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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