A Little Hero

In the city of Hartford, Connecticut, lives the hero of the true history I am about to relate, but no longer “little,” as the perilous adventure, which made him for the time famous in his native town, happened several years ago.  Our hero was then a bright, active boy of fourteen years, the son of a mechanic.  In the severe winter of 18–, the father worked in a factory, about a mile and a half from his home; and every day the boy carried him his dinner, across a wide piece of meadow land.  One keen frosty day, he found the snow on this meadow nearly two feet deep, and no traces of the little foot-path remaining.  Yet he ran on as fast as possible, plunging through drifts, keeping himself warm by the most vigorous exercise, and brave cheerful thoughts. – When in the midst of the meadow, full half a mile from any house, he suddenly felt himself going down, down, down.  He had fallen in a well.  He sank down into the dark, icy water but arose immediately to the surface.  Then he grasped hold of a plank which had fallen into the well as he went down.  One end of this rested on the bottom of the well, while the other rose about four feet above the surface of the water.  The poor lad shouted for help until he was [hoarse] and almost speechless, but all in vain as it was impossible for him to make himself heard from such a depth, and at such a distance from any house.  So at last he concluded that if he was to be saved at all, he must save himself, and begin at once, as he was getting extremely cold in the water.  So he went to work.  First he drew himself up to the plank, and braced himself at the top of it and the wall of the well, which was built of brick, and had become quite smooth.  Then he pulled off his coat, and taking out his pocket-knife, cut off his boots, so that he might work to greater advantage.  Then with his feet against one side of the well, and his shoulder against the other he worked his way up, by the most fearful exertion, about half the distance to the top. – Here he was obliged to pause, take a breath and gather up his energies for the work yet before him.  Far harder was it than all he had gone through; for the side of the wall being from that point completely covered with ice, he must cut, with his knife, grasping-places for his fingers, slowly and carefully all the way up.  It was almost a hopeless attempt, but it was all that he could do.  And here the little hero lifted up his heart to God, and prayed fervently for help, fearing that he could never get out alone.  Doubtless the Lord heard his voice calling from the deeps, and pitied him.  He wrought no miracle to save him, but breathed into his heart a yet larger measure of calmness and courage, strengthening him to work out his own deliverance.

After this, the little hero cut his way upward inch by inch.  His wet stockings froze to the ice and kept his feet from slipping, but his shirt was quite worn from his shoulders ere he reached the top.  He did reach it at last, crawled out into the snow and lay down a moment to rest, panting out his breath in little white clouds on the clear, frosty air.  He had been two hours and a half in the well.  His cloths soon froze to his body but he no longer suffered with the cold, as, full of joy and thankfulness, he ran to the factory, where his good father was waiting and wondering.  The poor man was obliged to go without his dinner that day, but you may be sure he cared little about that, while listening with tears in his eyes to the thrilling story his son had to relate to him.  He must have been very proud of the boy that day, as he wrapped him in his own warm overcoat, and took him home to “mother.”    And how that mother must have wept and smiled over the lad, and kissed him, and thanked God for him! – {The Little Pilgrim.

– Published in The Burlington Weekly Hawk-Eye, Burlington, Iowa, Saturday, March 15, 1862, p. 3