hands as often swung the pick and shook the pan, as pointed the rifle.
When his company of gold-hunters from the Nacoochee had struck the
Sierra, they had scattered through it to prospect for _placer_, and he
had then first come upon the gulch, and though it had never panned out
even "a color," the charm of its virgin solitude had smitten the
half-savage heart of this wanderer after the will-o-wisp of fortune. Too
tangled for trail lay the storm-felled trees, and no man's foot but his
own ever trod the gramma grass or brushed the wild cypress bending by
the stream. By this, just where the beavers had built their dam,
Cherokee Sam had pitched his cabin. Standing by the margin of the silent
pool, in close proximity to the uncouth beaver huts, at the first glance
its mud-be-daubed exterior might have been taken for the mud palace of
the king beaver himself, but for the thin smoke that slowly melting into
air marked the abode of fire-making man. In the rich "bottom" near, the
half-breed, with provident mind for "ash-cakes," and "fatty bread," had
planted a corn patch, and at evening as he came over the hill above,
returning from his day's hunting, and saw the cabin, and the corn
greenly waving, he hailed the spot as home.
But one day as he sat idly before his open door, a little gray _burro_
came ambling agilely through the fallen trees, his rider, a dwarfish man
of haughty aspect, whose cheeks were wrinkled, and beard grizzled, but
whose eyes were as piercing and elf-locks as black as the half-breed's
own. Seated on his little long-eared palfrey, he accosted the half-breed
and gravely inquired, in tolerable English, if he knew that he was
trespassing on the lands of the _patron_, who lived at the plaza, on the
plain below.
"No; I don't know nothing about no _patron_," said Cherokee Sam shortly,
as he arose and stood towering in giant height above the dwarfish rider
of the _burro_.
_Bien_, then he was sorry to have to tell him, said the Spanish
stranger in suave reply. He was the _mayordomo_, and this was the
_patron's_ land, and the coyote (half-breed) that killed all the deer
must seek some other spot. Far he must go, too, for the _patron's_ land
was far-reaching, and he pointed with his willow wand to the Sierra
rising above, and the plain rolling far away below. On all sides far as
the eye could see was the _patron's_ land. His it was by virtue of a
Spanish grant.
The coyote giant laughed in scorn. "I've heerd of them thar grants. What
good are they? Squatters' rights and squatters' rifles rules in this
here free country, I reckon. Go back, little Mr. Mexican, to your
_patron_, and tell him that here I've took up my homestead, and here
I'll stay, and you uns may do your do!"
As he spoke he threw his rifle on his hollowed arm, and looked black
thunder from his beetling brow upon the burro-rider. Perhaps had he been
less haughty in his defiance, he would have fared better at the
_mayordomo's_ hands. For when the corn was yellow, and he returned from
one of his periodical prospects to gather it, he found only the bare
stubble field awaiting him.
Thus it was that Cherokee Sam, hunter, prospector and squatter, despite
his triad of trades, was now at Christmas without a "corn-pone," and
this state was likely to continue through the winter.
Returning home at sunset with the legs of a doe tied across his breast,
and her slender head, with its big ears trailing behind against the
muzzle of the eager hound, the hunter strode from the timber on the
slope, and struck the snow from his frozen leggins and moccasons as he
paused on the Shut-in. A lofty upheaved ledge of red sandstone was this,
which arose from the slopes on either hand, and shut in the gulch from
the plain below, leaving only a narrow portal for the passage of the
stream.
Above him, as he stood, were the foot-hills, and his wild home all
snow-covered and cold in the shadow of the Sierra. But below the snow
had not fallen, and the plain shone brown and warm in the lingering
light of the setting sun. There, softened by the distance, with a
saffron shimmer about its dark outlines, lay the gray _adobe_ plaza,
sleeping by the silver stream.
There were gathered corn and oil, the fat of the land; and he would have
nothing but the deer on his shoulders for Christmas cheer. A bad gleam
came in the half-breed's eyes as he thought of his harried corn-patch,
and gazed at the abode of his enemy.
As if in sympathy with his master, the hound put up his bristles, and
growled savagely. Looking down, the hunter was astonished to see a small
figure standing motionless at the foot of the Shut-in, and gazing up at
him.
The stranger was a young boy. He was very richly and somewhat
fantastically dressed in a silken jacket, and silken _pantalones_, much
be-buttoned about the outer seams, and confined at the waist by a silken
sash. On his feet were buckskin _zapatos_, soled with raw-hide, and tied
with drawstrings of ribbon, and over his long and flowing hair a white
sombrero with gay silk tassels.
This he reverentially removed as the hunter descended, and resting on
him his soft black eyes, said:
"Good evening, Señor don San Nicolas. To-night is _Noche Buena_
(Christmas eve), and Padre Luis told me you would pass through the
Shut-in on your way to the plaza. So I've come to meet you."
His manner was eager and full of trustful confidence. The half-breed was
taken aback.
"I don't go by no such name as that," he replied gruffly. "I'm Cherokee
Sam, and I live down thar;" and he pointed to the dirt-roofed cabin in
the gulch.
"I wanted badly to see the saint," said the stranger, as his face fell;
"and I never could when he comes to the plaza, because I'm then always
asleep. I'm the _patroncito_, señor."
He had replaced his sombrero, and his air as he declared himself was
princely.
Illustration: THE BOY REVERENTIALLY REMOVED HIS SOMBRERO.
Cherokee Sam's face darkened. The young _patron_--the son of his
enemy--the despoiler of the corn-patch. Even now they must be seeking
him, and here he was in his hands. And there was no snow below, and
they could find no trail to follow.
"What did you do that for?" asked the _patroncito_, in a tone of
authority, as he laid his hand on the ragged bullet-hole behind the
doe's shoulder.
"I had to have meat for my Christmas dinner," said Sam. "Come with me,
and I will show you that thar Spanish Santy Claus you're huntin' for,"
he added, and held out his hand.
The _patroncito_ placed his own in it promptly. For a moment the giant
stayed his stride to the other's puny steps. Then the _patroncito_
stopped and said commandingly:
"The snow is deep; take me up!"
Never had the wild hunter known a master; but now, without a word, he
stooped and, like another giant St. Christopher, set the child upon his
shoulder, and plunged through the drifts for the cabin.
In a moment he had the doe gambrelled to a pine in front of the cabin.
Then he pushed open the slab door, and entering, blew up the covered
embers in the rough fireplace, and piled on the pitch pine. As it
blazed up, he drew a couple of deerskins from his bed in the corner and
flung them down before the fire and bade the _patroncito_ be seated.
He obeyed; and the half-breed looked at him with stern satisfaction.
Many a long day should it be ere the _patron_ saw again his son and
heir. But these reflections were disturbed. His guest pointed to his gay
_zapatos_.
"Will you please take them off, Don Cherokee Sam?" he said. "My feet are
wet and my fingers are numb."
The half-breed knelt and undid the ribbons, and drew them off, and also
his long silk stockings.
"_Muchas gracias, Don_," said the _patroncito_, as he reclined at ease
and toasted his bare toes before the fire.
His fearlessness pleased his hunter host well. His manner, too, was
patronizing, and the half-breed entered into the jest with savage humor.
"If you'll 'scuse me, Mister _Patroncito_, I'll git supper."
He spoke as if this were an operation requiring great culinary skill
and much previous preparation. It consisted in cutting three steaks,
with his sheath-knife, from the deer's ham, and placing them with a lump
of fat in the frying-pan over the fire. These turned and browned, two
tin cups filled with water, and the supper was ready.
The guest took kindly enough to the venison. He tasted the water and
paused. "I'll thank you for a cup of hot coffee, Don Cherokee Sam, with
plenty of sugar in it, if you please."
Don Cherokee Sam was embarrassed at this polite but luxurious request.
"Coffee's bad," he said, shaking his head. "It spiles my nerve so's I
can't draw a stiddy bead. Water's best, _patroncito_."
The guest was truly polite. He emptied his cup with the best of grace.
But presently he paused again in his consumption of venison.
"Pardon me, but you have forgotten the bread."
The host arose. What could he set before this youthful sybarite from the
plaza?
"Bread's been mighty scarce with me this winter," he muttered. "And I
planted a good plenty of corn out thar too."
The recollection roused his rankling resentment, and he paused.
"Why didn't you gather it, then, like the _peones_ do?" asked the
_patroncito_ placidly.
"It was stole," muttered the host; but he checked himself, and added in
a softer tone, "by b'ars and other varmints, I reckon."
And with this compromise between anger and truth, Cherokee Sam reached
up and took down a small sack hanging to the great centre roof-log. It
contained a few nubbins found on the harried field, his seed for next
spring.
"_Patroncito_," he remarked in a tone of conciliating confidence, as he
shelled an ear in the frying-pan, "thar's nothing like deer meat, and
running water, and the free air of heaven, and maybe parched corn oncet
in a while, to make a man a man."
Under this encomium the parched corn was partaken of with gravity. And
supper being over, the host cleaned up, a simple process, performed by
dashing cold water in the red-hot frying-pan, and hanging it on a nail.
"San Nicolas, you said you'd show him to me," then politely hinted the
_patroncito_.
"It's early yet for him," said Cherokee Sam. "He's jist about taking the
trail in the Sierra, and the drifts is mighty deep, too. But he'll be
here."
"My stockings, Don--they should be ready; and they're wet. Will you
oblige me by holding them to the fire?" said the princely _patroncito_.
Cherokee Sam held the damp stockings to the blaze. The _patroncito_
watched him sleepily.
"He's a long time coming, Don Cherokee Sam," he murmured, as he
nodded--nodded yet again, and slipped down upon the deerskin, fast
asleep.
The half-breed lifted him like a feather, and laid him on his bed and
drew the covering softly over him. Noiselessly he replenished the fire,
and squatted before it, resuming the stocking-drying process.
The resinous boughs burst into flame, and a pungent perfume and a red
glow pervaded the smoke-blackened cabin. The light fell on the
_patroncito_ as he lay on the couch of skins, caressed the slender foot
he had thrust from out the covering, and danced on the silver buttons
strung on his gay _pantalones_. Over him, like an ogre, hovered the
wavering shadow of the giant's head, rendered more grotesque by his
towering cap of badger-skin, plumed with a flaunting tail.
As he sat on his heels in the brilliant light, this savage head-covering
lent additional fierceness to the half-breed's hatchet-face. Wild-eyed,
too, was he as any denizen of his chosen haunts. But stolid in its
composure as his saturnine countenance was, it was free from all trace
of the petty passions that cramp the souls of his civilized
half-brothers. And as he looked at the soft stockings, now dry in his
hands, a smile parted his thin lips.
Just then the firelight flared up and went suddenly out, and the
threatening shadow on the wall was lost. And though the door never
opened, and even the hunter's vigilant ears caught no sound, he felt a
presence in the cabin. Looking up, he dreamily beheld, shadowed forth
dimly in the gloom, the form of San Nicolas, long belated by the
drifts. But how that Spanish Christmas saint looked, or what he said to
remind the half-breed of that hallowed time when all should be peace on
earth and good will towards men, must ever remain a secret between him
and his lawless host.
The _patroncito_ awoke, and through the open doorway saw the snow
sparkling in the sun of Christmas morning. Over the fire Cherokee Sam
was frying venison, and on either side hung the long silk stockings,
filled.
"And I never saw him!" said the _patroncito_ reproachfully, as he looked
at them. "Oh, why didn't you wake me, Don Cherokee Sam?"
"I didn't dar to do it, _patroncito_," explained Sam. "'Twasn't safe
when he told me not to."
He watched the _patroncito_ anxiously as he took the stockings down. But
he need have had no fear. As their contents rolled out on the deerskin
the _patroncito_ uttered a cry of delight.
A handful of garnets, bits of broken agate, a shivered topaz, shining
cubes of iron pyrites, picked up on otherwise fruitless prospects by San
Nicolas; a tanned white weasel-skin purse, and ornaments of young
bucks' prongs, patiently carved by that good saint on winter evenings.
Certainly, never before, with all his silk and silver, had the petted
_patroncito_ received gifts so prized as these.
"Never mind about breakfast," he said imperiously, as he gathered them
up. "Take me to the plaza right away."
The half-breed humbly complied. But scarcely had they emerged from the
granite gateway of the Shut-in when they were met by a party from the
plaza, headed by the _patron_ himself, searching, in great trouble, for
the wanderer. They had been abroad all night. Happily, Cherokee Sam
remembered the admonitions of San Nicolas over night.
"_Patron_," he said, haughtily, as he led the _patroncito_ forward, "I
bring you a Christmas gift."
Then, as Cherokee Sam afterwards described it, "there was a jabbering
and a waving of hands by them thar Mexicans." And he, turning, strode
back to his cabin, and his unfinished breakfast. Still his resentment
rankled. But it vanished later on that day.
Once more the gray _burro_ ambled up the gulch bearing the dwarfish
_mayordomo_, but this time on a mission of peace. After him came a
_burrada_ (pack-train) well laden, and drew up before the door of the
astonished Cherokee Sam. With uncovered head and courtesy profound, the
_mayordomo_ stood before him and asked would Don Cherokee Sam indicate
where he would have the Christmas gifts, sent by the _patroncito_,
stored.
"In the cabin," replied Sam, glancing at the loaded _burros_ in dismay,
"if it will hold 'em. I ain't got nowhars else."
The _mayordomo_ waved his wand to the attendant packers, and in a moment
the cabin was filled with box, bag, and bale, closely piled. Assuredly
Don Cherokee Sam had luxuries of life to last until Christmas came
again.
CHERRY PIE.
"Yet it isn't such a bad house," said little Elsie Perch to herself, as
she looked upward at the tall tenement-house in which she lived; "to be
sure, there's a good many folks in it--Grandpa 'n Grandma Perch, 'n
Grandpa 'n Grandma Finney, 'n uncle John's folks, 'n us--'n _her_ house
hasn't got anybody in it but _them_--but it's a good enough house. I
ain't going to cry because that little girl that goes to Sunday-school
with me has nicer clothes 'n lives in a nicer house. She hasn't got any
cherry-tree, anyway!"
Elsie spoke these last words with an air of great triumph, for, sure
enough, right in the back yard of Elsie's home stood a great, generous
cherry-tree; and though as she looked at it now, in the gray solemnity
of a December twilight, she had to use considerable imagination to
recall the luscious red fruit it had borne last summer, and the glossy
richness of the green leaves, under whose shade she had been cool and
happy when many of her neighbors were sweltering in the August heats;
still Elsie was quite equal to it, especially as to-morrow was Christmas
day. For there was to be a splendid Christmas dinner at Grandma Perch's,
on the lower floor, and uncle John and his family, and Elsie's father
and mother, and Grandma and Grandpa Finney were all to be at the dinner.
The cherry-pie was always the crowning glory of Christmas dinner with
the Perch family. To be sure, it was made of canned cherries; but then,
couldn't Grandma Perch can cherries so they tasted just as nice in
winter as in summer? And nobody else knew so well just how much sugar to
put in, nor how to make such flaky, delicious pie-crust.
All these things occurred pleasantly to Elsie as she ran up and down the
walk in her warm hood, and cloak, and mittens. There was a shade of
repining, to be sure, as she thought of the velvet clothes, and various
other privileges belonging to the "girl who went to Sunday-school;" but
this grew less as she ran, and especially as she looked down to the
square below and saw how much more squalid and miserable the houses
looked down there, she felt a thankful glow that _her_ home was better,
and that her papa and uncle John never came home in a cruel, drunken
fury like the fathers of the children down there.
"Pretty good times come Christmas!" said Elsie aloud, in a burst of joy,
hopping merrily up and down, and forgetting her discontent. "Why,
there's Millie!" and she ran across the street to a little girl who had
just come out of the tall house opposite. Millie looked very forlorn.
"What's the matter?" asked Elsie.
"Mamma says I can't have any Christmas present," said Millie, beginning
to sob wretchedly; "she was expecting some work, but it didn't come, and
the rent's overdue, and--and I can't have a thing!"
"That's too bad," said Elsie; "I'm going to have lots--and we are going
to have cherry-pie for dinner."
"Oh, my!" cried Millie, drying her tears to contemplate Elsie's future;
"cherry-pie! It must be so good! It sounds good."
"Didn't you ever have any cherry-pie?"
Millie shook her head.
"Oh, it's splendid!"
Millie's eyes shone.
Just then some of the blue, pinched, half-dressed little children, who
lived below, came running up the walk. There were two boys whom the
children knew to be a certain Sammie and Luke, and two girls whose names
were Lizy and Sally. They were shouting and racing, but they stopped to
listen to the conversation. The word "Christmas" loosened their tongues
at once. "I'm going to our Sunday-school to a Christmas-tree," said
Sammie.
"I can't go to Sunday-school," said Lizy, ready to cry, "I hain't got no
clo'es."
Elsie's heart reproached her anew for her covetous, ungrateful thoughts
of a few moments before. Her self-reproaches grew stronger still when
Millie remarked to the little crowd of listeners, as though proud of the
acquaintance of so distinguished an individual, that Elsie Perch was
going to have cherry-pie for her Christmas dinner.
"Oh, my!" "Is she?" "Ain't that fine!" cried one and all, with
enthusiasm.
"Yes," rejoined Elsie, her heart swelling with pride, "my grandma always
has a cherry-pie for Christmas."
Silence fell on the little group, and in the midst of this silence, a
light footfall was heard pattering along the side street, and there
burst into view a little girl--little Maude from the street above--the
very little girl of whom Elsie had been envious. She wore a broad gray
hat, with a lovely Titian red feather, and a Titian red velvet Mother
Hubbard cloak, and velvet leggings to match, and carried a lovely muff,
while by a silken cord she led a dear little white dog, in a
buff-and-silver blanket.
"Oh," cried this beautiful little creature, bounding toward Elsie,
"there you are! I saw you come around here after Sunday-school, and I've
been hunting for you. See my little new dog! It's a Christmas present,
only it came yesterday. Is this where you live?" She looked shrinkingly
up and down the narrow street, and at the squalid buildings in the
distance. "And are these your brothers and sisters?"
Elsie laughed, and said no.
"What do you think?" began Lizy seriously, her large, wistful eyes, and
chalk-white face, lending a strange pathos to her funny little speech,
"this girl here," and she pointed to Elsie, "is going to have
cherry-pie."
"Is she?" said Maude; "that is nice. I like cherry-pie, but we don't
have any in winter."
"_We_ do," said Elsie proudly. "My grandma puts up lots of cans of
cherries, when our cherry-tree bears, and Christmas-time we have
cherry-pie, and sometimes, when we have company, we have cherry-sauce
for tea."
"I'd like some cherry-pie," said Maude imperiously. "Little girl, give
us some of your cherry-pie?"
The hungry group of ragged boys and girls gathered about with Maude. She
was beginning some sort of an explanation, that the cherry-pie was her
grandma's, and not hers, when a bell rang in the distance, and Maude
darted away.
"That's for me," she cried, hastening away, and pulling the
buff-and-silver-coated doggie after her. "Good-by, little girl! I wish I
could have some of that cherry-pie."
She tripped daintily away down the side street, and the children watched
her until she was out of sight. "I 'spose," said Luke, with a sigh, "I
'spose she has dinner every day."
"_I_ have dinner every day," cried Elsie.
"Do you?" said Lizy, devouring this favored child of fortune with her
great, wistful eyes. "I don't. Oh! I'd like some of that cherry-pie."
Just then Elsie saw her father coming up the street and ran to meet him,
while the other children started for their homes in the square below.
The next morning there was so much excitement that Elsie never thought
of the poor children on the next square, nor of Millie, nor of Maude,
until the Christmas dinner was nearly over and the cherry-pie came on.
"Oh!" she cried, "you don't know, grandma, how nice everybody thinks it
is that we can have cherry-pie."
"Do they?" said grandma kindly. "Well, I do hope the pie's turned out
well."
Elsie noticed that some of the pie was left after all had been served. A
bright idea darted into her head, and she was out of the room in a
trice. On went cloak and hood, and she dashed around the corner to see
if she could find Maude. Yes, there she was, playing with her blanketed
doggie on the broad sidewalk.
"Come!" cried Elsie, catching hold of Maude's hand. "Come quick! There's
lots of cherry-pie! Come and have some!"
As they neared Millie's house they met that little girl on the walk, and
she was easily persuaded to join the party.
"Now," said Elsie, running on in advance, "let's get Sammie and Lizy,
and those other ones."
They flew down the street, and soon found the objects of their search.
The watchword, "cherry-pie," was sufficient, and in the twinkling of an
eye, they were at Grandma Perch's door. Then, for the first time, Elsie
felt a little misgiving. Perhaps there wasn't pie enough to go round.
And what would grandma say?
But she marched bravely in, her eager little crowd of companions at her
heels.
"See here, grandma," she said, "here are a lot of children who want some
cherry-pie."
"Dear heart!" exclaimed grandma, in dismay, looking down at the motley
group with lifted hands. "Why, Elsie! there isn't pie enough for more'n
three little pieces, but, bless 'em!" for the look on some of those
pinched, hungry faces went to grandma's heart, in the abundance and
mirth of her own Christmas day, "I'll have a cherry-pie made for 'em in
less'n no time. There's pie-crust in my pan, and the oven is hot; just
go out and play, children, and I'll call you in presently."
And "presently" they were called in to behold a mammoth cherry-pie,
baked in a tin pan, and they had just as much as was good for them, even
to Maude's doggie. Maude left first, for _she_ wasn't hungry, and,
besides, she knew that her mamma would worry about her long absence;
but the little starved boys and girls from "the square below," didn't go
for a long time. To tell the truth, grandma didn't stop at giving them
cherry-pie. They had some turkey, and some mashed potato, and turnip,
and some hot coffee, besides.
"Tain't often I can give," said grandma afterward. "But we've been
prospered, and I can't bear to see anybody hungry on Christmas day."
After they had all gone, Elsie sat with her heart full of quiet
happiness, rocking in her little rocking-chair. She was meditating
vaguely on the envy she had felt toward Maude, and her general feeling
of discontent. At last she spoke to grandma, who happened to be sitting
beside her.
"Most everybody has things some other folks don't have," she remarked,
rather vaguely.
Grandma understood her.
"Dear heart!" she cried again, for that was her pet name for Elsie.
"That's right! There's mercies for everybody, if they'd only reckon 'em
up--and Christmas day's a first-rate time to remember it!"
BERTIE'S RIDE.
"Here's a nice state of things! We have run short of candles for the
Tree, and of course the shops will be shut to-morrow, and the day after.
What _is_ to be done? Almost anything else might have been managed in
some way, but a Christmas Tree in semi-darkness--can anything more
dismal be imagined?" And Alice Chetwynd's usually bright face looks
nearly as gloomy as the picture she has called up.