Part 8

As Bess ran she was suddenly stopped at the gate by the sight of a carriage which had just driven up, and out of which now stepped Aunt Maria and Aunt Maria’s husband, Uncle Daniel. These were the very grimmest and grandest of all the relations. When they came to see mamma, Bess had always to sit perfectly still on a chair, answer very politely, have her very best dress on, her hair parted directly in the middle and be intensely proper. As for the boys, they suffered the torture by soap and water, and endured their new jackets, could not whittle, nor whistle, nor wrestle, and were sustained under these tribulations only by the expectation of a very good dinner and a “bully” dessert!

The white-and-gold china always came out on these occasions, the best double-damask tablecloth and napkins, the heaviest silver forks and spoons, the silver salt-cellars, and--oh, agony of agonies!--the silver teapot!

For one awful moment Bess stood stunned. Then her anxiety for Tom overcame every other consideration, and before Aunt Maria could say, “How do you do, Elizabeth?” she had caught her uncle by his august coat-tail and in a piteous voice besought him to come and pull on the rope.

“Pull on a rope, Elizabeth!” said Uncle Daniel in mild astonishment. “Why should I pull on a rope, my dear?” and Aunt Maria murmured, “Very astonishing thing for a child to say.”

“Oh, come quick! Hurry faster! Tom’s down in the well!” cried Bess, with freely flowing tears.

“Tom down a well! And how did he get there?”

Uncle Daniel never hurried, and required a reason, always, for the hope that was in his friends.

“He went down for the teapot,” sobbed Bess, “the silver teapot, and we can’t pull him up again; and he’s all cramped with cold. Oh, do hurry!”

“The silver teapot down the well; my mother’s silver teapot! Daniel, didn’t I always say that Mary Bradley should never have had that teapot? This must be looked into.”

And with dignified strides Aunt Maria marched to the well.

Tom’s teeth by this time were chattering so that he fully expected they would all drop out, and the three fishers were so completely demoralized by their fears as to be speechless.

Uncle Daniel was a slow man. He leisurely looked down at Tom, then up at the wheel, then at the rope, and calmly remarked, “All new, I see.” Then he slowly took off his coat, and as slowly carried it into the house, stopped to give an order to his coachman, who had driven around to the stable, and came with measured pace to where the three frightened children stood listening to Aunt Maria, who was doing her duty by them strictly and fully.

Uncle Daniel then took hold of the rope, gave a long, strong, calm pull, and in an instant, Tom, “dripping with coolness, arose from the well.”

* * * * *

As soon as they had stopped laughing, the story teller said:

“I will now tell you a Christmas story of the Great Northwest.”

XXIII

GLOOMY GUS AND THE CHRISTMAS CAT

THE Canadian miner was the first of the men to finish “washing up,” on his return from the mine.

“Where’s Barbara?” he asked, tossing his towel at a peg.

“She has a little cold and I put her to bed,” replied Mrs. St. Clair.

The anxiety in the mother’s voice kept him from asking any more questions. He followed the other men in to supper.

“It seems lonesome without Barbara,” said McGill, the mining engineer.

The rough men had made a pet of the laughing, blue-eyed little girl, and they missed her. She had slipped into their lives so quietly that they did not realize how much they looked forward to seeing her at the end of the day. And Barbara returned their love. A mining camp is hardly the place for a child, but Barbara’s father was dead, and her mother became the cook at the Little Bear Mine.

After supper the men sat in a grave, silent circle before the great open fireplace. There seemed to be nothing to talk about. Other evenings these big, rough men had had Barbara to romp with, all except Gloomy Gus.

But then Gloomy Gus never showed any interest in anything. He was a big, gruff Swede, whose name appeared on the company’s books as Gustavus Schwarstun. To the men, however, he was “Gloomy Gus.”

“This will give me a chance to finish her snowshoes,” the Canadian finally said, with an assumed air of gayety. “Christmas is almost here.”

He went to the bunk room and returned with a pair of small snowshoes he was making.

Every one of the men was making Barbara a present--every one but Gloomy Gus. McGill eyed him sharply.

The big Swede did something which at another time would have met with a roar of laughter; but not a man smiled when he pulled a ball of red yarn and a half-knitted mitten out of his pocket.

“I learned how to do it in the old country,” he said as he busied his rough, calloused fingers with the crude pine knitting needles he had made. He had unraveled the sleeve of a new red sweater to get the yarn he needed.

The men found it hard to work that evening, and trooped off to their bunks earlier than usual.

McGill remained. He went down the hall to Mrs. St. Clair’s room, where a light was still burning, and tapped gently.

“I’m going to put a cot in the mess room and sleep in there to-night,” he told her. “You may need me.”

It was after midnight when she called him. McGill found the little patient’s fever high. He listened to Barbara’s labored breathing and counted her pulse.

When he looked up, he found Mrs. St. Clair watching him anxiously. He knew from her eyes that she shared his fear--the fear that Barbara might have pneumonia. McGill had helped the doctor fight several cases of the disease in those mountains. They had generally been losing fights, but he set to work.

The big, hobnailed boots of the men fell softly on the rough floors as their wearers slipped in for breakfast. They had prepared it themselves and ate it silently. During the meal McGill came in. He looked worried and did not eat. After they had finished the men waited for him to speak.

“It’s pneumonia,” he said briefly.

That was all. Soon the men slipped off quietly to the mine, and McGill went back to Barbara.

By night Barbara was delirious.

“It looks bad,” McGill admitted to the men. “She is fretting over that cat.”

When Barbara came to the Little Bear Mine, she had brought with her a small Maltese kitten, her dearest possession. The death of the little kitten a week before had been the greatest tragedy in her young life.

After supper the men tried to work on their presents, but somehow the work dragged. The hours passed, but the men did not leave the mess room. Toward midnight McGill came out to them. “Mrs. St. Clair says you had better come in now if you want to see her. She’s--she’s going!”

The whole crew, from mucker to foreman, tiptoed down the hall--all except Gus. He didn’t seem to notice that they went.

Into the sick room they filed and stood in a little embarrassed group by the door. Barbara tossed fretfully on the bed, her eyes glowing with unnatural brightness.

“I want a kitty, Santa Claus! I want my kitty!” she wailed feebly.

The Canadian miner, tears rolling down his cheeks, left the room. The others followed.

Gus was still in his place by the fire when they returned.

“I can’t stand it to see her begging for that kitten,” said the Canadian. “I would risk my life to get one for her. I’d try to get to Telluride, if I thought I could get back in time to do any good.”

A minute afterwards Gus got up slowly and went out to the bunk room.

But Gus did not stop there long. He drew on an extra sweater, rubber coat and furs, snatched his skis and pole, and slipped from the house.

It was after midnight. The thermometer registered way below zero. The wind swirled down from the mountain tops with the lash of a gale. But Gus did not mind the storm; a master of the ski, he swung down the trail with a speed that mocked the wind at his back.

Telluride, the nearest town, was thirteen miles away, the only route leading there being over a zigzag pack trail. From the mine this trail descends the crest of a ridge until it strikes the edge of the canyon, staggers back and forth down the steep face of the canyon, then for the rest of the way meekly follows the river.

It is only a pack trail, narrow and dangerous at best. During the summer a line of burros or donkeys winds along it, bringing down ore from the mine and carrying back provisions. But when winter sets in, the trail becomes very dangerous, and the zigzags have caused the death of many prospectors who have stayed too late in the mountains, or taken the trail too early in the spring.

Gus had little difficulty down the first part of the trail. In an hour he reached the zigzags. They were covered with hanging masses of snow that threatened with every blast to go grinding down the wall of the canyon.

By his pole Gus held himself on to the side of the canyon, moving cautiously across hanging drifts. He made his way only by grim, desperate effort.

At the end of thirty minutes of hard struggle he stood half-way down the trail. Then a savage blast tore a pile of clinging snow from the top and drove it at him. Gus saw it start, gathering speed and bulk as it came. The whole mountain side began to move. Tons of hard-packed snow were slipping, and he was directly in their path. There was no way of dodging the avalanche--he must outrace it.

There was no time to zigzag back and forth down the side of the canyon; he had to take as direct a route as the avalanche. He threw his pole from his grasp and shot ahead of the oncoming mass of snow. Death was behind him. Before him rocks jutted out to trip him, and jump-offs endangered his course.

But he rode his skis with reckless abandon, leaping, twisting, dodging down the slope. Behind him crashed the snow. He was veering to the left to escape its path.

A leap brought him to the bottom of the canyon. But before he could glide to safety, a mass of snow at the side of the slide caught and hurled him before it, bruised and half buried.

A desperate struggle freed him. His skis were broken, his muscles were bruised and twisted.

It was half-past three when he reached the outskirts of the town. Mounting the steps of the first house, he rained heavy blows upon the door. The owner stuck his head out of a window. “Who’s there?” he asked.

“Give me a cat!” Gus ordered in a rough voice.

“Are you crazy?” yelled the enraged man at the window.

“I’ve got to have a cat! I’m from the Little Bear! Cook’s little girl is sick--pneumonia! She’s goin’ to die if we don’t get her a cat!”

“From the Little Bear? Over the zigzags? Impossible!”

“Give me a cat or I’ll break your door in!”

Presently a light glimmered through the night and a hastily clad man joined Gus. A search of the neighborhood produced a cat and fresh skis. In half an hour Gus was on the trail back.

At the mine the men had not gone to their bunks that night. They huddled before the fireplace, awaiting the dreaded news. McGill slipped by now and then on some errand.

The night dragged through, and Christmas dawned.

Christmas! This was the first time they had planned a real Christmas since they left their homes years ago. But now the heart had been taken out of the day.

They sat down to a listless breakfast. McGill came in.

“She’s still fighting. She’s got to win or lose pretty soon,” he said.

They did not go to the mine that morning. It was the first Christmas the Little Bear Mine had not run.

At ten o’clock McGill came in to report.

“Boys, I can’t stand it any longer. She’s wearing her strength away fretting for that cat. I’m not sure that a cat would really quiet her, and I hardly believe any living man can make it to Telluride, but I’m going to try.”

“No, you’re not,” said the Canadian. “She needs you here. Besides, you’re worn out. I’ll get the cat.”

“We’ll draw for it,” said the men.

“No use. Gus and I are the only two good enough on skis to have a fighting chance.”

“Gus! That brute hasn’t got the heart of a mine mule! He wouldn’t go at the point of a gun! Where is he? I haven’t seen him since last night,” stormed the foreman.

Silently the men watched the Canadian prepare for the trail. They were rough men, who held life cheaply, but not one of them believed a man had a chance to make the trail and return safely.

Suddenly the door opened and Gus staggered in. He tried to cross the room, but his worn-out muscles refused to act, and he sank to the floor.

The men sprang to him, laid him on a cot, pulled off his furs, and unbuttoned his coat. Underneath the coat was an old sack. One of the men gave it a shake. Out on the floor rolled a half-frozen, half-smothered kitten. It told the story; it told them that Gus was a hero.

The next morning when consciousness returned to Gus, the men carried his cot into Barbara’s room. On the bed he could see a little figure, frail and worn, but sleeping the restful sleep of exhaustion. One little arm was outside the covers, hugging up closely a fluff of a kitten. Beside the bed, he saw the mother, smiling happily through her tears, for she knew that Barbara would get well.

XXIV

PATTY AND HER PITCHER

AT the end of the story the Story Lady paused a moment, and then said: “We will now leave the cold and snowy world and come back to our warm and pleasant Fairyland and to the story of Patty and her Pitcher.”

“This is the delightful surprise I spoke of,” said the Story Queen to Mary Frances. “Just watch the magic circle.”

Mary Frances noticed a large circle drawn on the carpet, about which all the Story People were grouped.

“You are going to hear the story and see it acted at the same time. The Story Lady will control the action with her voice.”

_In the Magic Circle_

Mary Frances sat listening entranced to the voice of the Story Lady. It flowed on and on like sweet music, now rising, now falling, filling the ear with charming sound, and the imagination with a perfect picture of the story she was telling.

The story began:

“The most charming little girl in her native village was Patty--”

At the words a little girl, Patty, not much bigger than Tiny of Tinytown sprang up in the circle with her little home and the village all about her.

“The pigeons flew down--to coo around her--”

And they flew down and cooed.

“The chickens fed from her hand--”

And the chickens came running.

“The cat rolled over her feet and purred--”

And the cat did it.

“The steady old dog, Bluff, cut his liveliest capers--”

And Bluff did it.

As the story fell from the Story Lady’s lips there was instant obedience in the village of the magic circle. The characters obeyed the voice instantly, just as the feet of children dancing obey the music of the piano. So the story flowed on--the acting kept pace with the voice and did everything the words said.

Mary Frances sat spellbound, for she had never seen anything so beautiful as the way in which that wonderful voice brought every player and every action to her ears and eyes at the same time.

This is the story. If you keep your eyes on the magic circle you can see it as Mary Frances saw it--through the veil of words.

* * * * *

_The Wonderful Pitcher_

The most charming little girl in her native village, was Patty; at least, so all the neighbors said, and what everybody says ought to have some truth in it.

Patty deserved their kind words, for she loved everybody and everything, and in return she was loved by all who knew her. The pigeons flew down from their little house to coo around her; the chickens fed from her hand; the cat rolled over her feet and purred with pleasure; and even the steady old dog, Bluff, put himself to the trouble of cutting his liveliest capers to attract her attention.

Patty was always busy, too, about something. When she was no higher than your knee, she used to bustle about and do little things in the handiest manner; and as for sewing, she was the pattern child at the dame’s school, where her sampler was hung upon the wall, as a guide to the other children.

She lived in a little cottage with her parents, who were now old and very poor, and depended upon their little daughter for many things which they were too feeble to do for themselves. One of her daily duties was to go to the spring for water.

She would dip her pitcher into the clear, bright liquid, and sing her sweet little songs, with a voice that made every one who passed that way stop to listen with delight.

Upon one of her journeys to the spring, occurred the great event of her life, of which I am now about to tell you.

Patty had filled her pitcher at the spring, and was carrying it home with some little difficulty, for it was quite heavy when filled. When almost in sight of her cottage, she saw a poor, old, travel-worn woman sitting by the wayside, as if overcome by the fatigue of a long journey.

She sat upon the trunk of a fallen tree; her face was as brown as a nut, and covered with a complete network of wrinkles, while her dim eyes looked dull and sunken. At her back was tied a bundle which seemed quite large enough for a strong man to carry.

She watched Patty as she came near, and cast eager eyes upon the water in the pitcher, which seemed so cool and tempting; and after looking at Patty’s rosy, good-natured face, she asked for some water.

“Dear little child,” said she in a feeble voice, “give me a drink from your pitcher, for I am very old, and faint, and weary.”

“To be sure, mother, and welcome,” said Patty, sweetly, as she raised up the pitcher so that the old woman could drink.

Long and eagerly did the poor creature drink of the delicious water; so long, indeed, that Patty was much surprised at her extreme thirst.

“Thank you, my darling. Heaven will reward you for your kindness,” said the old woman.

“Oh, you are quite welcome, mother,” said Patty again, shouldering her pitcher, and going cheerfully on her way, singing in the lightness of her heart, at the pleasure of having relieved the poor woman’s distress.

But she had not gone far before she was overtaken by a large dog, who seemed to be bound upon a long journey; for he was covered with dust, his eyes were bloodshot, and his parched tongue hung from his mouth to catch the cool air.

“Poor fellow,” said Patty, in a kind voice.

The dog turned around at the words, and stopped to look at her. She held out her hand, and he came nearer. She then set down her pitcher to caress him, but he strove eagerly to reach the pitcher which his instinct told him contained water. Patty understood his wants, and held the pitcher to the poor dog so that he could drink with comfort.

He lapped and lapped, until she began to think he would never leave off. At last, he looked up into her face, and licked her hand in gratitude; then, after bounding and gamboling about to show how refreshed he was, trotted on his way.

Patty now looked into her pitcher and found that it was more than half empty, so that she must take all her journey over again; for it was of no use going home with a pitcher but half full.

As she rose, she saw some hare-bells by the side of the road which appeared to be in a very drooping, dusty state, so she at once poured over them all the water that remained in the pitcher.

Then, with her pitcher once more upon her shoulder, she turned her steps again toward the spring, without a single regret at the double work she had to do. She traveled blithely on over the dusty road, cheering the way with her sweet songs, and soon arrived once more at the margin of the spring.

Resting for a few minutes in the shade, she gazed sleepily at the bubbling water, and all kinds of fanciful thoughts passed through her mind. She was just dropping off into a little nap, when she thought she heard some one call her by name. It was a sweet little voice, and Patty could hardly distinguish it from the tinkling of the spring.

She rose quickly to her feet, and looked in every direction for the owner of the voice, but in vain; till suddenly casting eyes upon the spring, she saw, to her amazement, a dear little face looking up at her from the water; and presently there stood before her one of the most beautiful little creatures Patty had ever seen.

She balanced lightly upon the surface of the rippling water, where she seemed to stand with the same ease as Patty did upon the land, and was really no higher than the pitcher.

“So, Patty,” said she, “so you have come back again, my dear?”

“Yes, Madam,” replied Patty, who, to say the truth, felt somewhat alarmed; “yes, Madam, because I----”

“I know all about it,” said the fairy, for it was a fairy, you know; “and it is because I do know, that you see me here, for I am now come to make you a useful present.”

“A present!” said Patty, with a pleased surprise.

“Yes, and such a one,” replied the fairy, “as will be a lasting reward for your goodness of heart toward others, and your little care for yourself. You blush because you do not remember the many kind things you have done, and I am the more pleased to see that you think I am giving you unmerited praise.

“That you think so little of all the kind actions which are the ornament of your life, assures me of the purity of your motives; for it is our duty to forget the good we do to others, and to remember only the good that others do to us. You have always done so, my dear Patty.

“To reward you, I will place a spell upon your pitcher, which will always be full of water or milk, as you may desire. It will also be able to move and work whenever you wish it, and will always prove your firm friend in any trouble.

“If it should, by any mishap, be parted from you, it will easily, by its magic powers, be able to find you; and in whatever position you may happen to be, you will always find it by your side, as adviser and friend; so put your pitcher on the ground, and look into it.”

Patty did so, and to her surprise, saw the bright water gradually rising until the pitcher was full to the brim. When she saw it was full she tried to lift it, but found it too heavy for her strength.

“You need not trouble yourself to carry it,” said the fairy, smiling; “it will save you all further trouble on that score.”

She then touched the pitcher with her wand, when to Patty’s greater surprise, two very well-formed legs grew out of the bottom, and a pair of neat little arms appeared at the top of the vessel, which, as soon as it was firm on its legs, made a very polite bow to Patty as its future mistress.

“Now, Patty,” said the fairy, “follow your pitcher, and you cannot possibly go wrong;” and as she finished speaking, she gradually faded away, and at last broke into a thousand sparkling drops, which mingled with the bubbling stream, and were soon borne away on its bosom.

Patty rubbed her eyes as if to make sure that she was awake; for the whole thing seemed to her like a wonderful dream. She coughed aloud, and at last began to pinch herself until she found it painful, when she finally concluded that she must be really awake. But more convincing than all, there stood the saucy brown pitcher firmly upon its sturdy green legs, with its toes turned out in the politest manner of the day, and its little fists planted in its sides in a style that was very business-like indeed.

“Quite ready to start, mistress,” said a little voice that made Patty jump, for the fairy had not told her that the pitcher could speak; but screwing up courage, she said: “Come on, then, Pitcher,” and set the example by starting off into a run.

And didn’t the pitcher follow her in good earnest! Indeed, it ran so fast that it soon overtook her, and not only that, but it ran beyond her, long before she got half-way home.