  It was the first week in February before Captain Ezra thought it wise for him to cross the turbulent waters of the bay. It was indeed necessary for him to make the voyage then, as the oil had dropped to what he called “low tide mark,” and after that the faithful keeper of the light never delayed longer than necessary before refilling the tank. The wind had subsided and the sun came out, revealing the island white with drifts of snow, and, too, there was ice on the stairs leading down to the little wharf. The ever-thoughtful Muriel, upon hearing her grand-dad say that he must go down and get the dory out of the boathouse, skipped ahead with a kettle of boiling water, and, after thawing the ice, swept the steps dry that her grand-dad might not slip. The old man, coming out of the house just then, his fur cap drawn over his ears and his red knitted muffler tied about his neck, looked lovingly at the girl who always seemed to be planning something for his comfort or happiness. Why, just then, he should have thought of Muriel’s father whom he had “robbed,” as Barney put it, he could not have told. What that father had lost no one knew better than Captain Ezra. “Ho! Rilly gal, yo’ve swabbed the decks clean, I snum.” Then he added: “Fust mate, I cal’late yo’d better get under cover. It’s cold enough to freeze a volcano, ’pears like.” As he spoke, his breath frosted on the nipping air. The girl, rosy cheeked, was without hat or coat, and so, kissing her grand-dad on the tip of his nose (little else was visible) and telling him not to slip, and to be sure to bring her a pocketful of letters, she darted indoors. She felt radiantly happy that glorious morning, and if she had been familiar with the poems of Robert Browning she would have sung, “God’s in His Heaven; all’s right with the world!” But, instead, her wordless song reverberated through the small house until her tasks were finished; then, putting on her leggins, her crimson tam and sweater-coat, and taking a small bag of bread crumbs, she waded through the snow to the cliff to try to find her feathered friends. She called and waited, soon calling again. Then from out a sheltered cave in a cliff nearby they came, circling about her in the clear, crisp air, uttering their discordant cries, which, however, were music to the ears of the girl, who knew that they were notes of joy and welcome to the friend who fed them through the bitter cold months of winter when fish were scarce and hard to catch. Muriel did not toss the fragments of bread this time, for she knew if she did so they would sink into the soft depths of snow and be lost; and so she brushed a rock clear and placed the feast upon it. Down the birds swooped, unafraid. It was too cold to remain long out of doors, and moreover Muriel wished to have a nice hot dinner awaiting the coming of her grand-dad. An appetizing odor of coffee and sizzling bacon greeted the old man when, two hours later, he opened the door and entered the kitchen. The girl, flushed of cheek and eager-eyed, turned to greet him. “Any mail, Grand-dad?” Muriel’s heart was pounding fast when she asked the question. The old man laughed as he thrust his hand into the deep pocket of his leather coat. “Mrs. Sol said that if I hadn’t cruised to town today she was of nine minds to hire the lighter to fetch yer mail over. She was feared the floor of her store’d heave in with the weight of it,” he said. The girl’s excited laughter rang out. “Oh, Grand-dad,” she said, “why does your coat bulge so queer like? I cal’late you’ve fetched somethin’ hid under it.” She pounced upon him and drew forth the bulgy something, which proved to be a large square package. The wrappings were soon removed and there was the most wonderful book, “Treasure Island,” illustrated in the most beautiful blues and greens and gold. How Muriel loved color. “Gene sent it,” she said, as she lifted the card with its painted wreath of holly and mistletoe. But Muriel then had no time to look at the book, as letters were being produced from that great pocket. The girl gasped when she saw them and then she clapped her hands. “Grand-dad,” she exclaimed, unbelievingly, “are they all for me? I reckon Mis’ Sol did think ’twas a powerful lot o’ mail, bein’ as I never had more’n one and a card before at a time.” There were four letters from Gene, who had written one each week since he had left Windy Island. He knew his Storm Maiden could not write and so he did not expect answers. What he did not know was that the blizzard had prevented her receiving them as they arrived each week. There was another letter from Ireland and a Christmas card and a parcel from Uncle Lem. There were pretty hair ribbons in the parcel. “Christmas in February,” Muriel laughed; then added: “The blizzard sort o’ got the calendar mixed, didn’t it, Grand-dad?” Muriel took her new treasures up to her room and placed them on the top of her chest of drawers. She sighed as she looked at the letters and longed to know the messages they contained. It would take her until spring, she feared, to decipher them, as she would have to study them word by word with the aid of the Second Reader. |
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