FOOTNOTES:
[1] By permission of the author and “Good Housekeeping.”
CHRISTMAS ON THE SINGING RIVER[2]
Jefferson Lee Harbour
There was always a crowd in waiting when the stage-coach arrived in the shabby little mining-camp of Singing River. As a rule, the crowd assembled on the long, wide platform in front of the post-office, which was also the stage-office, the hotel, the general store, and the center from which radiated the social life of the camp. Above the post-office was a small and dingy hall lighted with dripping tallow candles; and such public amusements or entertainments as there were in Singing River were given in this hall. The platform in front of the building was the favorite “loafing-place” of the miners. The arrival of the stage-coach was the connecting-link between Singing River and the great outside world from which the little mining-camp was so far removed. The nearest railroad station was one hundred miles distant, and there was no town within fifteen miles any larger than Singing River, which was but a little hamlet of log-cabins, tents, and slab shanties far up the mountainside above the little Singing River in the rocky gulch below. The Singing River was a narrow and shallow stream; but its crystal-clear waters surged in foamy wavelets around moss-covered boulders and went singing on so merrily that there was perpetual music in even the darkest and gloomiest parts of the gulch. But there was ice over the river for seven months of the year, and then nothing was to be heard but the dreary sound of the wind as it went moaning or shrieking up and down the long, dark cañon.
The winters were long and bitter in Singing River. Snow began to fly as early as the last of September, and it still lay deep in the gulches and in the narrow, rocky streets of the camp while the wild flowers were blooming in the far-distant valleys.
But on the December day when this story opens, the stage arrived a full hour in advance of the usual time, and only a few of the men of the camp were at the post-office when Dave Hixon, the stage-driver, drew rein before it, amid the gently falling snow. There were no passengers on the outside seats, and no inside occupants were to be seen. Apparently the big stage was empty.
“Light load this trip, Dave,” said big Jim Hart, the postmaster, as he came out to get the limp and unpromising-looking mail-bag.
“I should say so,” replied Dave, as he took off his wide-brimmed felt hat and slapped it against the side of the coach to rid it of the snow that had fallen upon it.
“I reckon travel is about done for this season over the Shoshone trail, an’ they’ll soon stop sendin’ the coach up here even once a week, an’ then we’ll be clean shut off from everywhere. No passengers this trip—eh?”
“Only two, an’ there’s so little of them that I reckon they’ve rattled round like peas in a pod inside there.”
Then Dave leaned far downward and, twisting himself around, called out to some one within the stage:
“Hello, there, youngsters! You all right?”
A shrill, childish voice replied: “Yes, sir.”
“Well, you’d better crawl out o’ that an’ git in where it’s warmer, an’ git some o’ Ma’am Hickey’s hot supper. Hey, Ma’am Hickey, I’ve fetched you a kind of a queer cargo!”
This last remark was addressed to a large, round-faced, motherly-looking woman who had come to the door of the hotel part of the building with her apron over her head.
“What’s that you say, Dave?” she called out loudly and heartily.
“I say I’ve fetched you a kind of a queer cargo. You just come out an’ see if I hain’t.”
He jumped down from his high driver’s seat and flung open the stage door as Ma’am Hickey came over to the edge of the roadway. Reaching into the coach, Dave picked up what appeared to be a round bundle on the back seat, and set it out in the snow with a buffalo robe around it. The robe fell to the ground, and there was revealed to the amazed bystanders a girl of about nine years with big dark eyes that looked calmly and yet appealingly at the staring group. The next moment Dave had set a yellow-haired boy of about five years down beside the girl.
“There you air!” said Dave, the stage-driver. “Got ’commodations for this lady an’ gent, Ma’am Hickey?”
“Well, I’ll make ’commodations for ’em, if I have to turn you out o’ your bed to do it,” said Ma’am Hickey, as she dropped to her knees before the little boy and took him into her arms, saying as she did so:
“Why, bless your heart an’ soul, little feller! I declare if it don’t feel sweet to git a child into my arms once more! An’ whose boy air you, anyhow?”
“Papa’s,” replied the boy, shyly, with a slight quivering of his lips and an attempt to release himself from Ma’am Hickey’s embrace.
“An’ where is papa, honey?”
“Here.”
Ma’am Hickey looked around toward the men as if expecting some of them to come forward and claim the child; but they too were looking around inquiringly as the crowd grew in numbers, attracted by the news of the arrival of the stage. Noting the boy’s quivering lips and half-frightened look in the presence of all those strangers, his sister stepped toward him and patted his head gently with her mittened hand, saying as she did so:
“There, there; don’t you cry, Freddy. Sister will take care of you; yes, she will.”
“Where did you little folks come from?” asked Ma’am Hickey, rising to her feet with the little boy in her arms.
“From Iowa, ma’am.”
“Ioway!” exclaimed Ma’am Hickey. “You don’t ever mean to tell me that you have come all the way from Ioway to this place all by your lone selves?”
The girl nodded her head and said:
“Yes, we did. We had a letter to the conductors on the trains telling them where we were going, and we got along all right; didn’t we, Freddy?”
The little boy nodded his head solemnly, too much awed by his strange surroundings to speak.
“Well, if that don’t beat anything I ever heard of!” exclaimed Ma’am Hickey. “If I’d been your ma you wouldn’t’ve done it!”
The little girl kept looking into the faces of the men who crowded about them, and said:
“I don’t see my papa anywhere. He said that he would be here when the stage got here with us; but I don’t see him at all.”
“What is your papa’s name, deary?”
“Richard Miller.”
The men looked at each other blankly. Some of them opened and closed their mouths without uttering a sound. Big “Missouri Dan” uttered an exclamation under his breath. Ma’am Hickey held up one finger warningly. Then she stooped and kissed the little girl on the brow, and said gently:
“You come right into the house with me, little folks. I’ll get you a real nice hot supper, an’ then I think you’d best go right to bed after your long ride.”
When the cabin door had closed behind them, Big Dan said to the miners around him:
“Well, if this ain’t what I call a state of affairs! To think of them poor little tots trailin’ ’way out here from back in Ioway only to find their daddy a day in his grave! Cur’us how things turns out!”
“What’s to be done?” asked a long, lank, red-whiskered man called “Cap.”
“Shore enough,” drawled out an elderly man who had been chewing the end of his long gray mustache reflectively.
“I move that we go over to my shack an’ talk the matter over,” said Big Dan; and, without waiting for his motion to be voted upon, he started toward his cabin, a small log affair a short distance around the rocky road. The men around the post-office followed Big Dan, and, when they were in his cabin, seated on benches and nail-kegs or sprawling on buffalo robes in front of the fire in the big open fire-place, one of the men said:
“What does all this mean, anyhow? You know that I’ve just come down from Mount Baldy, an’ all this is Greek to me.”
“Well, it’s just this-a-way,” replied Dan. “Three days ago a man come into camp on foot from over towards Roarin’ Fork. He was so sick when he got here he could hardly speak, an’ ’bout all we got outo’ him was that his name was Miller. Pneumonia had set in mighty hard, an’ in less than two hours after he got here he couldn’t speak at all, an’ he didn’t live twelve hours. We laid him under that little clump o’ pines down near the bend in the Singin’ River not ten hours ago; an’ now here in comes the stage with that boy an’ gal, ev’dently the prop’ty o’ this same Miller, who ain’t here to meet ’em, an’ who won’t ever meet ’em in this world. It goes without sayin’ that they ain’t got no ma. If they had, she’d never let ’em come trailin’ off out here all by theirselves. It’s mighty tough on ’em.”
“That’s right,” agreed the man called Cap. “I’m old an’ tough as ever they make ’em, but I ain’t fergot my own childhood so fur as not to ’preciate just how them pore little young uns will feel when they reelize the sitooation. I feel fer ’em.”
“So do I,” said a stalwart fellow of about thirty-five years. “I’ve got a couple o’ little folks o’ my own back East, an’ that boy reminds me a sight o’ my own little chap.”
The men were still discussing the strange and sad occurrence, and the question of the future of the children was still unsettled, when the door of the cabin opened and Ma’am Hickey appeared. Her eyes were red and her voice was unsteady as she said:
“I just run over to say one thing, boys, an’ that’s this: Don’t one of you dast to breathe a word to them pore little darlin’s about where their pa is until after Christmas. They’re not to know that they are orphans until after that time. Their ma died last spring, an’ their pa sent for ’em to come out here to him. It’s a mighty rough place to fetch ’em to, but the little girl says that an aunt of hers was to come on from California an’ be with ’em this winter, an’ their pa wrote that he would likely go on to California in the spring—pore man! He’s gone on now to a country that’s furder away than that!”
She wiped her eyes on the back of her hand before adding:
“It jest about broke my heart to hear them two pore little things talkin’ about Christmas, an’ wonderin’ what their pa would have for ’em, while I was undressin’ ’em for bed. An’ I made up my mind that they shouldn’t know a thing about what has happened until after Christmas; an’, what’s more, some o’ you men kin jest stretch your long legs hoofin’ it over to Crystal City to git ’em some toys an’ things to make good my promise to ’em that if they hung up their stockin’s Christmas eve they’d find ’em full next mornin’. Now you boys remember that mum is the word in regard to their pa. Leave it to me to pacify ’em in regard to his not comin’ for ’em. They’re the cunnin’est little things I ever saw, an’ it’s jest too terrible that this trouble has had to befall ’em!”
When good Ma’am Hickey had gone back to the hotel, Big Dan slapped his great rough palms together and said:
“I tell you what, boys! Let’s give them two little unfortinists a jolly good Christmas! I’m fairly sp’ilin’ for somethin’ to do, an’ I’ll hoof it over to Crystal City an’ git a lot o’ Christmas gimcracks for ’em.”
“I’ll keep you company,” said Joe Burke, the man who had two little ones of his own back East. “Travelin’ on snow-shoes over the mountain passes at this time o’ the year is ruther dangerous, an’ it’s not best to start out on a trip alone. Then I guess I know more about what would please the youngsters than you would, Dan.”
“I ain’t ever took occasion to mention it before, but I happen to know a little about what children like, my own self, seein’ as I have had two o’ my own,” replied Big Dan. “They both died the same week. It happened nearly forty years ago, but these two little wayfarers stragglin’ into camp this way brings it all back to me.”
No one in the camp had ever heard Big Dan speak so solemnly, and there was silence in the room when he added:
“I reckon I know enough about children to know that a big doll with these here open-and-shet kind o’ eyes allus takes the fancy of a little gal, an’ that a boy allus likes somethin’ that’ll make a racket. But I’ll be glad o’ your comp’ny, Joe.”
Ma’am Hickey appeared again before the conference came to an end.
“They’re cuddled up in bed in each other’s arms, cheek to cheek, the pore little dears,” she said. “I pacified ’em in regard to their pa without tellin’ any actual fib, an’ they went to sleep content. The little boy’s tongue went like a trip-hammer when he finally got it unloosened, and he jabbered away fast enough. But most he talked about was Christmas. He’s set his heart on a steam-engine that will go ‘choo, choo, choo,’ an’ if you boys can find such a thing in Crystal City, you buy it an’ fetch it along with you, an’ I’ll foot the bill. The little girl is doll-crazy, like most little girls, so you must get her one, or more than one. An’ of course you’ll lay in plenty o’ candy; an’ if you can lug home a turkey or two on your backs I’ll get up a Christmas supper for ’em to eat after we’ve had the tree.”
“The tree?” said one of the men, inquiringly.
“Yes, sir; the tree! Of course them little folks must have a tree. They say they want one, an’ why shouldn’t they have it, with the finest Christmas trees in the world right at hand here in the mountains?”
“Where you goin’ to have the tree, I’d like to know?” said a burly miner.
“In the hall over the post-office.”
“Well, if you ain’t plannin’ a reg’lar jamboree!”
“Course I am!” replied Ma’am Hickey. “Got any objections?”
“Better keep ’em to yourself if you have,” said Big Dan. “For what Ma’am Hickey an’ them two little youngsters says—goes.”
“That settles it,” said Ma’am Hickey, with a laugh.
Crystal City was a long distance from Singing River, and the mountain trails were hard and dangerous to travel at that time of the year. The stage would not make another trip until after Christmas, and it might be a month before it returned after it left the camp.
Big Dan and Joe Burke set off at daybreak the morning after the arrival of the two little wayfarers. The men had “chipped in” for the purchase of “gimcracks” for the tree, and they had been so generous that Big Dan said just before he started for Crystal City:
“We’ll have to have the biggest pine we kin git for the tree. You chaps have it all set up in the hall by the time we git back.”
“You sure you got that list o’ things I wrote down for you?” asked Ma’am Hickey. “Men ain’t got any kind of a mem’ry when it comes to shoppin’.”
“I got the list right here in this pocket,” replied Dan, patting his broad chest. “If we have good luck we’ll be back by noon day after to-morrow, an’ that night is Christmas eve, so you’ll want the tree all ready. Did the little folks sleep good?”
“They never stirred; but once the little boy laughed out in his sleep an’ said somethin’ about a steam-engine. Both of the children are sleepin’ yet.”
An hour later the children were up and were eating their breakfast in Ma’am Hickey’s cozy kitchen, which was also the dining-room of the hotel.
“Will my papa come to-day?” asked Freddy, as he helped himself to a hot doughnut.
“Don’t worry none about your papa, deary,” Ma’am Hickey said. “We’ll see to you all right. Let’s talk about Christmas.”
“I never talked so much about Christmas in all the born days of my life as I talked about it in them two days,” said Ma’am Hickey, afterward. “It was the only way I could git their minds off their pa.”
Ma’am Hickey’s account of the Christmas tree at Singing River is so much more interesting than any account I could give of it, that I think it best to let her tell about it in her own way:
“You see, Big Dan an’ Joe Burke got back all right the middle of the afternoon the day before Christmas. They looked like a pair o’ pack peddlers, an’ they were about fagged out, for they had had a hard time of it pullin’ up over the mountain trails in a snow-storm. Joe said he didn’t think he could have dragged himself another mile for love nor money. He had two big turkeys on his back besides a great lot of other things.
“Well, the men in the camp had been busy, too. They had cut a big pine an’ set it up in the hall over the post-office, an’ the way they had dec’rated the hall with evergreen was beautiful. You couldn’t see an inch of the ugly bare logs nor of the bare rafters. They set to an’ scrubbed the floor an’ washed the winders, an’ strung up a lot o’ red, white and blue buntin’ I happened to have in the house, an’ I tell you the little old hall did look scrumptious. I kep’ the children in the kitchen with me, where I was makin’ pies an’ cake an’ doughnuts most o’ the time. I give ’em dough to muss with, an’ let ’em scrape the cake-dishes, an’ tried to keep ’em interested all the time, so they wouldn’t ask about their pa.
“When Big Dan an’ Joe got back the other men had a great time riggin’ up the tree. We was afeerd they wouldn’t be able to buy Christmas-tree candles in Crystal City; but, my land! they got about ten dozen of ’em, an’ no end o’ tinsel an’ shiny balls an’ things to hang on the tree, an’ a lot o’ little flags to stick in among the evergreen dec’rations. We had no end o’ common taller candles on hand, an’ the men were perfectly reckless with ’em. I reckon they put as many as two hundred of ’em up around the room. An’ what did they do but go an’ rig Big Dan up as Santy Claus! They wrapped him up in a big bearskin one o’ the boys had, an’ put about a quart o’ flour on his long, bushy whiskers to whiten ’em, an’ they put a big fur cap on his head, and he did look for all the world like Santy his own self. Yes; an’ he had a string o’ sleigh-bells they got at the stage-office stable; an’ them boys ackshully cut a hole in the roof so Santy Claus could come down through it! La, if you want things carried through regardless, you let a lot o’ Rocky Mountain boys take it in hand. They won’t stop at nothin’. I reckon they’d h’isted off the hull roof if it had been necessary to make the appearance of Santy true to life. Such fun as the boys had over it all! An’ of all the capers they cut up! Seemed like they was all boys once more! Me an’ Ann Dickey an’ Mary Ann Morris were the only women in the camp, an’ we had our hands full gittin’ up the Christmas supper we intended havin’ after the tree. Mind you, there wasn’t a child in camp but just them two pore little orphans, an’ all that fuss was on their account. If you think rough miner boys can’t have the kindest o’ hearts, you just remember that. Every man seemed to be tryin’ to outdo the others in doin’ somethin’ for them little folks.
“Well, I jest wisht you could have seen them children when the time come for ’em to go up to the hall an’ see their tree! Little Freddy he give a yell o’ joy that most split our ears, an’ he just stood an’ clapped his hands, while his sister kep’ sayin’, ‘How lovely it is! Oh, isn’t it beautiful?’ Then Freddy he screeches out: ‘Oh, there’s my choo-choo engine! Goody!’ An’ how little Elsie’s eyes did shine when she saw no less than three dolls on the tree for herself! There was enough stuff on that tree for a hull Sunday-school, for the men had been that reckless in sendin’ to Crystal City for things.
“Then I wisht you could have seen those children when Big Dan come in all rigged up as Santy Claus! That was the cap-sheaf o’ the hull proceedin’s! First we heard his bells outside, an’ him callin’ out, ‘Whoa, there!’ like as if he was talkin’ to his reindeers. Then he clim up the ladder the boys had set outside, an’ presently down he come through the hole in the roof. I jest thought little Fred’s eyes would pop clean out o’ his head when that part o’ the show come off! An’ what fun there was when old Santy went around givin’ the boys all sorts of ridiculous presents! He give old Tim Thorpe a tiny chiny doll, an’ big Jack Ross a jumpin’-jack, an’ Ben Anderson a set o’ little pewter dishes; an’ he fetched me a great big old pipe, when they knowed I hated the very sight o’ one. I tell you, it was real fun!
“Well, the things had all been distributed, an’ the children were loaded down with presents, an’ me an’ the two other women were about to go downstairs to take up the supper, when the door of the hall opened, and a strange man stepped in. When he saw the children he give a kind of a little outcry, an’ the next minute he was down on his knees before ’em, with an arm around each child, an’ he was kissin’ first one an’ then the other. We all jest stared at each other when little Elsie clapped her hands together and said:
“‘Why, papa!’
“An’ that’s jest who it was! The man named Miller who had died a few days before was a cousin o’ the children’s pa. It seemed that his cousin o’ the name of Miller had been sent to meet the children, because their pa had been sick an’ wasn’t hardly strong enough to come away over to Singin’ River for them. He lived in a little camp only about twenty miles away, but it was a hard road to travel for a well man, even. So this cousin he come, an’, from all we could make out, he had lost his way in a storm, an’ had laid out a night an’ got so chilled it had brought on pneumonia. When he didn’t come back with the children after two or three days, their pa got oneasy, an’ he set out himself to see what was the matter. He wasn’t hardly fit to travel, but he come anyhow, an’ he was all tuckered out when he got to Singin’ River. Then he was so nervous an’ kind o’ wrought up that no one thought it to his shame that he jest broke clean down an’ laughed an’ cried by turns, kind o’ hystericky like, over the children.
“We did have the best time at the supper! A storm had come up, an’ the wind was roarin’ an’ howlin’ in the cañon an’ up an’ down the Singin’ River, an’ the sleet was dashin’ ag’in’ the winder-lights; but that jest made it seem more cheery an’ comfortable in the cabin, with a roarin’ fire o’ pine-knots in the big fireplace at one end o’ the cabin, an’ the teakettle singin’ on my big shinin’ stove at the other end. Mr. Miller he set between the two children, an’ he’d hug an’ kiss ’em between times. We made him stay two whole weeks in Singin’ River to rest up an’ git real well, an’ then a hull passel o’ the boys went with him to git the children home. The boys rigged up a sled, an’ tuk turns drawin’ Elsie an’ Freddy over the trails an’ away up over Red Bird Mountain. I reckon it was a ride they won’t ever forgit; an’ none of us that were there will ever in this world forgit that Christmas on the Singin’ River.”