Speaker 1: Christmas by injunction from Heart of the West by O.
Henry Cherokee was the civic father of Yellowhammer. Yellowhammer was
a new mining town constructed mainly of canvas and undressed pine.
Cherokee was a prospector. One day, while his burrow was
eating quartz and pine burrs, Cherokee turned up with his pick,
a nugget weighing thirty ounces. He staked his claim, and then,
being a man of breadth and hospitality, he sent out
invitations to his friends in three states to drop in
and share his luck. Not one of the invited guests
sent regrets. They rolled in from the Kila Country, from
Salt River, from the Pecos, from Albuquerque and Phoenix and
Santa Fe, and from all the camps, intervening. When a
thousand citizens had arrived and taken up claims, they named
the town Yellowhammer, pointed a vigilance committee and presented Cherokee
with a watch chain made of nuggets. Three hours after
their presentation ceremonies, Cherokee's claim played out. He had located
a pocket instead of a vein. He abandoned it and
staked others one by one. Luck had kissed her hand
to him never afterward did he turn up enough dust
in Yellowhammer to pay his bar bill. But his thousand
invited guests were mostly prospering, and Cherokee smiled and congratulated them.
Yellowhammer was made up of men who took off their
hats to a smiling loser. So they invited Cherokee to
say what he wanted me, said, Cherokee, Oh, grub stakes
will be about the thing I reckon. I'll prospect along
up in the Mariposas. If I strike it up there,
I will most certainly let you all know about the facts.
I never was any hand to hold out car words
from my friends. In may, Cherokee packed his burrow and
turned its thoughtful mouse colored forehead to the north. Many
citizens escorted him to the undefined limits of yellow Hammer
and bestowed upon him shouts of commendation and farewells. Five
pocket flasks without an air bubble between contents and cork
were forced upon him, and he was bidden to consider
yellow Hammer in perpetual commission for his bed, bacon and eggs,
and hot water for shaving. In the event that Luck
did not see fit to warm her hands by his
camp fire in the Mariposas, the name of the father
of yellow Hammer was given him by the gold Hunters.
In accordance with their popular system of nomenclature. It was
not necessary for a citizen to exhibit his baptismal certificate
in order to acquire a cognomen. A man's name was
his personal property. For convenience in calling him off to
the bar and in designating him among other blue shirted bipeds,
a temporary appellation, title or epithet was conferred upon him
by the public. Personal peculiarities formed the source of the
majority of such informal baptisms. Many were easily dubbed geographically
from the regions from which they confessed to have hailed.
Some announced themselves to be Thompson's and Adamses and the like,
with a brazenness and loudness that cast a cloud upon
their titles. A few vaingloriously and shamelessly uncovered their proper
and indisputable names. This was held to be unduly arrogant
and did not win popularity. One man who said he
was Chesterton L. C. Belmont, and proved it by letters,
was given till sundown to leave the town. Such names
as Shorty bow Legs, Texas lazy bill, thirsty rogers, limping Riley,
the Judge, and California Ed were in favor. Cherokee derived
his title from the fact that he claimed to have
lived for a time with that tribe in the Indian nation.
On the twentieth day of December, Baldy, the mail rider
brought Yellowhammer a piece of news. What do I see
in Albuquerque, said Baldy to the patrons of the bar.
But Cherokee all embellished and festooned up like the Tsara turkey,
and lavish in money in bulk. Him and me seen
the elephant and the owl, and we had specimens of
this Sidelet's powder, wine, and Cherokee he audits all the
bills c o d. His pockets looked like a pool
table's after a fifteen ball run. Cherokee must have struck
pay or remarked California Ed. Well, he's white. I'm much
obliged to him for his success. Seems like Cherokee would
bramble down to yellow Hammer and see his friends, said another,
slightly aggrieved. But that's the way. Prosperity is the finest
cure there is for lost forgetfulness. You wait, said Baldy,
I'm comin to that. Cherokee strikes at three foot vane
up in the Mariposas that essays a trip to Europe
to the ton, and he closes it out to a
syndicate outfit for a hundred thousand hasty dollars in cash.
Then he buys himself a baby sealskin overcoat and a
red sleigh. And what do you think he takes it
in his head to do next? Chuck a luck, said Texas,
whose ideas of recreation were the gamesters. Come and kiss
me my honey, sang Shorty, who carried tin types in
his pocket and wore a red necktie while working on
his claim. Bought a saloon, suggested thirsty rogers. Cherokee took
me to a room, continued Baldy, and showed me he's
got that room full of drums and dolls and skates
and bags of candy, jumpin' jacks and toy lambs and
whistles and such infantile truck. And what do you think
he's going to do with them in efficacious knickknacks, don't
surmise none. Cherokee told me he's going to load him
up in his red sleigh and wait a minute, don't
order no drinks yet. He's going to drive down here
to Yellowhammer and give the kids, the kids of this
yere town the biggest Christmas tree and the biggest crying
doll and the little giant boy's tool chest blow out
that was ever seen west of Cape Hatteras two minutes
of absolute silence ticked away in the wake of Baldy's words.
It was broken by the house who, happily, conceiving the
moment to be ripe for extending hospitality, said dozen whiskey glasses,
spinning down the bar with the slower traveling bottle bringing
up the rear. Didn't you tell him, asked the miner
called Trinidad. Well, no, answered Baldy pensively. I never exactly
seen my way too. You see, Cherokee had this Christmas
mess already bought and paid for, and he was all
flattered up with self esteem over his idea. And we
had in a way flew the flume with that fizzy
wine I speak of, So I never let on. I
cannot refrain from a certain amount of surprise, said the judge,
as he hung his ivory handled cane on the bar.
That our friend Cherokee should possess such an erroneous conception
of his as it were own town. Oh it ain't
the eighth wonder of the terrestrial world, said Baldy. Cherokee's
been gone from yellow Hammer over seven months. Lots of
things could happen. And in that time, how's he to
know that there ain't a single kid in this town?
And so far as emigration is concerned, none expected, come
to think of it, remarked California. Ed it's funny some
ain't drifted in yet. Town ain't settled enough yet for
to bring in the rubber ring brigade. I reckon to
top off this Christmas tree splurge o Cherokees, went on Baldy,
he is going to give an imitation a Sada Claus.
He's got a white wig and whiskers that disfigure him
up exactly like the pictures of this William Cullen Longfellow
in the books, and a red suit of fur trimmed
outside underwear, an eight ounce gloves and a stand up,
lay down crocheted red cap. Ain't it a shame that
an outfit like that can't get a chance to connect
with Annie and Willie's prayer layout. When does Cherokee allow
to come over with his truck trinidad mornin before Christmas,
said baldy, And he wants you folks to have a
room fixed up, and a tree hauled and ready, and
such ladies to assist as can stop breathing long enough
to let it be a surprise for the kids. The
unblest condition of Yellowhammer had been truly described. The voice
of childhood had never gladdened its flimsy structures. The patter
of restless little feet had never consecrated the one rugged
highway between the two rows of tents and rough buildings.
Later they would come, But now Yellowhammer was but a
mountain camp, And nowhere in it were the roguish, expectant
eyes opening wide at dawn of the enchanting day, the
eager small hands to reach for Santa's bewildering horde, the elated,
childish voicings of the season's joy, such as the coming
good things of the warm hearted Cherokee deserved. Of women,
there were five in yellow Hammer, the assayer's wife, the
proprietress of the Lucky Strike Hotel, and a laundress whose
wash tub panned out an ounce of dust a day.
These were the permanent feminines. The remaining two were the
Spangler sisters, Missus Fanchon and Irma, of the Transcontinental Comedy Company,
then playing in repertoire at the Improvised Empire Theater. But
of children there were none. Sometimes Miss Fanchon enacted with
spirit and address the part of robustious childhood. But between
her delineation and the visions of adolescence that the Fancy
offered as eligible recipients of Cherokee's holiday stores, there seemed
to be fixed. A Gulf Christmas would come on Thursday.
On Tuesday morning, Trinidad, instead of going to work, sought
out the judge at the Lucky Strike Hotel. It'll be
a disgrace to you, Fellowhammer, said Trinidad. If it throws
Cherokee down on his Christmas tree blow out, you might
say that the man made this town for one. I'm
going to see what can be done to give santy
Claus a square deal. My co operation, said the judge,
would be gladly forthcoming. I am indebted to Cherokee for
past favors, but I do not see I have heretofore
regarded the absence of children rather as a luxury. But
in this instance still I do not see. Look at me,
said Trinidad, and you'll see old ways and means with
the fur on. I'm going to hitch up a team
and rustle up a load of kids for Cherokee Santa
Claus act. If I have to rob an orphan asylum, eureka,
cried the judge enthusiastically. No you didn't, said Trinidad, decidedly.
I've found it myself. I learned about that Latin word
in school. I will accompany you, declared the judge, waving
his cane. Perhaps such eloquence and gift of language as
I possess will be of benefit in persuading our young
friends to lend themselves to our project. Within an hour,
Yellowhammer was acquainted with the scheme of Trinidad and the
judge and approved it. Citizens who knew of any families
with offspring within a forty mile radius of Yellowhammer came
forward and contributed their information. Trinidad made careful notes of
all such and then hastened to secure a vehicle in team.
The first stop scheduled was at a double log house
fifteen miles out from Yellowhammer. A man opened the door
at Trinidad's hail, and then came down and leaned upon
a rickety gait. The doorway was filled with a close
mass of youngsters, some ragged, all full of curiosity and health.
It's this way, explained Trinidad. We're from Yellow and we
come kidnapping in a gentle kind of way. One of
our leadin' citizens is stung with a Santa Claus affliction,
and he's due in town tomorrow with half the folderols
that's painted red and made in Germany. The youngest kid
we've got in yellowhammer packs a forty five and a
safety raiser. Consequently, we're mighty shy on anybody to say
ooh and ah when we light the candles on the
Christmas tree. Now, Pardner, if you'll loan us a few kids,
we guarantee to return em safe'en sound on Christmas Day,
and they'll come back loaded down with a good time
and Swiss family Robinson's and cornacopias and red drums and
similar testimonials. What do you say? In other words, said
the judge, we have discovered, for the first time in
our embryonic but progressive little city the inconveniences of the
absence of adolescence, the season of the year having approximately arrived,
during which it is accustomed to bestow frivolous but often
appreciated gifts upon the young and tender. I understand, said
the parent, packing his pipe with a forefinger. I guess
I needn't detain you, gentlemen. Me an the old woman
have got seven kids, so to speak, and runnin my
mind over the bunch. I don't appear to hit upon
none that we could spare for you to take over
to your doin's. The old woman has got some popcorn, candy,
an rag dolls hid in the clothes chest, and we
allow to give Christmas a little whirl of our own
in our insignificant sort of style. No, I couldn't, with
any degree of avidity, seem to fall in with the
idea of letting none of 'em go. Thank you, kindly, gentlemen.
Down the slope they drove, and up another foothill to
the ranch house of Wiley Wilson. Trinidad recited his appeal,
and the judge boomed out his ponderous antiphony. Missus Wiley
gathered her two rosy cheeked youngsters close to her skirts
and did not smile until she had seen Wiley laugh
and shake his head again a refusal. Trinidad and the
judge vainly exhausted more than half the list before twilight
set in among the hills. They spent the night at
a stage road hostelry and set out again early the
next morning. The wagon had not acquired a single passenger.
It's creepin' upon my faculties, remarked Trinidad that borrowin' kids
at Christmas is something like trying to steal butter from
a man that's got hot pancakes. A common It is
undoubtedly an indisputable fact, said the judge, that the uh
family ties seemed to be more coherent and assertive at
this period of the year. On the day before Christmas,
they drove thirty miles, making four fruitless halts and appeals
everywhere they found kids at a premium. The sun was
low when the wife of a section boss on a
lonely railroad huddled her unavailable progeny behind her and said,
there's a woman that's just took charge of the railroad
eating house down at Granite Junction. I hear she's got
a little boy. Maybe she might let him go. Trinidad
pulled up his mules at Granite Junction at five o'clock
in the afternoon. The train had just departed with its
load of fed and appeased passengers. On the steps of
the eating house, they found a thin and glowering boy
of ten smoking a cigarette. The dining room had been
left in chaos by the peripatetic appetites. A youngish woman
reclined exhausted in a chair. Her face wore sharp lines
of worry. She had once possessed a certain style of
beauty that would never wholly leave her and would never
wholly return. Trinidad set forth his mission. I'd count a
mercy if you'd take Bobby for a while, she said wearily.
I'm on the go from mornin' till night, and I
don't have time to tend to him. He's learnin bad
habits from the men. It'll be the only chance he'll
have to get any Christmas. The men went outside and
conferred with Bobby. Trinidad pictured the glories of the Christmas
tree and presents in lively colors and moreover, my young friend,
added the judge. Santa Claus himself will personally distribute the
offerings that will typify the gifts conveyed by the shepherds
of Bethlehem to Ah. Come off, said the boy, squinting
his small eyes. I ain't no kid. There ain't any
Santa Claus. It's your folks that buys toys. An sneaks
em in when you're asleep, and they make marks in
the soot in the chimney with the tongs to look
like Santa's sleigh tracks. That might be so, argued Trinidad.
But Chris ms trees ain't no fairy tale. This one's
gonna look like the ten Cents store in Albuquerque, all
strung up in a redwood. There's tops and drums and
Noah's arks and all rats, said Bobby wearily. I cut
them out long ago. I'd like to have a rifle,
not a target one, a real one to shoot wildcats with.
But I guess you won't have any of them on
your old tree. Well, I can't say for sure, said
Trinidad diplomatically. It might be you go along with us
and see the hope thus held out, though faint won,
the boy's hesitating consent to go with this solitary beneficiary
for Cherokee's holiday bounty the canvassers spun along the homeward
road in Yellowhammer. The empty storeroom had been transformed into
what might have passed as the bower of an Arizona fairy.
The ladies had done their work well. A tall Christmas
tree covered to the topmost branch with candles, spangles, and
toys sufficient for more than a score of children stood
in the center of the floor. Near sunset, anxious eyes
had begun to scan the street for the returning team
of the child providers. At noon that day, Cherokee had
dashed into town with his new sleigh piled high with
bundles and boxes and bales of all sizes and shapes.
So intent was he upon the arrangements for his altruistic
plans that the dearth of children did not receive his notice.
No one gave away the humiliating state of Yellowhammer, for
the efforts of Trinidad and the judge were expected to
supply the deficiency. When the sun went down, Cherokee, with
many wings and arch grins on his seasoned face, went
into retirement with the bundle containing the Santa Claus raiment
and a pack containing special and undisclosed gifts. When the
kids are rounded up, He instructed the volunteer arrangement ca Midty,
light up the candles on the tree and set them
to play in Pussy Wants a Corner and King William.
When they get good and at it, while old Saint
Ol slide in the door, I reckon, there'll be plenty
of gifts to go round. The ladies were flitting about
the tree, giving it final touches that were never final.
The Spangled Sisters were there in costume as Lady Violet
de Vere and Marie the Maid in their new drama
The Miner's Bride. The theater did not open until nine,
and they were welcome assistants of the Christmas Tree Committee.
Every minute heads would pop out the door to look
and listen for the approach of Trinidad's team. And now
this became an anxious function, for night had fallen and
it would soon be necessary to light the candles on
the tree. And Cherokee was apt to make an eruption
at any time. In his Chris kringled garb at length,
the wagon of the child rustlers rattled down the street
to the door. The ladies, with little screams of excit,
flew to the lighting of the candles. The men of
Yellowhammer passed in and out restlessly, or stood about the
room in embarrassed groups. Trinidad and the judge, bearing the
marks of protracted travel, entered conducting between them. A single
impish boy who stared with sullen pessimistic eyes at the
gaudy tree. Where are the other children? Asked the essayer's wife,
The acknowledged leader of all social functions, ma'am, said Trinidad
with a sigh. Prospecting for kids at Christmas time is
like huntin and limestone for silver. This parental business is
one that I have no chance to comprehend. It seems
that fathers and mothers are willing for their offsprings to
be drownded, stole, fed on poison, oak, and et by
catamounts three hundred sixty four days in the year, But
on Christmas Day they insists on enjoying the exclusive mortification
of their company. This, here, young biped ma'am, is all
that washes out of our two days maneuvers. Oh the
sweet little boy, cooed Miss Irma, trailing her devere robes
to the center of the stage. Ah, shut up, said Bobby,
with a scowl. Who's a kid, you, ain't you? Bat
fresh brat breathed Miss Irma beneath her enameled smile. We
done the best we could, said Trinidad. It's tough on Cherokee,
but it can't be helped. Then the door opened and
Cherokee entered in the conventional dress of Saint Nick. A white,
rippling beard and flowing hair covered his face almost to
his dark and shining eyes over his shoulder. He carried
a pack. No one stirred as he came in. Even
the Spangler's sisters ceased their coquettish poses and stared curiously
at the tall figure. Bobby stood with his hands in
his pockets, gazing gloomily at the effeminate and childish tree.
Cherokee put down his pack and looked wonderingly about the room.
Perhaps he fancied that a bevy of eager children were
being herded somewhere to be loosed. Upon his entrance, he
went up to Bobby and extended his red mittened hand.
Merry Christmas, little boy, said Cherokee. Anything on the tree
you want, they'll get it down for you. Won't you
shake hands with Santi Claus there ain't any Santy Claus,
whined the boy, you got old false billygoat's whiskers on
your face. I ain't no kid. What do I want
with dolls and tin horses? The driver said, you'd have
a rifle and you haven't. I want to go home.
Trinidad stepped into the breach. He shook Cherokee's hand in
warm greeting. I'm sorry, Cherokee, He explained, there never was
a kid in Yellowhammer. We tried to rustle a bunch
of em for your swaree, but this sardine was all
we could catch. He's a atheist and he don't believe
in Santa Claus. It's a shame for you to be
out all this truck. But me an, the judge was
sure we could round up a wagon full of candidates
for your gim cracks. That's all right, said Cherokee gravely.
The expense don't amount to nothin worth mentionin'. We can
dump the stuff down a shaft or throw it away.
I don't know what I was thinking about, but it
never occurred to my cogitations that there wasn't any kids
in Yellowhammer. Meanwhile, the company had relaxed into a hollow
but praiseworthy imitation of a pleasure gathering. Bobby had retreated
to a distant chair and was coldly regarding the scene
with onwe plastered thick upon him. Cherokee, lingering with his
original idea, went over and sat beside him. Where do
you live, little boy, he asked, respectfully, granite junction, said Bobby,
without emphasis. The room was warm. Cherokee took off his
cap and then removed his beard and wig. Say, exclaimed Bobby,
with a show of interest. I know your mug all right.
Did ye ever see me before, asked Cherokee. I don't know,
but I've seen your picture lots o times where the
boy hesitated on the bureau at home. He answered, let's
have your name, if you please, Buddy, Robert Lumsden, the
picture belongs to my mother. She puts it under her
pillow of knights when once I saw her kiss it.
I wouldn't, but women are that way. Cherokee rose and
beckoned to Trinidad, keep this boy by you till I
come back. He said, I'm going to shed these Chris
miss duds and hitch up my sleigh. I'm gonna take
this kid home, well, infidel, said Trinidad, taking Cherokee's vacant chair.
And so you are too superannuated and effee to yearn
for such mockeries as candy and toys. It seems I
don't like you, said Bobby, with acrimony. You said there
would be a rifle. A fella can't even smoke. I
wish I was at home. Cherokee drove his sleigh to
the door, and they lifted Bobby in beside him. The
team of fine horses sprang away prancingly over the hard snow.
Cherokee had on his five hundred dollar overcoat of baby
seal skin. The lap robe that he drew about them
was as warm as velvet. Bobby slipped a cigarette from
his pocket and was trying to snap a match. Throw
that cigarette away, said Cherokee in a quiet but new voice.
Bobby hesitated, then dropped the cylinder overboard. Throw the box, too,
commanded the new voice, more reluctantly. The boy obeyed, say,
said Bobby presently. I like you. I don't know why
nobody never made me do anything I didn't want to
do before. Tell me, kid, said Cherokee, not using his
new voice. Are you sure your mother kissed that picture
that looks like me dead? Sure I seen her do it?
Didn't You remark somethin a while ago about wantin a rifle?
You bet I did? Will you get me one tomorrow?
Silver mounted Cherokee took out his watch. Half past nine.
We'll hit the junction plumb on time with Christmas Day?
Are you cold? Sit closer? Son? End of Christmas by
Injunction by O. Henry