WIDE MEADOWS; WINTER VISITOR: A STRANGER ARRIVES DURING A SNOWSTORM (A CONTINUING SERIES)

On a cold winter night when snow lay drifted in knee-deep banks and sleet rattled bleakly against the windowpanes, there came a sudden knock at our door.

It was not a timid, hesitant, halfhearted knock, which, half waking, one would think was only the loose shutter or the maple limb that rubbed against the house, but a bold, decisive, imperative knocking, one that brought the family bolt upright in bed with no intermediate stage between sleep and wakefulness.

We weren't scared. My, no. We all had separate plans and devices to foil a criminal should ever one have the nerve or misfortune to stumble onto our premises. Sometimes, when we read in the Farmington News about burglars and thieves in faraway places, we -- at least Lou and I -- secretly wished one would come along so we could test some of our plans. There were five hounds dogs and one shepherd to sick on the culprit, cans of Merry Way lye on the pantry shelves to open and toss about, a big, quilt-sized minnow seine in the smokehouse to entangle him, the loose shutter upstairs to throw down, and somewhere, though heavens knew where, a rusty old gun.

No, we weren't scared by the sudden knocking, way past midnight. Just curious. Whoever would be caught out a night like this? And here, so far away from anyplace? Even our nearest neighbor we hadn't seen for a month, and probably wouldn't until this current snow disappeared that had us so thoroughly bound in. The only sign of outward human life we had seen recently had been the smoke from the train that ran through the valley.

Out of the bedrooms and down the stairs we poured, Grandpa and Dad pulling on their moleskins over long underwear, Mom and Grandma getting into robes, and we girls holding up long flannelette nightgowns.

"Now it's the front door," Grandpa said, in an organization voice, holding aloft the lamp and halting us at the foot of the stairs while we arranged ourselves in a semblance of order as we were always prone to do in situations that demanded a united front. Grandpa and Dad were first, with Grandma and Mom close behind, and Lillian, Lou and I came trailing out singly like the knotted tail of a kite.

Bringing up the rear as I did, I didn't always get a good look at what was going on up front, but I could hear, and when things sounded all right it was my privilege, as the last knot on the kite string, to whip around quickly from side to side and observe.

Having heard Grandpa open the front door and greet the stranger with no accompanying dull, sickening thuds on the head, I peeped around from behind the array of voluminous nightgowns and robes and saw the handsome stranger. He was clad in a black Chesterfield coat like our Uncle Hayden had. In one hand, having just removed it, was a gray felt hat. In the other he carried a black valise. The snow, blowing through the open doorway, was catching and holding on his silver-trimmed black hair. The lamplight caught the fine sparkle in his dark eyes and glistened on his white, chattering teeth.

"Kind people," he addressed the assemblage with a low bow, "it has been my misfortune to become lost in this monstrous snowstorm. It is with the deepest regret that I have called you from your warm beds to the door. Had I been able to find shelter of the humblest sort, I would not have thought of disturbing you, and even would have continued to brave the elements had I not feared the circulation in my hands and feet were slowing to a stop."

"He's freezing to death," Grandma quickly translated. "Come in and shut the door," she commanded, bustling around, tying an apron on over her robe. "Steve, stir up the five. Put the coffee on, someone."

"Oh, pray, make no trouble for me," the stranger said, lifting a blue-cold staying hand. "Just let me sit here inside the door until morning. I shall be quiet, so as not to disturb your sleep further. When it is dawn, I shall depart and be forever grateful."

"Where you from?" Grandpa asked, opening the top of the chunk stove and stirring up the coals.

"Fortunate it is that I am to stumble in this Stygian blackness onto such hospitable people," the stranger went on. "I tell you, the likes of you are seldom seen these days. Madam," he turned to Grandma, "a drink of warm water would be sufficient."

"Warm water, pshaw," Grandma snorted

"Where you bound for? "Dad asked, pulling a chair up to the stove for the stranger.

"I was just saying to myself," the man continued, "if I do not find shelter in the next half hour, I shall just lie down in a snowbank and let come what may. It would not be such a bad way out of life's furnace of living. And I was counting off the seconds when your blessed door loomed up in front of me. Won't you little girls return to your beds?" He flashed his fullest smile on the three of us, sitting on the edge of the divan, and quite melted our hearts.

"Give him our bed," Lou blurted out in a fit of compassion.

"Oh, no, no, no," he protested. "Just here on the floor by the stove will be like a king's bedchamber to me."

"Pshaw," Grandma reiterated from the closet, bringing out the white wool blanket, the flower-garden quilt, the embroidered pillowcases, and the company sheets we kept stored in lavender. A bed was made on the divan, and after our guest had drunk three or four cups of steaming coffee, the family retired to their cold rooms, leaving the stranger to the warmth of the living room and the lavender-scented bed.

Next week: Who is the winter visitor?