Part 19

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.