Indian Pete's Christmas Gift by Herbert W. Collingwood. The moon was just peeping
over the pines as Pete shiver. Shee slunk down the road from the lumber
camp into the forest. Pete did not present a surpassingly dignified appearance as he
scuped through the clearing, but he was not a very dignified person, even
at his best. Most persons would have said, I think that Pete's method
of departure was hardly appropriate for one who had been selected by the citizens of
Carter's camp to go on an important mission. But Pete had his own reasons
for his actions. He crept along behind the stumps and logs till he reached
the forest. Then, as if the shadow gave him fresh courage and dignity,
he drew himself upright and started at a sharp trot down the road toward
the village. We have said that Pete had reasons for his conduct. They
were good ones. In the first place, he was an Indian, not
a noble son of the forests, such as Cooper loved to picture, but
a mean, dirty, yellow faced engine, lazy and worthless picking up a
living about the lumber camps working as little as he could, and eating and
drinking as much as possible. Such was the messenger. The mission was worse
yet. It was Christmas Eve. The snow covered the ground, and the
ice had stilled for the time the mouth of the Roaring River. It was
Saturday night as well, and for some time past the lumbermen had been considering
the advisability of keeping the good old holiday with some form of celebration suited to
the occasion. The citizens of Carter's camp were not remarkably fastidious. They knew
but one form of celebration, and they had no thought of hunting out new
ones. The one thing needful to make a celebration completely successful was liquor.
This they must have in order to do justice to the day. The temperance
laws of Carters were very strict, not that the moral sentiment of the place
was particularly high. But it had been noticed that the amounts of labor and
whisky were in inverse proportion. The more whisky, the less labor. It
was a pure question of political economy. The foreman had often stated that he
would prosecute to the fullest extent of the law the first man caught bringing whiskey
into the camp. The foreman did not attempt, perhaps to deny that his
knowledge of the law was somewhat crude. He had forcibly stated, however,
that should a case be brought before him, he would himself act as judge
and jury, while his fist and foot would take the place of witness and
counsel. There was something so terrible in this statement, coming as it did
from the largest man in camp, that very little whisky had thus far been
brought in. Christmas had come and the drinking element Carter's camp proposed that Pete
Shivershee the engine, be sent to town for a quantity of the liquid poison
that the drinkers might enjoy themselves. Bill Gammon found Pete curled up by the
stove. He took him out of doors and explained the business in hand.
Bill prided himself somewhat on his ability to get work out of engines. Pete
muttered only all right. He took the money Bill gave him, and then
slunk away down the road for the forest. As we have seen him.
Bill felt so confident of the success of his experiment that he did not hesitate
to inform the boys that Pete was dead. Sure to return he would stake
his reputation on it. Pete was in a hard position. If he loved
anything in this world, it was whiskey. If there was anything he fared,
it was Bill's fist. The two were sure to go together. The
money jingling in his pocket suggested unlimited pleasures, but over every one hung Bill's
hard fist. He ran several miles through the forest till turning a corner of
the road, he came upon a little clearing in which stood a small log
house. Pete knew the place well. Here lived Jeff Hunt, with his
wife, a frenchwoman, and their troop of children. Jeff was a person
of little importance by the side of his wife, though like all lords of
creation, he considered himself the legal and proper head of the family, as
well as one of the mainstays of society. His part of the family government
consisted for the most part, in keeping the house supplied with wood and water,
and in smoking his comfortable pipe in the corner, while his wife bent
over her tub. Missus Hunt was the only woman near the camp, and
so all the laundry work fell to her. Laundry work in the pine woods
implies mending and darning as well as washing and ironing, and the poor little
woman had her hands full of work. Surely it was rub, rub,
rub, day after day over the steaming tub, with the children running about
like little wolves, and Jeff kindly giving his advice from his comfortable corner.
And even after the children were in bed at night, she must sit up
and mend the clean clothes. What a pack of children there were, how
rough and strong they seemed, running about all day all. But poor little
Marie, the oldest, she had never been strong, and now at last
she was dying of consumption. She could not sit up at all, but
lay all day on the little bed in the corner, watching her mother with
sad, beautiful eyes. The brave little frenchwoman's heart almost failed her at times,
as she saw how day by day the little form grew thinner, the
eyes more beautiful, the cheeks more flushed. She knew the signs too well,
but there was nothing she could do. Pete was a regular visitor at
Jeff's, and always a welcome one. His work was to carry the washing
to and from camp. He came nearer to feeling like a man at Jeff's
house than at any other place. He knew of every one, but Missus
Hunt and the little Marie called him only injun but they always said, mister
Shivershee, the measter Shivershee of the little frenchwoman was the nearest claim to respectability
that Pete felt able to make. One night, while carrying home the clothes,
he dropped them in the mud. He never minded the whipping bill Gammon
gave him half as much as he did poor Missus Hunt's tears to think how
her work had gone for nothing. As Pete came trotting down the road,
Jeff stood in front of his house, chopping stovewood from a great log.
A lantern hung on a stump provided light for his purpose. Pete stopped,
from sheer force of habit in front of the house, and Jeff, glad
of any chance to interrupt his work, paused to talk with him. Walk
in Injin said Jeff, hospitably, your clothes ain't quite ready, but the
woman will have him all up soon. Walk in. It suddenly came over
Pete that this was his night for taking the clothes home, but his present
errand was of far are more importance than mere laundry work. Me no stop,
I go on to town great work, large business, by which vague
hints he meant, no doubt to impress Jeff with a sense of the dignity
of his mission, yet cunningly to keep its object concealed, going to town.
Be Ye, great doin's ter camp tomor I suppose I'll be round if
I can get away. But walk in engine and get your supper and see
the women. And Jeff opened the door for Pete to pass in. The
thought of supper was too much for Pete, and he slunk in after Jeff
and stood in the corner by the door. The room was hardly an inviting
one, and yet if Pete had been a white man, some thoughts of
home, sweet home, must have passed through his mind. But he was
only a despised engun. A rough board table was laid for supper at one
side of the room. In the corner, little Marie lay, with the
firelight falling over her poor thin face. Pete must have felt as he looked
at her, like some hopeless convict gazing through his prison bars upon some fair
set ain't passing before him. She seemed to be in another world than his.
There seemed between them a gulf that could not be bridged. Three of
the larger children were sobbing in the corner, while the rest formed a sorrowful
group about an old box, in which were two or three simple plants,
frozen and yellow. Missus Hunt was frying pork over the hot stove. As
she looked up at Pete, he noticed that she had been crying. Jeff
was the very prince of hosts. He made haste to make Pete feel at
home. Set by injun. So the boys is going to kinders celebrate tomorrow
be they? But Pete felt that his mission must not be disclosed. What
matter is with kids? He asked to change the subject. Oh, they're
just a yellin' about them flowers, explained Jeff. You see they have been
a trainin some posies outdoors against tomorrow. Ye see tomorrow's Christmas. You see
an them kids, they had an id, they'd have some flowers for to
decorate that corner where the little galley is. Little gals when they ain't well
likes things, you know. Pete nodded. He was not aware of this
love of diminutive females. But it should not show very good breeding to appear
ignorant. Well, you see, continued Jeff, they kept the flowers away
from the little gal meanin' ter surprise her like. But jest, this afternoon
they got catched by the frost, and now there they be stiff'n' steaks.
It is kinderbad, ain't it? Specially as it's Christmas too? What Christmas
put in? Pete? Oh Christmas? While it's sorder day like, it's
somethin like other days, and yet it ain't. But then, injun,
I don't suppose you would understand if I was to tell ye. And Jeff
concealed his own ignorance, as many wiser and better men have done, by
assuming a tone too lofty for his audience. But Missus Hunt could explain even
if Jeff could not. She paused on the way to the stove with a
dish of pork in her hand. It's the day of the Good Lord,
mister, sheb she it is the day when the Good Lord he was born,
and when all the people should be glad. But the little woman belied
her own creed as she thought of little Marie and the dead flowers. I
hardly think Pete gained a very clear idea of the day, even from Missus
Hunt's explanation, It was I fear all Greek to him. What flowers fur?
He asked, as in response to Jeff's polite invitation, he sat by
and began supper. Well, it's sorter idea of the women, explained,
Jeff looks kinder pooty to see the flowers round. Ye see, kinder slicks
up a room like all these things? Has ter come inter keepin' house,
ye see? Injun with which broad explanation, Jeff helped himself to a piece
of pork. But missus Hunt was bound to explain too. Her explanation was
certainly more poetic. He'd is the way we show our love for the Good
Lord. Mister shivershee, what he's more beautiful than the flowers. We take
the flowers, and with much love we placed them upon the walls, and
we make others happy with them. And the good Lord, who loves us
all, he is pleased. But here, seeing the sobbing children and the
frozen plants, she could not help wiping her eyes upon her apron. The
little sufferer on the bed saw this action, her voice was almost gone.
Never mind, mamma, she whispered, But the beautiful eyes were filled with
tears. For she knew that Mamma would mind that she could not help it.
Pete listened to all this attentively, Jun that he was. Of course,
he could not understand it all, yet he could hardly help seeing something
of the sorrow that the loss of the flowers had brought upon the family.
He finished his supper, then slunk out at the door again. Jeff followed
him out. Little Gal, ever get well, asked Pete. No,
I don't s'pose she will, answered Jeff. There ain't no hopes held out
for her. Makes it kinder bad, you see, nice, clever little
gal has ever lived too. Stop in an, get your clothes when ye
come back, will ye? All right? Muttered Pete as he trotted away
toward town. I wonder what Pete was thinking about as he ran through the
forest, And Injun's thoughts on any ordinary subject cannot be very deep. Yet
when one comes from such a scene as Pete had just witnessed, and when
such sad eyes as Marie's haunt one all along a lonely road, even an
Injune's thoughts must be worth noticing. Let us imagine what Pete's thoughts were as
he shuffled mile after mile through the snow. The scene he had just left
rose before his dulled engine. Mind, how kind missus Hunt had always been
to him. She was the only one that called him mister. How queer
it was that the children should cry because the flowers were killed. How little
Marie had looked at him. Somehow Pete could not drive those sad eyes away.
They seemed to be looking at him from every stump, from every tree.
They were filled with tears. Now could it be because the flowers were
frozen? It is no wonder that when the last few lingering village lights came
into view, Pete was wondering how he could help matters out. It was
quite late, and most of the shops were closed. Only here and there
some late workers showed to light. The bar rooms were opened full blast,
And as Pete glided down the sawdust street, it needed all the remembrance of
Bill's fist to keep him from parting with a portion of the jingling money for
an equal amount of good cheer. But the fist had the best of it,
and he went straight on to the last barroom. Surely Bill was right,
Nothing but a miracle could stop him. But the miracle was performed,
and when Pete least expected it. Pete knew better than to go to the
front door of the barroom. He knew how well he and all his race
are protected by the government. It had been decided that no one should be
allowed to sell liquor to an engine, at least at the regular bar.
If an engine, however, could so far loose sight of his personal dignity
as to come sneaking in at the back door and pay an extra price for
his liquor, whose business was it. Pete knew the way of the bar
tenders, he had been in the business before. He did not go in
at the front door, where the higher bred white men were made welcome,
but slunk down an alley by the side of the building, meaning to go
in the backway. There was no light in the store next to the bar
room. It was a milliner's store and had been closed for some hours.
But in the back room two women were working away to finish a hat evidently
intended for some village Bell's Christmas. Pete stopped in the dark alley for a
moment to watch them. A man sat asleep in a chair by the stove,
but the women worked on with tireless fingers. The hat was growing more
and more brilliant under their quick touches. By their side stood a basket of
artificial flowers and bright ribbons. It seemed to Pete that he had never before
seen anything so beautiful. Here were flowers, Why could he not get some
for the little sick girl. It was a severe struggle for the poor engine
out there in the dark alley, the thought of the thrashing he would receive
on the one hand, and the sad eyes of Marie on the other.
What could he do? But even an engine can remember a kindness. It
may have been a miracle, or it may have been just the outcropping of
the desire to repay a kindness which even an Indian and is said to possess.
At any rate, the eyes conquered, and Pete braved the fist of
Bill, for fear that he should lose courage. He pushed against the door
of the room and entered without ceremony. There was a great commotion, I
can assure you the idea of an injun pushing his way into the back parlor
of a milliner's shop was too much of a revolutionary proceeding to pass unnoticed.
The women dropped their work with a little scream, while the man started from
his chair with most violent intent upon poor Pete. Whatt you be after here?
Injun? He growled, hump yourself out o here, get a goin.
But Pete pulled out his money, at the sight of which the standing
army of the milliner's store paused. Money has smoothed over many an outrage,
it may perhaps excuse even an action on the part of an injun. I
want flowers, Pete said, pointing at the basket. Give me flowers,
I pay. Oh you want to buy some of them artificial flowers? Do
ye? This is a pooty time on night? Or come flower huntin,
ain't it? Just pick out your flowers and climb out. And he held
the basket out at arm's length for Pete to select. Pete took a great
red rose and a white flower. There was not very much of a stock
to select from, but Pete, with engine instincts, selected the largest and
gaudiest them. Is worth about ten shillings, figured up the merchant. Taking
the money from Pete's hand. Pete carefully placed the flowers in the pocket of
his ragged coat and started for the door. The Milliner's man, rendered affable
by the most surprising bargain he had just made, naturally wished to retain the
patronage of such a model customer. Want anything in our line, just call
around and will please ye only come a little afore bedtime when you come again.
But Pete slunk out at the door and did not hear him. Pete's
money was nearly gone, but he had a scheme in his head. He
slunk into the back door of the bar room and obtained his jug and what
whiskey he could buy with the rest of his money. Then up the street
he ran again out of town, stopping only once at the pump to fill
the jug to the top with water. Resolutely fastening in the stopper, and
not even raising the jug to his mouth, he started for camp at his
long swinging trot with the jug in his hand. Mile after mile was passed
over, yet Pete did not stop till Jeff Hunt's cabin came in sight.
Hiding his jug behind a log, he crept up to the window and looked
in. The light was burning on the table while Missus Hunt sat nodding over
her work. She had been mending the clothes so that Pete could take them
back with him. Tired out, she had fallen asleep. The box of
frozen plants still stood by the table. Pete grinned as he saw them,
thinking of the great flowers in his pocket. Marie was asleep. Over her
head were hung long clusters of moss, with masses of ground pine and red
berries. Pete stole to the door and went in. Missus Hunt woke with
a start, but at the sight of Pete smiled in her weary way.
Pete made up his bundle of clothes and then pulled out the great red rose
in the white flower. He laid them on the table with flowers for little
gal sick, make her think Christmas. Good flowers, all color, no
fade, no smell nowhere out. Then catching up his bundle, he slunk
away without waiting for Missus Hunt's thanks. When Bill Gammon woke in the morning,
he found the jug at the foot of his bunk, but Pete was
nowhere to be seen. He had left the jug and fled. The Christmas
celebration at Carter's was a very tame affair. Many were the curses showered upon
Pete, And had that worthy been present, I doubt if even the thought
of the famous miracle would have sustained him in the beating he would have received.
But if Pete's conduct produced such a sad effect upon the festivities at Carter's,
the joy it caused that jeff Hunt's cabin made matters even the glad Christmas
Son, Glad with the promise of the old old story, came dancing and
sparkling over the trees, and looked down in wonderful tenderness upon the humble cabin.
The first bright beams fell upon the bed where little Marie was lying.
They showed her the rose and the white flower nestling in the evergreens. The
children came and stood in one before the rude flowers. How wonderful they were.
Where could they have come from. The face of the little girl was
more patient than before. The eyes seemed more tender, and yet not so
sad. Perhaps the glad son, the same good son that had looked upon
that far away tomb from which the stone had rolled, whispered to her as
it played about her face. How soon the stone would roll from her life?
How soon she would forget all her care and trouble and enter the land
of sunshine and flowers. It may be that the good old Christmas Sun even
hunted out poor, despised Pete and told him something of its happiness. I
am sure he deserved it, let us hope so at any rate. End
of Indian Pete's Christmas Gift by Herbert W. Collingwood