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Lowing
cattle sought the barn-yard for shelter, or huddled together under the
lee of some hay-stack, covered with snow. Night came, and still the snow
fell, and the wind blew in all its fury.
It was on that cold, stormy night that a bright light might have been
seen burning in the little house where Hanz Toodleburg lived. The storm
had shook its frame from early morning; and now the windows rattled,
discordant sounds were heard on the veranda, wind sighed through the
crevices, and fine snow rifted in under the door and through the
latch-hole, and tossed itself into little drifts on the floor. Nyack was
buried in a storm that night. There was an old clock on the
mantle-piece, and it kept on ticking, and its ticks could be heard above
the storm. And the bright oak fire in the great fireplace threw out
shadows that flitted over the great loom, and the wheels, and the
festoons of dried apples, and the pumpkins that hung from the beams
overhead. And old Deacon, the faithful watch-dog, lay coiled up on the
flag hearth-stone.


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