Buried in the Snow (2 page)

“God help you, my son,” replied the aged man, with a sweet expression of quiet repose. “Go in peace, my son, and may the grace of our Lord Jesus Christ be with you.”

For the last time François embraced his father, then hastened to drive the herd out of the stable, Jacques following to render him assistance. The cattle appeared to be surprised when they found the ground covered with snow: they stood for a moment dismayed and confused, but the well-known call of the herdsman soon brought them in motion, and knowing they were going home, they sportively ran hither and thither around the little chalet, causing him some trouble in bringing them together again; that accomplished, the father once more kissed his boy and pressed him tenderly to his heart.

“God protect you both. Watch over thy grandfather as carefully and lovingly as thou canst, and be not too solicitous
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about the future: if God grant that I reach our home in safety, thou wilt, in a few days at farthest, be relieved: be patient, courageous, and hopeful, my son; God have thee in his gracious keeping.”

“And you too, father,” sobbed the boy, while he broke out into tears, and pressed a farewell kiss upon his parent’s lips.

François gently withdrew himself from the child’s embrace, and herd and herdsman disappeared amid the whirling clouds of snow. Jacques sought in vain to penetrate the thick, flaky veil; a last call of farewell reached his listening ear, faintly above the wind howlings of the tempest, and now every trace of his father had disappeared, and the boy stood alone, upon the bleak, desolate mountain summit, swaying in the howling blast, and his tender form enveloped in a soft, white garment of snow.

“God protect you, father,” whispered the lad, “you and us. Ah! would we dare to follow.” One imploring look he cast toward the dark, shrouded heavens; then, with a powerful effort repressing his painful emotions, he entered the chalet, and busied himself with the tenderest care for his loved and helpless grandfather.

CHAPTER III.

THE FIRST DAY IN THE CHALET.

A
S Jacques entered, he saw the old man standing beside the window, from which he had been gazing after his son. He leaned his venerable, gray head upon the sill, while with folded hands, and with eyes raised to heaven, his lips moved as though engaged in prayer. Jacques’s tears broke forth afresh at the sorrowful, touching sight: sinking at his grandfather’s feet, he pressed his hot lips upon the dear hands. “He has gone, grandfather,” said he, “and God alone knows if we shall ever see him again!”

“We can pray for him, my child, and commend him to the protection of the Lord,” answered the old man, in gentle, comforting tones, as he laid his trembling hand upon the head of the lad. “Our case is sad, my son, but, in just such a situation is it meet for us to set our whole confidence upon God. Hearken to

the teachings of our blessed Lord: ‘And are five sparrows sold for two farthings, and not one of them is forgotten before God? But even the very hairs of your head are all numbered. Fear not, therefore, ye are of more value than many sparrows.’ Comfort thyself with these precious words, my child, and pray from thy heart that God, for Christ’s sake, will give thee peace, that perfect peace he has promised to bestow upon all that call upon him in spirit and in truth. Be still, my son, weep not, but rest assured that our kind Heavenly Father will make all these things work together for our good.”

Jacques’s tears ceased gradually to flow, and his sobs were less violent, yet he raised not his head, but nestled still closer to the old man’s side. For a long, long time they remained in this position, in perfect silence; while without, the wind roared and beat with fury against the little chalet, thick clouds of snow darkened the air, and at last, suddenly the deep darkness of night shrouded them, although the old wooden clock in the corner of the chalet had only just struck three.

“Three o’clock,” said the old man, breaking the long silence. “God be thanked, François must by this time have reached the shelter of the pine-wood; else he would not be able to struggle against the terrific violence of this tempest. He must certainly be so far down at least, and this hurricane can now do him no harm. But his poor heart will be heavy for us, Jacques.”

The lad sighed, but replied not, while he prayed fervently for his struggling father. The violence of the storm increased from hour to hour, and its wild roaring, howling, and whistling made the heart of the boy tremble within him. The little window shook and rattled as the showers of snow and hail were whirled wildly against the panes.

Jacques and his grandfather had been so anxiously solicitous the entire day as to forget even hunger and thirst, until the bleating of the goat reminded them that a third living creature, helpless as themselves, was imprisoned in the little chalet.

“Poor Blanchette,” said the old man, “we have been so absorbed with our own cares, that we have entirely forgotten her: she is calling us to come and milk her. Light the lamp, my boy, so that we may find our way to the stall.”

As the light illumined the bare walls of the little kitchen, Jacques cast a hasty glance upon the face of his grandfather, and saw with comfort, and even pleasure, that it wore a look of quiet composure. As his eyes met his grandson’s anxious gaze, the old man smiled sweetly and fondly upon him, the light of which smile infused somewhat of the peace and tranquility of his soul into the desponding heart of the poor boy. At that very moment a fresh and still more vehement gust of wind forced its way under the planks of the roof, shaking them fearfully, until it seemed as though the roof must be carried away. Involuntarily the lad cast upward a look of anxiety.

“Don’t be alarmed, my child,” said his grandfather, as he observed the glance; “the roof and the little chalet have resisted many such storms: you forget that the planks are held firm by good, strong stays and heavy stones; then too, the roof is so flat that it affords very little hold to the wind: go on, Jacques, that we may milk poor Blanchette.”

As the goat saw them, she redoubled her bleatings, and seemed almost beside herself for joy, tugging at her rope as though she would break it to get at them. Jacques stroked her caressingly, giving her at the same time a handful of salt, which she licked greedily. She gave them a large bowl of milk, which the boy and his grandfather regarded with much satisfaction, for they had eaten nothing the entire day.

“We must take good care of Blanchette,” said the old man, as they returned to the kitchen; “we dare never neglect to feed or milk her, for our lives may depend, perhaps, upon hers.”

“You terrify me, grandfather: you surely do not fear that we will be compelled to remain here at the furthest more than a few days.”

“Who can tell?” replied his grandfather, “We may, perchance, tomorrow, or next day, be released from our imprisonment; yet it may be that weeks elapse before we see our home in the valley. It is well to be always prepared for the worst. You both see and hear, child, that the storm has not abated, but that the snow penetrates even into our place of refuge.”

They were seated beside the fire, which, although the chimney was narrow above, had several times been almost extinguished by the flakes of snow that fell whirling down. Drawing themselves into the remotest corner of the room, to avoid the cold draught of air which also descended, the poor captives sought to bear the discomforts of their painful situation with uncomplaining resignation. At length, the grandfather, laying his hand gently upon the lad’s head, said:

“Jacques, my child, I fear we can only keep ourselves warm by going to bed; the snow cannot penetrate our covering, and in our sleep the storm will not disturb us. Tomorrow we will try to keep these persistent guests at a greater distance, and prepare more comfortable quarters. Come, my boy, let us commend ourselves to the watchful care and protection of our heavenly Father; He is ever present, not only in the depths of the valley, but upon the mountain top; and although the snow were a hundred times deeper, his eye would still rest upon us: even in this dreary, isolated chalet shall his ‘right hand hold us; yea, the darkness hideth not from thee, O Lord, but the night shineth as the day; the darkness and the light are both alike to thee.’ He sees our folded hands, my child, he hears our sighs. Did not our blessed Lord, also, pass the midnight hours upon the mountain top, and think you he will not pity and care for us? We will not fear, but will lie down and rest beneath the shadow of his wings.”

Jacques kneeled beside his grandfather; and, strengthened and refreshed in spirit by waiting upon their God, they laid them down and slept in peace and safety, while without, the wind moaned and howled in its rage, and the snow chased in wild play around the little chalet.

CHAPTER IV.

UNDER THE SNOW.

T
HEN Jacques awakened the next morning, he wondered not a little to find it was still dark, although he felt confident that he had slept longer than usual; but hearing his grandfather moving about the room, he rubbed his eyes in astonishment, but without seeing any clearer for that.

“Grandfather,” called he, “are you up, and the day not dawned?”

“You are mistaken, my son,” answered the old man. “Did we wait until the morning light looks into our chalet, we would not rise at all. The sun, without doubt, has long ago risen; our window is entirely blocked up.”

“Is it possible?” cried Jacques, springing out of bed and lighting the lamp to convince himself of the truth of the statement. “I hope you are mistaken, grandfather; it is impossible that so much snow could have fallen in one night.”

“The window is not high, my lad,” said the old man; “and besides, it is probably that the wind had drifted the snow on this side of the chalet: should this prove the case, we need not be disturbed; it may not be more than two or three feet deep, except in this particular spot.”

“They will come today, to free us from our imprisonment,” said the boy; “father is certainly on his way by this time.”

“I hope so, but do not be too sure, Jacques; the disappointment in case they do not come will be the more bitter. Our wisest course would be to reckon up our resources, in case we are detained here any length of time. But listen; there cries our cuckoo: seven o’clock! How fortunate it was I wound the clock yesterday evening! We must never neglect it; should I forget it, be sure to remind me of it, my lad. But now let us see how deep the snow is before the window.”

At that moment the plaintive bleatings of Blanchette fell upon their ears.

“First, the poor goat; then, the snow. Jacques, she must be attended to.” While his grandfather was milking, the boy stood beside him watching him closely.

“You are right, my child,” said he, as he noticed it. “I would advise you to learn to milk, so that you may be able to fill my place, in case of necessity; my old limbs will scarcely bend to the task. Try, Jacques, and see what success you will meet with.”

The boy kneeled down beside the goat, making at first an awkward and unsuccessful attempt, Blanchette kicking and wincing meanwhile, and almost overturning the bowl; but after several trials it grew easier, and the goat stood quiet, giving, as she had done before, a large bowl of milk: Jacques carried it carefully to the kitchen, that not one drop of the precious liquid should be lost.

Making their breakfast of the fresh, sweet milk, they turned their attention again to the fallen snow. The old man opened the window a little, to see if they could measure from this point the depth of the snow bank, but the attempt led to no satisfactory results. Closing the window, they examined the opening of the chimney, to see whether they could not thus discover some way of procedure.

Looking up through the outlet, Jacques exclaimed: “I see the sky, grandfather!” At that moment the sun shone upon the snow that surrounded the opening, and they could easily judge the depth of the layer, as the chimney did not rise higher than the roof.

“How unfortunate that we have no ladder!” said the grandfather; “you might ascend, Jacques, and take a look around. If I remember aright, there must be a trap door, with which the chimney can be closed, which would protect us from the cold and wet; your father placed it there, years ago, I think when the chimney was out of repair. It would be a great convenience and protection for us, were we able to open and close it at pleasure. But I see no possibility of your climbing up to the top.”

“If the chimney were only a little narrower, I would need no ladder,” said the boy. “Can you not contrive some plan, grandfather?”

“We must try, my son, to light upon some expedient,” said the old man, reflectively. “Can you climb well, Jacques?”

“Certainly I can,” answered the boy; “my companions say I can climb better than any of them; but what good will that do us, grandfather?”

“I do not think we will need a ladder, my boy. I saw somewhere in the stable a long fir pole,” replied the old man. “If we could bring it here!”

“That is all I want, grandfather,” said Jacques with delight; “if the pole is only long enough to reach above the opening, we have won the game.”

They found the pole in the stable, as the old man had thought: it was not much thicker than one’s arm, but the bark was still on, and the rough surface made it much easier to climb. With some difficulty they carried it into the kitchen and placed it in the chimney: this accomplished, and the pole proving long enough for the desired purpose, Jacques set to work, tying a string around his body, to which was attached a shovel, so that he might draw it up after reaching the top: the lad managed so well with hands and feet, using the wall of the chimney as resting points, that the grandfather saw, with no little satisfaction, that Jacques had not without some foundation boasted of his dexterity in climbing. It was but a few moments before the top was reached. Drawing up the shovel, he cleared away an open space, so that he might have a firm foothold. And, stepping upon the roof, he took a view of the surroundings: the snow lay about the depth of three feet upon the roof of the chalet, but, as his grandfather had thought, the wind had drifted it into a heap around the little building, covering it almost entirely; but not only immediately around them lay the snow; an enormous mass must have fallen: as far as the eye of the boy could reach, everything was hidden under a glittering white mantle. The declivities far down to the fir woods which skirted the valley, the hills far and near, the plains, abysses, and gorges, all were enveloped in one widespread covering: nothing interrupted the monotony of this winter landscape, save the black trunks of the firs; some of the trees were almost crushed under their burden of snow, while large limbs had been rent away, and were protruding stiff and dark from the snowy mass.

A cold and bitter north wind was blowing; the sky was covered with dark clouds, which the wind chased rapidly away. Through the openings, bright gleams of sunshine glanced here and there upon the field of snow—the glittering streaks gliding with the swiftness of an arrow over mountain and valley.

Jacques enjoyed the view, and would, perhaps, have remained much longer, if the cold had not prevented: as he described to his grandfather what he saw, his teeth chattered with cold, so that the old man in alarm bade him to make haste and shovel the snow from the trap door, and from around the aperture of the chimney. “That will warm you up, my son: make haste.”

Jacques came to the conclusion that it was better to shovel than freeze, and resumed his work; it took some time, and soon the drops of sweat rolled down his face from the arduous labor; but at length it was accomplished, and a loud huzza made known to the grandfather his success. Jacques now passed the cord he had taken with him, through a pulley, so that when they would draw it from below, the trap would open, while its own weight would cause it to close. When they had tested this several times, and convinced themselves that all worked well, Jacques climbed again through the chimney, and descended with more ease than he had mounted.

His grandfather now observed that his clothes were saturated by the melted snow, which was a serious matter, as he had no others. Some precaution must be taken to protect him against the cold; so making a fire of brush and fir cones upon the hearth, and drawing shut the trap door, leaving only sufficient space for the smoke to escape, they seated themselves for the rest of the day beside the great fireplace, watching the flickering flames, and listening to the howling blast.

Their store of oil was so scanty that they did not dare to light the lamp, except for a few moments when they went to the stall to milk the goat.

Jacques found it a dull and sad life, and it appeared to him as though the day had no end: the hours would have passed more rapidly, and proved less wearisome, had he been employed; then, too, he was momentarily expecting the arrival of his father for their rescue; he was constantly in a state of painful agitation; at every sound, at the roaring of the wind, the crackling of a spark, he would spring up, and listen intently, almost persuading himself that he could distinguish approaching footsteps; several times during the day he ascended to the roof to look for the stalwart form of his father. In vain his grandfather sought to soothe this feverish restlessness; he asked repeatedly whether his father had not long since reached home; if he did not think he had called upon the neighbors for help. The poor old man, who, as ardently as his grandson, desired their rescue, could only reply that he hoped François had reached the valley in safety, and if so, he felt assured that he would not lose a moment, and would spare no exertion to come to their relief. “But the path, Jacques,” said he, “may be so completely blocked up with snow, that it will not be possible to reach us for some time. We must only be patient, and wait.”

But this suggestion brought no comfort to the restless lad. At last, his grandfather, rising, closed the chimney by the aid of the trap, so as to shut out the cold air; and after an earnest prayer for protection, and patience to endure the will of God without murmuring, and feeling assured that he would pity and care for them, for the sake of his only Son our Lord, who, when he was on earth, had no where to lay his head, he betook himself to his hard couch, and persuaded Jacques to follow his example. His grandfather heard the poor, agitated lad sob for a long time, until blessed sleep, at last, put an end to the hopes and bitter disappointments of the day, enfolding him lovingly under her soft, gentle wings.

On the following morning, as Jacques tried to open the trap, he found it stubbornly resisted all his efforts. Calling upon his grandfather for assistance, they at last succeeded, after considerable difficulty, in forcing it aside; they soon found out the cause: there had been another heavy storm during the night, and the boy found, when he clambered up, at least two feet of fresh snow. His grandfather, meanwhile, prepared to make a fire upon the hearth, and with some solicitude waited the descent of the lad.

“It is as I thought,” said he, with a sigh, as Jacques stated how matters stood. “The snow, which has drifted more and more will not melt again, my child, before the spring, and will, without doubt, prove an insurmountable barrier in the path of your father. We will have to accustom ourselves, I fear, to the thought of remaining buried in this snow-bound chalet for weeks, ay, for months! We must not flatter ourselves with delusive hopes, which, ‘long deferred, make the heart sick.’ Let us rather look upon the dark side, and pray God to grant us grace to say, as did our blessed Lord: ‘Not my will, but thine be done.’”

“Do you really mean, grandfather, that this day too will pass away without help from our friends?” questioned the troubled, desponding lad.

“Impossible, altogether impossible for them to reach us,” he replied, with decision; “yesterday I entertained only the slightest hope, and this morning I feel assured it is too late: the snow is at least two feet deeper, and must have drifted in such masses that no human strength could overcome the difficulties of the ascent; they could not accomplish it, my son. I will be thankful to God if only your father reached the valley in safety, Jacques. To count upon his help would be folly: though he should call upon all the villages around, all arms would be powerless to make a path for us.”

The boy listened to his grandfather with greater composure than could have been expected. Some moments he stood with bowed head and clasped hands, plunged in deep thought, while the tears coursed rapidly down his pale cheeks; then with sudden resolve summoning all his courage, he raised his head and wiped away the tears while he said, in a voice that gathered firmness as he proceeded:

“If human help fail us, grandfather, we can lean upon the almighty arm of our God; and here is my hand that I will not again grieve you with my childish impatience, as I did yesterday. I will stand firmly by your side, and not one more complaint shall cross my lips while we are imprisoned in the chalet; and may God help me to keep my resolve.”

“He will help you, my son,” said the old man, as he with emotion pressed the hand of the brave lad; “if you adhere to this determination, then, with the aid of our Heavenly Father, all will be well. We are not entirely without resources, and if we use them economically they will last until the spring, and our release comes.”

With such words, in this wise did the aged man infuse strength and courage into the drooping heart of his grandson. Several days elapsed without anything of importance taking place, except that the snow fell almost incessantly. Jacques, to relieve the monotony of their life, commenced, at his grandfather’s suggestion, a diary: he found a supply of paper, pens, and ink, which he had brought during the summer holidays upon a visit to his father, so as to pursue his tasks, and had forgotten to take them with him when he returned home, little thinking what a treasure they one day would prove. He wrote by the glow of the fire, and many an hour did he thus spend both pleasantly and profitably.

One day, as Jacques and his grandfather sat by the fire, the kind old man having given to the boy some examples in arithmetic to pass away the time—to save the little store of paper, Jacques had drawn some ashes from the hearth, and had strewed them in a thin layer upon its flat surface: this served him instead of a slate, while he marked the figures with a sharp-pointed stick. The lad had not been careful in spreading the ashes, and while both were engaged with an example, they suddenly felt an unusual degree of heat, and turning, they saw with affright that a bundle of straw which lay beside the ash pile had ignited, and was burning rapidly.

The venturous boy without a moment’s delay threw his arms around the straw, and endeavored in this manner to extinguish the flames: he was unable, however, to accomplish his purpose, and both hands were burned in his efforts.

His grandfather now hastily seized the burning mass, and, in spite of the danger and pain, carried it directly under the chimney.