_Elinore Pruitt Stewart_
Mrs. Culberson stood in her cabin door, and looked out upon the
sparkling beauty of a sunny winter morning. Beyond the valley rose the
shining, snow-covered mountains. A mile below lay the white surface
of Henry’s Fork, tree-bordered and ice-bound. She could see the exact
spot in the stream where she and the children had caught the barrel of
suckers that had been their chief food since the snow came.
When Henry Clay, her oldest child and only son, had come from the creek
one day and told her that there were a great many fish at the bend, and
that they were lying on the bottom almost too lazy to move, she had
said, “We’ll go and catch a lot; we will salt them down in our water
keg; they’ll come in handy.” That had been almost four months before.
“Pa” Culberson was one of those Micawber-like persons who are always
expecting something to turn up. In more prosperous days, when the
Culbersons had lived farther east, they had owned a good team of
horses and a cow; but Pa’s waiting propensities had encouraged the man
with the mortgage to “turn up,” and the family had been left without
their horses and their cow.
Mrs. Culberson had urged her husband to sell their little plot of
land and to use the proceeds to begin anew in another place. Pa had a
“swapping” streak in him, and so it was not long before they had traded
their land for a rickety wagon and a pair of small beasts that Mrs.
Culberson called “dunkeys.” Then, with all they owned piled into the
wagon, they set forth to make a fresh start in the world. Pa sat on
the top of the load to drive the donkeys, and Mrs. Culberson and the
children walked alongside.
One night they had camped by a stream in a fertile little valley. Mrs.
Culberson liked the water and the view, and refused to go on. Weeks
of wandering had worn out the children’s shoes, and winter would soon
be upon them; so they unloaded their scanty belongings and set about
building their cabin. It stood close to a hillside for shelter from the
fierce winds, and it had no floor except the earth. A place had been
left for a window in one end, but there was no glass in it. A piece of
cheesecloth tacked over the opening let in light and a wooden shutter
kept out the storm. The roof was made of poles laid carefully side by
side and well covered with earth.
While Mrs. Culberson and the children were chinking and daubing the
cracks in their cabin, Pa began to build the stable for the donkeys.
The golden September days were slipping away, and the food supply was
getting low; as soon as he had finished the tiny stable, Pa went off
to get work with the sheepmen. The family were left alone in their new
house; it might be months before they saw him again; in fact, it might
be as long as that before they saw anyone except “Grandma” Clark, who
lived in a cabin near the stream.
Every day little Mrs. Culberson worked with all her might; and in order
that the children should not get lonely or afraid in the wilderness,
she tried to keep them busy. First she set them hauling wood from the
cedars near by; Pa had made a door for the cabin from the wagon box,
but they could load the wood and poles on the running gear of their
wagon. They could manage the donkeys easily, and they soon gathered a
huge woodpile. Then the children dug a cellar in the side of the hill.
Henry Clay and Lizzie Isabel, who were the oldest, did the digging.
Jennie Lou and Jessie May helped by carrying out the dirt as fast as it
was loosened. Mrs. Culberson and five-year-old baby C’listie did the
encouraging. Each was proud of sharing in the work.
A few days after the cellar was finished, the children went on an
exploring expedition to discover whether they had any neighbors. The
first rancher they found laughed when he saw the eager, freckled
children on their little donkeys. He was harvesting his vegetables, and
he offered them all a chance to work for him. After that, the children
and their mother were busy for almost a month, picking up potatoes
and helping store winter vegetables for the ranchers who lived up and
down the valley. In that way they had stocked their own cellar, and had
become the proud owners of a few bags of grain, which they put by for
their faithful donkeys.
As Mrs. Culberson stood in the door that winter morning, looking out
over the snow-covered country, she was mentally giving thanks that she
and the children had a warm cabin to shelter them. On a tall, dead pine
she saw a great eagle sitting in the sun. A coyote dug a rabbit out of
the snow, and trotted away with it. Far below on the creek, she could
see the smoke curling upward from her nearest neighbor’s chimney.
“Poor old soul!” she said to herself. “There all alone while her
grandson, Charley, is away herding sheep. It must be plumb bad to have
only one child, and to be a widow, and old, too. Here it is just two
days before Christmas. I believe I’ll go down and bring her up here for
a spell.”
Her care-seamed face was thoughtful. “It’s more’n three months since Pa
left, and not a word from him. I _do_ hope he hasn’t--”
But she was too loyal to put what she feared into words, even to
herself. Closing the door, she put the breakfast of salt fish and
potatoes on the table.
“Ma, can’t we have a little _tiny_ piece of bacon for breakfast?” asked
Jennie Lou.
“It’s very near Christmas,” said Jessie May.
“I just hate suckers!” said Lizzie Isabel.
“Now you young uns eat what is put before you, and don’t be so
choicey,” said Mrs. Culberson. “I declare, I’ll have to boil you up
some sage tea to make your fish and potatoes taste good to you again.
Then after we’re through, I have a _big_ secret to tell you.”
The wagon box had furnished enough lumber to make not only the door,
but a bench, and a high shelf across one end of the cabin. When the
children had finished breakfast, their mother put a box upon the bench.
Mounting the box, she took from the shelf several small packages.
“Now, children,” she said, as she unrolled a square package, “here is
all the meat we have--just enough for seven slices. We are going to
have it for dinner Christmas Day, and _who_ do you guess is going to
eat the extra slice? _That_ is my big secret.”
“I could eat _all_ of it now,” said Henry Clay. The children eyed the
piece of bacon hungrily.
“Children, what on earth has come over you to make you so gluttonous? I
am ashamed of you. Now, if you can behave yourselves, I will tell you
something.”
They watched her with fascinated eyes as she measured two cupfuls of
sugar into a small pail. Next she took four tablespoonfuls of rice,
carefully tied the little heap of white grains in a cloth, and dropped
it into the pail with the sugar. Putting the lid on the pail, she again
mounted the box, and put the pail beside a small jar that contained a
handful of coffee.
“There,” she said, with pride in her voice, “that is my sick corner. If
any of you get sick, I have _some_ little things for you.”
“I’m sick, I’m awfully sick,” said C’listie.
“C’listie Culberson, no one would ever dream you were named for your
own grandmother, C’listie Yancy. Your Grandma Yancy would _never_ act
that way.”
The children watched her intently and silently as she measured the
remaining sugar.
“There is enough for a cake, and we can have a carrot pie,” she said,
“and perhaps some sugar syrup for breakfast, and there will be a little
left in the bowl. Don’t one of you young uns dare to touch that bowl;
the sugar in the bowl is for manners; now mind that. We’ll have a nice
dish of rice, and enough grease will fry out of the bacon to season the
potatoes and to make the pie crust, and we can have biscuit, too,” she
ended triumphantly.
The children, catching her jubilant spirit, began to clap their hands
and dance.
“Now, Lizzie Isabel, we will clean up the house and get everything
ready. You girls can wear your gingham dresses, and Henry Clay
can--well, he can wear his pa’s light shirt, and his trousers, too;
they will be too long, of course, but he can roll them up, and we can
girt them in at the waist. We’ll all dress up and go after Grandma
Clark. She’s all alone. We couldn’t be so selfish as to sit down and
eat all our good things alone.”
So they all worked with a will; but there was not much to do.
“You children don’t know how lucky you are to be poor,” said Mrs.
Culberson. “If we’d been rich enough to have a floor, we would have to
scrub; and if we had a glass window, we’d have that to wash. But as it
is, we can get this room in order in a jiffy.”
Through all her ups and downs, Mrs. Culberson had kept her “settin’
out”; she had her feather bed, the ten beautiful patchwork quilts given
her by different members of her family; the Yancy sheets and the lovely
Culberson tablecloth, all homespun and woven.
It was a proud little group that later in the day left the freshly
decked cabin and started for Grandma Clark’s. All the girls’ dresses
were a year too small, their sleeves were too short and their waists
too tight; but the children had pressed their worn ribbons, and their
hair was neatly braided, and they were all so happy that only an
unfeeling critic could have seen anything except beauty and sweetness
about them. Henry Clay’s trousers were many sizes too large, but
they were rolled up at the bottom and well “girt in” at the waist.
His shirt was caught up and tacked and pinned in so many places that
it had almost lost all resemblance to a shirt; but if his fourteen
year old body _was_ too small to fill his father’s clothes, his pride
overflowed, and made him seem large and important in his own eyes.
They had laid poles upon the running gear of the wagon and wired them
firmly, in order to have a safe place for Grandma Clark to ride. Mrs.
Culberson took a last satisfied look round the neat room, warned
the children once more to mind their manners, and not to let the
company see that they did not have bread every meal, and to remember
how fortunate they were to have a good warm cabin, plenty of wood,
and friends to share their comforts, “and them friends rale close
neighbors, not more’n six miles away.”
So they clambered on their odd carryall and drove off, with the donkeys
belly-deep in the soft snow.
* * * * *
Miles away, up in the mountains near Burnt Fork, lay the ranch of Jack
Nevin. He was an “old-timer” without kith or kin, but he never lived
alone, for he was always taking some one in to share his home. At
that time he had living with him old John Enderby, who had a special
fondness for making fun of others. Once a year Jack Nevin made a trip
to Green River for supplies, but, oddly enough, he would never permit
anyone to go with him.
No one who came to the ranch suspected that Jack’s heart was starved
for home ties, and that he longed for some one to love and to work
for. For years he had had an imaginary family. He took almost as much
pleasure in the growth and development of his imaginary children as
he would have taken had they been real. Of course he could not tell
his friends about his pretense; but when he went to town he spoke to
strangers of his “folks,” and talked about them just as if he had
actually had a family.
This was the first time he had ever been in Green River when the
holidays were so near. The windows of the stores were filled with toys
and candies. As he drove up the street his heart was sad; there were so
many things that he would have liked to buy if he had only had some one
to give them to.
When he drove into the livery barn, the proprietor, to whom he had
talked on his other visits, called out, “Hello, Nevin! How are you? How
are the little girls and their ma? In town to interview Santa Claus, I
suppose?”
Jack walked up the street, looking at the pretty things, and almost
hating other men who had “folks” to buy for. Suddenly he remembered
what Hall, the liveryman, had said. After all, why should he not do
it? Whose business was it, anyway, if he chose to buy dolls, toys, and
trinkets? As he thought over the idea his recklessness grew. The boys
might laugh and joke, he realized, but the chance that they would find
out seemed small.
That night he confided in his landlady; and his enthusiasm for his
family was so contagious that she forgot the high price of meat.
“I suppose your little girls sent you loaded with a list?” she said.
Jack searched his pockets, but failed to find any list.
“Well, now, that’s too bad,” he said, with such evident concern that
the landlady was entirely deceived.
“Now don’t you worry,” she said. “My Emma works at Little Pete’s. You
can get more for your money in there than you can at any other store in
town. And Emma will help you make a good selection.”
The next morning the whim was still upon Jack Nevin. He went to Little
Pete’s, and passed there the happiest three hours of his life, choosing
and buying the things that he would have liked to put into little
stockings.
“I believe I’ll take that sweater for ma,” he said awkwardly. After a
while his fancy became more practical, and he bought warm hoods, pieces
of flannel, gingham, and calico.
At last all the bundles were wrapped and loaded on the wagon with the
provisions that he had purchased for the winter. Jack was standing
in a store entrance, trying to remember whether he had forgotten
anything, when up the street rode half a dozen Burnt Fork boys, with
their “chaps” flapping and their spurs jangling merrily. They shouted
a greeting when they caught sight of Jack. Jack watched them canter up
the street with foreboding in his heart.
It was already late in the afternoon, but he decided to start on the
return trip to his ranch immediately for he did not enjoy the thought
that the “boys” might discover how he had been spending his time in
Green River.
Sunset of the following day saw him nearing home, but trouble had sat
with him all the way. He could imagine what “fun” there would be at the
ranch if those boys found out his poor secret. What could he do with
all the things he had bought for his imaginary family? If he took them
home, there was John Enderly to be reckoned with.
Finally a solution occurred to him--he would throw them into Henry’s
Fork. He knew where he could find an air hole. By driving across the
ice below the regular crossing, he hoped to avoid discovery, and so,
leaving the road, he turned down the long cañon that led out on the
plateau on which the Culberson cabin stood. When he came in sight of
the little log building he gave a whistle of surprise, for he had not
known that anyone lived there. As he approached the cabin he hallooed,
and getting no answer, was about to drive on, when he noticed that
smoke was coming from the stove-pipe.
He decided to go in and warm his feet; but when he entered the cabin,
he found himself more interested in the evidences of poverty than in
the stove. A box nailed to the wall served as a cupboard. He lifted
the flour-sack curtain before it, and peeped within; he saw the bacon
sliced for the Christmas dinner; he saw all the scanty preparations.
“Huh!” he grunted. “Cake with no eggs! I’ve made it; I know what it’s
like!”
Dropping the curtain, he glanced about the room. “No chairs,” he
commented. “Must be mighty poor. Kids in the bunch, too.” Then he
noticed a cap hanging on a peg. “Boy among ’em. By heck, I guess I’m in
time to beat Santy Claus, but I didn’t buy anything for a boy.”
For an hour Jack worked busily and happily. All that he had bought for
his “family” he carried into the cabin; then, opening cases of his own
supplies, he carried in canned goods, dried fruit, a ham, some sugar,
coffee, and a package of tea. When he had finished, he gazed about
the little room and smiled. “Mighty near filled the cabin,” he said.
“Reckon some flour won’t be amiss, and I’ve a good notion to fill that
new lamp and leave it on the table, lighted. They’re coming back soon,
or they wouldn’t have left fire. There’s the coat and the lamp for the
woman; candy, nuts and dolls for the kids; provisions for ’em all, but
not a thing for that boy. I just can’t do him that way. He can have my
new gun.”
Jack went out to the wagon and brought in the shotgun, and hanging the
cap on the muzzle, leaned it against the wall. Then he put his boxes of
ammunition on the floor beside it. Finally, he filled the stove full of
wood, and closing it carefully, left the cabin.
The dusk was deepening when he mounted his wagon. Beyond Henry’s Fork,
he met the Culbersons returning with their guest; he eyed them sharply
as they passed. After he had crossed the bottoms and was out on the
snow-covered flat, he laughed happily.
“It beat throwing them into the creek,” he said, “and the boy is just
right for the gun!”
* * * * *
As soon as the family and their guest crossed the creek and reached the
plateau they saw the light of the bright new lamp.
“Oh, Pa’s come, our Pa’s come home for Christmas!” shouted Henry Clay,
joyously.
“Don’t be so excited, Henry Clay. You tend to driving them dunkeys, or
you will have Mis’ Clark dumped off in the snow. That’d be a fine way
to treat a neighbor, wouldn’t it? You children quit twisting round. If
any of you fall off, you’ll have to walk to the house.”
Thus admonished, the children sat as still as they could. Henry Clay
tried to get the donkeys to hurry, but donkeys have ways of their own.
At last they drew up before the door of the cabin. The children would
have rushed into the cabin, but their mother restrained them.
“My goodness, children, where are your manners? Pa’s made a fire; don’t
you see the smoke? You just behave yourselves.”
Once inside, the little group stood amazed. The new lamp burned
brightly; boxes, bundles and packages were scattered everywhere about
the place. Grandma Clark, stiff with the cold, went at once to the
stove. The fire burned merrily. She held her hands to the grateful
warmth, and said, “Your man’s a right good provider, Mis’ Culberson.”
“But where’s Pa?” asked C’listie.
A thorough search revealed no Pa. On a new calendar, which lay on the
table, were scribbled these words: “The gun is for the boy. The rest is
for all of you. Yours truly, Santy Claus.”
An hour later supper was over; even hungry little C’listie could hold
no more ham, and sat nodding and hugging a wonderful doll. Henry Clay
and Lizzie Isabel had put the donkeys into the stable, and given them
an extra allowance of grain and carrots. With shining eyes and heart
too happy for words, Henry Clay sat examining his treasure, the bright,
new gun. The girls were rapturously sorting their new ribbons, hoods,
and books. Mrs. Culberson, busy storing yet unopened packages beneath
the bed, said to the girls:
“I _did_ ’low for you girls to sleep under the blazin’-star quilt,
being it’s Christmas time, but I ain’t going to let you. It ain’t never
been used, and I’m going to keep that quilt for Santa Claus. I’ll see
him some time.”
[27] This story was first printed in “Youth’s Companion,” December
10, 1914. Reprinted by special permission. All rights reserved by the
author.
Transcriber's Notes:
Italics are shown thus: _sloping_.
Variations in spelling and hyphenation are retained.
Perceived typographical errors have been changed.