Basket Woman: A Book of Indian Tales for Children

  THE CHRISTMAS TREE

  Eastward from the Sierras rises a strong red hill known as PineMountain, though the Indians call it The Hill of Summer Snow. At itsfoot stands a town of a hundred board houses, given over wholly to thebusiness of mining. The noise of it goes on by day and night,--the creakof the windlasses, the growl of the stamps in the mill, the clank of thecars running down to the dump, and from the open doors of the drinkingsaloons, great gusts of laughter and the sound of singing. Billows ofsmoke roll up from the tall stacks and by night are lit ruddily by thesmelter fires all going at a roaring blast.

  Whenever the charcoal-burner's son looked down on the red smoke, theglare, and the hot breath of the furnaces, it seemed to him like anexhalation from the wickedness that went on continually in the town;though all he knew of wickedness was the word, a rumor from passers-by,and a kind of childish fear. The charcoal-burner's cabin stood on a spurof Pine Mountain two thousand feet above the town, and sometimes the boywent down to it on the back of the laden burros when his father carriedcharcoal to the furnaces. All else that he knew were the wild creaturesof the mountain, the trees, the storms, the small flowering things, andaway at the back of his heart a pale memory of his mother like the faintforest odor that clung to the black embers of the pine. They had livedin the town when the mother was alive and the father worked in themines. There were not many women or children in the town at that time,but mining men jostling with rude quick ways; and the young mother wasnot happy.

  "Never let my boy grow up in such a place," she said as she lay dying;and when they had buried her in the coarse shallow soil, her husbandlooked for comfort up toward The Hill of Summer Snow shining purely,clear white and quiet in the sun. It swam in the upper air above thesooty reek of the town and seemed as if it called. Then he took theyoung child up to the mountain, built a cabin under the tamarack pines,and a pit for burning charcoal for the furnace fires.

  No one could wish for a better place for a boy to grow up in than theslope of Pine Mountain. There was the drip of pine balm and a wind likewine, white water in the springs, and as much room for roaming as onedesired. The charcoal-burner's son chose to go far, coming back withsheaves of strange bloom from the edge of snow banks on the high ridges,bright spar or peacock-painted ores, hatfuls of berries, or strings ofshining trout. He played away whole mornings in glacier meadows where heheard the eagle scream; walking sometimes in a mist of cloud he cameupon deer feeding, or waked them from their lair in the deep fern. Onsnow-shoes in winter he went over the deep drifts and spied among thepine tops on the sparrows, the grouse, and the chilly robins winteringunder the green tents. The deep snow lifted him up and held him amongthe second stories of the trees. But that was not until he was a greatlad, straight and springy as a young fir. As a little fellow he spenthis days at the end of a long rope staked to a pine just out of reach ofthe 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 trailnor meddle with the cubs, never to try to climb the eagle rocks afterthe young eagles, never to lie down nor to sleep on the sunny, southslope where the rattlesnakes frequented. After that he was free of thewhole wood.

  When Mathew, for so the boy was called, was ten years old, he began tobe of use about the charcoal-pits, to mark the trees for cutting, tosack the coals, to keep the house, and cook his father's meals. He hadno companions of his own age nor wanted any, for at this time he lovedthe silver firs. A group of them grew in a swale below the cabin, talland fine; the earth under them was slippery and brown with needles.Where they stood close together with overlapping boughs the light amongthe tops was golden green, but between the naked boles it was a vaporthin and blue. These were the old trees that had wagged their topstogether for three hundred years. Around them stood a ring of saplingsand seedlings scattered there by the parent firs, and a little apartfrom these was the one that Mathew loved. It was slender of trunk andsilvery white, the branches spread out fanwise to the outline of aperfect spire. In the spring, when the young growth covered it as with agossamer web, it gave out a pleasant odor, and it was to him like thememory of what his mother had been. Then he garlanded it with flowersand hung streamers of white clematis all heavy with bloom upon itsboughs. He brought it berries in cups of bark and sweet water from thespring; always as long as he knew it, it seemed to him that the fir treehad a soul.

  The first trip he had ever made on snow-shoes was to see how it faredamong the drifts. That was always a great day when he could find theslender cross of its topmost bough above the snow. The fir was not verytall in those days, but the snows as far down on the slope as thecharcoal-burner's cabin lay shallowly. There was a time when Mathewexpected to be as tall as the fir, but after a while the boy did notgrow so fast and the fir kept on adding its whorl of young branchesevery year.

  Mathew told it all his thoughts. When at times there was a heaviness inhis breast which was really a longing for his mother, though he did notunderstand it, he would part the low spreading branches and creep up tothe slender trunk of the fir. Then he would put his arms around it andbe quiet for a long beautiful time. The tree had its own way ofcomforting him; the branches swept the ground and shut him in dark andclose. He made a little cairn of stones under it and kept his treasuresthere.

  Often as he sat snuggled up to the heart of the tree, the boy would sliphis hand over the smooth intervals between the whorls of boughs, andwonder how they knew the way to grow. All the fir trees are alike inthis, that they throw out their branches from the main stem like therays of a star, one added to another with the season's growth. Theystand out stiffly from the trunk, and the shape of each new bough in thebeginning and the shape of the last growing twig when they have spreadout broadly with many branchlets, bending with the weight of their ownneedles, is the shape of a cross; and the topmost sprig that rises aboveall the star-built whorls is a long and slender cross, until by thespringing of new branches it becomes a star. So the two forms go onrunning into and repeating each other, and each star is like all thestars, and every bough is another's twin. It is this trim and certaingrowth that sets out the fir from all the mountain trees, and gives tothe young saplings a secret look as they stand straight and stifflyamong the wild brambles on the hill. For the wood delights to growabroad at all points, and one might search a summer long without findingtwo leaves of the oak alike, or any two trumpets of the spangledmimulus. So, as at that time he had nothing better worth studyingabout, Mathew noticed and pondered the secret of the silver fir, andgrew up with it until he was twelve years old and tall and strong forhis age. By this time the charcoal-burner began to be troubled about theboy's schooling.

  Meantime there was rioting and noise and coming and going of strangersin the town at the foot of Pine Mountain, and the furnace blast went onruddily 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 thecharcoal sacks, and would not go far away from them except when he heldhis father by the hand. After a time it seemed life went more quietlythere, flowers began to grow in the yards of the houses, and they metchildren 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 buildinggoing up in the town.

  "It is a church," he said, "and when that is finished it will be a signthat there will be women here like your mother, and then you may go toschool."

  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 churchbuilding, and it was wonderful how much he could see in that clear, thinatmosphere; no other building in town interested him so much. He saw thewalls go up and the roof, and the spire rise skyward with something thatglittered twinkling
on its top. Then they painted the church white andhung a bell in the tower. Mathew fancied he could hear it of Sundays ashe saw the people moving along like specks in the streets.

  "Next week," said the father, "the school begins, and it is time for youto go as I promised. I will come to see you once a month, and when theterm is over you shall come back to the mountain." Mathew said good-byto 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 aregetting 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 ontop like yours, only it is yellow and shines. Perhaps when I am gone Ishall 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 andfearful to him as it would be to you who have grown up in town to beleft alone in the wood. At night, when he saw the charcoal-burner'sfires glowing up in the air where the bulk of the mountain melted intothe dark, he would cry a little under the blankets, but after he beganto learn, there was no more occasion for crying. It was to the child asthough there had been a candle lighted in a dark room. On Sunday hewent to the church and then it was both light and music, for he heardthe minister read about God in the great book and believed it all, foreverything that happens in the woods is true, and people who grow up init are best at believing. Mathew thought it was all as the ministersaid, that there is nothing better than pleasing God. Then when he layawake at night he would try to think how it would have been with him ifhe had never come to this place. In his heart he began to be afraid ofthe time when he would have to go back to the mountain, where there wasno one to tell him about this most important thing in the world, for hisfather never talked to him of these things. It preyed upon his mind, butif any one noticed it, they thought that he pined for his father andwished himself at home.

  It drew toward midwinter, and the white cap on The Hill of Summer Snow,which never quite melted even in the warmest weather, began to spreaddownward until it reached the charcoal-burner's home. There was a greatstir and excitement among the children, for it had been decided to havea Christmas tree in the church. Every Sunday now the Christ-child storywas told over and grew near and brighter like the Christmas star. Mathewhad not known about it before, except that on a certain day in the yearhis father had bought him toys. He had supposed that it was because itwas stormy and he had to be indoors. Now he was wrapped up in the storyof love and sacrifice, and felt his heart grow larger as he breathed itin, looking upon clear windless nights to see if he might discern theStar of Bethlehem rising over Pine Mountain and the Christ-child comewalking on the snow. It was not that he really expected it, but that thestory was so alive in him. It is easy for those who have lived long inthe high mountains to believe in beautiful things. Mathew wished in hisheart that he might never go away from this place. He sat in his seat inchurch, and all that the minister said sank deeply into his mind.

  When it came time to decide about the tree, because Mathew's father wasa charcoal-burner and knew where the best trees grew, it was quitenatural to ask him to furnish the tree for his part. Mathew fairlyglowed with delight, and his father was pleased, too, for he liked tohave his son noticed. The Saturday before Christmas, which fell onTuesday that year, was the time set for going for the tree, and by thattime Mathew had quite settled in his mind that it should be his silverfir. He did not know how otherwise he could bring the tree to share inhis new delight, nor what else he had worth giving, for he quitebelieved what he had been told, that it is only through giving the bestbeloved that one comes to the heart's desire. With all his heart Mathewwished never to live in any place where he might not hear about God. Sowhen his father was ready with the ropes and the sharpened axe, the boyled the way to the silver firs.

  "Why, that is a little beauty," said the charcoal-burner, "and just theright size."

  They were obliged to shovel away the snow to get at it for cutting, andMathew turned away his face when the chips began to fly. The tree fellupon its side with a shuddering sigh; little beads of clear resin stoodout about the scar of the axe. It seemed as if the tree wept. But howgraceful and trim it looked when it stood in the church waiting forgifts! Mathew hoped that it would understand.

  The charcoal-burner came to church on Christmas eve, the first time inmany years. It makes a difference about these things when you have a sonto 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 pointedrays 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 astar; but Mathew could only look at the tree, for he saw that ittrembled, and he felt that he had betrayed it. Then the choir began tosing, and the candle on top of the tree burned down quite low, andMathew saw the slender cross of the topmost bough stand up dark beforeit. Suddenly he remembered his old puzzle about it, how the smallesttwigs were divided off in each in the shape of a cross, how the boughsrepeated the star form every year, and what was true of his fir was trueof 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 upwardlike the shafts of the trees, and the organ playing was like the soundof the wind in their branches, and the stately star-built firs rose uplike spires, taller than the church tower, each with a cross on top. Thesapling which was still before him trembled more, moving its boughs asif it spoke; and the boy heard it in his heart and believed, for itspoke to him of God. Then all the fear went out of his heart and he hadno more dread of going back to the mountain to spend his days, for nowhe knew that he need never be away from the green reminder of hope andsacrifice in the star and the cross of the silver fir; and the thoughtbroadened in his mind that he might find more in the forest than he hadever thought to find, now that he knew what to look for, sinceeverything speaks of God in its own way and it is only a matter ofunderstanding how.

  It was very gay in the little church that Christmas night, with laughterand bonbons flying about, and every child had a package of candy and anarmful of gifts. The charcoal-burner had his pockets bulging full oftoys, and Mathew's eyes glowed like the banked fires of thecharcoal-pits as they walked home in the keen, windless night.

  "Well, my boy," said the charcoal-burner, "I am afraid you will not bewanting to go back to the mountain with me after this."

  "Oh, yes, I will," said Mathew happily, "for I think the mountains knowquite 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 handbetween both his own, "and I am pleased to think you have turned outsuch a sensible little fellow." But he really did not know all that wasin his son's heart.