Speaker 1: 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.
Speaker 2: 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.
Speaker 1: 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?
Speaker 2: Do ye?
Speaker 1: 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