips, for, as he seemed the
natural leader, she hovered near him.

"If we do not find him at one of the houses well up on the mountain, as I
hope we shall, I shall fire repeatedly in our search. The reports would
be heard further than any other sound, and he might answer with his
rifle."

Leonard now entered with the doctor, who said, "All ready; we have
stored the sledge with abundant material for fires, and if Burt has
met with an accident, I am prepared to do all that can be done under
the circumstances."

"All ready," responded Webb, again putting on his coat and fur cap.

Amy sprang to his side and tied the cap securely down with her scarf.

"Forgive me," she whispered, "for saying that you took Bart's danger
coolly. I understand you better now. Oh, Webb, be careful! Think of
yourself too. I now see that you are thinking of Burt only."

"Of you also, little sister, and I shall be the stronger for such
thoughts. Don't give way to fear. We shall find Burt, and all come home
hungry as wolves. Good-by."

"May the blessing of Him who came to seek and save the lost go with you!"
said the aged father, tremulously.

A moment later they dashed away, followed by Burt's hound and the
watch-dog, and the darkness and storm hid them from sight.

Oh, the heavy cross of watching and waiting! Many claim that woman is not
the equal of man because she must watch and wait in so many of the dread
emergencies of life, forgetting that it is infinitely easier to act, to
face the wildest storm that sweeps the sky or the deadliest hail crashing
from cannons' mouths, than to sit down in sickening suspense waiting for
the blow to fall. The man's duty requires chiefly the courage which he
shares with the greater part of the brute creation, and only as he adds
woman's patience, fortitude, and endurance does he become heroic. Nothing
but his faith in God and his life-long habit of submission to his will
kept Mr. Clifford from chafing like a caged lion in his enforced
inaction. Mrs. Clifford, her mother's heart yearning after her youngest
and darling boy with an infinite tenderness, alone was calm.

Amy's young heart was oppressed by an unspeakable dread. It was partly
due to the fear and foreboding of a child to whom the mountains were a
Siberia-like wilderness in their awful obscurity, and still more the
result of knowledge of the sorrow that death involves. The bare possibility
that the light-hearted, ever-active Burt, who sometimes perplexed her with
more than fraternal devotion, was lying white and still beneath the
drifting snow, or even wandering helplessly in the blinding gale, was so
terrible that it blanched her cheek, and made her lips tremble when she
tried to speak. She felt that she had been a little brusque to him at
times, and now she reproached herself in remorseful compunction, and with
the abandonment of a child to her present overwrought condition, felt that
she could never refuse him anything should his blue eyes turn pleadingly to
her again. At first she did not give way, but was sustained, like Maggie,
by the bustle of preparation for the return, and in answering the
innumerable questions of Johnnie and Alf. Webb's assurance to his mother
that he would bring Burt back safe and sound was her chief hope. From the
first moment of greeting he had inspired her with a confidence that had
steadily increased, and from the time that he had admitted the possibility
of this awful emergency he had acted so resolutely and wisely as to
convince her that all that man could do would be done. She did not think of
explaining to herself why her hope centred more in him than in all the
others engaged in the search, or why she was more solicitous about him in
the hardships and perils that the expedition involved, and yet Webb shared
her thoughts almost equally with Burt. If the latter were reached, Webb
would be the rescuer, but her sickening dread was that in the black night
and howling storm he could not be found.

As the rescuing party pushed their way up the mountain with difficulty they
became more and more exposed to the northeast gale, and felt with
increasing dread how great was the peril to which Burt must be exposed had
he not found refuge in some of the dwellings nearer to the scene of his
sport. The roar of the gale up the rugged defile was perfectly terrific,
and the snow caught up from the overhanging ledges was often driven into
their faces with blinding force. They could do little better than give the
horses their heads, and the poor brutes floundered slowly through the
drifts. The snow had deepened incredibly fast, and the fierce wind piled it
up so fantastically in every sheltered place that they were often in danger
of upsetting, and more than once had to spring out with their shovels. At
last, after an hour of toil, they reached the first summit, but no tidings
could be obtained of Burt from the people residing in the vicinity. They
therefore pushed on toward the gloomy wastes beyond, and before long left
behind them the last dwelling and the last chance that he had found shelter
before night set in. Two stalwart men had joined them in the search,
however, and formed a welcome re-inforcement. With terrible forebodings
they pressed forward, Webb firing his breech-loader rapidly, and the rest
making what noise they could, but the gale swept away these feeble sounds,
and merged them almost instantly in the roar of the tempest. It was their
natural belief that in attempting to reach home Burt would first try to
gain the West Point road that crossed the mountains, for here would be a
pathway that the snow could not obliterate, and also his best chance of
meeting a rescuing party. It was therefore their purpose to push on until
the southern slope of Cro' Nest was reached, but they became so chilled and
despondent over their seemingly impossible task that they stopped on an
eminence near a rank of wood. They knew that the outlook commanded a wide
view to the south and north, and that if Burt were cowering somewhere in
that region, it would be a good point from which to attract his attention.

"I move that we make a fire here," said Leonard. "Abram is half-frozen,
we are all chilled to the bone, and the horses need rest. I think, too,
that a fire can be seen further than any sound can be heard."

The instinct of self-preservation caused them all to accede, and,
moreover, they must keep up themselves in order to accomplish anything.
They soon had a roaring blaze under the partial shield of a rock, while
at the same time the flames rose so high as to be seen on both sides of
the ridge as far as the storm permitted. The horses were sheltered as
well as possible, and heavily blanketed. As the men thawed out their
benumbed forms, Webb exclaimed, "Great God! what chance has Burt in such
a storm? and what chance have we of finding him?"

The others shook their heads gloomily, but answered nothing.

"It will kill mother," he muttered.

"There is no use in disguising the truth," said the doctor, slowly. "If
Burt's alive, he must have a fire. Our best chance is to see that. But
how can one see anything through this swirl of snow, that is almost as
thick in the air as on the ground?"

To their great joy the storm soon began to abate, and the wind to blow in
gusts. They clambered to the highest point near them, and peered eagerly
for some glimmer of light; but only a dim, wild scene, that quickly
shaded off into utter obscurity, was around them. The snowflakes were
growing larger, however, and were no longer swept with a cutting slant
into their faces.

"Thank God!" cried Webb, "I believe the gale is nearly blown out. I shall
follow this ridge toward the river as far as I can."

"I'll go with you," said he doctor, promptly.

"No," said Webb; "it will be your turn next. It won't do for us all to
get worn out together. I'll go cautiously; and with this ridge as guide,
and the fire, I can't lose my way. I'll take one of the dogs, and fire my
gun about every ten minutes. If I fire twice in succession, follow me;
meanwhile give a blast on the conch every few moments;" and with these
words he speedily disappeared.

The doctor and Leonard returned to the fire, and watched the great flakes
fall hissing into the flames. Hearing of Webb's expedition, the two
neighbors who had recently joined them pushed on up the road, shouting
and blowing the conch-shell as often as they deemed it necessary. Their
signal also was to be two blasts should they meet with any success.
Leonard and the doctor were a _corps de reserve_. The wind soon ceased
altogether, and a stillness that was almost oppressive took the place of
the thunder of the gale. They threw themselves down to rest, and Leonard
observed with a groan how soon his form grew white. "Oh, doctor," he said
in a tone of anguish, "can it be that we shall never find Burt till the
snow melts?"

"Do not take so gloomy a view," was the reply. "Burt must have been able
to make a fire, and now that the wind has ceased we can attract his
attention."

Webb's gun was heard from time to time, the sounds growing steadily
fainter. At last, far away to the east, came two reports in quick
succession. The two men started up, and with the aid of lanterns followed
Webb's trail, Abram bringing up the rear with an axe and blankets.

Sometimes up to his waist in snow, sometimes springing from rock to rock
that the wind had swept almost bare, Webb had toiled on along the broken
ridge, his face scratched and bleeding from the shaggy, stunted trees
that it was too dark to avoid; but he thought not of such trifles, and
seemed endowed with a strength ten times his own. Every few moments he
would stop, listen, and peer about him on every side. Finally, after a
rather long upward climb, he knew he had reached a rock of some altitude.
He again fired his gun. The echoes soon died away, and there was no sound
except the low tinkle of the snowflakes through the bushes. He was just
about to push on, when, far down to the right and south of him, he
thought he saw a gleam of light. He looked long and eagerly, but in vain.
He passed over to that side of the ridge, and fired again; but there was
no response--nothing but the dim, ghostly snow on every side. Concluding
that it had been but a trick of the imagination, he was about to give up
the hope that had thrilled his heart, when feebly but unmistakably a ray
of light shot up, wavered, and disappeared. At the same moment his dog
gave a loud bark, and plunged down the ridge. A moment sufficed to give
the preconcerted signal, and almost at the risk of life and limb Webb
rushed down the precipitous slope. He had not gone very far before he
heard a long, piteous howl that chilled his very soul with dread. He
struggled forward desperately, and, turning the angle of a rock, saw a
dying fire, and beside it a human form merely outlined through the snow.
As the dog was again raising one of his ill-omened howls, Webb stopped
him savagely, and sprang to the prostrate figure, whose face was buried
in its arm.

It was Burt. Webb placed a hand that trembled like an aspen over his
brother's heart, and with a loud cry of joy felt its regular beat. Burt
had as yet only succumbed to sleep, which in such cases is fatal when no
help interposes. Webb again fired twice to guide the rescuing party, and
then with some difficulty caused Burt to swallow a little brandy. He next
began to chafe his wrists with the spirits, to shake him, and to shout in
his ear. Slowly Burt shook off his fatal lethargy, and by the time the
rest of the party reached him, was conscious.

"Good God!" he exclaimed, "did I go to sleep? I vowed I would not a
hundred times. Nor would I if I could have moved around; but I've
sprained my ankle, and can't walk."

With infinite difficulty, but with hearts light and grateful, they
carried him on an improvised stretcher to the sled. Bart explained that
he had been lured further and further away by a large eagle that had kept
just out of range, and in his excitement he had at first paid no
attention to the storm. Finally its increasing fury and the memory of his
distance from home had brought him to his senses, and he had struck out
for the West Point road. Still he had no fears or misgivings, but while
climbing the slope on which he was found, he slipped, fell, and in trying
to save himself came down with his whole weight on a loose stone, and
sprained his left ankle. He tried to crawl and hobble forward, and for a
time gave way to something like panic. He soon found that he was using up
his strength, and that he would perish with the cold before he could make
half a mile. He then crawled under the sheltering ledge where Webb
discovered him, and by the aid of his good woodcraft soon had a fire, for
it was his fortune to have some matches. A dead and partially decayed
tree, a knife strong enough to cut the saplings when bent over, supplied
him with fuel. Finally the drowsiness which long exposure to cold induces
began to oppress him. He fought against it desperately for a time, but,
as events proved, was overpowered.

"God bless you, Webb!" he said, concluding his story. "You have saved my
life."

"We have all had a hand at it," was the quiet reply. "I couldn't have
done anything alone."

Wrapped up beyond the possibility of further danger from the cold, and
roused from time to time, Burt was carried homeward as fast as the drifts
permitted, the horses' bells now chiming musically in the still air.

       *       *       *       *       *

As hour after hour passed and there was nothing left to do, Amy took
Johnnie on her lap, and they rocked back and forth and cried together.
Soon the heavy lids closed over the little girl's eyes, and shut off the
tears. Alf had already coiled up on a lounge and sobbed himself to sleep.
Maggie took up the little girl, laid her down beside him, and covered
them well from the draughts that the furious gale drove through every
crack and cranny of the old house, glad that they had found a happy
oblivion. Amy then crept to a footstool at Mrs. Clifford's side--the
place where she had so often seen the youth whom the storm she now almost
began to believe had swept from them forever--and she bowed her head on
the old lady's thin hand and sobbed bitterly.

"Don't give way so, darling," said the mother, as her other hand stroked
the brown hair. "God is greater than the storm. We have prayed, and we
now feel that he will do what is best."

"Oh, that I had your faith!"

"It will come in time--when long years have taught you his goodness."

She slowly wiped her eyes, and stole a glance at Mr. Clifford. His
earlier half-desperate restlessness had passed away, and he sat quietly
in his chair gazing into the fire, occasionally wiping a tear from his
eyes, and again looking upward with an expression of sublime submission.
Soon, as if conscious of her wondering observation, he said, "Come to me,
Amy."

She stood beside him, and he drew her close as he continued:

"My child, one of the hardest lessons we can learn in this world is to
say, 'Not my will, but Thine be done.' I have lived fourscore years, and
yet I could not say it at first; but now" (with a calm glance heavenward)
"I can say, 'My Father, thy will be done.' If he takes Burt, he has given
us you;" and he kissed her so tenderly that she bowed her head upon his
shoulder, and said, brokenly:

"You are my father in very truth."

"Yes," was his quiet response.

Then she stole back to her seat. There was a Presence in the room that
filled her with awe, and yet banished her former overwhelming dread and
grief.

They watched and waited; there was no sound in the room except the soft
crackle of the fire, and Amy thought deeply on the noble example before
her of calm, trustful waiting. At last she became conscious that the
house was growing strangely still; the faint tick of the great clock on
the landing of the stairs struck her ear; the rush and roar of the wind
had ceased. Bewildered, she rose softly and went to Maggie's room, and
found that the tired mother in watching over her children had fallen
asleep in her chair. She lifted a curtain, and could scarcely believe her
eyes when she saw that the trees that had been writhing and moaning in
the gale now stood white and spectral as the lamp-light fell upon them.
When had the wind ceased? It seemed as if the calm that had fallen upon
her spirit had extended to nature; that the storm had hushed its rude
clamor even while it continued. From the window she watched the white
flakes flutter through the light she knew not how long: the old clock
chimed out midnight, and then, faint and far away, she thought she heard
the sleigh-bells. With swift, silent tread, she rushed to a side door and
threw it open. Yes, clear and distinct she now heard them on the mountain
road. With a low cry she returned and wakened Maggie, then flew to the
old people, and, with a voice that she tried in vain to steady, said,
"They are coming."

Mr. Clifford started up, and was about to rush from the room, but paused
a moment irresolutely, then returned, sat down by his wife, and put his
arm around her. He was true to his first love. The invalid had grown
faint and white, but his touch and presence were the cordials she needed.

Amy fled back to the side door, and the sled soon appeared. There was no
light at this entrance, and she was unobserved. She saw them begin to
lift some one out, and she dashed through an intervening drift nearly to
her waist. Webb felt a hand close on his arm with a grip that he long
remembered.

"Burt?" she cried, in a tone of agonizing inquiry.

"Heigh-ho, Amy," said the much-muffled figure that they were taking from
the sled; "I'm all right."

In strong reaction, the girl would have fallen, had not Webb supported
her. He felt that she trembled and clung almost helplessly to him.

"Why, Amy," he said, gently, "you will take your death out here in the
cold and snow"; and leaving the others to care for Burt, he lifted her in
his arms and carried her in.

"Thank God, he's safe," she murmured. "Oh, we have waited so long! There,
I'm better now," she said, hastily, and with a swift color coming into
her pale cheeks, as they reached the door.

"You must not expose yourself so again, sister Amy."

"I thought--I thought when you began to lift Burt out--" But she could
not finish the sentence.

"He has only sprained his ankle. Go tell mother."

Perhaps there is no joy like that which fills loving hearts when the lost
is found. It is so pure and exalted that it is one of the ecstasies of
heaven. It would be hard to describe how the old house waked up with its
sudden accession of life--life that was so warm and vivid against the
background of the shadow of death. There were murmured thanksgivings as
feet hurried to and fro, and an opening fire of questions, which Maggie
checked by saying:

"Possess your souls in patience. Burt's safe--that's enough to know until
he is cared for, and my half-famished husband and the rest get their
supper. Pretty soon we can all sit down, for I want a chance to hear
too."

"And no one has a better right, Maggie," said her husband, chafing his
hands over the fire. "After what we've seen to-night, this place is the
very abode of comfort, and you its presiding genius;" and Leonard beamed
and thawed until the air grew tropical around him.

At Mrs. Clifford's request (for it was felt that it was not best to cross
the invalid), Burt, in the rocking-chair wherein he had been placed, was
carried to her room, and received a greeting from his parents that
brought tears to the young fellow's eyes. Dr. Marvin soon did all within
his power at that stage for the sprained ankle and frost-bitten fingers,
the mother advising, and feeling that she was still caring for her boy as
she had done a dozen years before. Then Burt was carried back to the
dining-room, where all were soon gathered. The table groaned under
Maggie's bountiful provision, and lamp-light and fire-light revealed a
group upon which fell the richer light of a great joy.

Burt was ravenously hungry, but the doctor put him on limited diet,
remarking, "You can soon make up for lost time." He and Leonard, however,
made such havoc that Amy pretended to be aghast; but she soon noted that
Webb ate sparingly, that his face was not only scratched and torn, but
almost haggard, and that he was unusually quiet. The reasons were soon
apparent. When all were helped, and Maggie had a chance to sit down, she
said:

"Now tell us about it. We just heard enough when you first arrived to
curdle our blood. How in the world, Burt, did you allow yourself to get
caught in such a storm?"

"If it had not been for this confounded sprain I should have come out all
right;" and then followed the details with which the reader is acquainted,
although little could be got out of Webb.

"The upshot of it all is," said Leonard, as he beamed upon the party with
ineffable content, "between mother's praying and Webb's looking, Burt is
here, not much the worse for his eagle hunt."

They would not hear of the doctor's departure, and very soon afterward
old Mr. Clifford gathered them around the family altar in a thanksgiving
prayer that moistened every eye.

Then all prepared for the rest so sorely needed. As Webb went to the hall
to hang up his gun, Amy saw that he staggered in his almost mortal
weariness, and she followed him.

"There are your colors, Amy," he said, laughingly, taking her scarf from
an inner pocket. "I wore it till an envious scrub-oak tore it off. It was
of very great help to me--the scarf, not the oak."

"Webb," she said, earnestly, "you can't disguise the truth from me by any
such light words. You are half-dead from exhaustion. I've been watching
you ever since your return. You are ill--you have gone beyond your
strength, and in addition to it all I let you carry me in. Oh dear! I'm
so worried about you!"

"It's wonderfully nice to have a little sister to worry about a fellow."

"But can't I do something for you? You've thought about everybody, and no
one thinks for you."

"_You_ have, and so have the rest, as far as there was occasion. Let me
tell you how wan and weary you look. Oh, Amy, our home is so much more to
us since you came!"

"What would our home be to us to-night, Webb, were it not for you! And I
said you took Burt's danger too coolly. How I have reproached myself for
those words. God bless you, Webb! you did not resent them; and you saved
Burt;" and she impulsively put her arm around his neck and kissed him,
then fled to her room.

The philosophical Webb might have had much to think about that night had
he been in an analytical mood, for by some magic his sense of utter
weariness was marvellously relieved. With a low laugh, he thought,

"I'd be tempted to cross the mountains again for such a reward."




CHAPTER XIV

HINTS OF SPRING


When Amy awoke on the following morning she was almost dazzled, so
brilliant was the light that flooded the room. Long, quiet sleep and the
elasticity of youth had banished all depression from mind and body, and
she sprang eagerly to the window that she might see the effects of the
storm, expecting to witness its ravages on every side. Imagine her wonder
and delight when, instead of widespread wreck and ruin, a scene of
indescribable beauty met her eyes! The snow had draped all things in
white. The trees that had seemed so gaunt and skeleton-like as they
writhed and moaned in the gale were now clothed with a beauty surpassing
that of their summer foliage, for every branch, even to the smallest
twig, had been incased in the downy flakes. The evergreens looked like
old-time gallants well powdered for a festival. The shrubbery of the
garden was scarcely more than mounds of snow. The fences had almost
disappeared; while away as far as the eye could reach all was sparkling
whiteness. Nature was like a bride adorned for her nuptials. Under the
earlier influences of the gale the snow had drifted here and there,
making the undulations of her robe, and under the cloudless sun every
crystal glittered, as if over all had been flung a profusion of diamond
dust. Nor did she seem a cold, pallid bride without heart or gladness.
Her breath was warm and sweet, and full of an indefinable suggestion of
spring. She seemed to stand radiant in maidenly purity and loveliness,
watching in almost breathless expectation the rising of the sun above the
eastern mountains.

A happy group gathered at the breakfast-table that morning. Best of mind
and thankfulness of heart had conduced to refreshing repose, and the
brightness of the new day was reflected in every face. Burt's ankle was
painful, but this was a slight matter in contrast with what might have
been his fate. He had insisted on being dressed and brought to the lounge
in the breakfast-room. Webb seemed wonderfully restored, and Amy thought
he looked almost handsome in his unwonted animation, in spite of the
honorable scars that marked his face. Dr. Marvin exclaimed, exultingly:

"Miss Amy, you can begin the study of ornithology at once. There are
bluebirds all about the house, and you have no idea what exquisite bits
of color they are against the snow on this bright morning. After
breakfast you must go out and greet these first arrivals from the South."

"Yes, Amy," put in Leonard, laughing, "it's a lovely morning for a
stroll. The snow is only two feet deep, and drifted in many places higher
than your head. The 'beautiful snow' brings us plenty of prose in the
form of back-aching work with our shovels."

"No matter," said Webb; "it has also brought us warmth, exquisitely pure
air, and a splendid covering for grass and grain that will be apt to last
well into the spring. Anything rather than mud and the alternate freezing
and thawing that are as provoking as a capricious friend."

"Why, Webb, what a burst of sentiment!" said Burt.

"Doctor, the bluebirds seem to come like the south wind that Leonard says
is blowing this morning," Mrs. Clifford remarked. "Where were they last
night? and how have they reached us after such a storm?"

"I imagine that those we hear this morning have been with us all winter,
or they may have arrived before the storm. I scarcely remember a winter
when I have not seen some around, and their instinct guides them where to
find shelter. When the weather is very cold they are comparatively
silent, but even a January thaw will make them tuneful. They are also
migrants, and have been coming northward for a week or two past, and this
accounts for the numbers this morning. Poor little things! they must have
had a hard time of it last night, wherever they were."

"Oh, I do wish I could make them know how glad I'd be to take them in and
keep them warm every cold night!" shy Johnnie whispered to Maggie.

"They have a better mother than even you could be," said the doctor,
nodding at the little girl.

"Have all the bluebirds a mother?" she asked, with wondering eyes.

"Indeed they have, and all the other birds also, and this mother takes
care of them the year round--Mother Nature, that's her name. Your heart
may be big enough, but your house would not begin to hold all the
bluebirds, so Mother Nature tells the greater part of them to go where
it's warm about the 1st of December, and she finds them winter homes all
the way from Virginia to Florida. Then toward spring she whispers when it
is safe to come back, and if you want to see how she can take care of
those that are here even during such a storm as that of last night,
bundle up and come out on the sunny back piazza."

There all the household soon after assembled, the men armed with shovels
to aid in the path-making in which Abram was already engaged. Burt was
placed in a rocking-chair by a window that he might enjoy the prospect
also. A charming winter outlook it was, brilliant with light and gemmed
with innumerable crystals. To Amy's delight, she heard for the first time
the soft, down-like notes of the bluebird. At first they seemed like mere
"wandering voices in the air," sweet, plaintive, and delicate as the
wind-swayed anemone. Then came a soft rustle of wings, and a bird darted
downward, probably from the eaves, but seemingly it was a bit of the sky
that had taken form and substance. He flew past her and dislodged a
miniature avalanche from the spray on which he alighted. The little
creature sat still a moment, then lifted and stretched one wing by an odd
coquettish movement while it uttered its low musical warble.

"Why," exclaimed Amy, "he is almost the counterpart of our robin-redbreast
of England!"

"Yes," replied Dr. Marvin, "he resembles your English redbreast closely
both in appearance and habits, and our New England forefathers called him
the 'blue robin.' To my taste the bluebird is the superior of the two,
for what he lacks in stronger and more varied song he makes up in softer,
sweeter notes. And then he is so beautiful! You have no blue birds of any
kind in England, Amy. It seems to require our deeper-tinted skies to
produce them. Ah, there comes his mate. You can tell her by the lighter
blue of her plumage, and the tinge of brown on her head and back. She is
a cold, coy beauty, even as a wife; but how gallant is her azure-coated
beau! Flirt away, my little chap, and make the most of your courting and
honeymoon. You will soon have family cares enough to discourage anybody
but a bluebird;" and the doctor looked at his favorites with an exulting
affection that caused a general laugh.

"I shall give our little friends something better than compliments," said
Mr. Clifford, obeying his hospitable instincts, and he waded through the
snow to the sunny side of an evergreen, and there cleared a space until
the ground was bare. Then he scattered over this little plot an abundance
of bread-crumbs and hay seed, and they all soon had the pleasure of
seeing half a dozen little bobbing heads at breakfast. Johnnie and Alf,
who on account of the deep snow did not go to school, were unwearied in
watching the lovely little pensioners on their grandfather's bounty--not
pensioners either, for, as the old man said, "They pay their way with
notes that I am always glad to accept."

The work of path-making and shovelling snow from the doors and roofs of
the out-buildings went on vigorously all the morning. Abram also attached
the farm horses to the heavy snow-plow, to which he added his weight, and
a broad, track-like furrow was made from the house to the road, and then
for a mile or more each way upon the street, for the benefit of the
neighbors. Before the day was very far advanced, the south wind, which
had been a scarcely perceptible breath, freshened, and between the busy
shovels and the swaying branches the air was full of glittering crystals.
The bride-like world was throwing off her ornaments and preparing for the
prose of every-day life; and yet she did so in a cheerful, lightsome
mood. The sunny eaves dropped a profusion of gems from the melting snow.
There was a tinkle of water in the pipes leading to the cistern. From the
cackle in the barn-yard it appeared that the hens had resolved on
unwonted industry, and were receiving applause from the oft-crowing
chanticleers. The horses, led out to drink, were in exuberant spirits,
and appeared to find a child's delight in kicking up the snow. The cows
came briskly from their stalls to the space cleared for them, and were
soon ruminating in placid content. What though the snow covered the
ground deeper than at any time during the winter, the subtile spirit of
spring was recognized and welcomed not only by man, but also by the lower
creation!

After putting Burt in a fair way of recovery, Dr. Marvin, armed with a
shovel to burrow his way through the heavier drifts, drove homeward. Alf
floundered off to his traps, and returned exultant with two rabbits. Amy
was soon busy sketching them previous to their transformation into a
pot-pie, Burt looking on with a deeper interest in the artist than in her
art, although he had already learned that she had not a little skill with
her pencil. Indeed, Burt promised to become quite reconciled to his part of
invalid, in spite of protestations to the contrary; and his inclination to
think that Amy's companionship would be an antidote for every ill of life
was increasing rapidly, in accordance with his hasty temperament, which
arrived at conclusions long before others had begun to consider the steps
leading to them.

Amy was still more a child than a woman; but a girl must be young indeed
who does not recognize an admirer, especially so transparent a one as
Burt would ever be. His ardent glances and compliments both amused and
annoyed her. From his brothers she had obtained several hints of his
previous and diversified gallantries, and was not at all assured that
those in the future might not be equally varied. She did not doubt the
sincerity of his homage, however; and since she had found it so easy to
love him as a brother, it did not seem impossible that she should learn
to regard him in another light, if all thought it best, and he "would
only be sensible and understand that she did not wish to think about such
things for years to come." Thus it may be seen that in one respect her
heart was not much more advanced than that of little Johnnie. She
expected to be married some time or other, and supposed it might as well
be to Burt as to another, if their friends so desired it; but she was for
putting off submission to woman's natural lot as long as possible.
Possessing much tact, she was able in a great measure to repress the
young fellow's demonstrativeness, and maintain their brotherly and
sisterly relations; but it cost her effort, and sometimes she left his
society flurried and wearied. With Webb she enjoyed perfect rest and a
pleasing content. He was so quiet and strong that his very presence
seemed to soothe her jarring nerves. He appeared to understand her, to
have the power to make much that interested her more interesting, while
upon her little feminine mysteries of needle and fancy work he looked
with an admiring helplessness, as if she were more unapproachable in her
sphere than he could ever be in his, with all his scientific facts and
theories. Women like this tribute to their womanly ways from the sterner
sex. Maggie's wifehood was made happy by it, for by a hundred little
things she knew that the great, stalwart Leonard would be lost without
her. Moreover, by his rescue of Burt, Webb had won a higher place in
Amy's esteem. He had shown the prompt energy and courage which satisfy
woman's ideal of manhood, and assure her of protection. Amy did not
analyze her feelings or consciously assure herself of all this. She only
felt that Webb was restful, and would give her a sense of safety, no
matter what happened.




CHAPTER XV

NATURE'S BUILDING MATERIALS


Some days after Burt's adventure, Dr. Marvin made his professional call
in the evening. Mr. Alvord, Squire Bartley, and the minister also
happened in, and all were soon chatting around Mr. Clifford's ruddy
hearth. The pastor of this country parish was a sensible man, who, if he
did not electrify his flock of a Sunday morning, honestly tried to guide
it along safe paths, and led those whom he asked to follow. His power lay
chiefly in the homes of his people, where his genial presence was ever
welcomed. He did not regard those to whom he ministered as so many souls
and subjects of theological dogma, but as flesh-and-blood men, women, and
children, with complex interests and relations; and the heartiness of his
laugh over a joke, often his own, and the havoc that he made in the
dishes of nuts and apples, proved that he had plenty of good healthful
blood himself. Although his hair was touched with frost, and he had never
received any degree except his simple A.M., although the prospect of a
metropolitan pulpit had grown remote indeed, he seemed the picture of
content as he pared his apple and joined in the neighborly talk.

Squire Bartley had a growing sense of shortcoming in his farming
operations. Notwithstanding his many acres, he felt himself growing
"land-poor," as country people phrase it. He was not a reader, and looked
with undisguised suspicion on book-farming. As for the agricultural
journals, he said "they were full of new-fangled notions, and were kept
up by people who liked to see their names in print." Nevertheless, he was
compelled to admit that the Cliffords, who kept abreast of the age,
obtained better crops, and made their business pay far better than he
did, and he was inclined to turn his neighborly calls into thrifty use by
questioning Leonard and Webb concerning their methods and management.
Therefore he remarked to Leonard: "Do you find that you can keep your
land in good condition by rotation of crops? Folks say this will do it,
but I find some of our upland is getting mighty thin, and crops uncertain."

"What is your idea of rotation, squire?"

"Why, not growin' the same crop too often on the same ground."

"That is scarcely my idea. For the majority of soils the following
rotation has been found most beneficial: corn and potatoes, which
thoroughly subdue the sod the first year; root crops, as far as we grow
them, and oats the second; then wheat or rye, seeded at the same time
with clover or grass of some kind. We always try to plow our sod land in
the fall, for in the intervening time before planting the sod partially
decays, the land is sweetened and pulverized by the action of frost, and
a good many injurious insects are killed also. But all rules need
modification, and we try to study the nature of our various soils, and
treat them accordingly".

"What! have a chemist prescribe for 'em like a doctor?" sneered the
squire. "Mr. Walters, the rich city chap who bought Roger's worn-out
farm, tried that to his heart's content, and mine too. He had a little of
the dirt of each part of his farm analyzed, you know, and then he sent to
New York for his phosphates, his potashes, his muriates, and his
compound-super-universal panacea vegetates, and with all these bad-smelling
mixtures--his barn was like a big agricultural drug-store--he was going to
put into his skinned land just the elements lacking. In short, he gave his
soil a big dose of powders, and we all know the result. If he had given his
farm a pinch of snuff better crops ought to have been sneezed. No chemicals
and land doctors for me, thank you. Beg pardon, Marvin! no reflections on
your calling, but doctorin' land don't seem profitable for those who pay
for the medicine."

They all laughed except Webb, who seemed nettled, but who quietly said,
"Squire, will you please tell us what your house is made of?"

"Good lumber, sir."

"Well, when passing one day, I saw a fine stalk of corn in one of your
fields. Will you also tell us what that was made of? It must have
weighed, with the ears upon it, several pounds, and it was all of six
feet high. How did it come into existence?"

"Why, it grew," said the squire, sententiously.

"That utterance was worthy of Solomon," remarked Dr. Marvin, laughing.

"It grew," continued Webb, "because it found the needed material at hand.
I do not see how Nature can build a well-eared stalk of corn without
proper material any more than you could have built your house without
lumber. Suppose we have a soil in which the elements that make a crop of
corn do not exist, or are present in a very deficient degree, what course
is left for us but to supply what is lacking? Because Mr. Walters did not
do this in the right way, is no reason why we should do nothing. If soil
does not contain the ingredients of a crop, we must put them there, or
our labor goes for nothing".

"Well, of course there's no gettin' around that; but yard manure is all I
want. It's like a square meal to a man, and not a bit of powder on his
tongue."

"No one wants anything better than barn-yard manure for most purposes,
for it contains nearly all the elements needed by growing plants, and its
mechanical action is most beneficial to the soil. But how many acres will
you be able to cover with this fertilizer this spring?"

"That's just the rub," the squire answered. "We use all we have, and when
I can pick it up cheap I buy some; but one can't cover a whole farm with
it, and so in spite of you some fields get all run out."

"I don't think there's any need of their running out," said Leonard,
emphatically. "I agree with Webb in one thing, if I can't follow him in
all of his scientific theories--we have both decided never to let a
field grow poor, any more than we would permit a horse or cow to so lose
in flesh as to be nearly useless; therefore we not only buy fertilizers
liberally, but use all the skill and care within our power to increase
them. Barn-yard manure can be doubled in bulk and almost doubled in value
by composting with the right materials. We make the most of our peat
swamps, fallen leaves, and rubbish in general. Enough goes to waste on
many farms every year to keep several acres in good heart. But, as you
say, we cannot begin to procure enough to go over all the land from which
we are taking crops of some kind; therefore we maintain a rotation which
is adapted to our various soils, and every now and then plow under a
heavy green crop of clover, buckwheat, or rye. A green crop plowed under
is my great stand-by."

"I plowed under a crop of buckwheat once," said the squire, discontentedly,
"and I didn't see much good from it, except that the ground was light and
mellow afterward."

"That, at least, was a gain," Leonard continued; "but I can tell you why
your ground was not much benefited, and perhaps injured. You scarcely
plowed under a green crop, for I remember that the grain in your
buckwheat straw was partly ripe. It is the forming seed or grain that
takes the substance out of land. You should have plowed the buckwheat
under just as it was coming into blossom. Up to that time the chief
growth had been derived from the air, and there had been very little
drain upon the soil."

"Well!" exclaimed the squire, incredulously, "I didn't know the air was
so nourishing."

Webb had been showing increasing signs of disquietude during the last few
moments, and now said, with some emphasis: "It seems to me, squire, that
there is not much hope of our farming successfully unless we do know
something of the materials that make our crops, and the conditions under
which they grow. When you built your house you did not employ a man who
had only a vague idea of how it was to be constructed, and what it was to
be built of. Before your house was finished you had used lumber as your
chief material, but you also employed brick, stone, lime, sand, nails,
etc. If we examine a house, we find all these materials. If we wish to
build another house, we know we must use them in their proper proportions.
Now it is just as much a matter of fact, and is just as capable of proof,
that a plant of any kind is built up on a regular plan, and from
well-defined materials, as that a house is so built. The materials in
various houses differ just as the elements in different kinds of plants
vary. A man can decide what he will build of; Natur

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