Wall, the family wuz in a sufferin' state.The Town allowed 'em one dollar a week.But how wuz ten human beings to live on a dollar a week.The children worked every chance they got, but they couldn't earn enough to keep 'em in shoes, let alone other clothin' and vittles.And the old house wuz too cold for 'em to stay in durin' the cold weather, it wuz for Grandma Smedley, anyway, if the children could stand it she couldn't.And what wuz to be done.A cold winter wuz a cumin' on, and it wouldn't delay a minute because Jim Smedley had got shot, and his wife had follered him, into, let us hope, a happier huntin' ground than he had ever found in earthly forests.
Wall, I proposed to have a pound party for 'em.I said they might have it to our house if they wanted it, but if they thought they wanted it in a more central place (our house wuz quite a little to one side), why we could have it to the schoolhouse.
I proposed to Josiah the first one.He wuz a settin' by the fire relapsed into silence.It wuz a cold night outside, but the red curtains wuz down at our sitting-room winders, shettin' out the cold drizzlin' storm of hail and snow that wuz a deseendin' onto the earth.The fire burned up warm and bright, and we sot there in our comfortable home, with the teakettle singin' on the stove, and the tea-table set out cosy and cheerful, for Josiah had been away and I had waited supper for him.
As I sot there waitin' for the tea-kettle to bile (and when I say bile, I mean bile, I don't, mean simmer) the thought of the Smedleys would come in.The warm red curtains would keep the storm out, but they couldn't keep the thought of the children, and the feeble old grandmother out of the room.They come right in, through the curtains, and the firelight, and everything, and sot right down by me and hanted me.
And what curious creeters thoughts be, haint they? and oncertain, too.You may make all your plans to get away from 'em.You may shet up your doors and winders, and set with a veil on and an umbrell up - but good land! how easy they jest ontackle the doors and windows, with no sounds of ontacklin' and come right in by you.
First you know there they be right by the side of you, under your umbrell, under your veil, under your spectacles, a lookin' right down into your soul, and a hantin' you.
And then agin, when you expect to be hanted by 'em, lay out to, why, they'll jest stand off somewhere else, and don't come nigh you.Don't want to.Oncertain creeters, thoughts be, and curious, curious where they come from, and how.
Why, I got to thinkin' about it the other day, and I got lost, some like children settin' on a log over a creek a ridin'; there they be, and there the log is, but they don't seem to be there, they seem to be a floatin' down the water.
And there I wuz, a settin' in my rockin' chair, and I seemed to be a floatin' down deep water, very deep.A thinkin' and a wonderin'.
A thinkin' how all through the ages what secrets God had told to man when the time had come, and the reverent soul below was ready to hear the low words whispered to his soul, and a wonderin' what strange revelation God held now, ready to reveal when the soul below had fitted itself to hear, and comprehend it.
Ah! such mysteries as He will reveal to us if we will listen.If we wait for God's voice.If we did not heed so much the confusing clamor of the world's voices about us.Emulation, envy, anger, strife, jealousy; if we turned our heads away from these discords, and in the silence which is God's temple, listened, listened, --who knows the secrets He would make known to us?
Secrets of the day, secrets of the night, the sunshine, the lightning, the storm.The white glow of that wonderful light that is not like the glow of the sun or of the moon, but yet lighteth the world.That strange light that has a soul - that reads our thoughts, translates our wishes, overleaps distance, carrying our whispered words after holding our thoughts for ages, and then unfoldin' 'em at will.What other wondrous mysteries lie concealed, wrapped around by that soft pure flame, mysteries that shall lie hidden until some inspired eye shall be waiting, looking upward at the moment when God's hand shall draw back the shining veil for an instant, and let him read the glowing secret.
Secrets of language! shall some ****** power, some symbol be revealed, and the nations speak together?
Secrets of song! shall some serene, harmonious soul catch the note to celestial melodies?
Secrets of sight! shall the eyes too dim now, see the faces of the silent throngs that surround them, "the great cloud of witnesses"?
Secrets of the green pathways that lead up through the blue silent fields of space - shall we float from star to star?
Secrets of holiness! shall earthly faces wear the pure light of the immortals?
But oh! who shall be the happy soul that shall be listening when the time has fully come and He shall reveal His great secret? The happy soul listening so intently that it shall catch the low, clear whisper.
Listening, maybe, through the sweet twilight shadows for the wonderful secret, while the silver shallop of the moon is becalmed over the high northern mountains, as if a fleet of heavenly guests had floated down through the clear ocean waves of the sky to listen too - to hear the wonderful heavenly secret revealed to man - and a clear star looks out over the glowing rose of the western heavens, looking down like God's eye, searching his soul, searching if it be worthy of the great trust.
Maybe it will be in the fresh dawning of the day, that the great secret will grow bright and clear and luminous, as the dawning of the light.
Maybe it will be in the midst of the storm - a mighty voice borne along by the breath of the wind and the thunder, clamoring and demanding the hearer to listen.
Oh! if we were only good enough, only pure enough, what might not our rapt vision discern?
But we know not where or when the time shall be fully come, but who, who, shall be the happy soul that shall, at the time, be listening?
