The moon was just peeping over the pines as Pete Shivershee slunk down
the road from the lumber camp into the forest. Pete did not present a
surpassingly dignified appearance as he skulked through the clearing,
but he was not a very dignified person even at his best.
Most persons would have said, I think, that Pete's method of departure
was hardly appropriate for one who had been selected by the citizens of
Carter's Camp to go on an important mission. But Pete had his own
reasons for his actions. He crept along behind the stumps and logs till
he reached the forest. Then, as if the shadow gave him fresh courage and
dignity, he drew himself upright, and started at a sharp trot down the
road toward the village.
We have said that Pete had reasons for his conduct. They were good ones.
In the first place, he was an Indian. Not a "noble son of the forest,"
such as Cooper loved to picture, but a mean, dirty, yellow-faced
"_Injun_." Lazy and worthless, picking up a living about the lumber
camps, working as little as he could, and eating and drinking as much as
possible: such was the messenger. The mission was worse yet.
It was Christmas Eve. The snow covered the ground, and the ice had
stilled for the time the mouth of the roaring river. It was Saturday
night as well; and for some time past the lumbermen had been considering
the advisability of keeping the good old holiday with some form of
celebration suited to the occasion.
The citizens of Carter's Camp were not remarkably fastidious. They knew
but one form of celebration, and they had no thought of hunting out new
ones. The one thing needful to make a celebration completely successful
was--liquor. This they must have in order to do justice to the day.
The temperance laws of Carter's were very strict. Not that the moral
sentiment of the place was particularly high, but it had been noticed
that the amounts of labor and whisky were in inverse proportion. The
more whisky, the less labor. It was a pure question of political
economy. The foreman had often stated that he would prosecute to the
fullest extent of the law the first man caught bringing whisky into
camp. The foreman did not attempt, perhaps, to deny that his knowledge
of the law was somewhat crude. He had forcibly stated, however, that
should a case be brought before him, he would himself act as judge and
jury, while his fist and foot would take the place of witness and
counsel. There was something so terrible in this statement, coming as it
did from the largest man in camp, that very little whisky had thus far
been brought in.
Christmas had come, and the drinking element in Carter's Camp proposed
that Pete Shivershee--the "Injun"--be sent to town for a quantity of the
liquid poison, that the drinkers might "enjoy" themselves.
Bill Gammon found Pete curled up by the stove. He took him out of doors
and explained the business in hand. Bill prided himself somewhat on his
ability to "git work out of Injuns." Pete muttered only "all right." He
took the money Bill gave him, and then slunk away down the road for the
forest, as we have seen him.
* * * * *
Bill felt so confident of the success of his experiment that he did not
hesitate to inform the boys that Pete was "dead sure" to return. He
would stake his reputation upon it.
Pete was in a hard position. If he loved anything in this world, it was
whisky. If there was anything he feared, it was Bill's fist. The two
were sure to go together. The money jingling in his pocket suggested
unlimited pleasures, but over every one hung Bill's hard fist. He ran
several miles through the forest, till, turning a corner of the road, he
came upon a little clearing, in which stood a small log house. Pete knew
the place well. Here lived Jeff Hunt with his wife, a French woman, and
their troop of children.
Jeff was a person of little importance by the side of his wife, though,
like all "lords of creation," he considered himself the legal and proper
head of the family, as well as one of the mainstays of society. His part
of the family government consisted, for the most part, in keeping the
house supplied with wood and water, and in smoking his comfortable pipe
in the corner, while his wife bent over her tub.
Mrs. Hunt was the only woman near the camp, and so all the laundry work
fell to her. Laundry work in the pine woods implies mending and darning,
as well as washing and ironing, and the poor little woman had her hands
full of work surely. It was rub, rub, rub, day after day, over the
steaming tub, with the children running about like little wolves, and
Jeff kindly giving his advice from his comfortable corner. And even
after the children were in bed at night, she must sit up and mend the
clean clothes.
What a pack of children there were! How rough and strong they seemed,
running about all day, all but poor little Marie, the oldest. She had
never been strong, and now at last she was dying of consumption. She
could not sit up at all, but lay all day on the little bed in the
corner, watching her mother with sad, beautiful eyes.
The brave little Frenchwoman's heart almost failed her at times, as she
saw how day by day the little form grew thinner, the eyes more
beautiful, the cheeks more flushed. She knew the signs too well, but
there was nothing she could do.
Pete was a regular visitor at Jeff's and always a welcome one. His work
was to carry the washing to and from camp. He came nearer to feeling
like a man at Jeff's house than at any other place he knew of. Everyone
but Mrs. Hunt and little Marie called him only "Injun," but they always
said "Mr. Shivershee." The "Meester Shivershee" of the little
Frenchwoman was the nearest claim to respectability that Pete felt able
to make. One night while carrying home the clothes, he dropped them in
the mud. He never minded the whipping Bill Gammon gave him half as much
as he did poor Mrs. Hunt's tears, to think how her work had gone for
nothing.
As Pete came trotting down the road, Jeff stood in front of his house
chopping stove-wood from a great log. A lantern, hung on a stump,
provided light for his purpose. Pete stopped from sheer force of habit
in front of the house, and Jeff, glad of any chance to interrupt his
work, paused to talk with him.
"Walk in, Injun," said Jeff, hospitably. "Yer clo'es ain't quite ready,
but the woman will hev 'em all up soon--walk in."
It suddenly came over Pete that this was his night for taking the
clothes home, but his present errand was of far more importance than
mere laundry work.
"Me no stop. I goin' ter town. Great work. Large bizness." By which
vague hints he meant no doubt to impress Jeff with a sense of the
dignity of his mission, and yet cunningly to keep its object concealed.
"Goin' to town, be ye? Great doin's ter camp ter-morrer, I s'pose. I'll
be round ef I kin git away, but walk in, Injun, an' git yer supper, an'
see the wimmin," and Jeff opened the door for Pete to pass in.
The thought of supper was too much for Pete and he slunk in after Jeff
and stood in the corner by the door. The room was hardly an inviting
one, and yet if Pete had been a white man some thoughts of "home, sweet
home," must have passed through his mind. But he was only a despised
"Injun."
A rough board table was laid for supper at one side of the room. In the
corner little Marie lay with the firelight falling over her poor thin
face. Pete must have felt, as he looked at her, like some hopeless
convict gazing through his prison bars upon some fair saint passing
before him. She seemed to be in another world than his; there seemed
between them a gulf that could not be bridged. Three of the larger
children were sobbing in the corner, while the rest formed a sorrowful
group about an old box in which were two or three simple plants frozen
and yellow. Mrs. Hunt was frying pork over the hot stove. As she looked
up at Pete, he noticed that she had been crying.
Jeff was the very prince of hosts. He made haste to make Pete feel at
home.
"Set by, Injun. So the boys is goin' ter kinder cellybrate ter-morrer,
be they?"
But Pete felt that his mission must not be disclosed. "What matter is
with kids?" he asked, to change the subject.
"Oh, they're jest a-yellin' about them flowers," explained Jeff. "Ye see
they hev been a-trainin' some posies indoors against ter-morrer, ye
know. Ter-morrer's Christmas, ye see, an' them kids they hed an idee
they'd hev some flowers fer ter dekerate thet corner where the little
gal is. Little gals, when they ain't well, like sech things, ye know."
Pete nodded. He was not aware of this love of diminutive females, but it
would not show very good breeding to appear ignorant.
"Wall, ye see," continued Jeff, "they kep the flowers away from the
little gal, meanin' ter s'prise her like. But jest this afternoon they
gut ketched by the frost, an' now there they be stiffer'n stakes. It is
kinder bad, ain't it--'specially ez it's Christmas, too?"
"What Crissmus?" put in Pete.
"Oh, Christmas? Wall, it's a sorter _day_ like. It's somethin' like
other days, an' yet it ain't. But then, Injun, I don't s'pose ye would
understand ef I wuz ter tell ye." And Jeff concealed his own ignorance,
as many wiser and better men have done, by assuming a tone too lofty for
his audience.
But Mrs. Hunt could explain, even if Jeff could not. She paused on the
way to the stove with a dish of pork in her hand.
"It eez the day of the good Lord, Meester Shivershee. It eez the day
when the good Lord He was born, and when all people should be glad." But
the little woman belied her own creed as she thought of little Marie and
the dead flowers.
I hardly think Pete gained a very clear idea of the day, even from Mrs.
Hunt's explanation. It was, I fear, all Greek to him.
"What flowers fer?" he asked, as, in response to Jeff's polite
invitation, he "sat by" and began supper.
"Wall, it's a sorter idee of the wimmin," explained Jeff. "Looks kinder
pooty to see flowers round; ye see, kinder slicks up a room like. All
these things hez ter come inter keepin' house, ye see, Injun." With
which broad explanation Jeff helped himself to a piece of pork.
But Mrs. Hunt was bound to explain too. Her explanation was certainly
more poetic.
"It eez the way we show our love for the good Lord, Meester Shivershee.
What is more beautiful than the flowers? We take the flowers, and with
much love we place them upon the walls, and we make others happy with
them, and the good Lord, who loves us all, He is pleased,"--but here,
seeing the sobbing children and the frozen plants, she could not help
wiping her eyes upon her apron.
The little sufferer on the bed saw this action. Her voice was almost
gone. "Never mind, mamma," she whispered; but the beautiful eyes were
filled with tears, for she knew that mamma _would_ mind--that she could
not help it.
Pete listened to all this attentively. "Injun" that he was, of course he
could not understand it all, and yet he could hardly help seeing
something of the sorrow that the loss of the flowers had brought upon
the family. He finished his supper, and then slunk out at the door
again. Jeff followed him out.
"Little gal ever git well?" asked Pete.
"No; I don't s'pose she will," answered Jeff. "There ain't no hopes held
out fer her. Makes it kinder bad, ye see. Nice, clever little gal as
ever lived, too. Stop in an' git yer clo'es when ye come back, will ye?"
"All right," muttered Pete, as he trotted away toward the town.
* * * * *
I wonder what Pete was thinking about as he ran through the forest. An
"Injun's" thoughts on any ordinary subject cannot be very deep, yet when
one comes from such a scene as Pete had just witnessed, and when such
sad eyes as Marie's haunt one all along a lonely road, even an
"Injun's" thoughts must be worth noticing. Let us imagine what Pete's
thoughts were as he shuffled mile after mile through the snow. The scene
he had just left rose before his dulled "Injun" mind. How kind Mrs. Hunt
had always been to him! She was the only one that called him "Mister."
How queer it was that the children should cry because the flowers were
killed! How little Marie had looked at him! Somehow Pete could not drive
those sad eyes away. They seemed to be looking at him from every stump,
from every tree. They were filled with tears now--could it be because
the flowers were frozen?
It is no wonder that when at last the few lingering village lights came
into view, Pete was wondering how he could help matters out.
It was quite late, and most of the shops were closed. Only here and
there some late worker showed a light. The bar-rooms were open full
blast, and as Pete glided down the sawdust street it needed all the
remembrance of Bill's fist to keep him from parting with a portion of
the jingling money for an equal amount of good cheer. But the fist had
the best of it, and he went straight on to the last bar-room. Surely
Bill was right. Nothing but a miracle could stop him.
But the miracle was performed, and when Pete least expected it.
Pete knew better than to go into the front door of the bar-room. He knew
how well he and all his race are protected by the government. It had
been decided that no one should be allowed to sell liquor to an
"Injun"--at least at the regular bar. If an "Injun," however, could so
far lose sight of his personal dignity as to come sneaking in at the
back door, and pay an extra price for his liquor, whose business was it?
Pete knew the way of bar-tenders. He had been in the business before. He
did not go in at the front door where the higher-bred white men were
made welcome, but slunk down an alley by the side of the building,
meaning to go in the back way.
There was no light in the store next the bar-room. It was a milliner's
store and had been closed for some hours. But in the back room two women
were working away anxious to finish a hat, evidently intended for some
village belle's Christmas. Pete stopped in the dark alley for a moment
to watch them.
A man sat asleep in a chair by the stove, but the women worked on with
tireless fingers. The hat was growing more and more brilliant under
their quick touches. By their side stood a basket of artificial flowers
and bright ribbons. It seemed to Pete that he had never before seen
anything so beautiful. Here were flowers--why could he not get some for
the little sick girl?
It was a severe struggle for the poor "Injun," out there in the dark
alley. The thought of the thrashing he would receive on the one hand,
and the sad eyes of Marie on the other. What could he do? But even an
"Injun" can remember a kindness. It may have been a miracle, or it may
have been just the out-cropping of the desire to repay a kindness which
even an "Injun" is said to possess. At any rate the eyes conquered and
Pete braved the fist of Bill. For fear that he should lose courage, he
pushed against the door of the room, and entered without ceremony.
There was a great commotion, I can assure you. The idea of an "Injun"
pushing his way into the back parlor of a milliner's shop was too much
of a revolutionary proceeding to pass unnoticed. The women dropped their
work with a little scream, while the man started from his chair with
most violent intent upon poor Pete.
"What be ye after here, Injun?" he growled. "Hump yerself outer
here--git a-goin'!"
But Pete pulled out his money, at the sight of which the standing army
of the milliner's store paused. Money has smoothed over many an outrage.
It might perhaps excuse even such an action on the part of an "Injun."
"I want flowers," Pete said, pointing to the basket. "Give me flowers--I
pay."
"Oh, ye wanter buy sum of them artyficial flowers, do ye? This is a
pooty time o' night ter come flower huntin,' ain't it? Jest pick out yer
flowers, an' then climb out!"--and he held the basket out at arm's
length for Pete to select.
Pete took a great red rose, and a white flower. There was not very much
of a stock to select from, but Pete, with "Injun" instinct, selected the
largest and gaudiest.
"Them is wurth about ten shillins," figured up the merchant, taking the
money from Pete's hand.
Pete carefully placed the flowers in the pocket of his ragged coat, and
started for the door. The milliner's man, rendered affable by the most
surprising bargain he had just made, naturally wished to retain the
patronage of such a model customer.
"Want anything in our line, Injun, jest call round an' we'll please ye.
Only come a little afore bed-time when ye come again." But Pete slunk
out at the door and did not hear him.
Pete's money was nearly gone, but he had a scheme in his head. He slunk
in at the back door of the bar-room, and obtained his jug, and what
whiskey he could buy with the rest of his money. Then up the street he
ran again, out of town, stopping only once at the pump to fill the jug
to the top with water. Resolutely fastening in the stopper, and not even
raising the jug to his mouth, he started for camp at his long, swinging
trot, with the jug in his hand. Mile after mile was passed over, yet
Pete did not stop till Jeff Hunt's cabin came in sight. Hiding his jug
behind a log, he crept up to the window and looked in.
The light was burning on the table, while Mrs. Hunt sat nodding over her
work. She had been mending the clothes so that Pete could take them back
with him. Tired out, she had fallen asleep. The box of frozen plants
still stood by the table. Pete grinned as he saw them, thinking of the
great flowers in his pocket. Marie was asleep. Over her head were hung
long clusters of moss, with masses of ground pine and red berries.
Pete stole to the door and went in. Mrs. Hunt woke with a start, but at
sight of Pete smiled in her weary way. Pete made up his bundle of
clothes, and then pulled out the great red rose and the white flower. He
laid them on the table with--"Flowers fer little gal. Sick. Make her
think Crissmus. Good flowers. All color. No fade. No smell. No wear
out." Then, catching up his bundle, he slunk away without waiting for
Mrs. Hunt's thanks.
* * * * *
When Bill Gammon woke in the morning, he found the jug at the foot of
his bunk. But Pete was nowhere to be seen. He had left the jug and fled.
The Christmas celebration at Carter's was a very tame affair. Many were
the curses showered upon Pete, and had that worthy been present, I doubt
if even the thought of the famous miracle would have sustained him in
the beating he would have received. But if Pete's conduct produced such
a sad effect upon the festivities at Carter's, the joy it caused at Jeff
Hunt's cabin made matters even. The glad Christmas sun, glad with the
promise of the "old, old story," came dancing and sparkling over the
trees, and looked down in wonderful tenderness upon the humble cabin.
The first bright beams fell upon the bed where little Marie was lying.
They showed her the rose and the white flower nestling in the
evergreens. The children came and stood in wonder before the rude
flowers. How wonderful they were! Where could they have come from?
The face of the little girl was more patient than before. The eyes
seemed more tender, and yet not so sad. Perhaps the glad sun, the same
good sun that had looked upon that far-away tomb from which the stone
had rolled, whispered to her, as it played about her face, how soon the
stone would roll from her life; how soon she would forget all her care
and trouble, and enter the land of sunshine and flowers. It may be that
the good old Christmas sun even hunted out poor despised Pete, and told
him something of its happiness. I am sure he deserved it. Let us hope so
at any rate.