The Forest Republican. [volume] (Tionesta, Pa.) 1869-1952, 1890-04-30
BESSIE In THE BLIZZARD.
by KATE NJ. CLEARY.

"oh, dear!" sighed Bessie, show
dreary it all looks!"
And indeed the view seen from the
window of the big, white, Western
farmhouse was anything but cheerful.
Bare, brown, treeless prairie all around
a sullen, wintry sky overhead, and not
living creature in sight, except distant
speck of scarlet down in the "draw"-
Baby Willie at play.
Indoors it was pleasant enough. Bes-
sic was brisk and tiny little housekeep-
er. When, Immediately after dinner,
her father had brought round the team,
and he and her mother had driven off to
town to do their regular weekly shop
ping, or Grading" as they called it,
Bessie had hustled about at wonderful
rate. She had washed the dishes, and
put them in shining row on the yellow
pine dresser; she had polished the stove,
and brought in water; she had swept the
room, and Strengthened the rocker cush-
ions; she had set ''sponge" for the bread
that was to be worked at night, and
baked early in the morning; she had
shaken the gay strip of rag carpet, and
busted the clock shelf, and ranged the
chairs by the wall with mathematical
precision. Then she had washed her
face and hands in the bright tin pan
kept for that purpose on backless chair
near the door, and brushed and braided
her soft, brown hair. She took off her
apron Of blue-checked gingham, put on
one Of snowy nainsook, hung a clean
roller towel on the rack, and put n kettle
of water on the fire. Then she had taken
uphcr one dear story-book, and sat down
to read.
1t was tremendously attractive book
to the girl who had been brought up in
the tameness and monotony of prairie
life; it was all about great, good and
brave women; about Florence Night
ingale, and Joan of Arc, and Grace Dar-
ling and Ida Lewis, and heroines of
every time and place. A beautiful book
But Bessie laid it down with the con-
sciousness that she had been intruding,
that the company in the brilliance of
whose deeds she had been basking was
altogether too Lofty and magnanimous for
her.
So she went over to the window and
leaned her head against the pane, and
thought how hard it was to be "a heroine
in Nebraska. There was no war here,
no plague, not even any Indians now.
And nothing ever happened.
And pondering over this had caused
her to give long sigh, and voice her
discomfort over the dreariness of all
creation.
| 1t was no wonder her life was wee
bit lonely. The nearest neighbors lived
a mile away. Willie was too young to
be company for her. What did he care
about her vague, delightful dreams
about her heroines? And her parents
had decided she was not strong enough
to go to school that winter. Indeed,
were she permitted to do so, the glrl
would find it a recreation; merely that.
For she knew quite as much as her rather
inefficient young teacher could attempt
to teach her.
She was a slender, delicately formed
/ girl of sixteen. Her hair, of a crispy
sickness, was parted over her forehead in
old-fashioned style. Her ewes large,
hazel, dreamy-had q certain quiet, di-
rect way of regarding one. Her rather
clumsily made gown had a frill of home
made crochet at the neck and wrists
How the windmill was creaking And
how the bare, SNOWFALL branches in the
front yard were rattlingl and what a
brisk tattoo the skeleton sunhower by the
back-door was playing on ITS panels
But Baby Willie was enjoying himself
She could see him running up aud down
the "draw," dragging his little wagon
after him.
She turned away. She sat in the big
wooden rocker. She curled herself up
like a comfort-loving kitten. And rock
ing and thinking, somehow or other, she
rocked and thought the cozy kitchen
away. She didn't live in Nebraska,
within five miles of the town of Bubble.
She was not Bessie Linard at all. She
was a brave woman in frail boat, out
on stormy sea. She was a helmeted
heroine, leading hosts to battle. She
was
What a deafening noise! Was it the
clang of a coming armyl Was it the beat
of drums, the clamor and clash of swords,
the tread of marching feetl
No, not any of these. Only the creak-
ing of the fan of the windmill, which
was whirling at an astonishing rate.
Only the noise of shaking window
frames. Only the clatter of milk-pails
piled outside the door.
Slam! Bang!
Bessie sprang from the rocker. Erect
she stood, dazed, bewildered, still hall