PREPARATIONS FOR CHRISTMAS
When the word spread 'round that Jim and the quaint little foundling
were once more united, the story of the episode at Miss Doc's home
necessarily followed to make the tale complete. Immensely relieved and
grateful, to know that no dire calamity had befallen the camp's first
and only child, the rough men nevertheless lost no time in conceiving
the outcome to be fairly amusing.
"You kin bet that Doc was awake all the time, and listenin', as long as
Jim was there," said Bone, "but six yoke of oxen couldn't 'a' dragged
his two eyes open, or him out of bed, to mingle in the ceremonies."
To prevent a recurrence of similar descents upon his household, Jim
arranged his plans in such a manner that the timid little Skeezucks
should never again be left alone. Indeed, the gray old miner hardly
ever permitted the little chap to be out of his sight. Hour by hour,
day by day, he remained at his cabin, playing with the child, telling
him stories, asking him questions, making him promises of all the
wonderful toys and playthings he would manufacture soon.
Once in a while the little fellow spoke. That utterance came with
difficulty to his lips was obvious. He must always have been a silent,
backward little fellow, and sad, as children rarely become at an age so
tender. Of who or what he was he gave no clew. He seemed to have no
real name, to remember no parents, to feel no confidence in anything
save "Bruvver Jim" and Tintoretto.
In the course of a week a number of names had been suggested for the
tiny bit of a stranger, but none could suit the taste of Jim. He
waited still for a truant inspiration, and meanwhile "Skeezucks" came
daily more and more into use among the men of Borealis.
It was during this time that a parcel arrived at the cabin from the
home of Miss Doc. It was fetched to the hill by Doc himself, who said
it was sent by his sister. He departed at once, to avoid the
discussion which he felt its contents might occasion.
On tearing it open old Jim was not a little amazed to discover a lot of
little garments, fashioned to the size of tiny Skeezucks, with all the
skill which lies--at nature's second thought--in the hand of woman.
Neat little undergarments, white little frocks, a something that the
miner felt by instinct was a "nightie," and two pairs of the smallest
of stockings rewarded the overhauling of the package, and left Jim
momentarily speechless.
"By jinks!" said Keno, pulling down his sleeves, "them are awful small
fer us!"
"If only I had the time," drawled Jim, "I'd take 'em back to Miss Doc
and throw them in her yard. We don't need anybody sewin' for little
Skeezucks. I was meanin' to make him somethin' better than these
myself."
"Oh!" said Keno. "Well, we could give 'em to the pup. He'd like to
play with them little duds."
"No; I'll try 'em on the little boy tonight," reflected Jim, "and then,
if we find they ain't a fit, why, I'll either send 'em back or cut 'em
apart and sew 'em all over and make 'em do."
But once he had tried them on, their fate was sealed. They remained as
much a part of the tiny man as did his furry doll. Indeed, they were
presently almost forgotten, for December being well advanced, the one
great topic of conversation now was the Christmas celebration to be
held for the camp's one little child.
Ten of the big, rough citizens had come one evening to the cabin on the
hill, to settle on some of the details of what they should do. The
tiny pilgrim, whom they all regarded so fondly, had gone to sleep and
Jim had placed him in his bunk. In the chimney a glowing fire drove
away the chill of the wintry air.
"Speakin' of catfish, of course we'll hang up his stockin'," said
Field. "Christmas wouldn't be no Christmas without a stockin'."
"Stockin'!" echoed the blacksmith. "We'll have to hang up a
minin'-shaft, I reckon, for to hold all the things."
"I'm goin' to make him a kind of kaliderscope myself, or maybe two or
three," said one modest individual, stroking his chin.
Dunn, the most unworkman-like carpenter that ever built a crooked
house, declared it was his intention to fashion a whole set of
alphabetical blocks of prodigious size and unearthly beauty.
"Well, I can't make so much in the way of fancy fixin's, but you jest
wait and see," said another.
The blacksmith darkly hinted at wonders evolving beneath the curly
abundance of his hair, and Lufkins likewise kept his purposes to
himself.
"I s'pose we'd ought to have a tree," said Jim. "We could make a
Christmas-tree look like the Garden of Eden before Mrs. Adam began to
eat the ornaments."
"That's the ticket," Webber agreed. "That's sure the boss racket of
them all."
"We couldn't git no tree into this shanty," objected Field. "This
place ain't big enough to hold a Christmas puddin'."
"Of course it is," said the carpenter. "It's ten foot ten by eighteen
foot six inches, or I can't do no guessin'."
"That 'mount of space couldn't hold jest me, on Christmas," estimated
the teamster.
"And the whole camp sure will want to come," added another.
"'Ceptin' Miss Doc," suggested Webber.
"'Ceptin' Miss Doc," agreed the previous speaker.
"Then why not have the tree down yonder, into Webber's shop, same as
church?" asked Field. "We could git the whole camp in there."
This was acclaimed a thought of genius.
"It suits me down to the ground," said Jim, with whom all ultimate
decision lay, by right of his foster-parenthood of little Skeezucks,
"only I don't see so plain where we're goin' to git the tree. We're
burnin' all the biggest brush around Borealis, and there ain't a
genuine Christmas-tree in forty miles."
The truth of this observation fell like a dampened blanket on all the
company.
"That's so," said Webber. "That's just the luck!"
"There's a bunch of willers and alders by the spring," suggested a
hopeful person.
"You pore, pitiful cuss," said Field. "You couldn't have seen no
Christmas-tree in all your infancy."
"If only I had the time," drawled Jim, "I'd go across to the Pinyon
mountains and git a tree. Perhaps I can do that yet."
"If you'd do that, Jim, that would be the biggest present of the lot,"
said Webber. "You wouldn't have to do nuthin' more."'
"Wal, I'm goin' to make a Noah's ark full of animals, anyway," said
Jim. "Also a few cars and boats and a big tin horn--if only I've got
the activity."
"But we'll reckon on you for the tree," insisted the blacksmith.
"Then, of course, we want a great big Christmas dinner."
"What are you goin' to do fer a turkey?" inquired Field.
"And rich brown gravy?" added the carpenter.
"And cranberry sauce and mince-pie?" supplemented Lufkins.
"Well, maybe we could git a rabbit for the turkey," answered the smith.
"And, by jinks! I kin make a lemon-pie that tastes like a chunk
dropped out of heaven," volunteered Keno, pulling at his sleeves.
"But what about that rich brown gravy?" queried the carpenter.
"Smoky White can dish up the slickest dough-nuts you ever slapped your
lip onto," informed the modest individual who stroked his chin.
"We can have pertatoes and beans and slapjacks on the side," a hopeful
miner reminded the company.
"You bet. Don't you worry; we can trot out a regular banquet," Field
assured them, optimistically. "S'posen we don't have turkey and
cranberry sauce and a big mince-pie?"
"I'd like that rich brown gravy," murmured the carpenter--"good and
thick and rich and brown."
"We could rig up a big, long table in the shop," planned the
blacksmith, "and put a hundred candles everywhere, and have the tree
all blazin' with lights, and you bet things would be gorgeous."
"If we git the tree," said Lufkins.
"And the rabbit fer a turkey," added a friend.
"Well, by jinks! you'll git the lemon-pie all right, if you don't git
nuthin' else," declared little Keno.
"If only I can plan it out I'll fetch the tree," said Jim. "I'd like
to do that for the little boy."
"Jim's an awful clever ole cuss," said Field, trusting to work some
benefit by a judicious application of flattery. "It ain't every man
which knows the kind of a tree to chop. Not all trees is
Christmas-trees. But ole Jim is a clever ole duck, you bet."
"Wal," drawled Jim, "I never suspect my own intelligence till a man
begins to tell me I'm a clever old duck. Still, I reckon I ain't
over-likely to cut no cherry-trees over to the Pinyon hills."
"The celebration's comin' to a head in bully style, that's the main
concern," said the teamster. "I s'pose we'd better begin to invite all
the boys?"
"If all of 'em come," suggested a listener, "that one jack-rabbit
settin' up playin' turkey will look awful sick."
"I'd hate to git left on the gravy," added the carpenter--"if there's
goin' to be any gravy."
"Aw, we'll have buckets of grub," said the smith. "We'll ask 'em all
to 'please bring refreshments,' same as they do in families where they
never git a good square meal except at surprise-parties and birthday
blow-outs. Don't you fear about the feed."
"Well, we ought to git the jig to goin'," suggested Field. "Lots of
the boys needs a good fair warnin' when they're goin' to tackle cookin'
grub for a Christmas dinner. I vote we git out of here and go down
hill and talk the racket up."
This motion was carried at once. The boys filed out with hearty
good-nights, and wended their way down the slope, with the bite of the
frosted air at their ears.
Then Jim, at the very thought of travelling forty miles to fetch a tree
for Christmas gayeties, sat down before his fire to take a rest.