The Great Hunger
THE GREAT HUNGER Book I Chapter I For sheer havoc, there is no gale like a good northwester, when it roars in, through the long winter evenings, driving the spindrift before it between the rocky walls of the fjord. It churns the water to a froth of rushing wave crests, while the boats along the beach are flung in somersaults up to the doors of the grey fisher huts, and solid old barn gangways are lifted and sent flying like unwieldy birds over the fields. "Mercy on us!" cry the maids, for it is milking-time, and they have to fight their way on hands and knees across the yard to the cowshed, dragging a lantern that WILL go out and a milk-pail that WON'T be held.
stand always ajar, as Mary said, and trouble comes gliding in that
all times, without so much as a knock to herald his coming. I must
shut and bar the door!"
"Shut it, and bar it, my friend!" answered Mrs. Bland. "And when
trouble knocks, say to her, that you are too busy with orderly and
useful things--too earnestly at work in discharging dutiful
obligations, in the larger sphere, which, by virtue of larger means,
is yours to work in--to have any leisure for her poor companionship,
and she will not tarry on your threshold. Throw to the winds such
light causes of unhappiness as were suffered to depress you this
morning, and they will be swept away like thistle down."
"Don't speak of them. My cheek burns at the remembrance," said Mrs.
Caldwell.
They now stood at Mrs. Caldwell's door.
"You will come in?"
"No. The morning has passed, and I must return home."
"When shall I see you?" Mrs. Caldwell grasped tightly her friends'
hand.
"In a day or two."
THE GREAT HUNGER Book I Chapter I For sheer havoc, there is no gale like a good northwester, when it roars in, through the long winter evenings, driving the spindrift before it between the rocky walls of the fjord. It churns the water to a froth of rushing wave crests, while the boats along the beach are flung in somersaults up to the doors of the grey fisher huts, and solid old barn gangways are lifted and sent flying like unwieldy birds over the fields. "Mercy on us!" cry the maids, for it is milking-time, and they have to fight their way on hands and knees across the yard to the cowshed, dragging a lantern that WILL go out and a milk-pail that WON'T be held.