204 
G he  RURAL  NEW-YORKER 
February  19,  1S1G. 
“Her  Awakening” 
The  Blessing  of  the  Storm 
By  Maude  Meredith 
Mrs.  Graves  paused  a  moment  in  the 
open  doorway,  the  fresh  keen  air  swirling 
in.  all  about  her.  and  her  breath  floating 
out.  a  long  banner  of  white  mist. 
'•Oh,  dear,”  she  sighed,  "there's  four  of 
them  off  to  school,  but - ”  She  glanced 
back  at  the  big  kitchen  where  two  sturdy, 
active  little  boys  were  taking  turns  at 
sliding: down  the  back  of  an  overturned 
chair. 
She  closed  the  door  with  a  bang.  “Set 
up  that  chair,  this  instant !”  she  com¬ 
manded  sharply. 
The  laughter  ceased,  and  two  merry 
little  faces  took  on  an  aggrieved  look. 
"Set  up  that  chair!”  she  cried  again, 
angrily  stamping  her  foot. 
Two  under  lips  rolled  out.  but  four  lit¬ 
tle  hands  took  hold  of  the  chair,  and, 
after  several  slips,  righted  it. 
Without  a  word  the  mother  went  about 
her  morning  work.  The  two  little  chaps 
sulked,  not  knowing  what  else  to  do.  Then 
the  tinkle  of  sleigh-bells,  outside,  at¬ 
tracted  them  to  the  window,  where  they 
melted  off  the  frost,  with  pudgy,  little  ml 
hands,  and  the  clear  sunlight  outside  gave 
them  an  inspiration, 
"Let’s  go  slide,”  they  whispered,  and 
again  the  smiles  and  dimples  played  over 
the  rosy  faces. 
“Ma,  may  we  slide?”  Charlie  asked, 
reluctantly. 
Mrs.  Graves  glanced  at  the  window. 
The  little  inclosure  in  the  garden  where 
the  boys  usually  played  was  a  perfectly 
safe  place,  and  she  was  always  glad  to 
have  the  noise  out  of  the  house,  but  .just 
now  she  was  in  a  foolish,  selfish  mood, 
such  as  women  often  allow  themselves  to 
drop  into;  she  was  discontented,  full  of 
self-pity,  and  careless  of  the  happiness  of 
others.  So  she  kept  on  with  her  work 
and  answered  :  “I  can't  stop  my  work  to 
bundle  you  up,  now.” 
Again  the  smiles  faded  out,  and  the  two 
active  little  fellows  returned  to  the  win¬ 
dow.  Presently  they  fell  to  making 
liand-prints  in  the  frost.  Pretty,  chubby 
prints,  that  should  have  been  dear  to  the 
heart  of  any  mother,  but  again  came  tin- 
sharp  command : 
"Stop  that,  now.  You’ll  break  the 
window,  and  then  what  will  your  father 
do  to  you !” 
The  old  threadbare  threat,  but  in  this 
case  it  held  none  of  the  effects  of  fear, 
but  instead,  started  a  now  train  of 
thought. 
If  papa  were  here  lie  would  put  on 
their  coats,  and  take  them  off  to  the  barn 
for  a  big  romp.  Ilow  the  restless  little 
bodies  and  active  minds,  unconsciously, 
craved  action. 
Laura  Graves  was  one  of  the  lucky 
ones  of  earth,  she  had  never  known 
trouble  or  sorrow,  and,  for  some  in  ex¬ 
plainable  reason,  u  fortunate  life  seems  to 
breed  discontent.  She  had  been  an  only 
child  of  prosperous  parents  who  had  kept 
her  in  school  up  to  about  the  time  of 
her  early  marriage.  She  had  married  a 
man  who  was  the  very  salt  of  the  earth, 
but  who  was  beginning  in  life  and  could 
not  give  her  as  line  a  home  as  that  of  her 
father’s.  At  this  she  had  fretted  and 
complained.  Then,  to  them  came  the 
crowning  glory  of  a  woman’s  life,  happy, 
healthy  children,  all  of  them  strongly 
marked  with  their  father’s  cheery  dis¬ 
position.  They  were  active,  which  to 
their  mother  meant  “noisy.”  tshe  had 
been  used  to  the  prim  quietness  of  a  one- 
child  home,  and  that  child  a  rather  prim 
and  selfish  daughter.  She  could  not  en¬ 
ter.  enthusiastically,  into  the  building  of 
a  fleet  of  battleships,  to  her  it  meant 
whittlings  on  the  kitchen  floor.  She  did 
not  love  puppies,  and  lambs,  and  pigs,  as 
her  laughing,  warm-hearted  girls  did,  so 
to  her  they  were  “tomboys.”  She  did  uot 
like  to  rig  up  and  trot:  off  fishing  on  :i 
misty  day  with  her  genial  husband.  So 
he  fished  alone.  She  could  not  bear  to 
have  the  children  “mussing  around.”  so 
she  failed  to  train  them  in  usefulness, 
blunted  their  willing  helpfulness,  and 
made  homo  gloomy. 
Tom.  her  husband,  looked  at  her  with 
troubled  eyes,  and  wondered  if  she  would 
ever  change,  for  she  resented  all  of  his 
endeavors  to  lead  her  into  a  better  light — 
so  be  drew  away  from  her,  gradually  and 
unconsciously,  and  found  his  happiness 
with  the  children.  Tt  is  true  no  house  is 
ever  quiet  where  there  are  six  healthy 
children,  and  there  is  little  time  for  em¬ 
broidery  and  novel  reading.  These  were 
the  things  that  she  most  desired,  so  dis¬ 
content  followed.  She  worried  through 
the  work  this  morning,  as  usual,  finding 
out  of  suits  because  of  her  surroundings, 
a  good  deal  miffed  because  her  husband 
did  not  sympathize  with  her  trials,  and 
consider  the  children  a  peat  burden. 
This  was  Friday,  the  end  of  the  school 
week,  and  all  six  of  them  would  he  home 
to-morrow. 
She  was  very  much  surprised  at  supper 
that  night  When  Tom  announced  that,  lie 
was  obliged  to  go  to  Xorthport  on  the 
following  day;  would  take  the  span  and 
double  sleigh,  and  all  tbe  family  were  in¬ 
vited.  lie  would  attend  to  business, 
“mother”  should  trade,  if  things  were 
needed,  they  would  eat  dinner  at  his  sis¬ 
ter  Sarah's,  and  come  home  in  the  after 
noon.  Would  they  go?"  The  children 
clamored  joyously.  Mis.  Graves  assunnd 
an  injured  look,  and  declined. 
"I  simply  won’t  go  with  such  a  raft." 
she  said.  “If  you  had  asked  me,  and  left 
the  kids  at  home,  I  would  have  enjoyed 
it.” 
“You  did  that  last  time,”  Kittie  cried. 
"Oh,  pa,  do  take  11s  along  this  time.” 
"Yes,”  he  said,  "yon  all  deserve  a  ride. 
Pretty  nice  reports  you  are  bringing 
home  from  school.  Good  children  deserve 
an  outing,  now  and  then.  1  telephoned 
to-day.  Sarah  will  have  a  big  dinner 
ready.  I  said  we  would  all  he  there." 
lit-  looked  at  his  wife  appealingly. 
"It  seems  to  me  you  take  a  good  deal 
on  yourself,  saying  I  would  go,”  she 
snapped.  "I  won’t  go.  You  can  just 
bundle  yourselves  up,  and  go  along,  and 
I’ll  stay  home,  and  enjoy  one  nice,  quiet 
day.  Tt  certainly  will  Tie  a  treat  for  me.” 
Saturday  morning  broke  beautifully 
fair  and  clear.  Very  early  the  big  sleigh 
was  filled,  for  it  was  a  10-mile  ride  to 
Xorthport.  When  the  sound  of  the  sleigh 
bells  died  away.  Mrs.  Graves  gave  a  sigli 
of  relief.  “T>,  1  am  so  glad.”  she  said 
aloud.  “I  can  have  one  nice  day.  I'll 
read  that  novel;  it  will  seem  like  living 
again.  They  won’t  be  back  till  dark.” 
She  hurried  her  morning’s  work,  put 
ou  a  new  print  dress,  and  the  prettiest 
collar  in  her  box,  started  a  roaring  fire 
in  the  sitting-room  stove,  drew  up  the  big 
rocker,  and  opened  her  hook.  The  novel 
was  an  old  one.  exciting,  improbable, 
trashy,  but  of  the  kind  she  had  devoured 
so  eagerly  as  a  girl.  Hour  after  hour 
went  by,  fresh  fuel  was  added  to  the 
(ire.  but  she  forgot  tlic  dinner  hour,  for¬ 
got  the  poultry  that  should  have  been  fed. 
forgot  that  Tom  had  said,  kindly:  "Will 
you  mind  stabling  tbe  cows  about  one 
o'clock?  L  have  filled  their  mangers.” 
At  last  she  was  aroused  by  the  sudden 
darkness,  and  glancing  up  was  made 
aware  that  the  beautiful  morning  bad 
ended,  as  sometimes  happens,  in  a  fierce 
blizzard.  Tbe  sun  was  obscured,  and  the 
ice-liko  particles  of  snow  were  sweeping 
by  in  solid  sheets,  driven  by  a  UO-mile- 
nu-hotir  gale. 
She  gazed  at  it  blankly,  for  a  moment, 
her  mind  still  in  the  "rose  arbor"  with 
the  beautiful  heroine,  then  she  slipped  a 
book  mark  in  to  keep  her  place,  and 
arose,  glancing  at  the  clock.  It  was  three 
o'clock,  and  Tom’s  fancy  dairy  cows  out 
in  all  this  storm. 
Hastily  she  slipped  into  rubbers  and 
jacket,  swathed  her  head  in  a  slmwl, 
caught  up  the  pails,  and  started  for  the 
barn.  The  path  was  already  drilled  in 
spots,  in  others  swept  bare.  Her  clothes 
line  had  been  stretched  from  the  kitchen 
door,  along  at  one  side  of  the  path  to  the 
barn,  for  convenience  in  hanging  out 
doilies,  and  as  the  fierce  blast  struck  her 
she  tottered  and  clung  to  the  line.  She 
found  it  a  great  help  to  steady  herself 
against  the  wind,  and  so,  made  her  way 
to  tiie  barn.  Tom  was  a  model  up-to-date 
farmer,  and  had  every  convenience,  but 
coal  of  ice.  and  Mrs.  Graves  found  it 
almost  impossible  to  open  the  stable  door. 
1  tut  repeated  tugs  freed  it.  The  huddled 
cows,  mottled  with  flecks  of  sleet,  even 
in  their  covered  shed,  lowed  pitifully,  and 
surged  and  crowded  about  her.  Mrs. 
Graves  was  not  accustomed  to  outdoor 
work  and  the  mild,  dishorned  cows  terri¬ 
fied  her.  The  best  she  could  do  was  to 
fling  open  the  stable  door  and  let  them 
crowd  and  stumble  in,  and  find  stalls  as 
best  they  could.  She  knew  how  to  look 
the  stanchions,  but.  unluckily,  some  cows 
had  missed  their  own  places,  and  were, 
of  course,  dissatisfied. 
The  poultry  must  be  fed,  and  the  cows 
milked.  She  filled  her  apron  with  corn, 
and  with  head  bent,  beat  across  to  the 
henhouse,  flung  it  in.  kicking  a  little 
snow  after  it.  for  thirsty  fowls  will  eat 
snow. 
lty  this  time  she  was  very,  very  angry 
because  she  had  been  left  at  home  to  do 
such  work.  The  milking  immediately  be¬ 
came  an  affliction,  and  by  the  time  she  was 
through  her  face  was  covered  with  tears, 
and  lu*r  heart  filled  with  bitterness. 
"Won't  l  give'  Tom  Graves  a  piece  of 
my  mind."  she  muttered  kicking  I  he  milk¬ 
ing  stool  one  side.  "I'll  teach  him  to 
play  such  a  trick  as  this  again.  I’m  just 
mad  enough  to  quit  the  whole  thing,  and 
go  hack  to  father’s,  where  I  can  have  a 
good  time.” 
It  took  two  trips  to  carry  in  the  milk, 
and  she  was  a  sorry  sight  when  that  was 
done.  The  cold  was  not  intense,  but  the 
blizzard  was  terrific.  For  some  time 
Mrs.  Graves  pottered  about  the  fires,  mutt 
tering  to  herself,  filled  with  self-pity. 
But  tears  always  wash  away  temper,  and 
after  a  while  she  began  to  think  of  Tom 
and  the  children.  She  noticed  the  handy 
shelf  that  Tom  had  put  Up  for  her;  the 
bright  holder  on  the  nail,  and  remem¬ 
bered  how  pretty  Kitty  looked  as  she  held 
it  up.  when  finished,  for  her  father’s  ap¬ 
proval.  Suddenly,  for  the  first  time  in 
her  life,  she  realized  that  it  was  always 
for  “papa’s”  approval,  never  for  hers, 
and  she  felt  a  pang  of  resentful  jealousy. 
When  she  picked  up  a  sheet  of  paper  cov¬ 
ered  with  rude  sketches,  she  laughed  out¬ 
right.  "‘What  a  knack  Jessie  has  for 
making  pictures.”  she  said  aloud,  "and 
such  laughable  things.”  George’s  school 
mittens  hung  behind  the  stove.  She  took 
them  in  her  hands  and  smoothed  them 
out.  Yes.  they  are  dry  and  warm.”  she 
said,  and  a  pang  shot  through  her  heart, 
the  good,  honest  little  fellow,  they  were, 
all  of  them,  out  in  this  storm.  How 
could  they  stand  it;  she  shuddered,  re¬ 
membering  how  the  wind  and  needle 
points  of  hail-like  snow  had  cut  and 
chilled  her,  in  the  short  trips  to  and  front 
the  barn.  Slie  peered  out  into  the  storm. 
It  was  growing  steadily  worse. 
“T  just  won’t  look  at  it.”  she  said, 
drawing  the  shade.  She  always  shut  out 
anything  that  did  not  please  her;  shut  it 
out;  turned  to  something  pleasing,  and 
left  the  other  to  take  care  of  itself.  She 
read,  or  tried  to  read,  again,  but  the  wind 
shrieked,  the  house  shook,  and  the  storm 
beat  fiercely  against  the  windows. 
Suddenly  she  filing  down  the  book. 
"Why  !  I  must  set  n  light  in  the  window. 
They  won’t  know  where  to  turn  in.”  She 
run  up  the  shade,  and  set  a  lamp  on  the 
wide  sill. 
Then  she  began  to  prepare  supper. 
"Sarah  has  but  two  spare  beds,”  she 
thought  ;  “she  never  could  keep  the  seven 
of  them.  They’ll  have  to  come  home. 
They  ought  to  have  been  here  before  this. 
Torn  intended  to  lie  home  in  time  to  do 
the  chores;  l  milked  early,  because  I 
knew  they  would  be  bite." 
Sbe  bad  forgotten  to  eat  dinner,  and 
took  biles  of  this  and  that  as  she  got  the 
supper  over  the  fire. 
“I’ll  make  an  extra  big  pudding,  and 
two  johnny-cakes,  and  have  ham  and 
eggs,  mid  hot  coffee  for  all  around.  Thov’U 
be  about  frozen,  when  they  get  in.” 
The  old  clock  on  the  wall  tolled  out  s’ 
strokes,  the  storm  swung  its  icy  am 
about  the  house  and  shook  it  till  its  join 
creaked.  The  collie  went  to  the  door, 
ami  whined  dismally. 
“You  can  go  out  in  the  woodshed. 
Jack,  if  you  want  to  get  a  sniff  of  the 
storm,  but  the  drifts  are  too  high  out¬ 
side.” 
The  dinner  was  steaming  hot.  and  set 
about  in  the  lmlf-closed  oven,  as  seven 
o’clock  struck ;  still  no  one  came, 
“Oh.  they  aren’t  out  this  time  of  night,” 
she  told  herself ;  "they  did  not  start 
home.  I  was  reading  and  don’t  know 
when  the  storm  began.  They  will  stay 
all  night  in  town.  There  are  plenty  of 
beds  at  the  hotel.” 
Later  she  picked  at  the  lialf-cold  din¬ 
ner,  and  by  eight  o’clock  had  given  them 
up.  and  gone  back  to  her  novel.  She 
read  till  midnight,  stopping  now  and  tli  *n 
to  listen  to  the  bowl  of  the  blast,  now 
and  again  comparing  her  life  to  that  of 
the  overdrawn,  mawkish  heroine,  with  a 
twinge  of  discontent.  Then  she  went  to 
her  room. 
ITow  still  the  house  seemed,  how  hol¬ 
low.  how  lonesome.  She  picked  up  a 
stumped  little  shoe,  the  everyday  shoe 
that  Billie  had  discarded  for  his  Sunday 
shoes.  “Hear  little  chap,”  she  whis¬ 
pered,  "I’m  afraid  he  cried  when  he  could 
not  come  home.  And  Charlie  too;  I 
ought  not  to  he  so  cross  when  they  make 
a  racket.  They  are  good  little  fellows  as 
ever  lived.  I’ll — when  they  come  back — 
I  wish  they  were  safe  in  bed  at  home  this 
minute.” 
But  she  fell  asleep  presently,  and  did 
not  wake  till  the  sun  shone  in  at  the  win¬ 
dow.  Then  she  hurried  up,  and  brushing 
off  the  frost  peered  out.  A  new  world 
met  her  sight.  Not  a  building;  not  a 
tree,  or  twig  but  was  a  sheeted  mass  of 
ice,  and  the  road  and  paths  were  a  tumult 
of  drifts,  or  bare  spots  torn  into  the  very 
grass-roots  and  frozen  in  uneven  hum¬ 
mocks. 
(To  be  continued) 
the  barn  was  already  covered  with  a  solid 
“  There’s  four  of  them  off  to  School 
