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THE SOUTHERN WORLD, OCTOBER 15, 1882.
THE IilTTI.E JlOTlIEIt.
It was two weeks before Christmas, and
the big farm house on the Ban Joaquin,
usually so quiet, was all astir with hurry
and excitement.
Mr. and Mrs. Fernley were going to make
their annual visit to San Francisco; Mr.
Fernley said to see about the grain, Mrs.
Fernley said to buy their winter clothing,
but all the children knew that the big box
which papa and mamma always brought
back with them was invariably filled full
with Christmas presents.
When Almira was the only child, she was
always taken to the city with them; and
even after Johnnie and Kitty came, they
could not be left behind; out now there
were six of them, and Mrs. Fernley could
not think of taking any but the baby with
her. She had tried hard to get a woman to
come and take care of them, but all the ser
vants about there were Chinamen, and no one
of those would she trust.
“ I’d a deal rather leave my little Mira to
take care of the rest,” she said, “she is such
a little woman in her ways, and knows how
to do for them as well, almost, as I do.”
Almira was only twelve, but she had not
been the eldest for nothing, and she was
much more careful and thoughtful, than
most children at that age; site was tall and
strong, with round, rosy cheeks, and spark
ling black eyes.
Mrs. Fernley did a great deal of cooking
before she went, and arranged everything
the very best that she could, so that Almira
would have no trouble.
But when the morning came on which she
was to set out for the city, her mother's heart
began to fail, and she kissed her womanly
little daughter a hundred times, promising
her many pretty things for her faithful
ness.
“ Be a little mother to them all, pet,” she
said, "ltemember mother trusts you. Be
careful of the lights and fires, and don’t let
Josic stray out into the wet."
Almira promised everything, and felt no
fear os to her ability to manage at least as
well os her mother; especially as all the
children, even troublesome little Tommy,
aged six, had promised to mind everything
she said.
It was Monday morning when they started,
and they promised to be back on Friday
night at the latest.
“I’ll be sure and have a nice Are burning,
and some good supper," said Almira, laugh
ing, "and I guess you'll be glad to get back,
'specially if it rains. Qood by.
" Good-by I Qood by! ’ shouted the chil
dren, and amid a perfect chorus of “Good
byes” the stage drove off.
The first day everything went as well as
possible; the children were good, and hap
py ; and the little mother got their dinner
and supper, and put them to bed as cosily
as their own mother could have done.
On Tuesday morning they woke up to find
the rain pouring down as if it never meant
to cease.
"Oh, dear!” said Almira, “I thought it
rained enough last week. Well, it's no good
getting up early; mamma said we needn’t,
and besides, it’s awful cold.”
When they did get up, It was very late
and, aa they sat down to their breakfast in
the big, dim kitchen, they could not help
feeling that home was not home unless
mother was there.
Johnnie put on his father’s big rubber coat
and went out and fed the poultry and the
good old horse and cow. “Jingoes!” he ex
claimed, as he came in,dripping and shiver
ing. “Don’t I wish father would hurry
home, though I”
Almira did not feel very industrious that
morning, but she remembered her mother’s
parting charge, and so washed up the dishes,
dressed little Josie, tidied up the kitchen,
accommodated a “difference between Kitty
and Tommy, and annother between Johnnie
and Tommy, and did her best to make
things pleasant.
They popped corn all the forenoon, and
made molasses candy all the afternoon, and
retired to bed very early, at the suggestion
of the little mother, who felt decidedly
tired.
Almira woke up many times in the night,
but always heard the rain, pouring, pouring
down on to the stout old roof, and she cud
dled up closer to little Josie, and felt glad to
think that the old roof was so stout and
good; and wondered if any poor creatures
were out in the rain ; and felt sorry for them
in her tender little heart.
On Wednesday there was no change, nor
on Thursday; day and night the dreary,
weary rain poured down.
“ This is the last night,” thought the lit
tle mother as she went to bed; she had never
known before how earnestly she could long
for the sight of per mother’s and father’s
faces.
“This is the last night, Josie,” she whis
pered, sleeping soundly on the pillow.
mother, holding the little questioner closer
to her heart.
“ Is the river in the house ?” said the
child. “Will we all be drowned in the
house, mamma?!’
“ No, no; not unless God wills it so;" said
she, shuddering as she spoke, perhaps, at the
strange noises down-stairs, as the water crept
in everywhere, and set everything to float
ing.
By-and-by the father held his lantern over
the stair, and shrank back amazed and
frightened. Then he and the mother began
to pile tables and heavy pieces of furniture
by the windows, and he taking one child
and she the other, they climbed on them and
looked out on the desolate waste of water
which was spread before them.
It had stopped raining, that was the only
comfort; the room was full of water, now,
and from the top of the table where they sat
one little child dabbled its hand in it, and
asked again: “Is the river in the house,
mamma? Will we all be drowned ?”
Then, after a long time—a fearfully long
time it seemed to them, for the water was
nearly up to the windowsills — they saw
lights, and heard shouting in the distance,
and after a while a boat came up, and they
were saved.
The boat took them to a farm-house four
miles further away from the devouring
river, and situated on higher land. In it
they found many men, women and children,
their neighbors, who had been saved by the
same brave men and stout boat which had
saved them. Down-stairs, in the “best room”
(they did not let the children look in,) there
were two, a woman and a little child, whom
they could not save. They had found them
floating in their garden, stiff and cold.
“Where are you going now?” asked the
SHADOWS ON THE WALL.
“ Hush 1” she called out to Johnnie and
Tommy, who were having another “ differ
ence” in the next room. “Don’t, boys; this
is the last night. To-morrow they will be
home."
“Ain’t I glad though I” said Kitty, sleep
ily.
“Ain’t //” said Almira, with a deep sigh.
She began to realize that being “mother"
was too heavy a load for her little shoulders.
“Dear, dear I” she thought, os she listened
to the rain, “ I should think the very sky
must be emptied by this time. It can't rain
for ever, that’s one comfort.”
And, still listening to the familiar sound,
she crept into bed, her last thought being:
“ This is the last night.”
Meanwhile, in another farmhouse, three
or four miles away, no one closed an eye in
sleep that stormy night, for the river was
rising, and the father and mother, who had
been through one Hood already, knew what
a devouring monster of death and destruc
tion the broad, placid San Joaquin could be.
By-and-by they saw a strange, shining
something in the garden, which they had
never seen there before, and the father and
mother looked in each other’s faces and
steeled their strong hearts to be brave.
Closer and closer it crept up to the door-step,
under the door, and over the floors of the
lower story.
One of the little children looked down
the stairs, and cried:
“Oh, mamma, the chairs are all floating
round the room down-stairs I”
And another little child said:
“ What lathe matter, mamma? Why don’t
we go to-bed?”
“ Hush, dear, hush 1” said the white-faced
wife of one of the men who had charge of
the boat.
“Down by Brown’s, and over by Fern-
ley’s,” answered the man, buttoning his
great coat around him. “ We would have
gone to Fernley’s afore, but we thought that
all the folks had gone to the city ; but now
Leslie tells me that they only took the
youngest child with them. I’m most afraid
wer’re too late.”
There were four of the Browns, watching,
shivering, and waiting for succor; but when
they were told that the Fernley children had
not been brought oiT yet, Mr. Brown offered
to stay and take his chances of being saved
on the next trip.
"If Mary and the children only get to
a safe place," he said, “ I can stand it a
while longer.”
Then, just as the first gray dawn began to
appear in the east, they started for the
Fernley’s.
“I’m afraid you’re too late,” said Mrs.
Brown, clasping her little boy’s hand closer
in her own; “they’re shocking near the
river, and then how do children know what
to do? It was tempting Providence, I can’t
but think, for Mrs. Fernley to go off* that
way and leave them little things. Like as
not we'll And them dead in their beds.”
“Well, well, we’ll see," said the man,
rowing steadily. “ Fernley’s oldest girl’s got
a heap of sense.”
“ Yes," said Mrs. Brown; “but Almira is
only twelve. How can a child of twelve
know what to do ?"
I wish we had gone there first,” said he.
“We would, if we’d only known the chil
dren was there.”
Then nothing moro was said, but the boat
went swiftly and steadily on across the mud
dy water.
When Almira first fell asleep that night,
with her arms around warm little Josie, she
had slept very soundly ; but, after an hour
or two, she awoke, and somehow she could
not go to sleep again. She thought of and
worried about a hundred things which she
would not have thought of in the day time.
Perhaps the hotel had taken fire, and mam
ma and papa and Willie wcreall burned ; or
the train would meet with some accident and
they would all be killed. Then she fancied
that she heard a strange noise below, and
thought that perhaps some robber had broken
in, or perhaps the fire was not out in the
kitchen stove, as she had thought, and the
big kitchen might be on fire.
This idea took such possession of her
mind that she got up at last, and, slipping
on her shoes, went down stairs to see if all
was safe.
"I must,” she thought to herself, “for
mamma trusted everything to me.”
She had not gone more than half-way
down stairs, when “splash I” went her foot
in the water. She went down another step,
and another, but the water was up to her
knees, and with a heart oppressed with a
weight she had never known before, she
went slowly back up stairs.
Before waking the rest, the little woman
stopped to think what the danger was and
what she could do. Johnnie was ten, but
Almira knew by instinct, that it was for her
to plan and manage, and save them if it was
possible.
She knew what the danger was. Two or
three times in the last few days a dim fear
had crept through her mind, “What if the
river should rise?”
She had heard her mother tell of a flood,
too, many years before, when she was a tod
dling child and Kitty was a baby: and she
was sure if they could get into a safe place
that somebody would come sooner or later
to their relief.
She wrung her little hands. Where would
the safe place be ?
“Perhaps,” she tlionght, “the water will
neverget upstairs.” But she remembered that
in the flood that she had heard her mother
tell of, the water had gone upstairs, and
they had been obliged to climb to the roof
of the house.
“But we can never do that,” she thought,
unlesss papa was at home to help us up.”
Then she went in woke up Johnnie and
Tommy, bidding them dress themselves as
quickly as they could.
"What for?” said Tommy sleepily. “It’s
dark yet.”
“The house is all full of water,” said poor
Almira, with a sob that she could not choke
down, “and we've got to get up somewhere
until somebody comes to help us.”
Tommy began to cry. “I want mamma,”
he said.
But Johnnie was more manly.
“Where will we go, Mira?” he said. “You
wake up Kitty, and dress Josie, and I’ll
dress Tommy. Hush, Tommy; crying won’t
do no good; we’ve got to help ourselves, I
tell you.”
By the time they all had their clothes on,
the ever-encroaching water had reachtd the
top of the stair, and was dabbling about in
the entry way.
“I know where we can go,” said Almira,
as the five children stood together, looking
into each other’s white faces ; we can climb
on the balcony.”
The balcony was a very little one, built
over the hall window, and had never been
considered by Mr. and Mrs. Fernley as either
useful or ornamental, though.it proved to be
of more use than all their possessions on that
terrible night.
They wrapped blankets around the two
youngest, and, with '.nflnite pains and diffi
culty, reached their frail refuge.
They clung to each other for warmth and
courage, and from each childish heart there
went up to God such prayers as rarely pass
unheard or ungranted.
Great black things, such as logs and sheds,
curnc bumping up in the darkness, filling
them with terror lest the rotten supports of
the balcony should give way and land them
in the seething water below.
At last dawn appeared ; they felt that
they were safer already ; and then the boat
came, and they were saved.
Little Kitty was helped in first, then Jo
sie, then Tommy.
“Come Mira,” said Johnnie; but the little
mother held back.
“I’d rather go last,” she said.
The man helped Johnnie in, and then
looked anxiously arouud.
"We’ve got un awful load already," he
said. "Somebody will have to wait till the