strength. The mare was traveling as fast as the herd now, and the
station was in sight despite the drifting dust and smoke. Before it lay
the black stretch at which the fire must stop, and on which, if the blue
mare could be brought to a standstill behind a building or a waiting
car, there was succor from death. Yet hope--with the herd upon them and
the fire closer, hotter, and deadlier--was almost gone. The biggest
brother, in a very final frenzy of desperation, joined his efforts to
those of the little girl, and pounded the blue mare and the crowding
stock repeatedly with his naked fists.
But suddenly another phase entered into that run for life. The roar
behind them became louder, swelled to deafening, surged to their ears
like a long, deep boom of thunder. And then, with a shriek that seemed
to divide the smoke and dust, the local plunged through the cloud across
her track and came even with the blue mare's muzzle.
In that moment, worn with her five miles' gallop, it was the only thing
that could have spurred her on. Her eyes were bulging from lack of
breath. Her sides, streaked with blood, no longer responded to the
scourge of the rein ends. But, with the engine abreast, the desire to
worst it, long nurtured by the little girl, set her into a wilder pace.
With a snort, she gathered herself together.
The buckboard, tossing from side to side on the uneven meadow, gained
instantly on the herd and passed to the front once more. The engine had
distanced it, yet the blue mare did not slacken. The biggest brother and
the little girl, torn between hope and fear, yelled at her
encouragingly. Breathing heavily, she strained every muscle to obey.
Another moment and the engine was on the burnt strip; another, and the
last car reached it; a third, and the blue mare's feet struck it, and
she scurried into the lee of the depot to let the animals behind her
divide and charge by through the town.
* * * * *
THE biggest brother, as soon as the blue mare had been tenderly cared
for, hired a livery horse and started homeward. The little girl
accompanied him, her face, like his, still streaked with dust and
cinders. Neither spoke as the bare, smutty meadow was crossed. They only
looked ahead to where smoke was rising slowly, ten miles away to the
west. They were spent with excitement, but their thoughts were on their
mother and brothers, the house surrounded by a straw-strewn yard, the
line of stacks behind the barn, the board granaries, the fields dry and
ready for the match.
As they drove rapidly along through the sunlight, over the land just
scored and torn up by the stampede, they passed dead and injured animals
that, weaker than the others, had fallen and been trampled and burned.
Few horses and cattle had suffered, but, beginning at the draw, the
sheep were pitifully plentiful. Everywhere smoke floated up in tiny
threads from smoldering buffalo-chips, and clumps of weeds burned
damply, only now and then bursting into flame.
At last, with a shout of joy, the biggest brother made out the
farm-house; with an unhappy cry he announced the burning of the stacks.
And when the buckboard came still nearer, they could see that the
granaries were gone, and that all the sod buildings were roofless and
open to the blurred sky, while on every side--the corn-field alone
breaking the vista--lay the blackened fields.
When they drove up, their mother tottered to meet them, and waved one
hand heartbrokenly toward the kitchen door, where the eldest and the
youngest brothers, exhausted with fighting fire, their faces grimy,
their clothing burned to tatters, sat weeping. "It couldn't have been
much worse," she sobbed, as the biggest brother took her in his arms.
The little girl tumbled from the buckboard and, forgetting their quarrel
of the morning, threw her arms around the eldest brother's neck. He
bowed his head against her apron, and there was a long silence,
interrupted only by sounds of mourning. Then the biggest brother spoke.
"Mother," he said, patting her shoulder softly, "we've got the house and
the farm left, remember. We've got one another, too." He paused a
moment. Before he spoke again he gave a little laugh, and all looked up
at him in surprise. "What's more," he went on, "where's the caterpillars
and cucumber-bugs, and the potato-bugs and cabbage lice? Burned up,
slicker 'n a whistle. And mother," he persisted, holding up her
tear-stained face smilingly, "have you happened to consider that there
ain't a blamed grasshopper in a hundred miles?"
XIV
HARD TIMES
THE first deep snow of the winter, dropping gently from a wide, dun sky,
rested in white folds on the new straw roofs of the sod buildings,
crested the low stacks that had been hauled from distant meadows not
swept by the fire, covered the cinder-strewn gaps in the yard where the
granaries had stood, and hid under a shining, jeweled pall the stripped
fields and the somber prairie. The little girl's mother, stringing
pop-corn in the kitchen for the Christmas tree at the school-house,
looked out toward noon to see the farm restored, as if by enchantment,
to the aspect of other and happier winters; and sorrowfully welcomed the
winding-sheet that gave promise of the coming resurrection, when the
grass and flowers should rise again from out the naked, charred ground,
bright and glorious with the fresh-born spring.
It had seemed to her, ever since the terrible holocaust of a few months
before, as if the Bad Lands had moved eastward upon them. Yet, however
sad was the sight of their loss and the sense of their privation, she
counseled against selling out at a small figure and moving to some State
where prairie fires were unknown, and bravely determined to stay and
fight back to rough comfort and plenty.
"The snow will help us to forget," she said to the biggest brother, as
she took a hot, crammed popper from him and emptied it into a milk-pan.
He nodded in reply, and sprinkled the popper with kernels again, and she
went back to her bench, carrying the pan under one arm. They sat without
speaking, the click of the needle and the snapping of the corn alone
breaking the quiet. When another popper was ready to be turned out, the
biggest brother went into the adjoining shed with a wooden bucket and
shoveled it full of coal from the ever-lessening pile that had been
purchased, like the seed for the coming planting, on the promise of the
next year's crop.
As he returned, bending under the weight of the bucket, the door into
the entry was shoved slowly open and the little girl entered. She walked
forward to lay her mittens on the table before she brushed the snow from
her shoulders and leggings and untwisted and shook out her nubia. Her
woolen cap was pulled far down over her ears, and her mother, as she
watched her, did not see the grave eyes and pensive face until the
little girl halted beside the biggest brother's chair to warm her hands
at a stove-hole.
"How's the tree?" asked the biggest brother, putting down the bucket and
depositing one small lump on the dying coals.
"It's setting in a churn," replied the little girl, without looking up.
"Is it trimmed?" said her mother.
The little girl acquiesced. "It's all ready to light."
"S'pose those Dutchman's young ones brought some things over to put on,"
ventured the biggest brother, shaking the popper violently to hide his
concern.
The little girl sighed heavily. "Everybody's sent presents but the
Swedes and us," she said, and there was a telltale break in her voice.
"The Swedes and us won't have much on," declared the biggest brother,
dryly. "That fire scooped up our Christmas gifts. The only people around
here that can make presents this year were smart enough to backfire." He
gave the popper such a shake that the lid swung up and let a shower of
kernels fall over the stove.
"The Dutch girls said this morning," began the little girl, "that their
new house is better 'n ours. And they said that every one of 'em is
going to have two presents off the tree to-night. And--and--I know it's
true, too, because I saw the teacher write their names on the packages."
She paused a moment. "They're all big packages," she added mournfully.
"I am glad," said her mother, "that some one is to receive presents
to-night, even if we do not."
"And where _you're_ goin' to shine," broke in the biggest brother,
giving the little girl a squeeze, "is in the program. You'll play that
new tune you learned on the fiddle, and you'll speak your piece; and
they'll all be as jealous as kingdom come. As for presents, well, you've
been gettin' 'em straight for ten years; so you c'n afford to skip the
eleventh." He got up to empty the popper in the pan.
The little girl did not reply at once. When she burst forth at last, her
eyes were full and her breast was heaving. "It's our first school tree,"
she cried; "and here I'll be the only girl that won't have her name
called, except for an old orange or a bag of candy." Then she hurriedly
left the kitchen.
"Poor baby!" said her mother when she was gone. She disposed of the
stringing of the pop-corn to the biggest brother and began to pick over
a quart of wheat that was to be their supper. Having finished and put it
on to boil, she turned to the roasting of some barley for the next
morning's coffee.
"I wish we'd a-got her a little trinket for to-night," said the biggest
brother, "even if it'd a-been only worth ten cents." He took out his
pipe and filled it from a handful of corn-silk in his jumper pocket.
"_I'd_ be tickled to death," he added, "if I could have a plug of
tobacco."
"And I a sack of flour," said his mother. "We'll have the last in
biscuits for to-day's dinner. I suppose I shouldn't have used it up for
a week more, because we had white biscuits only last Sunday. But it is
Christmas day; I can't resist giving you boys something a little extra.
I've kept enough flour out, though, to thicken gravies with. Now, if we
only had plenty of potatoes."
"When it gets nearer spring, we c'n eat the inside of the potatoes and
save the peelin's for plantin'."
"Oh, I thought of that long ago," laughed his mother; "I've got half a
sack of peelings here behind the stove where they won't freeze."
"The meat's gettin' low, ma. There's only a hunk or two left in the
barrel, and I just noticed, when I was gettin' the coal, that that pig
in there on the rafters is dwindlin' fast. I guess another cow'll have
to go. Might as well, anyway. Hay won't more 'n last the horses."
They were interrupted by the eldest and the youngest brothers, who came
in, stamping the snow from their boots and swinging their arms.
"Gee! it's cold!" cried the youngest, keeping in a far corner, out of
way of the warmth from the stove, and thumping his toes alternately as
he moved in a circle. "Sloughs are frozen to the bottom. Didn't catch a
thing, and had to use the ax to chop out the traps every place we'd
set."
Dinner was eaten in silence that Christmas day. The family could not
help contrasting the meal with those served on former like occasions.
Since nearly all the turkeys and chickens had perished in the fire, and
what few remained were being kept over for the following year, no plump
fowl lay, shins in air, before the eldest brother. A small piece of
baked pork held the place of honor, surrounded by the never-absent dish
of boiled wheat, the plate of precious white biscuits, and some
sweetened corn-bread. When dinner was over, the big brothers tramped off
to the chain of sloughs, taking with them the violin and the corn their
mother had strung so that the latter could be put on the tree that
afternoon. The little girl and her mother cleared the table and then sat
down to unravel some old wristlets and from them knit new heels and
toes into the big brothers' stockings.
The little girl was very quiet and thoughtful. Her mouth drooped
mournfully, her eyes were wistful. She spoke to her mother only in
answer, and then in monosyllables. Her mother, as she watched her, felt
that the little girl's unhappiness was the last bitter touch to her own
grief, and she was glad when the child put on her dried leggings, her
cap and coat, preparatory to spending an hour in her own room, where
there was no fire.
The mother heard no sound from the other part of the house until the
middle of the short afternoon. Then she caught the notes of a song. A
moment later the little girl came running into the kitchen, her eyes
dancing, and went running out again, carrying a sheet of brown
wrapping-paper and a long piece of white string. No more sounds came
from her room. When she came out at suppertime, dressed for the
evening's entertainment, she was her usual cheerful self, much to the
mystification of her compassionate mother and the big brothers.
There was a false ring of gladness in the sleigh-bells that night as
they came jingling from the stable. For what right have sleigh-bells to
ring when every pocket is flat and when there is no lumpy flour-sack
hidden from sight under the hay in the pung bottom? So the eldest and
the youngest brothers, their mother and the little girl, took their
places in the low box and let the biggest brother cover them with a
feather-tick, without any of the gay laughter and banter that marked the
pleasure-rides of former years. Then the biggest brother, only his eyes
showing from his head-wrappings, sprang to his seat behind the horses
and sent the team briskly forward with the storm toward the huge bonfire
of cottonwood logs that had been lighted close to the school-house on
the farther edge of the farthest slough.
When the reservation road, hidden under four feet of packed snow, was
crossed, the pung slid down to the carpeted ice of the first slough in
the train of the capering horses, and was whisked through the crisp
night toward the distant beacon. So swiftly did it scud that, before the
quartet behind realized it, the horses had pressed up the hill beside
the burning cottonwoods and halted before the school-house.
The little girl was the first to scramble from the snug box when the
tick was lifted. Still wearing a big buffalo coat that enveloped her
from head to foot, she squirmed through the door, about which was a
crowd, and threaded her way past the high desk that daily secluded her
while she ate her poor lunches, past the hot stove with its circle of
new-comers, to where, hidden by the chart, stood the teacher. There she
held a moment's whispered conversation, produced a package from under
her greatcoat, and then joined the other children, who were seated up in
front on boards placed across the main aisle.
The little building, that had been saved in the prairie fire by the
well-trodden oval around it, was crowded with the people of the
district, assembled to enjoy their first public entertainment and tree.
Among the younger ones were the Dutchman's girls and their baby nephew,
the neighbor woman's children. "Frenchy's" brother, and the Swede boy.
On either hand and behind were the grown people,--the Dutchman and his
wife, the young couple from the West Fork, the cattleman, "Frenchy," the
Swede, and the big brothers and their mother. When the family entered,
the room was so full that the eldest and the youngest brothers had to
content themselves with a perch on the coal-bins. The little girl,
turning to survey the room, could not catch a glimpse of the biggest
brother, however, and finally concluded that he was still busy with
blanketing the horses and putting them away in the long shed.
The tree was ablaze from its top to the rim of the cloth-wound churn,
and was hung with tinsel trimmings from the farm-house,--the selfsame
trimmings that for years had twinkled and winked at the little girl each
Christmas eve. Among the tinsel was festooned the pop-corn, while from
every bending branch and stem hung apples and oranges supplied by the
teacher, colored bags of candy and bright cornucopias given by the
cattleman, sorghum taffies-on-a-stick made by the neighbor woman, while
eggs, colored in gaudy and grotesque patterns by boiling them in pieces
of calico, were suspended in tiny cunning willow baskets that testified
to the nimble fingers of the Dutchman's wife. Around the base of the
churn and heaped high against it was the pile of gifts.
The program opened immediately after the arrival of the family. The
teacher, keeping one eye upon the fast burning and unstable candles
above her, came forward to the edge of the platform to say a few words
of greeting. The children then gave a rousing Yule chorus, the laden
boughs over them waving gently in time with their voices. The little
girl and her violin followed, and the tree was as still as those who sat
before it while the strains of "I Dreamt I Dwelt in Marble Halls"
floated tremblingly out from under her uncertain bow. A new settler's
four-year-old lisped "Six Little Rabbits," with many promptings and
encouraging nods from the teacher. The Dutchman's youngest got up to
recite "The Burial of Sir John Moore," and, though shaking from head to
foot, attacked the doleful stanzas in a high key and with sprightly
gesticulations. "Frenchy's" brother spoke in his own tongue a piece that
was suitable to the occasion; much to his amazement, it elicited peals
of laughter. When he sat down, the program wound on its tedious,
recitative way until the tree was again supplied with candles by the
neighbor woman's son, and the little girl arose to deliver a welcome to
that same Santa Claus from whom she expected nothing.
If her mother, the big brothers, and the doting Swede boy hoped to see
her final effort a triumphant one, they were disappointed, for she spoke
falteringly and, at one juncture, forgot her lines. Her eyes wavered
from her mother to the tree, from the tree to the teacher, and her
closing words were inarticulate.
In the excitement of the moment, however, only the fond few noticed her
confusion. The faint tinkle of bells and the swelling toots of a tin
horn were announcing the approach of Santa Claus. Before the little girl
had finished, and in spite of the teacher's admonition, the children
were standing up and looking expectantly toward the rear; and no sooner
had the little girl taken her seat, than they broke forth into excited
chatter, calling to one another eagerly. Then the door was suddenly
thrust open to the sound of a shrill toot, and Santa Claus came
bounding in.
Amid the din of the horn and the shouts of the children, he clambered
forward to the platform, bobbing to right and left, and tweaking the
ears of those he passed. Long, yellow rope hair hung down from under a
round, scarlet cap, and a rope beard reached to his portly waist. Cotton
snow and another kind that melted promptly in the warm room covered his
shoulders and sleeves. In a gruff though merry voice that sounded above
all the others, he sang out the names pinned to an armful of candy-bags.
One by one, big and little hurried up to receive their gifts of sweets.
The little girl evinced none of the delight that shone on the faces of
the other children. She watched the distribution silently, with no glad
throbs of the heart, and took her share of the fruit and candy with
downcast eyes. Her mother sorrowfully noted that, even when the bags and
cornucopias had been given out and Santa turned his attention to the
pile around the churn, her interest did not increase.
She watched dully as the girls skipped boldly up, with proud, knowing
looks, to seize their presents, or the boys sidled forward bashfully
with changing color. All unwrapped and admired their gifts as soon as
they were back in their seats. The Dutchman's girls shrieked with joy
as they undid their presents, the neighbor woman's daughter could
scarcely hold her share in her best apron. "Frenchy's" brother had
distended pockets. The young farmer's baby crowed in purple delight over
the stack of parcels before him.
The little girl's lap was empty, save for the candy and fruit dropped
carelessly into it. When the pile around the churn had dwindled sorely
and but a dozen gifts remained, the little girl had not yet gone forward
to claim one. The other children had been too occupied to notice her ill
fortune until they had spent their first joy over their gifts. Then one
of the Dutchman's girls elbowed the neighbor woman's son, who sat next
her, to call his attention to the little girl, and he passed the news
on. Soon all the children were glancing questioningly at her and nudging
one another.
The neighbor woman's daughter, who had often shared the generous fruit
of the annual tree at the farm-house, took secret satisfaction in the
unlooked-for fall of the little girl's pride, and leaned to all sides to
whisper. She even stretched in front of the little girl to tell it to a
boy beyond. Not daring to speak plainly, she resorted to pig-Latin.
"Seegry," she cried, pulling at his coat, "shegry ain'tgry gotgry agry
thinggry." But when the little girl, who knew pig-Latin in all its
various dialects, turned angry, scornful eyes upon her, the neighbor
woman's daughter sat up and her smile faded to a sickly blankness.
Santa Claus was now almost at the end of his resources. The floor was
bare about the churn, and there remained only three or four parcels in
his arms. The teacher was despoiling the tree of its pop-corn festoons
and tossing them gaily about. Already there was a sound of crunching in
the room, as the candy, nuts, and fruit met their destined fate.
But all at once, with the last package, a long, thick one, held up
before his jovial face, Santa Claus started, looked a second time at the
writing upon it, and then, with a jubilant laugh, called out the little
girl's name!
The children about her hushed on the instant, and all eyes were turned
upon her. The pitying expression on her mother's face changed to one of
joy, and the eldest and the youngest brothers slid off the coal-bins as
if they were possessed. The Swede boy and the cattleman, who had each
been busy blaming himself for something worse than forgetfulness or
negligence, fairly beamed at the back of the little girl's curly head.
Very deliberately she got up and stepped to the platform. A smile curved
her mouth, and she carried her pink chin high. As she received her
gift, she paused for one moment to drop a dainty curtsy and to thank
Santa Claus, a proceeding which filled all the other girls with envy,
since they had omitted it. Then she proudly took her seat, the long,
thick package in one hand. It was wrapped in brown paper and tied with
white string.
The little girl did not open the package; instead, she sat quietly with
it across her knee, displaying, as if unconsciously, her name printed in
full across it in large letters that strayed upward, and that were
headed by a "Miss" entirely of capitals. Under her name, in glowing red
ink, was written "Merry Christmas," and, farther down, the words: "There
are seven beautiful things in this box for you.--S. C."
When the teacher had made her closing speech, all rose to go. The little
girl, as she put on her cap and the big buffalo coat, was the center of
interest, for the children crowded about her and handled her package.
The neighbor woman's daughter hung the closest, and even put one arm
around the little girl. The latter did not seem to notice any one, but
put the package under her coat and joined her mother.
When the pung drove up to the door the little girl lost no time in
getting into it. The eldest and the youngest brothers followed her.
The biggest and his mother tarried a little, however, the one to speak
to the Swede boy, the other to accost the cattleman.
There was a teasing look in the biggest brother's eyes as he gave the
Swede boy a slap on the back. "Good for you!" he said in an undertone;
"I'll never forget that, long 's I live." The Swede boy tried to answer,
hung his head, and finally made off. The biggest brother took up the
reins and, while he waited, continued to pick cotton from the lapels of
his overcoat.
Meanwhile the cattleman, coming out of the school-house ready for his
drive home, suddenly found himself face to face with a tearful little
woman who gratefully seized his big hands. "Oh, how _good_ of you!" she
cried; "how thoughtful and good and kind! Thank you! thank you!"
"What fer?" demanded the cattleman. "I hain't done nothin', my dear
lady."
"Oh, that will do to say," laughed the little girl's mother through her
tears, as she got into the pung and pulled one corner of the tick over
her head.