ALL NIGHT IN THE SCHOOLHOUSE

It was very quiet one winter day in the little schoolhouse out on the prairie near the village of B .

The afternoon was wearing away, and thoughts of home and the warm supper awaiting them began to stir in the children’s thoughts, and many glances were turned to the clock which was busily ticking the minutes away.

Suddenly, without the least warning, a severe blast of wind struck the little schoolhouse and shook it to its foundations, while at the same moment a great darkness fell upon the world, as if the sun had been stricken out of the heavens.

“A blizzard!” came trembling from the lips of the older scholars, who well knew the enemy which had suddenly descended upon them.

Miss Grey, the teacher, left her seat and hurried to the window. Nothing was to be seen but snow. Not the soft, feathery flakes of eastern storms, but sharp ice-like particles that cut and stung when it beat against the flesh, like needles.

Here was a situation! Though new to the country, Miss Grey had been warned of the terrible storms which sometimes descended upon it, obliterating every landmark, and so blinding and bewildering one that even the sense of direction was lost, while the icy wind that came with it, seemed to freeze the very vitals, and left many lost and frozen in its path.

Though it was her first sight of the monster, she recognized it in a moment, and her instant thought was, “O God! what can I do with these children?” And a faintness, almost a feeling of despair, came over her. Then seeing that all order was at an end, and the children were huddled about her, some crying and all terrified, she pulled herself together, realizing that to avert a real panic she must arouse herself. She returned to her seat, and in as calm a voice as she could command, she ordered the children back to their seats, to give her time to consider what she could do.

“Please may I go home?” came anxiously from small lips of the younger children. Older ones knew well that one step beyond the door they would be lost, for years of experience with blizzards and the stern directions of parents never to venture out in one was thoroughly impressed on their minds.

“Wait till I think!” was the answer of the teacher to these requests; and for a few moments she did try to think, but all the time she knew in her heart that she should have to keep them all, and make them as comfortable as she could.

At length she spoke. “You know, children, that it will not be safe to go out in the storm. You could not find your way; you would be lost and perhaps perish in the snow. We must just be patient and make ourselves as comfortable as we can. You may put away your books,” for she saw that study or school work would be impossible in their state of excitement. With sudden inspiration she went on: “We will have a recess, and I will tell you a story, but first we must have some more wood. Harry, will you bring some?”

Harry Field was her oldest scholar and gave her the most trouble. He was in fact full-grown and seventeen years old. He did the work of a man on the farm all summer, but being anxious to get more of an education, he went to school in winter.

That was commendable, and Miss Grey was glad to help him; but though a man in size, he had not outgrown the boy in him, and he sometimes gave her a great deal of trouble by putting the younger ones up to mischief or teasing them past endurance.

With Harry, Miss Grey dreaded the most trouble, but real danger brought out his manly side and he at once ranged himself on her side to stand by her and help.

On her request, he went to the passageway where wood was kept and returned with a small armful and a white face. He whispered to Miss Grey: “This is the last stick!”

A new horror was thus added to the situation, but Miss Grey assumed a confidence she by no means felt. “Then we must burn up the wood-box,” she said calmly.

“I will split it up,” said Harry; “I know where the axe is kept.”

This was some relief. Permission was granted, and in a few minutes the vigorous blows of the axe were heard, and soon he returned with a glowing face and a big armful of wood. Miss Grey called for quiet and began to tell her story.

Never was story-telling so hard; she could not collect her thoughts; she could not think of a single thing that would interest that frightened crowd. The blizzard the horror of it the dread of what it might bring to these children under her charge then the terrors of hunger and cold, and panic of fear, which seemed impossible to prevent, almost deprived her of her reason. She felt a strong impulse to run away, to fling herself into the very thick of the storm and perish.

Then a glance at the intelligent and fearless face of Harry gave her new courage. “Harry,” she said, in a low tone, “you are the oldest here you must help me. Can’t you tell a story while I try to think?”

“I don’t know,” hesitated Harry.

“Do think!” she said earnestly; “these children will work themselves into a panic, and then how can we manage them!”

“Well perhaps I can,” said Harry, pleased to be her helper; then after a moment, “I guess I can; I’ll tell them about a bear I saw once in the woods.”

“Oh, do!” said Miss Grey, sinking back in her chair.

In a moment Harry began, and as the story was really a thrilling one and he told it with enthusiasm, the children quieted down and listened.

Meanwhile Miss Grey had somewhat recovered herself and made some definite plans for the rest of the day.

When the story ended with the sensational end of the bear, the details of which Harry enlarged upon till they became very exciting, Miss Grey was calm again.

Thanking Harry, she then proposed to tell a story herself, when a faint little voice spoke up, “Oh, I’m so hungry,” and was echoed by many more, “So ’m I.”

This was the most pressing trouble, as Miss Grey well knew. With Harry at the axe, they could be kept warm; but how to satisfy their hunger! She had a plan, however.

“Did any of you have any dinner left in your baskets?” she asked.

Two or three said that they had, when she ordered all baskets and pails to be brought to her.

Even when all were emptied there was a very meagre supply for a dozen hearty, country appetites, and her heart sank; but, telling those who had anything that of course what there was must be divided between all, she portioned it out as well as she could, leaving none for herself.

“But you have nothing yourself!” said Harry, who was distributing the small supply.

“Oh, I don’t want anything,” said Miss Grey.

“Nor I either,” said Harry; “I’ll give up my share.”

“You’d better not, Harry,” said Miss Grey, with a smile of thanks; “you are young.”

“Yes, and strong,” said Harry, adding his small portion to the others. “I guess I can stand it if you can.”

“Thank you, Harry; I don’t know what I should do without you.”

Then Miss Grey began her story, hoping to make the children forget their hunger. She took her cue from Harry’s bear story and added harrowing incidents and thrilling experiences, as many as she could think of, trying to remember some of the stories of adventure she had read.

When the children got tired and began to be restless, she brought out her next resource: she proposed a game, and in a few minutes the whole school was romping and shouting and enjoying the novelty of a real play in the schoolroom.

When at last they sat down warm and breathless, she began again. This time she sang them some songs; some that she remembered her mother singing to her in the nursery. But she found this a rather dangerous experiment, for the thought of that happy time contrasted with the anxieties of this, with a dozen frightened children on her hands, cut off from all the world, nearly overcame her. But she rallied again, and this time proposed a song that all could sing.

After that she told another story, making it as long and as stirring as she possibly could.

By this time it was quite dark so that the stove-door was left open to give a little light, and the younger ones began to cry quietly with sleepiness.

All the children were sent to the hall to bring their wraps, and then beginning with the smallest, they were all put to bed on the benches. These benches, fortunately, had backs, and by putting two of them face to face they made a bed, which, if hard and cheerless, would certainly keep them from falling out.

When the last one had been made as comfortable as could be done under the circumstances, Miss Grey sang several rather sleepy verses, and when long breathing announced the sleep of some, she sank back in her chair exhausted.

“I’ll keep the fire going, Miss Grey,” said her gallant helper, Harry. “You try to sleep, or at least to rest.”

“Indeed, Harry, I couldn’t sleep if I tried. You know about these storms how long do they usually last? Do you suppose some one will come for us?”

“Why, Miss Grey,” said Harry, “I suppose every man in the village is out now trying to get to us surely every man who has a child in school.”

“I suppose every mother is half crazy,” said Miss Grey.

“No doubt she is,” said Harry.

Now when all was quiet inside the room, Miss Grey had leisure to listen to the rage of the elements outside. How the savage wind roared and beat upon the lonely little building as if it would tear it to pieces and scatter its ruins over the pitiless prairie; how the icy storm beat against the staring great windows as if in its fury it would crash them in and bury them all. It was fearful, and Miss Grey, unused to storms of such violence, shuddered as she listened.

“Harry,” she whispered with white lips, “isn’t this the worst storm you ever knew? It seems as if it must blow the house down.”

“No,” said Harry, “I think they’re all about alike. I was caught out in one once.”

“Were you? Did you get lost?”

“Oh, yes indeed; my father was with me and we wandered around, it seemed for hours, till we saw a light and got to a farmhouse, miles away from where we thought we were. I was so stiff with cold I couldn’t walk. I was a kid then” he hastily added, “and my father had to carry me to the house. He froze his ears and his nose that time.”

“Well, this is the most awful storm I ever knew,” said Miss Grey. “I feel now as if I should run away from this place as soon as my term is up.”

“Don’t,” said Harry earnestly; “you’re the best teacher we ever had don’t go away!”

For some time not much was said between the two watchers. The children most of them slept.

“Harry,” said Miss Grey, after a while, “you didn’t answer my question of how long these storms usually last.”

Harry looked a little confused, for he had purposely not answered it, fearing to discourage her.

“Sometimes,” he said, hesitatingly, “it is over in a few hours, but sometimes,” he added more slowly, “one has lasted two or three days.”

“Oh!” cried Miss Grey in horror, “what can I do with the children! They’ll be hungry as bears when they wake!”

“Oh, they’ll surely find us as soon as morning comes,” said Harry. “I wish we could show a light now; they might be right on us and not see us.”

“That’s true but there’s no possible way of making one. We ought to have candles and matches, and I’ll see that we have if we ever get out of this,” she added, in a lower tone.

After what seemed interminable hours, daylight began to creep through the windows. It gave little hope, for the wind was strong as ever, and nothing could be seen but a world of whirling, rushing, blinding snow. And before it was fully light the children began to wake; soon they were all awake and most of them crying with hunger and fright.

Then the scenes of the afternoon were repeated. The worn-out teacher sang and told stories, and led in games till she was ready to drop with exhaustion.

About noon a shout startled them, and Harry rushed to the door; indeed all started for it in a mad rush, but Miss Grey ordered them back so sternly that they obeyed.

In a moment the room was full of men or were they some strange snow-monsters? clad in white from head to foot, and so disguised by the snow that no child could know his own father.

With joy and relief, Miss Grey almost fainted, while the men, after assuring themselves that all the children were safe, listened to Harry’s animated story of the terrible night, and then applauded Miss Grey for her heroic labors.

She did not look heroic now, for she had sunk back in her chair almost as white as the world outside the windows. When the weary men had rested a little and warmed themselves, the children were wrapped up in extra wraps the men had brought, and Miss Grey rallied and prepared to set out on her fight for life, through the still raging storm.

They had made some sort of a path through the drifts as they came, and though little signs of it were left, there was enough to guide these hardy men used to such storms. Every man took his child in his arms and all started out, Miss Grey under the care of her faithful Harry.

At first she clung to his arm, but the snow was everywhere; it filled her eyes and took away her breath, the wind blew her skirts and impeded her steps, and in her state of nervous exhaustion she was very soon overcome. A dull stupor came over her, and, letting go her hold on the arm of her protector, she sank down into the snow unconscious.

From that state she would never have roused but for the efforts of Harry. There was not a moment to lose; the rest of the party were almost out of sight, and to lose them would be to be without a guide in this wilderness of snow.

It was no time for ceremony. With a hasty “You must excuse me, then,” Harry took her light form up in his arms and trudged on as well as he could, striving only to keep the men in sight.

When, after efforts that tried his strength to its limits, he reached the farmhouse where Miss Grey boarded, he staggered up the steps, burst open the door, and almost fell on the floor with his unconscious burden.

The family rushed to his aid; took Miss Grey’s limp form, laid it on a lounge, and some set to work to restore her, while others helped Harry to free himself from snow and thaw himself out.

When, after some time, Miss Grey was fully recovered, and both she and Harry had eaten a very welcome breakfast, he rose to go to his own home not far away, she rose, too, and said earnestly:

“Harry, I don’t know what to say! I believe you have saved my life what can I say what can I ever do”

“Promise that you won’t give up the school and go away!” burst eagerly from Harry’s lips.

“Do you really care so much to have me stay?” she asked, somewhat surprised, for she had sometimes been obliged to assert her authority very sternly.

“Yes, I do!” he said, bluntly. “I I” he went on embarrassed, “I’ve been a donkey and given you trouble I’d like to kick myself but you’re a brick and I’ll behave myself if you’ll stay.”

“I will,” said Miss Grey cordially, “and I depend on you to be the help you were last night. I might never” here she broke down.

“You’ll see,” said Harry bluntly, as he opened the door to go.

She did. He was better than his word, for he seemed to have shaken off all his boyishness from that terrible day. He not only attended to his studies, but he became her aid and assistant on all occasions, and his example as well as his influence made the little school far different from what it had been. Before spring, Miss Grey had become so attached to her scholars and the little town that she had no wish to leave them. She, however, learned to see in time the coming of a storm and she provided herself with the means of getting help, so that she was never again made prisoner with a roomful of children by a blizzard.

“Mamma,” said Kristy, after a few moments’ silence, “why did you never tell me anything about that Bessie before?”

Mamma smiled. “I didn’t want to tell you everything at once; I wanted to save some till you were a little older.”

“I guess there’s another reason, too,” said Kristy, looking very wise; “I guess they are about some one I know.” Mamma smiled again, but said nothing for a moment till Kristy began again.

“Tell me another.”

“Well; let me see,” said Mrs. Crawford. “I don’t think of anything else interesting that happened to Bessie while she was in the city, and soon after the affair of the dead kitten she went home. But I remember another thing that happened about that time which I will tell you after lunch.”

“Oh, tell it now!” demanded Kristy, looking at the clock which pointed to ten minutes after twelve.

“Well; perhaps there is time,” said her mother.