Peter Ottertail was a full-blooded Mohawk Indian, who, notwithstanding
his almost eighty years, still had the fine, thin features, the upright
shoulders, and the keen, bright eyes of the ancient, warlike tribe to
which he belonged. He was a great favorite with Mr. Duncan, the earnest
Scotch minister, who had made a personal companion of Peter all through
the years he had been a missionary on the Indian Reserve; and as for the
two Duncan boys, they had literally been brought up in the hollow of the
old Indian's hands. How those boys had ever acquired the familiar names
of "Tom" and "Jerry" no one seemed to remember; they really had been
christened Alexander and Stuart by their own father in his own church.
Then Peter Ottertail had, after the manner of all Indians, given them
nicknames, and they became known throughout the entire copper-colored
congregation as "The Pony" and "The Partridge." Peter had named
Alexander, alias "Tom," "The Pony," because of his sturdy, muscular back
and firm, strong little mouth, that occasionally looked as if it could
take the bit right in its teeth and bolt; and Stuart, alias "Jerry,"
was named "The Partridge," because of his truly marvellous habit of
disappearing when you tried to drum him up to go errands or carry wood.
Fortunately for the boys themselves, they were made of the good stuff
that did not mind nicknames and jests; and when, at the ages of ten and
twelve, they were packed off to school in a distant city, they were
the very first to tell their schoolfellows Peter's pet names, which,
however, never "took root" on the school playground, "Tom" and "Jerry"
being far more to the taste of young Canadian football and lacrosse
players.
During the school terms, old Peter Ottertail would come to the parsonage
every Sunday after church, would dine seriously with Mr. and Mrs.
Duncan, and, when saying good-bye, would always shake his head solemnly,
and say, "I'll come no more until my Pony and Partridge come home." But
the following Sunday saw him back again, and the first day of vacation
was not hailed with greater delight by the boys than by their old friend
Peter. The nearest railway station was eleven miles distant, but rain or
shine, blood-heat or zero, Peter always hitched up his own team and set
out hours too early to meet the train. On arriving at the station, he
would tie up his horses and sit smoking his black stone pipe for a long
time. The distant whistle of the incoming train alone aroused him from
rapt thought, and presently his dark old face was beaming on his boys,
who always surprised him by having grown greatly during the term, and
who made as much fuss and hilarious welcome over him as if Mr. Duncan
himself had come to drive them home. So this delightful comradeship went
on, year in, year out. The boys spent every day of their holidays in the
woods or on the river with Peter. He taught them a thousand things few
white boys have the privilege of learning. They could hollow canoes,
shape paddles, make arrows and "feather" them, season bows, distinguish
poisonous plants from harmless ones, foretell the wind and the weather,
the various moons, and the habits of game and fish, and they knew every
tale and superstition on the reserve.
One day, just before the Christmas holidays old Peter appeared at the
parsonage. Mrs. Duncan herself opened the door, smiling, sweet and a
little younger-looking than when he had seen her the previous Sunday.
"Come in! Come in, Peter!" she cried, brightly. "We're all in a turmoil,
but happy as kittens! Tom and Jerry are coming to-morrow, and bringing
two friends with them, nice boys from Jamaica, who are too far away from
their home to return for Christmas. They've never seen snow in their
lives until this winter, and we must all try to give the little fellows
a good time, Peter. I'm busy already with extra cooking. Boys must eat,
mustn't they?"
"Yes, Mis' Duncan," answered the old man, slowly, "and these snow-seers
will eat double in the north country. Yes, I'll go and fetch them with
my big lumber sleigh, and take plenty of buffalo robes and wolf skins to
keep these children of the sun warm."
Mrs. Duncan smiled. She could already hear Peter nicknaming the little
chaps from Jamaica "The Snow-Seer" and "The Sun Child," in his own
beautifully childlike and appropriate fashion. And she was quite right.
Peter had hardly shaken hands and tucked the four boys snugly into his
big bob-sleigh, before the names slipped off his tongue with the ease of
one who had used them for a lifetime.
Tom and Jerry had fully prepared their Southern friends for everything.
They had talked for hours with great pride of their father's devotion
to his Indian congregation, of their mother's love for the mission, of
the Indians' responsive affection for them, of the wonderful progress
the Mohawks had made, of their beautiful church, with its city-like
appointments, its stained windows, its full-toned organ and choir of all
Indian voices, until the Jamaica boys began to feel they were not to see
any "wild" Indians at all. Peter, however, reassured them somewhat, for,
although he was not clad in buckskin and feathers, he wore exquisitely
beaded moccasins, a scarlet sash about his waist, a small owl feather
sticking in his hat band, and his ears were pierced, displaying huge
earrings of hammered silver. Yes, they decided that Peter Ottertail was
unmistakably a Mohawk Indian.
Tom and Jerry had never entertained any boys before, and, after the
first day at home, they began to fear things would be dull for their
friends at Christmas, who always spent such gay city holidays. They
need not have worried, however, for the boys found too much novelty even
in this forest home ever to feel the lack of city life. They of course,
fell in love with old Peter at once, and not a day passed but all four
of them could be seen driving, snowshoeing, tobogganing, skating,
with the old Mohawk looming not very far distant; and, as Christmas
approached, with all its church interests, they swung into the
festivities of the remote mission with all the zest that boys in their
early teens possess.
The young Southerners had never visited at a minister's house before,
and at first they were very sedate, laughed not too loudly, and carried
themselves with the dignity of little old gentlemen; but within a day
they learned that, because a man was a great, good, noble missionary, it
did not necessarily mean that he must look serious and never enjoy any
fun with the boys. Mr. Duncan always made it a rule that no house in
existence must be more attractive to Tom and Jerry than their own home,
and that it depended very largely upon their father as to whether they
longed to stay in their own home and bring their young friends in, too,
or whether they longed to go outside their father's house to meet their
playfellows. Needless to say that, with such a father, Tom and Jerry had
a pretty good time at home, and it was only what they expected when, the
day before Christmas, as all four boys were racketing around the kitchen
and nearly convulsing Mrs. Duncan with laughter by their antics, while
she tried almost vainly to finish cooking the last savory dainties for
the morrow, that Mr. Duncan should suddenly appear in the doorway, and
say:
"Now, boys, to-night will be Christmas Eve. You know in the heart of the
forest we can't get much in the way of entertainment, and I don't want
our young Jamaica friends to feel homesick for their beautiful, Southern
country to-night of all nights. I've racked my brains to think of some
amusement after supper this Christmas Eve, but I seem to have failed.
Can't you, Tom and Jerry, help me out?"
There was a brief silence; then, of course, the sweet busy mother spoke:
"Peter Ottertail and I have schemed together for that. I have invited
him to supper, and we are to have a roaring fire built here in the
kitchen, and Peter is to tell the four boys some Indian stories, while
you and I, father, finish the Christmas tree in the parlor. What do you
think of my idea?"
She need not have asked, for such a clamor of delight went up that her
own words were drowned.
"Excellent!" cried Mr. Duncan, when finally he could be heard.
"Excellent, for we don't want you young mischiefs in the parlor at all,
seeing your presents the day before; and the only one I know who could
keep you out is Peter. Splendid idea of yours, Mary. Boys, it's these
mothers who have the real Christmas things in their hearts."
"Yes, and in the oven, too!" laughed Mrs. Duncan, extracting therefrom a
big pan of deliciously light cake, whose spicy fragrance assailed the
boys' nostrils temptingly. "This," she continued, "is to be eaten here
in the kitchen to-night. It goes with Peter's stories."
"Jolly!" said someone, and the four youthful voices immediately swung
into:
"For mother's a jolly good fellow,
For mother's a jolly good fellow,
For mother's a jolly good fellow,
Which nobody can deny!"
And, joining in the last line, there boomed a fifth voice which sounded
suspiciously like Mr. Duncan's.
* * * * * * * *
A crackling wood fire was roaring up the chimney from the large stove
in the kitchen. On the spotlessly white pine floor were spread soft,
grey lynx skins, one or two raccoon skins with their fluffy, ringed
tails, and a couple of red fox pelts. On these sprawled the four boys
in various and intricate attitudes. In the corner back of the stove
lounged Peter Ottertail, on a single brown buffalo robe. With a bit of
sharp-edged flint he scraped tiny curls of shavings from a half-formed
ashwood arrow, which, from time to time, he lifted even with one eye to
look along its glimmering length toward the light, to see that it was
straight and flawless, his soft, even voice warbling out the strangely
beautiful Indian tradition of