was night, and seated by our cabin board
We listened to the wind that shrieked and roared,
If we had erred 'twas now beyond reform—
We were held fast by reason of the storm.
For one whole week it raged without allay,
Nor sign had come that it would yield its sway.
Yes, fairly through our rashness we were caught,
And I to blame, for I was better taught:
The blasts still came, the snow unceasing fell,
Our log-built hut became a citadel.
Across the hollow, we could hear them rave,
And more and more my judgment I misgave;
Hurled wild against the walls each wintry corps,
We hardly dared to open once the door.
And that night too! That night of all the year—
How very strange sometimes decrees appear!
A twelvemonth since we'd saved his future mate,
And now poor Jo touched by the hand of fate!
Strange, strange indeed, that it should happen then—
You see it was the Christmas Eve again!
With feet upon the stove my poor boy sat,
I'd tried to help his mood with this and that;
Our miner's lamp down from a huge beam hung,
And o'er our cheerless room its rays it flung.
Within his hand Jo, listless, held a book,
But half the time his eye the page forsook;
He could not read and yet a silence kept—
What meant that change that o'er his features crept?
There was in his pale face too strange a blend,
I did not like whate'er it might portend;
So by the red and dim uncertain light
I watched his face and heard how wild the night;
My head was leaned in thought against my bunk,
I own I was in dark forebodings sunk—
For once since I had met him I was blue,
That we were there appeared great cause to rue.
To keep this fact from Jo's quick sense I tried,
With cheery words my inmost thought belied;
But now by dull, cold fear I felt assailed,
Before some power invisible I quailed.
A strange world this! How full of woe and weal,
What play of fate and chance our lives reveal!
Our lightest word may prove a dread command,
The balance turns with a mere grain of sand;
We do that trifle; and go here or there,
Speak or keep silent,—joy bring or despair!
One moment's action may prove as a knife,
The thread to cut and make or mar a life!
As thus I mused—what had I done for Jo?
Sudden he spoke—"'Twas right that we should go,"
It startled me,—his words were but a chime;
'Twas clear our thoughts unspoken had kept time:
Who should he think of now if not of Plet?
Oh! how she would at his forced absence fret!
The yester-morn 'twas his desire to start,
But I, the elder, played the cautious part;
To try the slopes too dangerous did appear,—
To me the thought itself was madness sheer.
Why, could we in such storm have kept our breath?
It would have been a challenge sent to death.
Yet now, so strong my mood within me wrought.
I would have ventured without moment's thought.
Would I had done so! Then I'd blameless been;
Another end—but that was all unseen!
Ere I made answer, Jo had spoke again—
I was surprised and troubled at his vein—
His spoken musings saddest tenor bore,
There was a break, too, from his words before:—
Strange question surely with so sad a brow—
"What should prevent my being happy now?
Oh! Yes, I know what power the rich command;
I've seen the true and brave hard want withstand;
My sister, dead—Ah! even as I speak,
I see again her flushed and wasted cheek.
Yes, she was working for the sweaters then—
Most brutal, mean, and sordid of all men—
It killed her! Yes, she slowly drooped and pined,
Sunk 'neath her load and mother's loss combined;
Her task was all too great, nor bold nor strong,
An orphan left amid the heedless throng.
Oh! I was nothing but an urchin small,
My help was little, if 'twas help at all;
'Twas cruel, cruel that she suffered so;
On my account I know she feared to go.
She shared her little when she ill could spare;
Would that with her my hope I now might share.
What happiness it would to me impart,
Could she but live and heal again her heart.
My mother, too,—to me her face is dim—
It fills my mem'ry like some vague, sweet hymn—
Yet though I cannot see her face aright,
I feel her dark eyes look in mine tonight."
My Jo was sad indeed and sore oppressed,
His happy prospects did not bring him rest;
And I, too—I was filled with cold alarm,
Some premonition of impending harm!
I felt a warning through my being creep,
And he sat brooding as I fell asleep.