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Speaker 1: Indian Pete's Christmas Gift by Herbert W. Collingwood. The moon

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was just peeping over the pines as Pete shiver. Shee

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slunk down the road from the lumber camp into the forest.

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Pete did not present a surpassingly dignified appearance as he

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scuped through the clearing, but he was not a very

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dignified person, even at his best. Most persons would have said,

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I think that Pete's method of departure was hardly appropriate

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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

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had his own reasons for his actions. He crept along

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behind the stumps and logs till he reached the forest. Then,

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as if the shadow gave him fresh courage and dignity,

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he drew himself upright and started at a sharp trot

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down the road toward the village. We have said that

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Pete had reasons for his conduct. They were good ones.

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In the first place, he was an Indian, not a

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

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but a mean, dirty, yellow faced engine, lazy and worthless

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picking up a living about the lumber camps working as

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little as he could, and eating and drinking as much

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as possible. Such was the messenger. The mission was worse yet.

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

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the ice had stilled for the time the mouth of

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the Roaring River. It was Saturday night as well, and

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for some time past the lumbermen had been considering the

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advisability of keeping the good old holiday with some form

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of celebration suited to the occasion. The citizens of Carter's

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camp were not remarkably fastidious. They knew but one form

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of celebration, and they had no thought of hunting out

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new ones. The one thing needful to make a celebration

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completely successful was liquor. This they must have in order

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to do justice to the day. The temperance laws of

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Carters were very strict, not that the moral sentiment of

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the place was particularly high. But it had been noticed

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that the amounts of labor and whisky were in inverse proportion.

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The more whisky, the less labor. It was a pure

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question of political economy. The foreman had often stated that

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he would prosecute to the fullest extent of the law

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the first man caught bringing whiskey into the camp. The

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foreman did not attempt, perhaps to deny that his knowledge

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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

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himself act as judge and jury, while his fist and

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foot would take the place of witness and counsel. There

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was something so terrible in this statement, coming as it

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did from the largest man in camp, that very little

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whisky had thus far been brought in. Christmas had come

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and the drinking element Carter's camp proposed that Pete Shivershee

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the engine, be sent to town for a quantity of the

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liquid poison that the drinkers might enjoy themselves. Bill Gammon

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found Pete curled up by the stove. He took him

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out of doors and explained the business in hand. Bill

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prided himself somewhat on his ability to get work out

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of engines. Pete muttered only all right. He took the

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money Bill gave him, and then slunk away down the

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road for the forest. As we have seen him. Bill

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felt so confident of the success of his experiment that

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he did not hesitate to inform the boys that Pete

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was dead. Sure to return he would stake his reputation

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on it. Pete was in a hard position. If he

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loved anything in this world, it was whiskey. If there

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was anything he fared, it was Bill's fist. The two

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were sure to go together. The money jingling in his

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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

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turning a corner of the road, he came upon a

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little clearing in which stood a small log house. Pete

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

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

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person of little importance by the side of his wife,

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though like all lords of creation, he considered himself the

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legal and proper head of the family, as well as

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one of the mainstays of society. His part of the

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family government consisted for the most part, in keeping the

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house supplied with wood and water, and in smoking his

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comfortable pipe in the corner, while his wife bent over

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

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and so all the laundry work fell to her. Laundry

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work in the pine woods implies mending and darning as

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well as washing and ironing, and the poor little woman

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

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day after day over the steaming tub, with the children

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running about like little wolves, and Jeff kindly giving his

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advice from his comfortable corner. And even after the children

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were in bed at night, she must sit up and

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

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how rough and strong they seemed, running about all day all.

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But poor little Marie, the oldest, she had never been strong,

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and now at last she was dying of consumption. She

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could not sit up at all, but lay all day

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on the little bed in the corner, watching her mother

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with sad, beautiful eyes. The brave little frenchwoman's heart almost

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failed her at times, as she saw how day by

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day the little form grew thinner, the eyes more beautiful,

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

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but there was nothing she could do. Pete was a

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regular visitor at Jeff's, and always a welcome one. His

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work was to carry the washing to and from camp.

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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,

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but Missus Hunt and the little Marie called him only

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injun but they always said, mister Shivershee, the measter Shivershee

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of the little frenchwoman was the nearest claim to respectability

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

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home the clothes, he dropped them in the mud. He

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never minded the whipping bill Gammon gave him half as

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much as he did poor Missus Hunt's tears to think

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how her work had gone for nothing. As Pete came

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trotting down the road, Jeff stood in front of his house,

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chopping stovewood from a great log. A lantern hung on

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a stump provided light for his purpose. Pete stopped, from

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

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glad of any chance to interrupt his work, paused to

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talk with him. Walk in Injin said Jeff, hospitably, your

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clothes ain't quite ready, but the woman will have him

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all up soon. Walk in. It suddenly came over Pete

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that this was his night for taking the clothes home,

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but his present errand was of far are more importance

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than mere laundry work. Me no stop, I go on

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to town great work, large business, by which vague hints

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he meant, no doubt to impress Jeff with a sense

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of the dignity of his mission, yet cunningly to keep

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its object concealed, going to town. Be Ye, great doin's

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ter camp tomor I suppose I'll be round if I

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can get away. But walk in engine and get your

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supper and see the women. And Jeff opened the door

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for Pete to pass in. The thought of supper was

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too much for Pete, and he slunk in after Jeff

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and stood in the corner by the door. The room

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was hardly an inviting one, and yet if Pete had

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been a white man, some thoughts of home, sweet home,

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must have passed through his mind. But he was only

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a despised engun. A rough board table was laid for

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supper at one side of the room. In the corner,

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little Marie lay, with the firelight falling over her poor

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thin face. Pete must have felt as he looked at her,

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like some hopeless convict gazing through his prison bars upon

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some fair set ain't passing before him. She seemed to

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be in another world than his. There seemed between them

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a gulf that could not be bridged. Three of the

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larger children were sobbing in the corner, while the rest

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formed a sorrowful group about an old box, in which

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were two or three simple plants, frozen and yellow. Missus

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Hunt was frying pork over the hot stove. As she

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

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Jeff was the very prince of hosts. He made haste

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to make Pete feel at home. Set by injun. So

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the boys is going to kinders celebrate tomorrow be they?

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But Pete felt that his mission must not be disclosed.

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What matter is with kids? He asked to change the subject. Oh,

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they're just a yellin' about them flowers, explained Jeff. You

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see they have been a trainin some posies outdoors against tomorrow.

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Ye see tomorrow's Christmas. You see an them kids, they

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

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that corner where the little galley is. Little gals when

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they ain't well likes things, you know. Pete nodded. He

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was not aware of this love of diminutive females. But

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it should not show very good breeding to appear ignorant. Well,

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you see, continued Jeff, they kept the flowers away from

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

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this afternoon they got catched by the frost, and now

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there they be stiff'n' steaks. It is kinderbad, ain't it?

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Specially as it's Christmas too? What Christmas put in? Pete?

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Oh Christmas? While it's sorder day like, it's somethin like

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

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

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And Jeff concealed his own ignorance, as many wiser and

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better men have done, by assuming a tone too lofty

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for his audience. But Missus Hunt could explain even if

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Jeff could not. She paused on the way to the

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stove with a dish of pork in her hand. It's

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the day of the Good Lord, mister, sheb she it

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is the day when the Good Lord he was born,

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and when all the people should be glad. But the

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little woman belied her own creed as she thought of

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little Marie and the dead flowers. I hardly think Pete

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gained a very clear idea of the day, even from

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Missus Hunt's explanation, It was I fear all Greek to him.

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What flowers fur? He asked, as in response to Jeff's

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polite invitation, he sat by and began supper. Well, it's

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sorter idea of the women, explained, Jeff looks kinder pooty

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to see the flowers round. Ye see, kinder slicks up

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a room like all these things? Has ter come inter

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keepin' house, ye see? Injun with which broad explanation, Jeff

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helped himself to a piece of pork. But missus Hunt

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was bound to explain too. Her explanation was certainly more poetic.

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Speaker 2: He'd is the way we show our love for the

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

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We take the flowers, and with much love we placed

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them upon the walls, and we make others happy with them.

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And the good Lord, who loves us all, he is pleased.

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But here, seeing the sobbing children and the frozen plants,

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she could not help wiping her eyes upon her apron.

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The little sufferer on the bed saw this action, her voice.

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Speaker 1: Was almost gone. Never mind, mamma, she whispered, But the

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beautiful eyes were filled with tears. For she knew that

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Mamma would mind that she could not help it. Pete

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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

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help seeing something of the sorrow that the loss of

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the flowers had brought upon the family. He finished his supper,

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then slunk out at the door again. Jeff followed him out.

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Little Gal, ever get well, asked Pete. No, I don't

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

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out for her. Makes it kinder bad, you see, nice,

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clever little gal has ever lived too. Stop in an,

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get your clothes when ye come back, will ye? All right?

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Muttered Pete as he trotted away toward town. I wonder

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what Pete was thinking about as he ran through the forest,

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

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Yet when one comes from such a scene as Pete

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had just witnessed, and when such sad eyes as Marie's

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haunt one all along a lonely road, even an Injune's

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

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thoughts were as he shuffled mile after mile through the snow.

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The scene he had just left rose before his dulled engine. Mind,

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how kind missus Hunt had always been to him. She

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was the only one that called him mister. How queer

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it was that the children should cry because the flowers

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were killed. How little Marie had looked at him. Somehow

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Pete could not drive those sad eyes away. They seemed

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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

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the flowers were frozen? It is no wonder that when

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the last few lingering village lights came into view, Pete

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was wondering how he could help matters out. It was

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

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here and there some late workers showed to light. The

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bar rooms were opened full blast, And as Pete glided

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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

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of the jingling money for an equal amount of good cheer.

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But the fist had the best of it, and he

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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

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was performed, and when Pete least expected it. Pete knew

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better than to go to the front door of the barroom.

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He knew how well he and all his race are

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protected by the government. It had been decided that no

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one should be allowed to sell liquor to an engine,

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at least at the regular bar. If an engine, however,

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could so far loose sight of his personal dignity as

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to come sneaking in at the back door and pay

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an extra price for his liquor, whose business was it.

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Pete knew the way of the bar tenders, he had

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been in the business before. He did not go in

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at the front door, where the higher bred white men

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were made welcome, but slunk down an alley by the

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side of the building, meaning to go in the backway.

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There was no light in the store next to the

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bar room. It was a milliner's store and had been

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closed for some hours. But in the back room two

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women were working away to finish a hat evidently intended

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

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alley for a moment to watch them. A man sat

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asleep in a chair by the stove, but the women

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worked on with tireless fingers. The hat was growing more

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and more brilliant under their quick touches. By their side

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stood a basket of artificial flowers and bright ribbons. It

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seemed to Pete that he had never before seen anything

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

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some for the little sick girl. It was a severe

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struggle for the poor engine out there in the dark alley,

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the thought of the thrashing he would receive on the

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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

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a kindness. It may have been a miracle, or it

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may have been just the outcropping of the desire to

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repay a kindness which even an Indian and is said

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to possess. At any rate, the eyes conquered, and Pete

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braved the fist of Bill, for fear that he should

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lose courage. He pushed against the door of the room

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

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can assure you the idea of an injun pushing his

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way into the back parlor of a milliner's shop was

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too much of a revolutionary proceeding to pass unnoticed. The

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women dropped their work with a little scream, while the

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man started from his chair with most violent intent upon

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poor Pete. Whatt you be after here? Injun? He growled,

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hump yourself out o here, get a goin. But Pete

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pulled out his money, at the sight of which the

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standing army of the milliner's store paused. Money has smoothed

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over many an outrage, it may perhaps excuse even an

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action on the part of an injun. I want flowers,

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Pete said, pointing at the basket. Give me flowers, I pay.

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Oh you want to buy some of them artificial flowers?

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Speaker 2: Do ye?

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Speaker 1: 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.

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And he held the basket out at arm's length for

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Pete to select. Pete took a great red rose and

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a white flower. There was not very much of a

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stock to select from, but Pete, with engine instincts, selected

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the largest and gaudiest them. Is worth about ten shillings,

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figured up the merchant. Taking the money from Pete's hand.

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Pete carefully placed the flowers in the pocket of his

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

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rendered affable by the most surprising bargain he had just made,

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naturally wished to retain the patronage of such a model customer.

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Want anything in our line, just call around and will

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please ye only come a little afore bedtime when you

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come again. But Pete slunk out at the door and

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did not hear him. Pete's money was nearly gone, but

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he had a scheme in his head. He slunk into

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the back door of the bar room and obtained his

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jug and what whiskey he could buy with the rest

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of his money. Then up the street he ran again

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out of town, stopping only once at the pump to

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fill the jug to the top with water. Resolutely fastening

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in the stopper, and not even raising the jug to

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his mouth, he started for camp at his long swinging

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trot with the jug in his hand. Mile after mile

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was passed over, yet Pete did not stop till Jeff

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Hunt's cabin came in sight. Hiding his jug behind a log,

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he crept up to the window and looked in. The

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light was burning on the table while Missus Hunt sat

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nodding over her work. She had been mending the clothes

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so that Pete could take them back with him. Tired out,

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she had fallen asleep. The box of frozen plants still

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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.

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Over her head were hung long clusters of moss, with

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masses of ground pine and red berries. Pete stole to

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the door and went in. Missus Hunt woke with a start,

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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

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out the great red rose in the white flower. He

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laid them on the table with flowers for little gal sick,

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make her think Christmas. Good flowers, all color, no fade,

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

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slunk away without waiting for Missus Hunt's thanks. When Bill

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Gammon woke in the morning, he found the jug at

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the foot of his bunk, but Pete was nowhere to

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be seen. He had left the jug and fled. The

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Christmas celebration at Carter's was a very tame affair. Many

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were the curses showered upon Pete, And had that worthy

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been present, I doubt if even the thought of the

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famous miracle would have sustained him in the beating he

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would have received. But if Pete's conduct produced such a

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sad effect upon the festivities at Carter's, the joy it

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

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Christmas Son, Glad with the promise of the old old story,

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came dancing and sparkling over the trees, and looked down

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in wonderful tenderness upon the humble cabin. The first bright

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beams fell upon the bed where little Marie was lying.

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They showed her the rose and the white flower nestling

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in the evergreens. The children came and stood in one

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before the rude flowers. How wonderful they were. Where could

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they have come from. The face of the little girl

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was more patient than before. The eyes seemed more tender,

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and yet not so sad. Perhaps the glad son, the

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same good son that had looked upon that far away

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tomb from which the stone had rolled, whispered to her

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as it played about her face. How soon the stone

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would roll from her life? How soon she would forget

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all her care and trouble and enter the land of

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sunshine and flowers. It may be that the good old

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Christmas Sun even hunted out poor, despised Pete and told

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him something of its happiness. I am sure he deserved it,

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let us hope so at any rate. End of Indian

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Pete's Christmas Gift by Herbert W. Collingwood