The Republican

A MODERN ARK.
How the Bunn Family Moved Into
the Country

The Bunn family lived in a small house,
in a low and unhealthy quarter of New
Lowell. In a small house; and the family
was large, as poor families are apt to be.
Mr. Bunn, who was wonderfully good-na-
tured under all his trials, would facetious-
ly call the roll every night to make sure
that none of the children were missing
and sometimes he would purposely forget
two-year-old Baby Bunn, who would
shout indignantly from his mother's lap:
"I's here! I's here! why don't oo call Ditty
Bunn?" And then Mr. Bunn would say in
a puzzled voice: "Dicky Bunn—who is
he? O, yes, to be sure! Dicky Bunn is
the name of the last one, ain't it? Well.
then—Dicky Bunn!" and the baby would
answer with a pleased giggle "Here!"
Although the bill of fare was plain, and
the clothes well patched, the Bunn family
managed to extract a good deal of happi-
ness from life. When Mr. Bunn found a
good job and they had, in consequence, a
"hot supper"—which meant plenty of
beefsteak and vegetables all around, and
some red-cheeked apples, or a can of
peaches for dessert—and the fire burned
brightly, and the children were every one
well, life seemed actually overflowing with
blessings; and Mr. Bunn would whittle
kindlings for the morning fire, and Mrs.
Bunn would add another layer to the
patches, and neither thought of envying
the rich people in the grand houses of
Upper New Lowell.
But often the children were not well. In
fact there were so many of them that about
half the time the old lounge was the rest-
ing place for some ailing one; and the
doctor—whenever they could afford to call
one—would always say more or less about
the location being an unhealthy one. Their
drainage was bad, and they didn't have
enough sunlight, and they all ought to
sleep up-stairs, for a ground floor as damp
as theirs was a standing invitation to sick-
ness to come and stay the year round.
In the early days Mrs. Bunn had lived
in the country, and as her family increased,
the little house, and the still smaller yard,
formed a painful contrast to the roomy
farm-house, the big, wide-doored barn,
and the broad fields that she used to know.
and she often expressed a desire to move
into the country. But Mr. Bunn, born and
brought up in the city, was like a Lap-
lander in believing that no place could be
better than that in which he lived. For
forty years he had trotted up and down
this unlovely quarter, and the more shan-
ties that were built and the filthier the
streets and alleys became, the more he
seemed to enjoy his place of residence
"The Flats is growin' fast," he would
proudly remark. "It's gettin' to be down-
right lively here." The poor man! With
the exception of a rare glimpse of the
grand Park, or some rich man's fine
grounds, he knew of nothing better than
his low rooms and the struggling, home-
sick lilacs and tiger-lilies which Mrs.
Bunn tried to grow in the sloppy back
yard.
To have a long, "fat" job of hod-carry-
ing, and to know that the children were
not very sick, was all the happiness Mr.
Bunn could comprehend, and he always
laughed at Mrs. Bunn's absurd wish to
move into the country, where there could
be no chance to shoulder brick and mortar
up a fifty-foot ladder.
A desire for the country always smoul-
dered, however, in Mrs. Bunn's heart, and
she never gave up the hope that some time
they might live on a whole acre of ground,
and have three or four trees, and may be a
glimpse of a brook, like the one she used to
wade in when she was a girl. It was this
hope that sustained her through all these
years, and led her to toil bravely on, and
make the best of the cramped and dismal
home in "The Flats." They owned their
house that was one comfort—and had
none of that wretched breaking-up and
packing about from one rented place to
another, which they observed in their less
fortunate neighbors. I suspect that the
Bunns had great affection for even the
leaky kitchen roof, and the rickety pump,
because of the dear fact that they owned
them.
And yet, although these shabby premises
were their own, it seemed as if in this
spring of 1884 the house had never seemed
quite so small and quite so sickly. Both
Tom and Annie were down with low fevers.
Baby Bunn was crossly cutting some
double teeth, and a series of long, hard
rains had interfered with hod-carrying to
such an extent that Mr. Bunn, in a tattered
rubber coat, had taken to looking for jobs
of wood-sawing. Dismal, indeed, was the
outlook, and it required all the Bunn forti-
tude to eat suppers of corn-meal cakes and
black sirup contentedly, and to rise un-
complainingly to breakfasts of corn-meal
mush and sky-blue milk.
"If we lived in the country," began Mrs.
Bunn, and then checked herself. She was
in no mood to be laughed at. She went on
thinking, however, that if they lived in the
country on an acre of land, they could at
least have potatoes and turnips and fresh
eggs, an occasional chicken, and, perhaps
—oh! mercy of mercies—they might keep
a cow, by letting the children lead her
along the roads to crop the free pasturage
there.
Probably Mrs. Bunn was getting a little
feverish herself, for whenever she closed
her eyes she seemed to see fair green fields
and dancing brooks, and a white cow feed-
ing upon the hillsides, and happy children
gathering violets in the spring sunshine;
and she could hear the thrifty cackle of
ambitious hens, and the carol of robbins
on the tip-top branches of the budding
trees. She closed her eyes as often as her
work would permit, through this last
gloomy day in the Flats, and felt some-
what comforted and cheered by her strange
fancies.
A river runs by the Flats, separating that
locality very distinctly from the heights of
Upper Lowell. Every spring it rises and
runs away with its usual petty larcenies of
woodsheds, chicken coops and the like;
but in this spring of 1884 it meant more
than petty larceny, it meant a bold and
and defiant raid. Its gray, swirling waters
almost reached the high-arched bridges,
and its usual insinuating murmur was
turned to a menacing roar. But the Flat
people did not fear it; and even when it
crept up to their back yards and lapped
hungrily around their door-steps, it was
still but a new and refreshing excite-
ment—this big rise of the peaceful "Little
Wolf." The men and women living along
the banks looked after such small, loose
articles as were likely to be carried away.
and the children made rafts and paddled
about in the pools of back-water in great
glee. Some authorities rode over to the
Flats, and suggested that the houses along
the river had better be vacated, and the
families living there only laughed and
said they were not afraid; and every one
went to bed that night feeling entirely
safe, and thankful that the weather had
cleared and that there would be chances
for going to work on the morrow.
But "at midnight there was a cry." Mr.
and Mrs. Bunn did not hear it, for Annie
and Tom were sleeping soundly for the
first night in a week, and the father and
mother, tired out with vigils, were also
deep in slumber. They were all sleeping
up stairs as the doctor had advised—Tom
and Annie in their bunks near the window,
where a breath of fresh air could touch
their fevered faces, three small boys in the
trundle-bed, Nelly, the eldest girl, on a
lounge, and Baby Bunn, with his father
and mother.
The cry came from some of the houses
along the river, and there was only time
for the bewildered snatching of a little
clothing and a frenzied escape to higher
ground, every one, in those first wild mo-
ments, thinking but of himself and those
belonging to him. The Flats had not yet
achieved street lamps, and only the pale
glimmer of the stars lighted the terrible
scene.
The little Bunn house stood lowest of
any in the Flats, and the river had been
nosing about it for an hour or more before
it took its final grip. When it really set its
jaws together, Mr. and Mrs. Bunn were
awakened by the queer, straining creak
and jar, and they now heard the wild
shouts outside, the lap and swirl of the
waters about them, and knew, with freez-
ing hearts what it all meant.
With the instinct that makes all woman-
kind want to die decently, Mrs. Bunn
dashed into her gown which hung over the
foot of the bed, and even gave her hair a
swift twist. Then she caught up Dicky
Bunn, who gave a sleepy cry at such dis-
turbance, and she breathed the name of
Christ's mother, as she held him tightly to
her breast. Mr. Bunn—steering with
great presence of mind through the sea of
sleepy children—looked from the window.
Was there a torch-light procession? And
had all the stars joined in it? For the
lamps that were now flashing out from the
windows, and the bright stars above were
all moving in the same direction. No, it
was his own house that was moving—they
were afloat! Mr. Bunn staggered back to
the bed and drew on his trousers, and felt
about for his stockings, and said not a
word. Nellie, the oldest child, who had
awakened, sat up and called out: "O.
mother!" even as her mother had called
upon that other sacred name.
"Be brave, darlin', and don't wake the
other children! We're all goin' together,
anyhow."
"Maybe she'll hold together," said Mr.
Bunn, who always found the hopeful side
of things. "We'll light the lamp and see
where we are." And soon all the people
who were disinterested enough to be mere
sightseers, noticed a glimmer out on the
dark river—like the light of a will o' the
wisp—except that it was a little steadier;
a light that moved farther and farther
away and was finally lost to sight.
She did "hold together." Through all
those long hours of terror, the little house
—reeling and staggering at times, and
thumped and jammed by floating debris—
held together and in the early dawn sailed
along "all there," as Mr. Bunn expressed
it; and all the children, except Nelly,
slept peacefully, as if lulled into deeper
slumber by the rocking of their one com-
mon cradle. They appeared to be in the
middle of the river, for there was plenty of
sea-room, as Mr. Bunn said, but the shore
on either side, was shut out by a heavy
fog
If
we could only see the banks, it
wouldn't be quite so awful," moaned poor
Nellie, nervously shivering in spite of the
thick shawl in which she was wrapped.
"Darlin' be thankful we're spared so
far, and perhaps the dear Lord'll save us
even yet," said her mother. But it was in-
de ed "awful," moving on through this
mist with unknown dangers sighing and
murmuring all around.
As daylight advanced they seemed to
have floated into stiller waters; and pres-
ently there came a gentle shock as if the
house had touched bottom.
"Are we sinking, Dennie, dear?" asked
Mrs. Bunn, of her husband.
"Not a bit of it, jewel! We're on land,
that's where we are; and here's a tree be-
side us as big as a church-steeple—a tree
right side up, too—and we've come to a
stoppin' place, sure!" and Mr. Bunn, who
had been so cheerful and plucky through
all these hours, sat down on the bed and
buried his face in his red cotton handker-
chief.
"Ah, it will do you good, Dennie dear!"
said his wife, patting him on the shoulder,
and laughing and crying herself.
The Bunn family had indeed come to an
anchorage. Not only one but several trees
stood about them, and in between two or
these staunch supports the house had
drifted and was firmly held. The fog lifted
slowly, and by and by the faithful blue of
the sky smiled down upon them, and hilly
shores came into view, with glimpses of
cultivated fields and budding woodlands.
The Bunn family had moved into the
country at last!
As the cradle stopped rocking, the chil-
dren awoke, and clustered about the small
gable windows quite stupefied with wonder
at the strange scene around them.
Just at this moment there came ringing
over the waters a wild scream. Mr. Bunn
pushed the children aside and leaned out
of the window. Just emerging from the
lingering fog up river, floated a remnant
of a small country bridge, and clinging to
it was a little girl in a red cloak, who
again screamed with terror as the tossing
planks almost submerged her in the cur-
rent. Mr. Bunn had not grown up beside
a river without knowing how to swim. In
fact, Little Wolf—in some of its sequestered
nooks—had been his bath-room for many a
summer. His shoes and coat being already
off, he plunged down from the window and
struck out for the red cloak like a hero.
The current was bearing the fragment of
bridge straight toward him, but the planks
were separating and the child was about
to sink as he reached her. She made a
frantic clutch at his neck, but he held her
off with one hand and swam as best he
could back to the house, which seemed the
nearest landing-point.
Mrs. Bunn had, with practical prompt-
ness, tied two sheets together and let them
down from the window. Mr. Bunn, stead-
ing himself upon a floating timber, fastened
the sheet about the waist of the half
drowned child, and any number of hands
pulled her up and lifted her through the
window.
"Now I'm in the water," shouted Mr.
Bunn, "I may as well swim ashore and see
where we are. Keep up your spirits, my
jewels, there's the shore just a bit beyond
the house."
Mrs. Bunn leaned from the window until
she nearly fell overboard, then seeing that
he had reached wading depth, she turned
and gave all her attention to the little
dripping mite who sat on the floor in the
midst of the small Bunns, crying con-
vulsively. Mrs. Bunn took off her wet
clothes and wrapped her in blankets, warm
from the trundle bed, and soothed her with
many a pitying word. For awhile the
child could only sob and gasp in her
attempts to speak, but finally she made
known the fact that her poor little
lambs were down in the lower pasture,
and she had been out to see if they were
all safe, and her papa had told her not
to go on the bridge, and she had been
naughty and disobeyed him, and the bridge
broke up all in a minute—and—and—and
then the sobs burst forth afresh. She was
hardly dried and warmed and comfortable.
before voices were heard shoreward, and
soon a brisk hammering began in that di-
rection. Nelly also nearly went overboard,
and reported some men making a raft. She
failed to recognize her father among them,
because he had changed his wet clothes
for somebody's black trousers and an old
army overcoat.
"O, I can hear papa!" exclaimed the
blanketed girl, after she had listened a mo-
ment. "Papa, here I am!" she called at
at the top of her lungs.
"Yes, I am coming," came an answering
voice.
It was not long before the hastily built
raft was pushed out and brought beneath
the window. The man in the army coat
was then recognized and received with a
little shout. The father of the rescued
child looked up with eyes that were over-
flowing. "Give me Kitty and I'll take her
right home to her mother, who is nearly
crazy. Drop her right down," and he held
up his strong arms. "I've sent my man
back for the double team, and we'll soon
have you all up to our house."
"O, Papa, I'll never, never, never,
never disobey you again!" exclaimed
Kitty, as they bundled her through the
window.
"No, I am sure you never will," said her
father. Then Kitty was carefully dropped
into the upreaching arms, and the raft
pushed away.
"All be ready for the next boat!" called
out Mr. Bunn, cheerfully.
"Ah! I am so thankful," said Mrs. Bunn,
"to think that we're not only all safe, but
Pa has saved somebody else."
Then there was a great dressing and
brushing, and a great washing and polish-
ing of faces and hands; for plenty of
water could be dipped up with a pitcher
and the knotted sheets, and the family
were all in readiness when the raft arrived
under the window again.
But such a large family could not be
shipped all at once. Mrs. Bunn let Kitty
and Baby Bunn, and two other small boys,
go ashore first; then Annie and Tom, care-
fully wrapped in bed-blankets, were let
down for the next load: and finally Mrs.
Bunn, with the remaining small boy and a
bundle of clothing, took leave of the house.
They filled the farm-wagon quite full:
and the horses, impatient at the long wait-
ing, started off at a pace that made Baby
Bunn's cheeks shake like two bowls of
jelly, and turned the children's faces into
one broad smile. The sun now shone radi-
antly: there was a smell of young leaves
and early violets in the air; from the hill-
sides came the plaintive bleat of little
lambs; and, yes, there it was, the loud,
clear "trillium-trillium-tree" of the robin
from his topmost twig.
"How queer it is," thought Mrs. Bunn.
I seemed to see and hear all this yester
day."
At the farmhouse a great breakfast was
in waiting for them; and Kitty, who had
been kissed and cried over, and given some
very hot drinks by her mother, was lying
snugly tucked up in bed in a room opening
off the kitchen, and the door had been left
open, that she might enjoy the view of the
big table and the big family that were to
gather around it.
Such a breakfast! Even Annie and Tom
were able to relish the fresh-boiled eggs
and the delicious cream toast, while Mr.
Bunn and the little boys accepted every-
thing, from the broiled ham and cold baked
beans to griddle-cakes and doughnuts.
As for Mrs. Bunn, the dear old associa-
tions of early days so crowded upon her
she could hardly taste anything.
"This is the way people can live in the
country," she whispered to Nelly, and
shuddered when she thought of going back
to the Flats.
But Mrs. Bunn never went back to the
Flats. That afternoon she was seized with
a chill, and before night was in a high
fever, from which she lay ill in the best
bedroom of the Thompson farmhouse for
two weeks. Mr. Bunn and Nelly and Mrs
Thompson nursed her tenderly, and took
good care of Dicky, while the other chil-
dren lived at large in the fields, the big
barn and the large kitchen-garret, and
grew well and happy.
As soon as Mrs. Bunn became strong
enough to "take the air," she was lifted
into the easy single buggy, and Mr.
Thompson himself drove, because he could
not trust the horse to other hands than his
own, he said. He drove slowly along the
pleasant country way, now sweet and leafy
in its fresh May robes, and at the end of a
mile he stopped before a small house,
neatly painted in two shades of gray, and
shaded by two kingly elms. In the rear of
the house some men were building a new,
large kitchen, Mr. Thompson explained.
Down at the foot of the grassy slope ran
a sparkling, pebbled brook. The brook
crossed the road on which they were driv-
ing, and was spanned by a very new
bridge.
"It's a right pretty place," said Mrs.
Bunn, looking at the shady little porch and
up to the noble elms, and thinking how
heavenly it must be to live in such a place.
"Well, I'm glad you like the location,
because it's yours, you know," said Mr.
Thompson.
"Mine?" said Mrs. Bunn, her eyes grow-
ing large with astonishment. Were the
fever-dreams still buzzing in her head?
"Certainly, Mrs. Bunn! Don't you rec-
ognize your own house? All we did to it
was to haul it up here from the river and
give it a little paint and a little white-
wash, and so forth. Your man said you
was fond of trees, and so we set the house
by these elms. Your man's around there
a work on the kitchen now—it'll be finished
in a day or two—and there's three acres of
good grass-land and three of maple and
beech; and we've picked out a nice, gentle
cow for a present to your Nelly; and—
well, it's a small enough return for what
your man did for us when our Kitty was
carried off on the old bridge that used to
stand yonder," and Mr. Thompson drew
out his handkerchief and wiped his nose
with great vigor.
All—the land—the cow—ours? Poor
Mrs. Bunn could not believe her senses.
Yes, all yours, to have and to hold.
And I forgot to say that there's a first-rate
school just over the hill there, for your
youngsters. But you musn't talk much,
Mrs. Bunn, and you mustn't get flustered
just after a fever, so. We'll drive 'round
home now, and maybe you'll feel strong
enough to go into the house tomorrow and
look around."
Happiness is such a tonic that Mrs. Bunn
was indeed able the next day to look the
house over. And she discovered what Mr.
Thompson's "and so forth" meant. It
meant substantial new furniture for all the
rooms, pretty shades for the windows, a
big handsome new stove for the new
kitchen, and a whole pantry full of grocery
supplies and crockery.
"O, it's all too much—too much!" cried
Mrs. Bunn, sinking down into the new
rocking chair.
"O, no, no, indeed!" chorused Mr. and
Mrs. Thompson, who had been smilingly
watching her surprised and happy face.
"We value our Kitty's life at a great deal
more than this. Indeed we do!"—Emily
H. Leland, in N. Y. Independent.