Part 7
No one could wish for a better place for a boy to grow up in than the slope of Pine Mountain. There was the drip of pine balm and a wind like wine, white water in the springs, and as much room for roaming as one desired. The charcoal-burner’s son chose to go far, coming back with sheaves of strange bloom from the edge of snow banks on the high ridges, bright spar or peacock-painted ores, hatfuls of berries, or strings of shining trout. He played away whole mornings in glacier meadows where he heard the eagle scream; walking sometimes in a mist of cloud he came upon deer feeding, or waked them from their lair in the deep fern. On snow-shoes in winter he went over the deep drifts and spied among the pine tops on the sparrows, the grouse, and the chilly robins wintering under the green tents. The deep snow lifted him up and held him among the second stories of the trees. But that was not until he was a great lad, straight and springy as a young fir. As a little fellow he spent his days at the end of a long rope staked to a pine just out of reach of the choppers and the charcoal-pits. When he was able to go about alone, his father made him give three promises: never to follow a bear’s trail nor meddle with the cubs, never to try to climb the eagle rocks after the young eagles, never to lie down nor to sleep on the sunny, south slope where the rattlesnakes frequented. After that he was free of the whole wood.
When Mathew, for so the boy was called, was ten years old, he began to be of use about the charcoal pits, to mark the trees for cutting, to sack the coals, to keep the house, and cook his father’s meals. He had no companions of his own age nor wanted any, for at this time he loved the silver firs. A group of them grew in a swale below the cabin, tall and fine; the earth under them was slippery and brown with needles. Where they stood close together with over-lapping boughs the light among the tops was golden green, but between the naked boles it was a vapor thin and blue. These were the old trees that had wagged their tops together for three hundred years. Around them stood a ring of saplings and seedlings scattered there by the parent firs, and a little apart from these was the one that Mathew loved. It was slender of trunk and silvery white, the branches spread out fanwise to the outline of a perfect spire. In the spring, when the young growth covered it as with a gossamer web, it gave out a pleasant odor, and it was to him like the memory of what his mother had been. Then he garlanded it with flowers and hung streamers of white clematis all heavy with bloom upon its boughs. He brought it berries in cups of bark and sweet water from the spring; always as long as he knew it, it seemed to him that the fir tree had a soul.
The first trip he had ever made on snow-shoes was to see how it fared among the drifts. That was always a great day when he could find the slender cross of its topmost bough above the snow. The fir was not very tall in those days, but the snows as far down on the slope as the charcoal-burner’s cabin lay shallowly. There was a time when Mathew expected to be as tall as the fir, but after a while the boy did not grow so fast and the fir kept on adding its whorl of young branches every year.
Mathew told it all his thoughts. When at times there was a heaviness in his breast which was really a longing for his mother, though he did not understand it, he would part the low spreading branches and creep up to the slender trunk of the fir. Then he would put his arms around it and be quiet for a long beautiful time. The tree had its own way of comforting him; the branches swept the ground and shut him in dark and close. He made a little cairn of stones under it and kept his treasures there.
Often as he lay snuggled up to the heart of the tree, the boy would slip his hand over the smooth intervals between the whorls of boughs, and wonder how they knew the way to grow. All the fir trees are alike in this, that they throw out their branches from the main stem like the rays of a star, one added to another with the season’s growth. They stand out stiffly from the trunk, and the shape of each new bough in the beginning and the shape of the last growing twig when they have spread out broadly with many branchlets, bending with the weight of their own needles, is the shape of a cross; and the topmost sprig that rises above all the star-built whorls is a long and slender cross, until by the springing of new branches it becomes a star. So the two forms go on running into and repeating each other, and each star is like all the stars, and every bough is another’s twin. It is this trim and certain growth that sets out the fir from all the mountain trees, and gives to the young saplings a secret look as they stand straight and stiffly among the wild brambles on the hill. For the wood delights to grow abroad at all points, and one might search a summer long without finding two leaves of the oak alike, or any two trumpets of the spangled mimulus. So, as at that time he had nothing better worth studying about, Mathew noticed and pondered the secret of the silver fir, and grew up with it until he was twelve years old and tall and strong for his age. By this time the charcoal-burner began to be troubled about the boy’s schooling.
Meantime there was rioting and noise and coming and going of strangers in the town at the foot of Pine Mountain, and the furnace blast went on ruddily and smokily. Because of the things he heard Mathew was afraid, and on rare occasions when he went down to it he sat quietly among the charcoal sacks, and would not go far away from them except when he held his father by the hand. After a time it seemed life went more quietly there, flowers began to grow in the yards of the houses, and they met children walking in the streets with books upon their arms.
“Where are they going, father?” said the boy.
“To school,” said the charcoal-burner.
“And may I go?” asked Mathew.
“Not yet, my son.”
But one day his father pointed out the foundations of a new building going up in the town.
“It is a church,” he said, “and when that is finished it will be a sign that there will be women here like your mother, and then you may go to school.”
Mathew ran and told the fir tree all about it.
“But I will never forget you, never,” he cried, and he kissed the trunk. Day by day, from the spur of the mountain, he watched the church building, and it was wonderful how much he could see in that clear, thin atmosphere; no other building in town interested him so much. He saw the walls go up and the roof, and the spire rise skyward with something that glittered twinkling on its top. Then they painted the church white and hung a bell in the tower. Mathew fancied he could hear it of Sundays as he saw the people moving along like specks in the streets.
“Next week,” said the father, “the school begins, and it is time for you to go as I promised. I will come to see you once a month, and when the term is over you shall come back to the mountain.” Mathew said goodby to the fir tree, and there were tears in his eyes though he was happy. “I shall think of you very often,” he said, “and wonder how you are getting along. When I come back I will tell you everything that happens. I will go to church, and I am sure I shall like that. It has a cross on top like yours, only it is yellow and shines. Perhaps when I am gone I shall learn why you carry a cross, also.” Then he went a little timidly, holding fast by his father’s hand.
There were so many people in the town that it was quite as strange and fearful to him as it would be to you who had grown up in town to be left alone in the wood. At night, when he saw the charcoal-burner’s fires glowing up in the air where the bulk of the mountain melted into the dark, he would cry a little under the blankets, but after he began to learn, there was no more occasion for crying. It was to the child as though there had been a candle lighted in a dark room. On Sunday he went to the church, and then it was both light and music, for he heard the minister read about God in the great book and believed it all, for everything that happens in the woods is true, and people who grow up in it are best at believing. Mathew thought it was all as the minister said, that there is nothing better than pleasing God. Then when he lay awake at night he would try to think how it would have been with him if he had never come to this place. In his heart he began to be afraid of the time when he would have to go back to the mountain, where there was no one to tell him about this most important thing in the world, for his father never talked to him of these things. It preyed upon his mind, but if any one noticed it, they thought that he pined for his father and wished himself at home.
It drew toward midwinter, and the white cap of The Hill of Summer Snow, which never quite melted even in the warmest weather, began to spread downward until it reached the charcoal-burner’s home. There was a great stir and excitement among the children, for it had been decided to have a Christmas tree in the church. Every Sunday now the Christ-child story was told over and grew near and brighter like the Christmas star. Mathew had not known about it before, except that on a certain day in the year his father had bought him toys. He had supposed that it was because it was stormy and he had to be indoors. Now he was wrapped up in the story of love and sacrifice, and felt his heart grow larger as he breathed it in, looking upon clear windless nights to see if he might discern the Star of Bethlehem rising over Pine Mountain and the Christ-child come walking on the snow. It was not that he really expected it, but that the story was so alive in him. It is easy for those who had lived long in the high mountains to believe in beautiful things. Mathew wished in his heart that he might never go away from this place. He sat in his seat in church, and all that the minister said sank deeply into his mind.
When it came time to decide about the tree, because Mathew’s father was a charcoal-burner and knew where the best trees grew, it was quite natural to ask him to furnish the tree for his part. Mathew fairly glowed with delight, and his father was pleased, too, for he liked to have his son noticed. The Saturday before Christmas, which fell on Tuesday that year, was the time set for going for the tree, and by that time Mathew had quite settled in his mind that it should be his silver fir. He did not know how otherwise he could bring the tree to share in his new delight, nor what else he had worth giving, for he quite believed what he had been told, that it is only through giving the best beloved that one comes to the heart’s desire. With all his heart Mathew wished never to live in any place where he might not hear about God. So when his father was ready with the ropes and the sharpened axe, the boy led the way to the silver firs.
“Why, that is a little beauty,” said the charcoal-burner, “and just the right size.”
They were obliged to shovel away the snow to get at it for cutting, and Mathew turned away his face when the chips began to fly. The tree fell upon its side with a shuddering sigh; little beads of clear resin stood out about the scar of the axe. It seemed as if the tree wept. But how graceful and trim it looked when it stood in the church waiting for gifts! Mathew hoped that it would understand.
The charcoal-burner came to church on Christmas eve, the first time in many years. It makes a difference about these things when you have a son to take part in them. The church and the tree were alight with candles; to the boy it seemed like what he supposed the place of dreams might be. One large candle burned on the top of the tree and threw out pointed rays like a star; it made the charcoal-burner’s son think of Bethlehem. Then he heard the minister talking, and it was all of a cross and a star; but Mathew could only look at the tree, for he saw that it trembled, and he felt that he had betrayed it. Then the choir began to sing, and the candle on the top of the tree burned down quite low, and Mathew saw the slender cross of the topmost bough stand up dark before it. Suddenly he remembered his old puzzle about it, how the smallest twigs were divided off in each in the shape of a cross, how the boughs repeated the star form every year, and what was true of his fir was true of them all. Then it must have been that there were tears in his eyes, for he could not see plainly: the pillars of the church spread upward like the shafts of the trees, and the organ playing was like the sound of the wind in their branches, and the stately star-built firs rose up like spires, taller than the church tower, each with a cross on top. The sapling which was still before him trembled more, moving its boughs as if it spoke; and the boy heard it in his heart and believed, for it spoke to him of God. Then all the fear went out of his heart and he had no more dread of going back to the mountain to spend his days, for now he knew that he need never be away from the green reminder of hope and sacrifice in the star and the cross of the silver fir; and the thought broadened in his mind that he might find more in the forest than he had ever thought to find, now that he knew what to look for, since everything speaks of God in its own way and it is only a matter of understanding how.
It was very gay in the little church that Christmas night, with laughter and bonbons flying about, and every child had a package of candy and an armful of gifts. The charcoal-burner had his pockets bulging full of toys, and Mathew’s eyes glowed like the banked fires of the charcoal-pits as they walked home in the keen, windless night.
“Well, my boy,” said the charcoal-burner, “I am afraid you will not be wanting to go back to the mountain with me after this.”
“Oh, yes, I will,” said Mathew happily, “for I think the mountains know quite as much of the important things as they know here in the town.”
“Right you are,” said the charcoal-burner, as he clapped his boy’s hand between both his own, “and I am pleased to think you have turned out such a sensible little fellow.” But he really did not know all that was in his son’s heart.
[10] Reprinted from “The Basket Woman” by permission of and by arrangement with Houghton Mifflin Co., publishers.
CHRISTMAS LUCK[11]
_Albert Bigelow Paine_
“Oh, Eb, it runs! It really does!”
Nell, who was twelve--a slender, sunny-haired little creature--first clasped her hands, then clapped them, then danced up and down the old woodshed pausing at last in front of a big kitchen table, where a toy engine and train of cars were making a circuit around and around and around a tiny track. The hired boy, Eb--a few years older, rough-handed and poorly dressed--smiled at the child’s pleasure.
“That’s nothing,” he said. “I didn’t have to do much to it.”
“But you did, Eb. It was all broken to pieces. Papa would be awfully disappointed to find it that way when he comes, and Tommy would never have gotten over it. Never! He’s set his heart on a train for Christmas, and it’s been promised to him, and now to have it all smashed in the express! Oh, Eb, nobody could have fixed it but you. You’re a real genius, mamma says, and ought to go to a mechanical school. Isn’t it lucky you’re living with Uncle Bob when we come to visit him!”
The dainty, dancing fairy stopped suddenly and held up a warning finger.
“Sh, Eb! There’s Tommy now! He’s coming back! Oh, stop it! stop it! and cover it so he can’t see! He’ll be coming straight in here, I know!”
Outside there were the wild whoop of a small boy with large lungs, a clatter of a sled, a stamping of feet, then a plunging into the kitchen, just as Eb had slipped a stick through the train wheels to stop it, and covered it with an old homespun saddle blanket, gathered hastily from the corner. A moment later Tommy burst in, red, snowy, and full of the curiosity which most healthy boys are likely to have, especially about Christmas-time.
“What are you doing here, Nell, you and Eb? What have you been making with all that wire, and those tools? What’s that blanket on the table? Pooh, Bess! What are you shivering for with that great cape on? I’m not cold, and I’ve been coasting for over an hour, down the back-barn hill! Oh, say, come in the kitchen, Nell! I want to show you a funny icicle I found. Come quick, before it’s all melted away!”
Like a whirlwind he had stormed in and out, followed closely by Nell, who threw a merry glance of relief over her shoulder. Eb, leaning against the work-bench, smiled back; then, with a sigh, saw them disappear.
For Nellie’s words and her mother’s had set his heart to beating with something like hope. What if there really could be a way by which he could go to such a place as she had mentioned, and learn to be a--a-- And then, as he saw them go out, and the door close behind them, it seemed as if hope went out with them. They would all be gone in a few days and never remember him again. He hurried off to pitch down the evening hay for the cattle, and see if he couldn’t forget, too.
From earliest childhood Eben Lessing had worked with tools--a one-bladed knife at first, then such other clumsy things as he could get hold of. With these he had made curious toys that would run by water, or wind, or heat, or steam, some of them quite useful. When he came to Robert Whittaker’s to live he built, besides other things, a churn of a new pattern, and a fan over the dining-room table, both to run by water-power brought from the brook. And when Mrs. William Whittaker, who was from the city, had seen these things, she had said the boy deserved a mechanical education, and then forgot all about it again, being very busy with all the Christmas preparations, while Eb, pitching down great wads of sweet hay from the barn loft, was still dreaming in spite of himself, of a day when he should leave the district school for a mechanical college, and become a great inventor, and marry Nellie Whittaker, and so live happy ever after. Then it came milking-time, and swishing the broad white streams into the foaming pail, he dreamed again, and kept on dreaming even after he was in bed and asleep. Then he forgot, and when he remembered again it was morning--the morning of the day before Christmas.
What a busy day that was! Of course, quite early, Eb had to drive in for papa, who was coming on the first train, and Nellie and Tom had to go along in the surrey. Then, when papa came, there was so much to tell, only, of course, Nell couldn’t tell how Tommy’s train had been broken and fixed, because Tommy wasn’t to know anything about the train until he saw it travelling around and around on the little track that was to go clear around under the Christmas tree. Then, at home, there were all the places to see--all the places that papa had seen as a little boy: the hill where he used to slide, the same back-barn hill where Tommy had been coasting, the brook where he used to fish, the hay-mow, and the horses and cows, and the hens’ nests where Nell and Tommy had found eggs, and where Tommy had been whipped by an old hen that wanted to sit; though why she should want to sit there all day in the cold on two nubbins of corn and a lump of frozen dirt that somebody had thrown at her, Tommy said he, for one, couldn’t see.
Papa laughed, and said that maybe if she sat there until spring on the nubbins and frozen dirt she’d hatch out a corn-field. Then they went into the kitchen, where mamma and Aunt Maria--a big motherly woman who had never had any children of her own, except one little boy named Willie, and that died--were baking and stirring, and opening and closing oven doors, so that people had better keep out of the way. Only you couldn’t, because it smelt so nice in there of mince-meat, and of baking-cakes that came out all brown, with buttered paper sticking to them when they were turned out of the pans. Then, all at once, they found that Aunt Maria had turned out a little brown cake, from a little pan, and she cut it hot, and Tommy had a piece, and Nellie and papa, just as he used to have the day before Christmas, when he was a little boy. And after this they went into the dining-room and saw Eb’s patent fan, and into the pantry to look at Eb’s churn, and papa said, “Well, well!” and that somebody ought to give a boy like that a chance.
But they forgot all about it when they got to the parlor and looked at the funny album that had pictures of papa and Uncle Bob, taken together, when papa was a very little boy and Uncle Bob was his big brother. And when Uncle Bob came in they talked about the day they had it taken, more than thirty years ago, and how papa had rolled up his eyes and didn’t keep still, and all that happened afterwards--the things that people always talk about when they forget for a little while that they are grown up, and only remember that they were once boys and girls, like the rest of us.
And in the afternoon they had to go and cut and bring in the Christmas tree. Tom and Mollie had already picked out a bushy little spruce up on the mountain-side, and Eb went along, because Eb had been with them and knew the way. Besides, Eb could cut better with a hatchet than anybody, so Tommy said.
Then Tommy walked down the hill with his papa, talking all the time, while Eb and Nellie, side by side, dragged the little spruce over the snow, and Nellie talked and Eb listened, and was never so happy before in all his life, and never so sad, either, because next week it would all be over, and he would be there alone, with no school except the district school, where he had learned about all he could, and with no chance of becoming a great inventor, and doing all the things that he had dreamed.
Of course Eb had to help to trim the tree. He had never trimmed one before, but he was the handiest of them all, and could go up a step-ladder and fasten tapers to the high limbs, and string popcorn and tinsel just in the very places where it ought to be. Then, when that part of it was all done, and it was getting towards evening--that wonderful evening of hush and mystery and joy--Christmas eve--it was Nellie who said that Eb must be Santa Claus, and put the presents on the tree.
“If we put them on, ourselves, then everybody will see just what they are to have, and who gives it,” she said. “If Eb puts them on, nobody will know until Christmas morning. We’ll darken the sitting-room, and each one can go in and put down his things, and come right out again. Then, after supper, Eb can go in and unwrap them, and put them on the tree. Of course, Tommy, the real Santa Claus, will come afterwards, and put on his things, too.”
Nellie did not mention that she had a bright new tie for Eb. She knew there would be a chance to put that on, herself, in the morning.
Everybody said Nellie’s plan was a good one; so by-and-by Eb found himself in the sitting-room alone, with a great many whispered instructions, and the beautiful tree, and packages and packages of things to be unwrapped and arranged in and about it. Tommy and Nell were tiptoeing and whispering about the hall, and Nellie called to Eb to lock the door or Tommy would just _have_ to come inside. So Eb locked it, laughing, and wished in his soul that Nellie at least might come in to help him. Then he noticed that somebody had put a lot of loose cotton around the foot of the tree to represent snow, and he looked from this to the little candles on the slender limbs, and shook his head, and said something about fire and tow being pretty close together. By-and-by he went out to the kitchen to wash his hands. When he came in he stopped a moment to arrange something in the corner, before going on with his work. The house was quite still now, but it was after midnight before Eb was ready to go to his bed.