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Christmas On Big Rattle · The Children's Book of Christmas Stories

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  Speaker 1: Story number thirty five of the Children's Book of Christmas Stories.
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  Speaker 1: This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in
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  Speaker 1: the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please
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  Speaker 1: visit LibriVox dot org. Recording by Alisa mc caslin, July
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  Speaker 1: two thousand twelve. Children's Book of Christmas Stories by various artists.
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  Speaker 1: Christmas on Big Rattle by Theodore Goodrich Roberts. Archer sat
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  Speaker 1: by the rude hearth of his Big Rattle camp, brooding
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  Speaker 1: in a sort of tired contentment over the spitting fagots
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  Speaker 1: of var and glowing coals of birch. It was Christmas Eve.
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  Speaker 1: He had been out on his snow shoes all that
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  Speaker 1: day and all the day before, springing his traps along
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  Speaker 1: the streams and putting his dead falls out of commission.
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  Speaker 1: Rather queer work for a trapper to be about. But Archer,
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  Speaker 1: despite all his gloomy manner, was really a sentimentalist who
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  Speaker 1: practiced what he found. Christmas is a season of peace
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  Speaker 1: on earth, he had told himself while demolishing the logs
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  Speaker 1: of a sinister deadfall with his axe. And now the
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  Speaker 1: remembrance of his quicksatic deed added a brightness to the
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  Speaker 1: fire into the rough, undecorated walls of the camp. Outside.
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  Speaker 1: The wind ran high in the forest, breaking and sweeping
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  Speaker 1: tidelike over the reefs of tree tops. The air was
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  Speaker 1: bitterly cold. Another voice, almost as fitful as the sough
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  Speaker 1: of the wind, sounded across the night. It was the
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  Speaker 1: waters of Stone arrow Falls above Big Rattle. The frosts
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  Speaker 1: had drawn their bonds of ice and blankets of silencing
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  Speaker 1: snow over all the rest of the stream. But the
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  Speaker 1: white and black face of the fall still flashed from
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  Speaker 1: a window in the great House of Crystal and threw
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  Speaker 1: out a voice of desolation. So Coby Bare, a full
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  Speaker 1: blooded micmac, uttered a grunt of relief. When his ears
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  Speaker 1: caught the bellow of Stone arrow Falls. He stood still
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  Speaker 1: and turned his head from side to side questioningly. Good,
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  Speaker 1: he said, big Rattle, Off there, Archer's camp over there,
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  Speaker 1: I go there. Good enough. He hitched his old smooth
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  Speaker 1: bore rifle higher under his arm and continued his journey.
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  Speaker 1: Sokoby had tramped many miles all the way from Ice
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  Speaker 1: in prison Fox Harbor. His papoose was sick, his squaw
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  Speaker 1: was hungry. Socoby's belt was drawn tight During all that
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  Speaker 1: weary journey, his old rifle had not banged once. Although
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  Speaker 1: few eyes save those of timber Wolf and Lynx, were
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  Speaker 1: sharper in the hunt than Socoby's. The Indian was reeling
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  Speaker 1: with hunger and weakness, but he held bravely on. A
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  Speaker 1: white man, no matter how courageous and sinewy, would have
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  Speaker 1: been prone in the snow by that time. But Socoby,
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  Speaker 1: with his head down and his round snow shoes padding
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  Speaker 1: padding like the feet of a frightened duck, raced with
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  Speaker 1: death toward the haven of Archer's cabin. Archer was dreaming
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  Speaker 1: of a Christmas time in a great far away city
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  Speaker 1: when he was startled by a rattle of snow shoes
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  Speaker 1: at his threshold, and a soft beating on his door,
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  Speaker 1: like weak blows from mittened hands. He sprang across the
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  Speaker 1: cabin and pulled open the door. A short, stooping figure
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  Speaker 1: shuffled in and reeled against him. A rifle in a
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  Speaker 1: woolen case clattered at his feet. Mere Christmas, how do,
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  Speaker 1: said a weary voice. Merry Christmas, brother, replied Archer. Then
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  Speaker 1: bless me, But it's sa Koby bear. Why what's the matter?
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  Speaker 1: So Koby heap, tired, heep hungry, replied the Micmac, Sinking
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  Speaker 1: to the floor. Archer lifted the Indian and carried him
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  Speaker 1: over to the bunk at the farther end of the room.
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  Speaker 1: He filled his iron pots spoon with brandy and inserted
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  Speaker 1: the point of it between Sokoby's unresisting jaws. Then he
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  Speaker 1: loosened the Micmac's coat and shirt and belt. He removed
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  Speaker 1: his moccasins and stockings and rubbed the straight, thin feet
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  Speaker 1: with brandy. After a while, Sokoby beaar opened his eyes
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  Speaker 1: and gazed up at Archer. Good, he said, John Archer,
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  Speaker 1: he heap fine man anyhow, mighty good to poor injun
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  Speaker 1: Socoby too plenty to back I s'pose plenty rum too.
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  Speaker 1: No more rum my, son, replied Archer, tossing what was
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  Speaker 1: left in the mug against the log wall and corking
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  Speaker 1: the bottle. And no smoke until you've had a feed.
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  Speaker 1: What do you say to bacon and tea? Or would
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  Speaker 1: tin beef suit you better? Bakeum, replied Socoby. He hoisted
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  Speaker 1: himself to his elbow and wistfully sniffed the fumes of
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  Speaker 1: the brandy that came from the direction of his bare feet,
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  Speaker 1: heap waist of good rum me tink, he said, you
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  Speaker 1: ungrateful little beggar, laughed Archer as he pulled a frying
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  Speaker 1: pan from under the bunk. By the time the bacon
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  Speaker 1: was fried in, the t was steeped, so Koby was
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  Speaker 1: sufficiently revived to leave the bunk and take a seat
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  Speaker 1: by the fire. He ate, as all hungry Indians do,
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  Speaker 1: and Archer looked on in wonder and whimsical regret, remembering
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  Speaker 1: the miles and miles he had tramped with that bacon
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  Speaker 1: on his back. So, Toby, you will kill yourself, he protested.
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  Speaker 1: So Koby no kill himself, now, replied the micmac as
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  Speaker 1: he bolted a brown slice and a mouthful of hard bread.
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  Speaker 1: So Koby more liked to kill himself when he empty
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  Speaker 1: want to live? When he chalked full, good fun tank
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  Speaker 1: you for more tea, Archer filled the extended mug and
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  Speaker 1: poured in the molasses. Long sweetenin' they call it in
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  Speaker 1: that region. What brings you so far from Fox Harbor
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  Speaker 1: this time of year, inquired Archer. Squaw sick papoos, sick
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  Speaker 1: boat empty, one good bakeum to eat. Harcher smiled at
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  Speaker 1: the fire. Any luck trapping, he asked. His guest shook
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  Speaker 1: his head and hid his face behind the upturned mug.
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  Speaker 1: Not much, he replied. Presently, he drew his sleeve across
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  Speaker 1: his mouth, and then produced a clay pipe from a
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  Speaker 1: pocket and his shirt to back. He inquired. Archer passed
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  Speaker 1: him a dark and heavy plug of tobacco. Knife, queried, Sokoby,
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  Speaker 1: try your own knife on it, answered Archer, grinning with
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  Speaker 1: a sigh. Sokoby produced his sheath knife. You tink, Socoby
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  Speaker 1: kee big teeth, he said, accusingly, Knives are easily lost
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  Speaker 1: in people's pockets, replied Archer. The two men talk for hours.
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  Speaker 1: Socoby bare was a great gossip for one of his race.
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  Speaker 1: In fact, he had a mic mac nick name, which
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  Speaker 1: translated meant the man who deafens his friends with much talk. Archer, however,
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  Speaker 1: was pleased with his ready chatter and unforced humor. But
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  Speaker 1: at last they both began to nod. The white man
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  Speaker 1: made up a bed on the floor for Skoby with
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  Speaker 1: a couple of caribou skins and a heavy blanket. Then
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  Speaker 1: he gathered together a few plugs of tobacco, some tea flour,
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  Speaker 1: and dried fish Socoby watched him with freshly aroused interest.
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  Speaker 1: More to back, please, he said, Squaw, he smokes too.
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  Speaker 1: Archer added a couple of sticks of black leaf to
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  Speaker 1: the pile. Bake em too, said the micmac. Bake em
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  Speaker 1: better nor fish anyhow, Archer shook his head. You'll have
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  Speaker 1: to do with the fish, he replied, But I'll give
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  Speaker 1: you a tin of condensed milk for the papoos. Ah
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  Speaker 1: Ah him, good stuff, exclaimed Socoby. Archer considered the provisions
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  Speaker 1: for a second or two, then, going over who had
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  Speaker 1: doneaged bagged near his bunk. He pulled its contents about
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  Speaker 1: until he found a bright red silk handkerchief and a
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  Speaker 1: red flannel shirt. Their color was too gaudy for his taste.
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  Speaker 1: These things are for your squaw, he said. Socoby was delighted.
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  Speaker 1: Archer tied the articles into a neat pack and stood
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  Speaker 1: it in the corner beside his guest's rifle. Now you'd
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  Speaker 1: better turn in, he said, and blew out the light.
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  Speaker 1: Ten minutes both men slept the sleep of the weary.
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  Speaker 1: The fire, a great mass of red coals, faded and
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  Speaker 1: flushed like some fabulous jewel. The wind washed over the
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  Speaker 1: cabin and fingered the caves and brushed furtive hands against
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  Speaker 1: the door. It was dawn when Archer awoke. He sat
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  Speaker 1: up in his bunk and looked about the quiet, gray
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  Speaker 1: lighted room. Socoby bare was nowhere to be seen. He
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  Speaker 1: glanced at the corner by the door. Rifle and pack
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  Speaker 1: were both gone. He looked up at the rafters where
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  Speaker 1: his slab of bacon was always hung. It too was gone.
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  Speaker 1: He jumped out of his bunk and ran to the door.
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  Speaker 1: Opening it, he looked out. Not a breath of air
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  Speaker 1: stirred in the east. Saffron and scarlet broke the Christmas morning,
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  Speaker 1: and blew. On the white surface of the world lay
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  Speaker 1: the imprints of Socoby's round snow shoes. For a long time,
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  Speaker 1: the trapper stood in a doorway in silence, looking out
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  Speaker 1: at the stillness and beauty. Poor Socoby, he said, after
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  Speaker 1: a while, well, he's welcome to the bacon, even if
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  Speaker 1: it is all I had. He turned to light the
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  Speaker 1: fire and prepare breakfast. Something at the foot of his
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  Speaker 1: bunk caught his eye. He went over and took it up.
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  Speaker 1: It was a cured skin, a beautiful specimen of fox.
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  Speaker 1: He turned it over and on the white hide an
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  Speaker 1: uncultured hand had written with a charred stick archer. Well
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  Speaker 1: bless that old redskin, exclaimed the trapper, huskily, bless his
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  Speaker 1: puckered eyes. Who'd have thought that I should get a
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  Speaker 1: Christmas present? End of Christmas on Big Rattle by Theodore
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  Speaker 1: Goodrich Roberts. End of the children's book of Christmas Stories
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  Speaker 1: by various artists.