De drif log come with a rushin’ din,
An’ stove both ends of my ol’ boat in.
“Now, all together on the chorus!” And they all sang:
“It will neber do to gib it up so,
It will neber do to gib it up so,
It will neber do to gib it up so, Mr. Brown!
It will neber to do gib it up so!”
When they stopped singing, the storm seemed louder than ever. It was truly like a great beast worrying the house, shaking it, growling and snarling and whining and roaring at the trembling walls that stood against it.
After a moment Pa sang again, and the stately measures were suited to the thankfulness they were all feeling:
“Great is the Lord
And greatly to be prais-ed
In the city of our God,
In the mountain of His holiness.”
Then Ma began:
“When I can read my title clear
To mansions in the skies,
I’ll bid farewell to every fear
And wipe my weeping eyes.”
The storm raged outside, screaming and hammering at walls and window, but they were safely sheltered, and huddled in the warmth of the hay fire they went on singing.
It was past bedtime when the warmth died from the stove, and because they could not waste hay they crept from the dark, cold kitchen through the colder dark upstairs and to the beds.
Under the quilts, Laura and Mary silently said their prayers, and Mary whispered, “Laura.”
“What?” Laura whispered.
“Did you pray for them?”
“Yes,” Laura answered. “Do you think we ought to?”
“It isn’t like asking for anything for ourselves,” Mary replied. “I didn’t say anything about the wheat. I only said please to save their lives if it’s God’s will.”
“I think it ought to be,” Laura said. “They were doing their best. And Pa lived three days in that Christmas blizzard when we lived on Plum Creek.”
All the days of that blizzard nothing more was said about Cap Garland and the young Wilder brother. If they had found shelter they might live through the storm. If not, nothing could be done for them. It would do no good to talk.
The constant beating of the winds against the house, the roaring, shrieking, howling of the storm, made it hard even to think. It was possible only to wait for the storm to stop. All the time, while they ground wheat, twisted hay, kept the fire burning in the stove, and huddled over it to thaw their chapped, numb hands and their itching, burning, chilblained feet, and while they chewed and swallowed the coarse bread, they were all waiting until the storm stopped.
It did not stop during the third day or the third night. In the fourth morning it was still blowing fiercely.
“No sign of a letup,” Pa said when he came in from the stable. “This is the worst yet.”