This fall, after a summer of hard work, he fell sick, and was unable to keep his fires going, so, when the snow of December, 1874, fell, and the drifts had shut off communication with the village at the foot of the mountain, John and his wife were in great straits. Their entire stock of food consisted of only a few pounds of salt pork and a bushel of potatoes. Sugar, flour, coffee, and tea had, early in December, given out, and the chances for replenishing the larder were slim indeed. The snowstorms came again, and the drifts deepened. All the roads, even in the valley, were impassable, and no one thought of trying to open the mountain highways, which even in summer were only occasionally travelled, and none gave the old man and his wife a thought. December 15th came, and with it the heaviest fall of snow experienced in Berkshire County in many years. The food of the old couple on the mountain was now reduced to a day's supply, but John did not yet despair. He was a Christian and a God-fearing man, and His promises were remembered; and so, when evening came, and the north-east gale was blowing and the fierce snowstorm was raging, John and his wife were praying and asking for help. In Sheffield village, ten miles away, lived Deacon Brown, a well-to-do farmer of fifty years old, who was noted for his consistent and godly deportment, both as a man and a Christian. The deacon and his wife had gone to bed early, and, in spite of the storm raging without, were sleeping soundly, when, with a start, the deacon awoke, and said to his wife, "Who spoke? Who's there?" "Why," said the wife, "no one is here but you and me. What is the matter with you?" "I heard a voice," said the deacon, "saying, 'Send food to John.'" "Nonsense!" replied Mrs. Brown. "You've been dreaming." The deacon laid his head on his pillow, and was asleep in a minute. Soon he started up again, and, waking his wife, exclaimed--"There, I heard that voice again--'Send food to John.'" "Well, well," said Mrs. Brown. "Deacon, you are not well; your supper has not agreed with you. Lie down and try to sleep." Again the deacon closed his eyes, and again came the voice--"Send food to John." This time the deacon was thoroughly awake. "Wife," said he, "who do we know named John who needs food?" "No one I remember," replied Mrs. Brown, "unless it be John Barry, the old charcoal-burner on the mountain." "That's it!" exclaimed the deacon. "Now I remember, when I was at the store in Sheffield the other day, Clark, the merchant, speaking of John Barry, said, 'I wonder if the old man is alive, for it is six weeks since I saw him, and he has not yet laid in his winter stock of groceries.' It must be old John is sick, and wanting food." So saying, the good deacon arose and proceeded to dress himself.