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Indian Pete's Christmas Gift by Herbert W. Collingwood. The moon was just peeping

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over the pines as Pete shiver.
Shee slunk down the road from the lumber

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camp into the forest. Pete did
not present a surpassingly dignified appearance as he

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scuped through the clearing, but he
was not a very dignified person, even

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at his best. Most persons would
have said, I think that Pete's method

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of departure was hardly appropriate for one
who had been selected by the citizens of

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Carter's camp to go on an important
mission. But Pete had his own reasons

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for his actions. He crept along
behind the stumps and logs till he reached

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the forest. Then, as if
the shadow gave him fresh courage and dignity,

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he drew himself upright and started at
a sharp trot down the road toward

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the village. We have said that
Pete had reasons for his conduct. They

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were good ones. In the first
place, he was an Indian, not

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a noble son of the forests,
such as Cooper loved to picture, but

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a mean, dirty, yellow faced
engine, lazy and worthless picking up a

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living about the lumber camps working as
little as he could, and eating and

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drinking as much as possible. Such
was the messenger. The mission was worse

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yet. It was Christmas Eve.
The snow covered the ground, and the

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ice had stilled for the time the
mouth of the Roaring River. It was

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Saturday night as well, and for
some time past the lumbermen had been considering

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the advisability of keeping the good old
holiday with some form of celebration suited to

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the occasion. The citizens of Carter's
camp were not remarkably fastidious. They knew

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but one form of celebration, and
they had no thought of hunting out new

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ones. The one thing needful to
make a celebration completely successful was liquor.

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This they must have in order to
do justice to the day. The temperance

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laws of Carters were very strict,
not that the moral sentiment of the place

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was particularly high. But it had
been noticed that the amounts of labor and

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whisky were in inverse proportion. The
more whisky, the less labor. It

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was a pure question of political economy. The foreman had often stated that he

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would prosecute to the fullest extent of
the law the first man caught bringing whiskey

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into the camp. The foreman did
not attempt, perhaps to deny that his

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knowledge of the law was somewhat crude. He had forcibly stated, however,

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that should a case be brought before
him, he would himself act as judge

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and jury, while his fist and
foot would take the place of witness and

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counsel. There was something so terrible
in this statement, coming as it did

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from the largest man in camp,
that very little whisky had thus far been

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brought in. Christmas had come and
the drinking element Carter's camp proposed that Pete

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Shivershee the engine, be sent to
town for a quantity of the liquid poison

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that the drinkers might enjoy themselves.
Bill Gammon found Pete curled up by the

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stove. He took him out of
doors and explained the business in hand.

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Bill prided himself somewhat on his ability
to get work out of engines. Pete

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muttered only all right. He took
the money Bill gave him, and then

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slunk away down the road for the
forest. As we have seen him.

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Bill felt so confident of the success
of his experiment that he did not hesitate

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to inform the boys that Pete was
dead. Sure to return he would stake

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his reputation on it. Pete was
in a hard position. If he loved

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anything in this world, it was
whiskey. If there was anything he fared,

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it was Bill's fist. The two
were sure to go together. The

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money jingling in his pocket suggested unlimited
pleasures, but over every one hung Bill's

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hard fist. He ran several miles
through the forest till turning a corner of

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the road, he came upon a
little clearing in which stood a small log

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house. Pete knew the place well. Here lived Jeff Hunt, with his

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wife, a frenchwoman, and their
troop of children. Jeff was a person

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of little importance by the side of
his wife, though like all lords of

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creation, he considered himself the legal
and proper head of the family, as

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well as one of the mainstays of
society. His part of the family government

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consisted for the most part, in
keeping the house supplied with wood and water,

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and in smoking his comfortable pipe in
the corner, while his wife bent

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over her tub. Missus Hunt was
the only woman near the camp, and

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so all the laundry work fell to
her. Laundry work in the pine woods

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implies mending and darning as well as
washing and ironing, and the poor little

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woman had her hands full of work. Surely it was rub, rub,

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rub, day after day over the
steaming tub, with the children running about

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like little wolves, and Jeff kindly
giving his advice from his comfortable corner.

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And even after the children were in
bed at night, she must sit up

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and mend the clean clothes. What
a pack of children there were, how

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rough and strong they seemed, running
about all day all. But poor little

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Marie, the oldest, she had
never been strong, and now at last

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she was dying of consumption. She
could not sit up at all, but

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lay all day on the little bed
in the corner, watching her mother with

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sad, beautiful eyes. The brave
little frenchwoman's heart almost failed her at times,

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as she saw how day by day
the little form grew thinner, the

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eyes more beautiful, the cheeks more
flushed. She knew the signs too well,

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but there was nothing she could do. Pete was a regular visitor at

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Jeff's, and always a welcome one. His work was to carry the washing

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to and from camp. He came
nearer to feeling like a man at Jeff's

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house than at any other place.
He knew of every one, but Missus

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Hunt and the little Marie called him
only injun but they always said, mister

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Shivershee, the measter Shivershee of the
little frenchwoman was the nearest claim to respectability

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that Pete felt able to make.
One night, while carrying home the clothes,

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he dropped them in the mud.
He never minded the whipping bill Gammon

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gave him half as much as he
did poor Missus Hunt's tears to think how

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her work had gone for nothing.
As Pete came trotting down the road,

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Jeff stood in front of his house, chopping stovewood from a great log.

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A lantern hung on a stump provided
light for his purpose. Pete stopped,

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from sheer force of habit in front
of the house, and Jeff, glad

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of any chance to interrupt his work, paused to talk with him. Walk

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in Injin said Jeff, hospitably,
your clothes ain't quite ready, but the

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woman will have him all up soon. Walk in. It suddenly came over

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Pete that this was his night for
taking the clothes home, but his present

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errand was of far are more importance
than mere laundry work. Me no stop,

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I go on to town great work, large business, by which vague

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hints he meant, no doubt to
impress Jeff with a sense of the dignity

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of his mission, yet cunningly to
keep its object concealed, going to town.

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Be Ye, great doin's ter camp
tomor I suppose I'll be round if

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I can get away. But walk
in engine and get your supper and see

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the women. And Jeff opened the
door for Pete to pass in. The

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thought of supper was too much for
Pete, and he slunk in after Jeff

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and stood in the corner by the
door. The room was hardly an inviting

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one, and yet if Pete had
been a white man, some thoughts of

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home, sweet home, must have
passed through his mind. But he was

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only a despised engun. A rough
board table was laid for supper at one

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side of the room. In the
corner, little Marie lay, with the

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firelight falling over her poor thin face. Pete must have felt as he looked

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at her, like some hopeless convict
gazing through his prison bars upon some fair

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set ain't passing before him. She
seemed to be in another world than his.

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There seemed between them a gulf that
could not be bridged. Three of

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the larger children were sobbing in the
corner, while the rest formed a sorrowful

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group about an old box, in
which were two or three simple plants,

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frozen and yellow. Missus Hunt was
frying pork over the hot stove. As

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she looked up at Pete, he
noticed that she had been crying. Jeff

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was the very prince of hosts.
He made haste to make Pete feel at

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home. Set by injun. So
the boys is going to kinders celebrate tomorrow

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be they? But Pete felt that
his mission must not be disclosed. What

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matter is with kids? He asked
to change the subject. Oh, they're

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just a yellin' about them flowers,
explained Jeff. You see they have been

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a trainin some posies outdoors against tomorrow. Ye see tomorrow's Christmas. You see

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an them kids, they had an
id, they'd have some flowers for to

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decorate that corner where the little galley
is. Little gals when they ain't well

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likes things, you know. Pete
nodded. He was not aware of this

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love of diminutive females. But it
should not show very good breeding to appear

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ignorant. Well, you see,
continued Jeff, they kept the flowers away

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from the little gal meanin' ter surprise
her like. But jest, this afternoon

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they got catched by the frost,
and now there they be stiff'n' steaks.

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It is kinderbad, ain't it?
Specially as it's Christmas too? What Christmas

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put in? Pete? Oh Christmas? While it's sorder day like, it's

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somethin like other days, and yet
it ain't. But then, injun,

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I don't suppose you would understand if
I was to tell ye. And Jeff

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concealed his own ignorance, as many
wiser and better men have done, by

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assuming a tone too lofty for his
audience. But Missus Hunt could explain even

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if Jeff could not. She paused
on the way to the stove with a

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dish of pork in her hand.
It's the day of the Good Lord,

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mister, sheb she it is the
day when the Good Lord he was born,

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and when all the people should be
glad. But the little woman belied

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her own creed as she thought of
little Marie and the dead flowers. I

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hardly think Pete gained a very clear
idea of the day, even from Missus

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Hunt's explanation, It was I fear
all Greek to him. What flowers fur?

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He asked, as in response to
Jeff's polite invitation, he sat by

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and began supper. Well, it's
sorter idea of the women, explained,

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Jeff looks kinder pooty to see the
flowers round. Ye see, kinder slicks

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up a room like all these things? Has ter come inter keepin' house,

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ye see? Injun with which broad
explanation, Jeff helped himself to a piece

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of pork. But missus Hunt was
bound to explain too. Her explanation was

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certainly more poetic. He'd is the
way we show our love for the Good

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Lord. Mister shivershee, what he's
more beautiful than the flowers. We take

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the flowers, and with much love
we placed them upon the walls, and

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we make others happy with them.
And the good Lord, who loves us

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all, he is pleased. But
here, seeing the sobbing children and the

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frozen plants, she could not help
wiping her eyes upon her apron. The

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little sufferer on the bed saw this
action, her voice was almost gone.

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Never mind, mamma, she whispered, But the beautiful eyes were filled with

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tears. For she knew that Mamma
would mind that she could not help it.

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Pete listened to all this attentively,
Jun that he was. Of course,

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he could not understand it all,
yet he could hardly help seeing something

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of the sorrow that the loss of
the flowers had brought upon the family.

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He finished his supper, then slunk
out at the door again. Jeff followed

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him out. Little Gal, ever
get well, asked Pete. No,

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I don't s'pose she will, answered
Jeff. There ain't no hopes held out

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for her. Makes it kinder bad, you see, nice, clever little

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gal has ever lived too. Stop
in an, get your clothes when ye

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come back, will ye? All
right? Muttered Pete as he trotted away

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toward town. I wonder what Pete
was thinking about as he ran through the

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forest, And Injun's thoughts on any
ordinary subject cannot be very deep. Yet

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when one comes from such a scene
as Pete had just witnessed, and when

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such sad eyes as Marie's haunt one
all along a lonely road, even an

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Injune's thoughts must be worth noticing.
Let us imagine what Pete's thoughts were as

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he shuffled mile after mile through the
snow. The scene he had just left

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rose before his dulled engine. Mind, how kind missus Hunt had always been

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to him. She was the only
one that called him mister. How queer

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it was that the children should cry
because the flowers were killed. How little

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Marie had looked at him. Somehow
Pete could not drive those sad eyes away.

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They seemed to be looking at him
from every stump, from every tree.

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They were filled with tears. Now
could it be because the flowers were

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frozen? It is no wonder that
when the last few lingering village lights came

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into view, Pete was wondering how
he could help matters out. It was

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quite late, and most of the
shops were closed. Only here and there

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some late workers showed to light.
The bar rooms were opened full blast,

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And as Pete glided down the sawdust
street, it needed all the remembrance of

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Bill's fist to keep him from parting
with a portion of the jingling money for

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an equal amount of good cheer.
But the fist had the best of it,

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and he went straight on to the
last barroom. Surely Bill was right,

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Nothing but a miracle could stop him. But the miracle was performed,

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and when Pete least expected it.
Pete knew better than to go to the

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front door of the barroom. He
knew how well he and all his race

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are protected by the government. It
had been decided that no one should be

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allowed to sell liquor to an engine, at least at the regular bar.

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If an engine, however, could
so far loose sight of his personal dignity

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as to come sneaking in at the
back door and pay an extra price for

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his liquor, whose business was it. Pete knew the way of the bar

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tenders, he had been in the
business before. He did not go in

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at the front door, where the
higher bred white men were made welcome,

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but slunk down an alley by the
side of the building, meaning to go

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in the backway. There was no
light in the store next to the bar

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room. It was a milliner's store
and had been closed for some hours.

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But in the back room two women
were working away to finish a hat evidently

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intended for some village Bell's Christmas.
Pete stopped in the dark alley for a

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moment to watch them. A man
sat asleep in a chair by the stove,

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but the women worked on with tireless
fingers. The hat was growing more

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and more brilliant under their quick touches. By their side stood a basket of

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artificial flowers and bright ribbons. It
seemed to Pete that he had never before

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seen anything so beautiful. Here were
flowers, Why could he not get some

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for the little sick girl. It
was a severe struggle for the poor engine

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out there in the dark alley,
the thought of the thrashing he would receive

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on the one hand, and the
sad eyes of Marie on the other.

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What could he do? But even
an engine can remember a kindness. It

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may have been a miracle, or
it may have been just the outcropping of

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the desire to repay a kindness which
even an Indian and is said to possess.

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At any rate, the eyes conquered, and Pete braved the fist of

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Bill, for fear that he should
lose courage. He pushed against the door

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of the room and entered without ceremony. There was a great commotion, I

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can assure you the idea of an
injun pushing his way into the back parlor

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of a milliner's shop was too much
of a revolutionary proceeding to pass unnoticed.

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The women dropped their work with a
little scream, while the man started from

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his chair with most violent intent upon
poor Pete. Whatt you be after here?

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Injun? He growled, hump yourself
out o here, get a goin.

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But Pete pulled out his money,
at the sight of which the standing

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army of the milliner's store paused.
Money has smoothed over many an outrage,

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it may perhaps excuse even an action
on the part of an injun. I

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want flowers, Pete said, pointing
at the basket. Give me flowers,

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I pay. Oh you want to
buy some of them artificial flowers? Do

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ye? This is a pooty time
on night? Or come flower huntin,

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ain't it? Just pick out your
flowers and climb out. And he held

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the basket out at arm's length for
Pete to select. Pete took a great

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red rose and a white flower.
There was not very much of a stock

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to select from, but Pete,
with engine instincts, selected the largest and

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gaudiest them. Is worth about ten
shillings, figured up the merchant. Taking

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the money from Pete's hand. Pete
carefully placed the flowers in the pocket of

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his ragged coat and started for the
door. The Milliner's man, rendered affable

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by the most surprising bargain he had
just made, naturally wished to retain the

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patronage of such a model customer.
Want anything in our line, just call

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around and will please ye only come
a little afore bedtime when you come again.

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But Pete slunk out at the door
and did not hear him. Pete's

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money was nearly gone, but he
had a scheme in his head. He

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slunk into the back door of the
bar room and obtained his jug and what

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whiskey he could buy with the rest
of his money. Then up the street

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he ran again out of town,
stopping only once at the pump to fill

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the jug to the top with water. Resolutely fastening in the stopper, and

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not even raising the jug to his
mouth, he started for camp at his

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long swinging trot with the jug in
his hand. Mile after mile was passed

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over, yet Pete did not stop
till Jeff Hunt's cabin came in sight.

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Hiding his jug behind a log,
he crept up to the window and looked

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in. The light was burning on
the table while Missus Hunt sat nodding over

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her work. She had been mending
the clothes so that Pete could take them

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back with him. Tired out,
she had fallen asleep. The box of

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frozen plants still stood by the table. Pete grinned as he saw them,

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thinking of the great flowers in his
pocket. Marie was asleep. Over her

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head were hung long clusters of moss, with masses of ground pine and red

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berries. Pete stole to the door
and went in. Missus Hunt woke with

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a start, but at the sight
of Pete smiled in her weary way.

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Pete made up his bundle of clothes
and then pulled out the great red rose

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in the white flower. He laid
them on the table with flowers for little

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gal sick, make her think Christmas. Good flowers, all color, no

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fade, no smell nowhere out.
Then catching up his bundle, he slunk

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away without waiting for Missus Hunt's thanks. When Bill Gammon woke in the morning,

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he found the jug at the foot
of his bunk, but Pete was

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nowhere to be seen. He had
left the jug and fled. The Christmas

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celebration at Carter's was a very tame
affair. Many were the curses showered upon

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Pete, And had that worthy been
present, I doubt if even the thought

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of the famous miracle would have sustained
him in the beating he would have received.

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But if Pete's conduct produced such a
sad effect upon the festivities at Carter's,

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the joy it caused that jeff Hunt's
cabin made matters even the glad Christmas

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Son, Glad with the promise of
the old old story, came dancing and

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sparkling over the trees, and looked
down in wonderful tenderness upon the humble cabin.

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The first bright beams fell upon the
bed where little Marie was lying.

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They showed her the rose and the
white flower nestling in the evergreens. The

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children came and stood in one before
the rude flowers. How wonderful they were.

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Where could they have come from.
The face of the little girl was

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more patient than before. The eyes
seemed more tender, and yet not so

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sad. Perhaps the glad son,
the same good son that had looked upon

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that far away tomb from which the
stone had rolled, whispered to her as

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it played about her face. How
soon the stone would roll from her life?

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How soon she would forget all her
care and trouble and enter the land

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of sunshine and flowers. It may
be that the good old Christmas Sun even

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hunted out poor, despised Pete and
told him something of its happiness. I

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am sure he deserved it, let
us hope so at any rate. End

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of Indian Pete's Christmas Gift by Herbert
W. Collingwood