Phil, the Fiddler, Jr. Horatio Alger [best novels to read .txt] 📗

It was the evening before Christmas. Until to-day the winter had been an open one, but about one o’clock in the afternoon the snow began to fall. The flakes came thicker and faster, and it soon became evident that an old-fashioned snowstorm had set in. By seven o’clock the snow lay a foot deep on the level, but in some places considerably deeper, for a brisk wind had piled it up in places.

In a handsome house, some rods back from the village street, lived Dr. Drayton, a physician, whose skill was so well appreciated that he had already, though still in the prime of life, accumulated a handsome competence.

He sat this evening in his library, in dressing-gown and slippers, his wife nearby engaged in some needlework.

“I hope you won’t be called out this evening, Joseph,” said Mrs. Drayton, as a gust of wind tattled the window panes.

“I echo that wish, my dear,” said the doctor, looking up from the last number of the Atlantic Monthly. “I find it much more comfortable here, reading Dr. Holmes’ last article.”

“The snow must be quite deep.”

“It is. I found my ride from the north village this afternoon bleak enough. You know how the wind sweeps across the road near the Pond schoolhouse. I believe there is to be a Christmas-eve celebration in the Town Hall this evening, is there not?”

“No; it has been postponed till to-morrow evening.”

“That will be better. The weather and walking will both be better. Shall we go, Mary?”

“If you wish it,” she said, hesitatingly.

Her husband understood her hesitation. Christmas day was a sad anniversary for them. Four years before, their only son, Walter, a boy of eight, had died just as the Christmas church bells were ringing out a summons to church. Since then the house had been a silent one, the quiet unbroken by childish noise and merriment. Much as the doctor and his wife were to each other, both felt the void which Walter’s death had created, and especially as the anniversary came around which called to mind their great loss.

“I think we had better go,” said the doctor; “though God has bereft us of our own child, it will be pleasant for us to watch the happy faces of others.”

“Perhaps you are right, Joseph.”

Half an hour passed. The doctor continued reading the Atlantic, while his wife, occupied with thoughts which the conversation had called up, kept on with her work.

Just then the bell was heard to ring.

“I hope it is not for you, Joseph,” said his wife, apprehensively.

“I am afraid it is,” said the doctor, with a look of resignation.

“I thought it would be too good luck for me to have the whole evening to myself.”

“I wish you were not a doctor,” said Mrs. Drayton.

“It is rather too late to change my profession, my dear,” said her husband, good-humoredly. “I shall be fifty next birthday. To be sure, Ellen Jones tells me that in her class at the Normal School there is a maiden lady of sixty-two, who has just begun to prepare herself for the profession of a teacher. I am not quite so old as that.”

Here the servant opened the door, ushering in a farm laborer.

“Good-evening, Abner,” said the doctor, recognizing him, as, indeed, he knew every face within half a dozen miles. “Anything amiss at home?”

“Mrs. Felton is took with spasms,” said Abner. “Can you come right over?”

“What have you done for her?”

“Put her feet in warm water, and put her to bed. Can you come right over?”

“Yes,” said the doctor, rising and exchanging his dressing-gown for a coat, and drawing on his boots. “I will go as soon as my horse is ready.”

Orders were sent out to put the horse to the sleigh. This was quickly done, and the doctor, fully accoutered, walked to the door.

“I shall be back as soon as I can, Mary,” he said.

“That won’t be very soon. It is a good two-miles’ ride.”

“I shan’t loiter on the way, you may be sure of that. Abner, I am ready.”

The snow was still falling, but not quite so fast as early in the afternoon. The wind, however, blew quite as hard, and the doctor found all his wrappings needful.

At intervals on the road he came to deep drifts of snow through which the horse had some difficulty in drawing the sleigh, but at length he arrived at the door of his patient. He found that the violence of her attack was over, and, satisfied of this, left a few simple directions, which he considered sufficient. Nature would do the rest.

“Now for home!” he said to himself. “I hope this will be my last professional call this evening. Mary will be impatient for my return.”

He gave the reins to his horse, who appeared to feel that he was bound homeward, and traveled with more alacrity than he had come.

He, too, no doubt shared the doctor’s hope that this was the last service required of him before the morrow.

Doctor Drayton had completed rather more than half his journey, when, looking to the right, his attention was drawn to a small, dark object, nearly covered with snow.

Instinctively he reined up his horse.

“Good heavens!” he exclaimed, “it must be a boy. God grant he is not frozen!”