The veriest
wretch alive feels a yearning for life, and few are so foolish as not to
prefer a dry skin to a wet one. Even Fessenden's knew enough to go in
when it rained,--if he only could. So, with the dismallest prospect
before him, he kept on, in the wind and rain of that bitter November
night.
And now the wind was rising to a tempest; and the rain was turning to
sleet; and November was fast becoming December. For this was the last
day of the month,--the close of the last day of autumn, as we divide the
seasons: autumn was flying in battle before the fierce onset of winter.
It was the close of the week also, being Saturday.
Saturday night! what a sentiment of thankfulness and repose is in the
word! Comfort is in it; and peace exhales from it like an aroma. Your
work is ended; it is the hour of rest; the sense of duty done sweetens
reflection, and weariness subsides into soothing content. Once more the
heart grows tenderly appreciative of the commonest blessings. That you
have a roof to shelter you, and a pillow for your head, and love and
light and supper, and something in store for Sunday,--that the raving
rain is excluded, and the wolfish wind howls in vain,--that those
dearest to you are gathered about your hearth, and all is well,--it is
enough; the full soul asks no wore.
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