To some spot
sheltered from the blast they may perhaps have stumbled, and they pause
to take breath. After the turmoil through which they have been
struggling, this sheltered spot seems a quiet little back-water, out of
the raging torrent, peaceful, even warm, by comparison. A little
rest--even, it may be, a few minutes' sleep--will revive them, and
afterwards they will push on, refreshed. All will be well; it is not far
to safety. And the snow falls quietly, ceaselessly, softly lapping them
in its gentle folds, and the roar of the wind comes now from very far
away--their last lullaby, heard vaguely through "death's twilight dim."
The desire to sleep, men say, is irresistible, and once yielded to,
sleep's twin brother, death, is very near at hand. There was found many
years ago in the Border hills the body of a man, who had taken off his
plaid, folded it carefully to make a pillow, on it had rested his head,
and so had passed to his long rest, contented enough, if one might judge
from the smile on his face.
But men do not always thus loose consciousness when buried in the snow.
There was the case of Mr. Alexander Laidlaw of Bowerhope, on St. Mary's
Loch, in the year 1842. One wild day of storm and deep-lying snow he
started out to see after the safety of his sheep.
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