IT WAS the close of a warm day in the latter part of August, and little Franz Hoffmeister was playing in the cottage door with his baby sister Karine, whilst his elder sister, Therese, was busy clearing away the evening meal, and the elder brother, Robert, was carving some curious wooden spoons, knives and forks, to sell to the travelers that his father might guide over the mountains; for you must know that these four children lived in a little Swiss chalet or cottage at the foot of some famous mountains. The mother of these Swiss children had died more than a year ago, and as they were very poor, Therese—who was only twelve years old —had since been housekeeper.
Now, when I have told you that the father had gone to guide some travelers over these mountains, and would not be back until next day, I think you will feel well acquainted with this pleasant little family and like to hear more about them. It was sunset, and Franz, quite tired of his play, leaned his head against Therese’s knee, and fixed his gentle blue eyes upon the mountain tops.
“Let us go in,” said Robert, “I am getting sleepy and tired.”
“And I,” said Franz, rubbing his misty blue eyes.
Karine was already sleeping, with her fat hand under her-rosy cheek, and in a short time the cottage door was bolted and the children were snug in bed. Therese had not slept long, when she was awakened by a sudden shock, as though something had struck the little chalet and made it tremble all over. “What is that?” murmured little Franz.
“Is it morning already?” sighed poor tired Robert.
But Therese did not know what it was, and tired with her day’s work, soon forgot her fright and fell asleep.
Several times Therese awoke, wondering when day would break, and a cry from Franz broke the stillness. “Dear Therese,” said the boy, “when will it be morning?”
Robert was aroused also, and said, “I mean to get up.”
They were soon joined by little Karine, who, waking up, cried loudly for her breakfast.
“Ah!” sighed Therese, “if only we had a light!” but they could not find any, for their father kept the matches in a ‘little cupboard, and had locked it, taking the key with him. So she searched until at last she found some milk for Karine and some black bread which she gave to her brothers. Then, as they could no, longer sleep, they dressed as well as they could in the dark.
“I will go out,” said Robert. So he took down the heavy bar, when to his surprise the door flew open, and he found himself upon the floor, half buried in some cold substance.
“Oh! Therese! Franz!” cried Robert, “come and help me.”
“What can it be? why this is snow!” exclaimed little Franz.
For a few minutes there was profound silence, at last the truth dawned upon them—they were buried beneath an avalanche. A small one had fallen in the night when they heard the noise, and falling lightly had not even broken the roof.
“What can we do?” said Therese. “Will father dig us out?” said Franz. “I’m afraid he cannot find us.”
“Well, Therese, we must die down here in the dark if father does not find us.”
“Oh, if I could only see your face, Therese,” said Franz.
Karine was crying piteously; she did not understand the dark, and wondered what was the matter.
The hours wore on, little Karine grew too exhausted to cry, the stillness was at last broken by Robert, who, throwing himself upon his bed, sobbed out: “O Therese, I cannot, I cannot die!”
Hark! what was that noise? Another heavy thud on the roof, and at last the beautiful sunshine came streaming through. “Little Franz Hoffmeister, are you there?” cried someone. Franz was too feeble to speak, but Robert shouted: “Yes! yes! we are all here!” and in a few moments the neighbors carried the half-famished children into the open air, where the father, who had dropped down with fatigue, awaited them with great anxiety. Deliverance had come at last, come from above, apart from their own efforts altogether. Left to themselves they must have perished, but now they stood upon the green grass SAVED.
How much was the position of those dear children like that of my young readers, left to yourselves you must perish; the avalanche of judgment rested upon us, and deliverance must come from above. Therese and her brothers could not save themselves, neither can you, my readers. Had they tried to do so, it would only have increased the danger of their position; they were altogether dependent on the strong arms and loving hearts of the neighbors.
Have you, my reader, ever thought of the peril to which you are exposed? Think of the priceless worth of your soul and of that eternity which you must spend, either in the glory with Jesus or in the gloomy caverns of the damned. Are you seeking by good resolutions, prayers and good works to gain heaven? Cease your striving! it is worse than vain; for you sink deeper and deeper into the morass of sin. List to the story of redeeming love: “When we were yet without strength, in due time
Christ died for the ungodly.”
Deliverance has come from above, and the one who trusts the blessed Lord Jesus Christ as his or her Saviour is eternally SAVED. With what bursting hearts must those dear children have looked upon their deliverers; do you think they ever forgot the expression of their love? Never! And you, my reader, has your heart ever responded to the love of the Lord Jesus? It cost little to deliver those children from an untimely death; but oh! think at what infinite cost the Lord Jesus became Deliverer—the deep eternal love that must have been the spring of such a sacrifice. Will you not at this moment accept this Saviour? His heart yearns over you, and He longs that you may find rest in Him.
“Thousands have fled to His spear-pierced side,
Welcome they all have been, none were denied,
Weary and laden they all have been blessed,
Joyfully now in the Saviour they rest.”
ML 07/31/1904