Vermont watchman and State journal. [volume] (Montpelier, Vt.) 1836-1883, 1872-05-08

H"ho 'aVei ""ich uso q curtain courage ABOUT
u, but is pale with ghastly palIor. have
scen many mon rescued after being lost in the
snow, but it seems 10 me have never seen
one 50 near death as this
His clothes are frozen his fingers are stiff
and shrnnken, with no sensation in them at
all, aad bis eyes are fcarfdlly bloodshot. 1
carry him TO our room, and undress him
then | take my brother.--wide awake now,
aud troubled that be cannot help me--out Of
bed, and lay the poor unconscious gentleman
in his warm place. There Is but slight
chance Of my being able to save bis life but
that chance must be tried TO the uttermost
take my brother down in blanket to the
old couch on the kitchen hearth then | pile
dry sticks in the CRATE, and soon have cheer.
iul, cracking FIRE to help me and TO comfort
him. Then go up stairs again to my inva-
lid, and taking one hand or foot at time out
Of bed, chafe it with the snow | have
brought in a bowl. As soon as the Ere is
ready and l have prepared it, dose him,
still unconscious, with a cup Of hot mint tea.
He has been in bed almost an hour when
he awakes to consciousness, and starts up
with wondering, agonized look into my face.
" Where am 1 2" he stammers. "Have |
Dttu W ltt III tue OoFlStmas
feel that the words are still the delirious
wauderngs of sick man, so | only soothe
him as best may, and tempt him to another
cup Of the strong hot tea. lie rises. with
sudden, feverish strength, and gropes for his
clothes.
must 60 at once" he says, speaking
almost clearly. " Thank you, but must 20
on now, home The anxiety will kill my
wife Has the day dawned p
Not yet. 1t will not be daylight for
three hours yet but the storm has ceased"
" Thank God | shall be in time"
] No need to tell Of my useless persuasions,
eutreaties, commands, repeated again and
again. They are of no avail. Every plea
urge is turned aside, every argument is DIS.
regarded, every persuasion falls UNDECIDED on
his ear. As long as | can | keep him, aud
It is almost by force but my weak old will
is conquered by his steadfsstness Of purpose
aud | am obliged to let him rise and dress
lie would put on his own soaked and frozen
clothes-which | have hung before the fire.
aud the steam from which fills the Kitchen
but in this matter it is | who conquer. Clad
IN my best clothes, | let him 90 at last God
pardon me if | have not done what can to
keep him. have tried and failed and l
begin TO think that there may be some urgent
reason for his going which | do not UNDER
stand. | follow him to see him on his way.
The snow still makes it light about us, and he
will not take a lantern. As make my way
across the field, with immense difficulty, |
pray ceaselessly that be may not be fastening
to his death and once mere appeal to him
before we separate /; miserable when | listen
to bis broken word OF thanks, and wishing
with all my heart that was not too old aud
lame to take him to his journeys end, to
home where | know there must be young
wife dearly loved. A moment after he has
Jeff me standing at the gate, he hesitate. l
see pleased, slow smile come into his face,
which is only half turned from me then he
stoops and moves his weak hands, softly and
slowly, with an odd movement which | can
not understand, almost as if-the idea, though
unnatural, will come into my head as | watch
him utmost as if he were caressing large
dog. Tn, fancy is born, perhaps, Of his de-
Iirium and it vanishes while my weak dim
eyes follow him into the white gloom Of the
night. The furious, crying wind is resting
now, but the whole country is covered with
the dangerous drfted snow. I 60 back into
the house, too anxious to think of going to
bed myself, too much troubled to be at rest
save as tell nay beads
THIRD NARRATIVE.
had never in my life spent such a lonely
evening before. think l never felt so un-
accouutaby depressed yet knew it would
not last long, because George had promised
TO be home with me at midnight, and he had
never broken his promise to me once since we
had known each other first This expecta-
rion took me on through the long hours which
he and ought to have been spending cheer
fully and merrily together. | went down
stairs to bid our men good night, and wish
'then " merry Christmas" as they dispers-
ed after their gay evening then | hurried
\ back gladly to the sitting-room stirred the
ire, rearranged the coffee cups, and put
Georges slippers exactly in the right place
for him, for midnight was striking from
twenty clocks at once--as every clock does
on our premises he would be home d.
rectly now. sent the servants to bed. No
one should let in the Christmas until George
brought it, though we had always done it be.
fore while the clocks were striking and the
church bells ringing. The bells were ringing
now, Of course, yet | could not hear them for
the terrible wind that shrieked about the
house, and scattered wildly and weirdly the
snow that was falling 30 fast. 1t was no use
my listening for his step-I knew be would
leave his horse and gig at the livery stables
and walk up the street--yet did listen with
every power | possessed, as | sat watching
there alone--did listen for football which
must be soundless on the rapidly deepening
snow.
Could George break his promise to me 7
One O'Clock cannot bear one o'clock. |
think il is the loneliest hour of all the night.
II terriies me to hear the solitary stroke from
the clocks below, even when George is with
me, in the night Now it struck me like q
throb of pain Could George break his prom
ise to mel That was still my doubt and cry,
because it was better to think that than that
any accident could have happened to detain
him. | opened the shutters once, but the
street was so white and solitary, and the wind
rushed by with such shrek of distress, that
dared not do it again. | crept close to the
fire, which burned half way up the chimney,
yet shivered as if had been out in the
wind and snow.
Two O'Clock And still listened for
footstep, though the snow was deep enough
now to deaden the tramp Of thousand men.
Now and then fancied heard wheels pass,
but it could only have been the raging and
roaring of the terrible night wind outside the
suffered windows. All what a weary,
weary thing it is to listen for a step one can
not hear
Three O'Clock
But when try to recall the hours as they
passed, my very heartbeats cease. The an
guish of that night know will live through
all my life--the long, vain, helpless watching.
kuew that nothing could have been suffer-
ing then with George would have been SO
hard for me to bear US this was. l wished
had kept one Of the servants up. but shrank
from calling her had sent them to bed in
the full expectation Of my husband coming