THEIR CHRISTMAS-DAY
The day before Christmas should, by right of delights about to blossom,
be nearly as happy as the sweet old carnival itself, but up at the
cabin on the hill it was far from being joyous.
The tiny mite of a foundling was not so well as when his friends had
left him on the previous afternoon.
He was up and dressed, sitting, in his grave little way, on the miner's
knee, weakly holding his crushed-looking doll, but his cold had
increased, his sweet baby face was paler, the sad, dumb look in his
eyes was deeper in its questioning, the breakfast that the fond old Jim
had prepared was quite untasted.
"He ain't agoin' to be right down sick, of course?" said the
blacksmith, come to report all the progress made. "Natchelly, we'd
better go on, gittin' ready fer the banquet? He'll be all right fer
to-morrow?"
"Oh yes," said Jim. "There never yet was a Christmas that wouldn't get
a little youngster well. He'll come to the tree, you bet. It's goin'
to be the happiest time he ever had."
Outside, the red-headed Keno was chopping at the brush. The weather
was cold and windy, the sky gray and forbidding. When the smith had
gone, old Jim, little Skeezucks, and the pup were alone. Tintoretto,
the joyous, was prancing about with a boot in his jaws. He stumbled
constantly over its bulk, and growled anew at every interference with
his locomotion.
"Does little pardner like the pup?" said Jim, patting the sick little
man on the back with his clumsy but comforting hand. "Do you want him
to come here and play?"
The wee bit of a parentless, deserted boy slowly shook his head.
"Don't you like him any more?" said Jim.
A weak little nod was the answer.
"Is there anything the baby wants?" inquired the miner, tenderly.
"What would little Skeezucks like?"
For the very first time since his coming to the camp the little
fellow's brown eyes abruptly filled with tears. His tiny lip began to
tremble.
"Bruv-ver Jim," he said, and, leaning against the rough old coat of the
miner, he cried in his silent way of passionate longing, far too deep
in his childish nature for the man to comprehend.
"Poor little man ain't well," said Jim, in a gentle way of soothing.
"Bruvver Jim is here all right, and goin' to stay," and, holding the
quiet little figure to his heart, he stood up and walked with him up
and down the dingy cabin's length, till the shaking little sobs had
ceased and the sad little man had gone to sleep.
All day the miner watched the sleeping or the waking of the tiny
pilgrim. The men who came to tell of the final completion of the tree
and the greater preparations for the feast were assured that the one
tiny guest for whom their labors of love were being expended would
surely be ready to enjoy the celebration.
The afternoon gave way to night in the manner common to wintry days.
From time to time a gust of wind tore the fleece from the clouds and
hurled it in snow upon the silent earth. Dimly the lights of the
cabins shone through the darkness and the chill.
At the blacksmith's shop the wind went in as if to warm itself before
the forge, only to find it chill and black, wherefore it crept out
again at the creaking door. A long, straight pencil of snow was flung
through a chink, across the earthen floor and against the swaying
Christmas-tree, on which the, presents, hanging in readiness for little
Skeezucks, beat out a dull, monotonous clatter of tin and wood as they
collided in the draught.
The morning--Christmas morning--broke with one bright gleam of
sunlight, shining through the leaden banks before the cover of clouds
was once more dropped upon the broken rim of mountains all about.
Old Jim was out of his bunk betimes, cooking a breakfast fit, he said,
"to tempt a skeleton to feast."
True to his scheme of ensnaring the gray old miner in an idleness with
regard to his mine which should soon prove a fatal mistake, Parky, the
gambler, had sent a load of the choicest provisions from the store to
the cabin on the hill. Only too glad of the daintier morsels thus
supplied for his ailing little guest, old Jim had made but feeble
protest when the things arrived, and now was preparing a meal from the
nicest of the packages.
Little Skeezucks, however, waked in a mood of lethargy not to be
fathomed by mere affection. Not only did he turn away at the mere
suggestion of eating, but he feebly hid his face and gave a little moan.
"He ain't no better," Jim announced, putting down a breakfast-dish with
its cargo quite untasted. "I wish we had a little bit of medicine."
"What kind?" said the worried Keno.
"It wouldn't make much difference," answered the miner. "Anything is
medicine that a doctor prescribes, even if it's only sugar-and-water."
"But there ain't a doctor into camp," objected Keno, hauling at his
sleeves. "And the one they had in Bullionville has went away, and he
was fifty miles from here."
"I know," said Jim.
"You don't think he's sick?" inquired Keno, anxiously.
Jim looked long at his tiny foundling dressed in the nightie that came
below his feet. A dull, heavy look was in the little fellow's eyes,
half closed and listless.
"He ain't no better," the miner repeated. "I don't know what to do."
Keno hesitated, coughed once or twice, and stirred the fire fiercely
before he spoke again. Then he said, "Miss Doc is a sort of female
doctor. She knows lots of female things."
"Yes, but she can't work 'em off on the boy," said Jim. "He ain't big
enough to stand it."
"No, I don't suppose he is," agreed Keno, going to the window, on which
he breathed, to melt away the frosty foliage of ice. "I think there's
some of the boys a-comin'--yep--three or four."
The boots of the men could be heard, as they creaked on the crisply
frozen snow, before the visitors arrived at the door. Keno let them
in, and with them an oreole of chill and freshness flavored spicily of
winter. There were three--the carpenter, Bone, and Lufkins.
"How's the little shaver?" Bone inquired at once.
"About the same," said Jim. "And how's the tree?"
"All ready," answered Lufkins. "Old Webber's got a bully fire, and
iron melting hot, to warm the shop. The tree looks great. She's all
lit up, and the doors all shut to make it dark, and you bet she's a
gem--a gorgeous gem--ain't she, fellers?"
The others agreed that it was.
"And the boys are nearly all on deck," resumed the teamster, "and
Webber wanted to know if the morning--Christmas morning--ain't the time
for to fetch the boy."
"Wal, some might think so," Jim replied, unwilling to concede that the
tiny man in the bunk was far too ill to join in the cheer so early in
the day. "But the afternoon is the regular parliamentary time, and,
anyway, little Skeezucks 'ain't had his breakfast, boys, and--we want
to be sure the shop is good and warm."
"The boys is all waitin' fer to give three cheers," said the carpenter,
"and we're goin' to surprise you with a Christmas song called 'Massa's
in the Cole, Cole Ground.'"
"Shut up!" said Bone; "you're givin' it all away. So you won't bring
him down this mornin'?"
"Well, we'll tell 'em," agreed the disappointed Lufkins. "What time do
you think you'll fetch the little shaver, then, this afternoon?"
"I guess about twelve," said Jim.
"How's he feelin'?" inquired the carpenter.
"Wal, he don't know how to feel on Christmas yet," answered the miner,
evasively. "He doesn't know what's a-comin'."
"Wait till he sees them blocks," said the carpenter, with a knowing
wink.
"I ain't sayin' nothin'," added Lufkins, with the most significant
smile, "but you jest wait."
"Nor me ain't doin' any talkin'," said Bone.
"Well, the boys will all be waitin'," was the teamster's last remark,
and slowly down the whitened hill they went, to join their fellows at
the shop of the smith.
The big, rough men did wait patiently, expectantly, loyally. Blowing
out the candles, to save them for the moment when the tiny child should
come, they sat around, or stood about, or wandered back and forth, each
togged out in his very best, each with a new touch of Christmas meaning
in his heart.
Behind the tree a goodly portion of the banquet was in readiness.
Keno's pie was there, together with a mighty stack of doughnuts, plates
on plates of pickles, cans of fruit preserves, a mighty pan of cold
baked beans, and a fine array of biscuits big as a man's two fists.
From time to time the carpenter, who had saved up his appetite for
nearly twenty-four hours, went back to the table and feasted his eyes
on the spread. At length he took and ate a pickle. From that, at
length, his gaze went longingly to Keno's pie. How one little pie
could do any good to a score or so of men he failed to see. At last,
in his hunger, he could bear the temptation no longer. He descended on
the pie. But how it came to be shied through the window, practically
intact, half a moment later, was never explained to the waiting crowd.
By the time gray noon had come across the mountain desolation to the
group of little shanties in the snow, old Jim was thoroughly alarmed.
Little Skeezucks was helplessly lying in his arms, inert, breathing
with difficulty, and now and again moaning, as only a sick little mite
of humanity can.
"We can't take him down," said the miner, at last. "He ought to have a
woman's care."
Keno was startled; his worry suddenly engulfed him.
"What kin we do?" he asked, in helplessness.
"Miss Doc's a decent woman," answered Jim, in despair. "She might know
what to do."
"You couldn't bring yourself to that?" asked Keno, thoroughly amazed.
"I could bring myself to anything," said Jim, "if only my little boy
could be well and happy."
"Then you ain't agoin' to take him down to the tree?"
"How can I?" answered Jim. "He's awful sick. He needs something more
than I can give. He needs--a mother. I didn't know how sick he was
gettin'. He won't look up. He couldn't see the tree. He can't be
like the most of little kids, for he don't even seem to know it's
Christmas."
"Aw, poor little feller!" said Keno. "Jim, what we goin' to do?"
"You go down and ask Miss Doc if I can fetch him there," instructed
Jim. "I think she likes him, or she wouldn't have made his little
clothes. She's a decent woman, and I know she's got a heart. Go on
the run! I'm sorry I didn't give in before."
The fat little Keno ran, in his shirt-sleeves, and without his hat.
Jim was afraid the motionless little foundling was dying in his arms.
He could presently wait no longer, either for Keno's return or for
anything else. He caught up two of the blankets from the bed, and,
wrapping them eagerly, swiftly about the moaning little man, left his
cabin standing open and hastened down the white declivity as fast as he
could go, Tintoretto, with puppy whinings of concern, closely tagging
at his heels.
Lufkins, starting to climb once more to the cabin, beheld him from
afar. With all his speed he darted back to the blacksmith-shop and the
tree.
"He coming!" he cried, when fifty yards away. "Light the
candles--quick!"
In a fever of joy and excitement the rough fellows lighted up their
home-made tree. The forge flung a largess of heat and light, as red as
holly, through the gloom of the place. All the men were prepared with
a cheer, their faces wreathed with smiles, in a new sort of joy. But
the moments sped away in silence and nothing of Jim and the one small
cause of their happiness appeared. Indeed, the gray old miner was at
Dennihan's already. Keno had met him on the hill with an eager cry
that welcome and refuge were gladly prepared.
With her face oddly softened by the news and appeal, Miss Doc herself
came running to the gate, her hungry arms outstretched to take the
child.
"Just make him well," was Jim's one cry. "I know a woman can make him
well."
And all afternoon the men at the blacksmith's-shop kept up their hope.
Keno had come to them, telling of the altered plans by which little
Skeezucks had found his way to Miss Doc, but by special instruction he
added that Jim was certain that improvement was coming already.
"He told me that evenin' is the customary hour fer to have a tree,
anyhow," concluded Keno, hopefully. "He says he was off when he said
to turn it loose at noon."
"Does he think Miss Doc can git the little feller fixed all up to
celebrate to-night?" inquired Bone. "Is that the bill of fare?"
"That's about it," said Keno, importantly. "I'm to come and let you
know when we're ready."
Impatient for the night to arrive, excited anew, when at last it closed
in on the world of snow and mountains, the celebrators once more
gathered at the shop and lighted up their tree. The wind was rushing
brusquely up the street; the snow began once more to fall. From the
"Palace" saloon came the sounds of music, laughter, song, and revelry.
Light streamed forth from the window in glowing invitation. All day
long its flow of steaming drinks and its endless succession of savory
dishes had laded the air with temptation.
Not a few of the citizens of Borealis had succumbed to the gayer
attractions of Parky's festival, but the men who had builded a
Christmas-tree and loaded its branches with presents waited and waited
for tiny Skeezucks in the dingy shop.
The evening passed. Night aged in the way that wintry storm and
lowering skies compel. Dismally creaked the door on its rusted hinges.
Into the chink shot the particles of snow, and formed again that icy
mark across the floor of the shop. One by one the candles burned away
on the tree, gave a gasp, a flare, and expired.
Silently, loyally the group of big, rough miners and toilers sat in the
cheerless gloom, hearing that music, in its soullessness, come on the
gusts of the storm--waiting, waiting for their tiny guest.
At length a single candle alone illumined their pitiful tree, standing
with its meagre branches of greenery stiffly upheld on its scrawny
frame, while the darkness closed sombrely in upon the glint of the toys
they had labored to make.
Then finally Keno came, downcast, pale, and worried.
"The little feller's awful sick," he said. "I guess he can't come to
the tree."
His statement was greeted in silence.
"Then, maybe he'll see it to-morrow," said the blacksmith, after a
moment. "It wouldn't make so very much odds to us old cusses.
Christmas is for kids, of course. So we'll leave her standing jest as
she is."
Slowly they gave up their final hopes. Slowly they all went out in the
storm and night, shutting the door on the Christmas celebration now
abandoned to darkness, the creak of the hinges, the long line of snow
inside that pointed to the tree.
One by one they bade good-night to Webber, the smith, and so went home
to many a cold little cabin, seemingly hunched like a freezing thing in
the driving storm.