The Princeton union. [volume] (Princeton, Minn.) 1876-1976, 1880-11-25
PART HIN THE VALLEY,

|
out with heavy OK teams. But the wo-
men shook their heads. Eight hours out
in the storm, and nothing but wee bits of
children, too. And they take their own
babes in their arms and think: "What
if they should be out in the snowS" and
not few brave the storm to go and COM
fort the poor mother whose children are
really lost to her
| BloWl blow blow! But overhead the
air is clearing. A shout goes up, a star
peeps through the clouds, and the storm
is over. The voices of the men, as they
break into parties and leave the road
to the right and to the lett, are
heard in every direction. And the moon
comes out just as we saw it on the hills.
Six, seven o'clock What a hopeless
task it seems! Any drift might cover
them, and willing hands might pass them
| by without a sign.
Still they work on, wandering far over
the fields, stopping at farmhouse door
here and there, gaming helpers every
| where. The snow still drifts with the
wind; but the search never flags.
"Hark! was it a shout? No. Listen
again.
ssBow, WOW, wow!'
Creeping slowly through the snow, lift
ing one paw wearily after another, came
a dog. No one seems to know him, and
around his neck is swung hunters
pouch.
Did say no one knows him2 That
was mistake. We know him we'll !;
don't we? His name is Hector and he
left the little house on the hill three
hours ago. The dog IS lifted upon one
of the ox-sleds. It seems to give him
new life to hear human voice once
more, and he tries to spring up and lick
the face Of the man who pats his shaggy
sides. Then he,is down once more In
the snow, whining and barking furiously.
"Hallo!' cried the CHEEKY voice of one
of the men. "What have we here! A
shot pouch, as I liver' he cried, working
| at the string that bound it.
Sure enough, and, stranger still, in the
pouch money and a request for food.
The little message from nowhere was
eagerly passed from hand to hand.
"I know the dog" said one, who had
just come up. give met HIM hunting
on the hills yonder. He belongs to the
young fellow who lives with his mother
in the old Barnes house,
"Who are they?' asked a dozen at once.
| "Don't know. They came from the
other side OF the mountain. Only been
there sirce summer
| and weary, he springs back and forth
from sled to sled: whining and crouching
at the feet of the men.
aWhat is it, my dog? We can't go up
the mountain tonight; but you shall
have your fill, and full pouch to carry
home, my brave old fellow
So the men say; but Hector does not
mind. Leaping through the snow, he
looks back, whines and nearly speaks.
What a pity he cannotl
Suddenly man shouts. "Can it be the
children2''
| Can it be2 Is there any doubt of it?
See how the dog answers. Tumbling,
bounding, barking joyously, and the sleds
move creaking on. Through drifts, over
fences, out of the road, slowly 60 the
| crowd of men, the oxen and all. Now
to the left; what great domes are those
far out into the fields by the wo,d2 There
| are two of them, and on the windward
l SlO0 GuC 6UOW las Uccu swept away we
see plain enough. They are hay stacks,
and where the hay has been pulled away
in as large armtuls as poor little Joe was
able to take, there, in the little hay house
which he had made, where Hector pokes
his great black nose. and where dear papa
stoops and enters there they are, wet,
hungry and nearly frozen, but safe. And
q shout goes up which is carried back to
the lingering searchers, back to the farm
houses, and over the fields to the listen
/ ing ones at home. Safe from all the dan
ger OF that terrible day! Safe once more
in loving arms on papa's breast.
But they kept Thanksgiving the next
day at Upper Highlands! What2 Some
one il the narrow circle Of, the little
township actually venting food3
So they questioned, AND this is the
way they answered. At early day break
en- that Thanksgiving morning the sleds
and oxen were out again. Off toward
the hills they swing along, up, up as far
as the oxen could go, then on foot as
best they could, up to the old Barnes