I.

A cabin. A cabin in the woods. Of it I have written before, and of it I write again. The same great fireplace piled high with logs fiercely ablaze. Again on either side of the fireplace are the hounds gazing meditatively into the fire. The same big table, and on it the same great book, leather-bound and worn by the hands of many generations. And at the strong table, bending over the sacred book, with one huge finger marking a sentence, the same whitened head, the same man, large of limb and large of feature John Norton, the Trapper.

“Yis, pups,” said the Trapper, speaking to his dogs as one speaks to companions in council, “yis, pups, it must go in, for here it be writ in the Book Rover, ye needn’t have that detarmined look in yer eye for here it be writ in the Book, I say, ’Do unto others as ye would that others should do unto you.’

“I know, old dog, that ye have seed me line the sights on the vagabonds, when ye and me have ketched ’em pilferin’ the traps or tamperin’ with the line, and I have trusted yer nose as often as my own eyes in trackin’ the knaves when they’d got the start of us. And I will admit it, Rover, that the Lord gave ye a great gift in yer nose, so that ye be able to desarn the difference atween the scent of an honest trapper’s moccasin and that of a vagabond. But that isn’t to the p’int, Rover. The p’int is, Christmas be comin’ and ye and me and Sport, yender, have sot it down that we’re to have a dinner, and the question in council to-night is, Who shall we invite to our dinner? Here we have been arguin’ the matter three nights atween us, pups, and we didn’t git a foot ahead, and the reason that we didn’t git a foot ahead was, because ye and me, Rover, naterally felt alike, for we have never consorted with vagabonds, and we couldn’t bear the idée of invitin’ ’em to this cabin and eatin’ with ’em. So, ye and me agreed to-night we’d go to the Book and go by the Book, hit or miss. And the reason we should go to the Book and by the Book is, because, ef it wasn’t for the Book, there wouldn’t be any Christmas nor any Christmas dinner to invite anyone to, and so we went to the Book, and the Book says I will read ye the words, Rover. And, Sport, though ye be a younger dog, and naterally of less jedgment, yit ye have yer gifts, and I have seed ye straighten out a trail that Rover and me couldn’t ontangle. So do ye listen, both of ye, like honest dogs, while I read the words:

“’Give to him that lacketh and from him that hath not withhold not thine hand.’

“There it be, Rover, we are to give to the man that lacks, vagabond or no vagabond. Ef he lacks vict’als, we are to give him vict’als; ef he lacks garments, we are to give him garments; ef he lacks a Christmas dinner, Rover, we are to give him a Christmas dinner. But how are we to give him a Christmas dinner onless we give him an invite to it? For ye know yerself, Rover, that no vagabond would ever come to a cabin where ye and me be onless we axed him to.

“But there’s another sentence here somewhere in the Book that bears on the p’int we be considerin’. ’When thou makest a dinner’ that be exactly our case, Rover, ’or a supper, call not thy friends, nor thy brethren, neither thy kinsmen, nor thy rich neighbors; lest they also bid thee again, and a recompense be made thee. But when thou makest a feast, call the poor, the maimed, the lame, the blind: and thou shalt be blessed; for they cannot recompense thee: for thou shalt be recompensed at the resurrection of the just.’

“Furdermore, Rover, there’s another passage that the lad, when he was on the ’arth, used to say each night afore he went to sleep, whether in the cabin or on the boughs. Sport, ye must remember it, for ye was his own dog. I am not sartin where it be writ in the Book, but that doesn’t matter, for we all know the words, it be from the great prayer, ’Forgive us our trespasses as we forgive those who trespass against us,’ and the great prayer, as I conceit, is the only blazin’ a man can trail by ef he hopes to fetch through to the Great Clearin’ in peace.

“Now these vagabonds, Rover, I needn’t name ’em to ye, have trespassed agin us; ye and me know it, for we’ve ketched ’em in their devilment, and, what is more to the p’int, the Lord knows it, too, for He’s had His eye on ’em, and there’s one up in the north country that wouldn’t git an invite to this dinner, Bible or no Bible. But, barrin’ this knave, who is beyend the range of our trails, there is not a single vagabond that has trespassed agin us that we mustn’t forgive. For this be Christmas time, pups, and Christmas be a time for forgivin’ and forgittin’ all the evil that’s been done agin us.”

And here the old man paused and looked at the dogs and then gazed long and earnestly into the fire. To his face as he gazed came the look of satisfaction and a most placid peace. It was evident that if there had been a struggle between his natural feelings and his determination to celebrate the great Christmas festival in the true Christmas spirit the latter had won, and that the Christmas mood had at last entered into and possessed his soul. And after an interval he rose and carefully closing the great volume said:

“And now, pups, as we’ve settled it atween us, and we all stand agreed in the matter, I’ll git the bark and the coal, and we’ll see how the decision of the council looks when it be put in writin’.”

And in a moment the Trapper was again seated at the table with a large piece of birch bark in front of him and a hound on either side.

“I conceit, pups, that the letterin’,” said the old man as he proceeded to sharpen the piece of charcoal he held in his hands, “should be of goodly size, for it may help some in readin’, and I sartinly know it will help me in writin’.”

With this honest confession of his lack of practice in penmanship, he proceeded to write:

“Any man or animil that be in want of vict’als or garments is invited to come on Christmas day which be next week Thursday without furder axin’, to John Norton’s cabin, on Long Lake, to eat Christmas dinner. Vagabonds included in this invite.”

“I can’t say,” said the Trapper, as he backed off a few paces and looked at the writing critically, “I can’t say that the wordin’ be exactly as the missioners would put it, and as for the spellin’, I haven’t any more confidence in it than a rifle that loads at the breech pin. The letterin’ sartinly stands out well, for the coal is a good un, and I put as much weight on it as I thought it would bear, but there is sartinly a good deal of difference atween the ups and downs of the markin’s, and the lines slope off to’ard the northwest as ef they had started out to blaze a trail through to St. Regis. That third line looks as ef it would finally come together ef ye’d gin it time enough to git round the circle, but the bark had a curve in it there, and the coal followed the grain of the bark, and I am not to blame for that. Rover, I more than half conceit by the look in yer eye that ye see the difference in the size of them letters yerself. But ef ye do ye be a wise dog to keep yer face steddy, for ef ye showed yer feelin’s, old as ye be, I’d edicate ye with the help of a moccasin.” And he looked at the old dog, whose face, as if he realized the peril of his position, bore an expression of supernatural gravity, with interrogative earnestness. “Never mind the shape and size of the letters or the curve of the lines,” he added; “the charcoal markin’ stands out strong, and any hungry man with a leaky cabin for his home can sartinly study out the words, and that’s the chief p’int, as I understand it.”

With this comforting reflection the Trapper made his preparations to retire for the night. He placed the skins for the dogs in the accustomed spot, lifted another huge log into the monstrous fireplace, swept the great hearthstone, bolted the heavy door, and then stretched himself upon his bed. But before he slept he gazed long and earnestly at the writing on the bark, and murmured: “’Vagabonds included in this invite.’ Yis, the Book be right, Christmas be a day for forgivin’ and forgittin’. And even a vagabond, ef he needs vict’als or garments or a right sperit, shall be welcome to my cabin.” And then he slept.

In the vast and cheerless woods that night were some who were hungry and cold and wicked. What were Christmas and its cheer to them? What were gifts and giving, or who would spread for them a full table at which as guests of honor they might eat and be merry? And above the woods was a star leading men toward a manger, and a multitude of angels and an Eye that seeth forever the hungry and the cold and the wicked. On his bed slept the Trapper, with the look of the Christ on his face, and as he slept he murmured:

“Yis, the Book be right: ’Let him who hath, give to them that hath not.’” And above the woods, above the wicked and the cold, above the sleeping Trapper, and above the blessed words on the bark on his wall, above the spot where the Christ had thus received a forest incarnation, a great multitude of the heavenly host broke forth and sang:

“Glory to God in the highest, and on earth peace, good will toward men.”

II.

It was on the day before Christmas, and the sun was at its meridian. It was a day of brilliance and prophecy, and the prophecy which the Trapper read in the intense sky and vivid brightness of the sun’s light told him of coming storm.

“Yis,” muttered the old man, as he stood just outside the doorway of his cabin and carefully studied the signs of forest and sky, “yis, this is a weather breeder for sartin. I smell it in the air. The light is onnaterally bright and the woods onnaterally still. Snow will be flyin’ afore another sunrise, and the woods will roar like the great lakes in a gale. I am sorry that it’s comin’, for some will be kept from the dinner. It’s sartinly strange that the orderin’ of the Lord is as it is, for a leetle more hurryin’ and a leetle more stayin’ on His part of the things that happen on the ’arth would make mortals a good deal happier, as I conceit.”

Aye, aye, John Norton; a little more hurrying and a little more staying of things that happen on the earth would make mortals much happier. The great ship that is to-day a wreck would be sailing the sea, and the faces that stare ghastly white from its depths would be rosy with life’s happy health. The flowers on her tomb would be twined in the bride’s glossy hair, and the tower that now stands half builded would go on to its finishing. The dry fountain would still be in play and the leafless tree would stand green in its beauty and bloom. Who shall read us the riddle of the ordering in this world? Who shall read the riddle, O man of whitened head, O woman whose life is but a memory, who shall read us the Trapper’s riddle, I say?

“There comes Wild Bill,” exclaimed the Trapper joyfully, “and one plate will have its eater for sartin.” And the old man laughed at the recollection of his companion’s appetite. “Lord-a-massy! that box on his sled is as big as the ark. I wonder ef he has got a drove of animils in it.”

Had the Trapper known the closeness of his guess as to the contents of the huge box he would have marveled at his guessing, for there certainly were animals in the box and of a sort that usually are noisy enough and sure, at the least provocation, to proclaim their name and nature.

But every animal, whether wild or domesticated, has its habits, and many of the noisiest of mouths, when the mood is on them, can be as dumb as a sphinx, and as Wild Bill came shuffling up on his snowshoes, with a box of goodly size lashed to his sled, not a sound proceeded therefrom. It is needless to record that the greeting between the two men was most hearty. How delightful is the meeting of men of the woods! Manly are they in life and manly in their greeting.

“What have ye in the box, Bill?” queried the Trapper good-naturedly. “It’s big enough to hold a church bell, and a good part of the steeple beside.”

“It’s a Christmas present for you, John Norton,” replied Bill gleefully. “You don’t think I would come to your cabin to-day and not bring a present, do you?”

“Gift or no gift, yer welcome would be the same,” answered the Trapper, “for yer heart and yer shootin’ be both right, and ye will find the door of my cabin open at yer comin’, whether ye come full handed or empty, sober or drunk, Wild Bill.”

“I haven’t touched a drop for twelve months,” responded the other. “The pledge I gave you above the Christmas box in your cabin here last Christmas eve I have kept, and shall keep to the end, John Norton.”

“I expected it of ye, yis, I sartinly expected it of ye, Bill, for ye came of good stock. Yer granther fit in the Revolution, and a man’s word gits its value a good deal from his breedin’, as I conceit,” replied the Trapper. “But what have ye in the box, bird, beast, or fish, Bill?”

“The trail runs this way,” answered Bill. “I chopped a whole winter four year ago for a man who never paid me a cent for my work at the end of it. Last week I concluded to go and collect the bill myself, but not a thing could I get out of the knave but what’s in the box. So I told him I’d take them and call the account settled, for I had read the writing on the bark you had nailed up on Indian Carry, and I said: ‘They will help out at the dinner.’” And Bill proceeded to start one of the boards with his hatchet.

The Trapper, whose curiosity was now thoroughly excited, applied his eye to the opening, and as he did so there suddenly issued from the box the most unearthly noises, accompanied by such scratchings and clawings as could only have proceeded from animals of their nature under such extraordinary treatment as they had experienced.

“Heavens and ’arth!” exclaimed the Trapper, “ye have pigs in that box, Bill!”

“That’s what I put in it,” replied Bill, as he gave it another whack, “and that’s what will come out of it if I can start the clinchings of these nails.” And he bent himself with energy to his work.

“Hold up! Hold up, Bill!” cried the Trapper. “This isn’t a bit of business ye can do in a hurry ef ye expect to git any profit out of the transaction. I can see only one of the pigs, but the one I can see is not over-burdened with fat, and it’s agin reason to expect that he will be long in gittin’ out when he starts, or wait for ye to scratch him when he breaks cover.”

“Don’t you be afraid of them pigs getting away from me, old man,” rejoined Bill, as he pried away at the nails. “I don’t expect that the one that starts will be as slow as a funeral when he makes his first jump, but he won’t be the only pig I’ve caught by the leg when he was two feet above the earth.”

“Go slow, I say, go slow!” cried the Trapper, now thoroughly alarmed at the reckless precipitancy of his companion; “the pigs, as I can see, belong to a lively breed, and it is sheer foolishness to risk a whole winter’s choppin’ ”

Not another word of warning did the Old Trapper utter, for suddenly the nails yielded, the board flew upward, and out of the box shot a pig. It is in the interest of accurate statement and everlasting proof of Wild Bill’s alertness to affirm and record that the flying pig had taken only two jumps before his owner was atop of him, and both disappeared over the bank in a whirlwind of flying snow. Nor had the Trapper been less dexterous, for no sooner had the sandy colored streak shot through the hole made by the hatchet of the man who had sledded him forty miles that he might present him to the Trapper as a contribution to the Christmas dinner, than the old man dropped himself on to the box, thereby effectually barring the exit of the other porcine sprinter.

“Get your gun, get your gun, Old Trapper!” yelled Bill from the whirlwind of snow. “Get your gun, I say, for this infernal pig is getting the best of me.”

“I can’t do it, Bill,” cried the Trapper; “I can’t do it. I am doin’ picket duty on the top of this box, with a big hole under me and another pig under the hole.”

At the same instant the pig and Wild Bill shot up the bank into full view. Bill had lost his grip on the leg, but had made good his hold on an ear, and had the Trapper been a betting man, it is doubtful if he would have placed money on either. Had he done so, the odds would have been slightly in favor of the pig.

“Hold on to him, Bill!” cried the Trapper, laughing at the spectacle in front of him till the tears stood in his eyes. “Hold on to him, I say. Remember, ye have three months of choppin’ in yer grip; the pig under me is gittin’ lively, and the profits of the other three months be onsartin. O Lord!” ejaculated the old man, partially sobered at the prospect, “here comes the pups and the devil himself will now be to pay!”

The anxiety and alarming prediction of the Trapper were in the next instant fully justified, for the two dogs, unaccustomed to the scent and cries of the animals, but thoroughly aroused at the noise and fury of the contest, came tearing down the slope through the snow at full speed. The pig saw them coming and headed for the southern angle of the cabin, with Bill streaming along at his side. In an instant he reappeared at the northern corner, with Bill still fastened to his ear and the hounds in full cry just one jump behind him. It is not an accurate statement to say that Wild Bill was running beside the pig, for his stride was so elongated that when one of his feet left the ground it was impossible to predict when or where it would strike the earth, or whether it would ever strike again. The two flying objects, as they came careering down the slope directly toward the Trapper, who was heroically holding himself above the aperture in the box with the porcine volcano in full play under him, presented the dreadful appearance of Biela’s comet when, rent by some awful explosion, the one half was on the point of taking its eternal farewell of the other.

“Lift the muzzle of yer piece, Wild Bill!” yelled the Trapper. “Lift the muzzle, I say, and allow three feet for windage, or ye’ll make me the bull’s-eye for yer pig!”

The advice, or rather, let us say, the expostulation of the Trapper, was the best which, under the circumstances, could be given, but no directions, however correct, might prevent the dreadful catastrophe. The old man stuck heroically to his post, and the pig stuck with equal pertinacity to his course. He struck the box on which the Trapper sat with the force of a stone from a catapult, and dogs, men, and pigs disappeared in the snow.

When the Trapper had wiped the snow from his eyes, the spectacle that he beheld was, to say the least, extraordinary. The head of one dog was in sight above the snow, and nigh the head he could make out the hind legs and tail of another. In an instant Wild Bill’s cap came in sight, and from under it a series of sounds was coming as if he were talking earnestly to himself, while far down the trail leading to the river he caught the glimpse of two sandy-colored objects going at a speed to which matter can only attain when it has become permanently detached from this earth and superior to the laws of gravitation.

For several minutes not a word was said. The catastrophe had been so overwhelming and the wreck of Bill’s hopes so complete that it made speech on his part impossible. The Trapper, from a fine sense of feeling and regard for his companion, remained silent, and the dogs, uncertain as to what was expected of them, kept their places in the snow. At last the old man struggled to his feet and silently started toward the cabin. Wild Bill followed in equal silence, and the dogs as mutely brought up the rear. The depressed, not to say woe-begone, appearance of the singular procession certainly had in it, in the fullest measure, all the elements of humor. In this suggestive manner the column filed into the cabin. The dogs stole softly to their accustomed places, Wild Bill dropped into a chair, and the Trapper addressed himself mechanically to some domestic concerns. At last the silence became oppressive. Wild Bill turned in his chair, and, facing the Trapper, said:

“It’s too devilish bad!”

“Ef ye was in council, ginerals or privits, ye’d carry every vote with ye on that statement, Bill,” said the Trapper with deliberation.

“Do you think there is any chance, old man?” queried Bill, earnestly.

“Not on the ’arth, Bill,” answered the Trapper. “Ye see,” he continued, “the snow wasn’t so deep on my side the trail and I had my eye on them pigs afore ye got yer head above the drift, and I noted the rate of their movin’. They was goin’ mighty fast, Bill, mighty fast. Ye must take into account that they had the slope in their favor and sartin experiences behind. I’ve sighted on a good many things that was gifted in runnin’ and flyin’, and I never kept a bullit in the barrel when I wanted feather, fur, or meat, because of the swiftness of the motion, but ef I had ben standin’ ten rods from that trail and loved the meat like a settler, I wouldn’t have wasted powder or lead on them pigs, Bill.” And the two men, looking into each other’s faces, laughed like boys.

“Where do you think they’ll fetch up, John Norton?” queried Bill, at last.

“They won’t fetch up,” replied the Trapper, wiping his eyes, “leastwise not this year. Henry has told me that it is twenty-four thousand miles around the ’arth, and it looked to me as ef them pigs had started out to sarcumnavigate it, and I conceit it’ll be about a month afore they will come through this clearin’ agin. I may be a little amiss in my calkerlatin’, but a day more or less won’t make any difference with you and me, nor with the pigs, either, Bill. They may be a trifle leaner when they pass the cabin next time, but their gait will be jest the same, as I conceit.” And after a moment, he asked, sympathetically:

“How far did ye sled them pigs, Bill?”

“Forty mile,” answered Bill, dejectedly.

“It’s a goodly distance, considerin’ the natur’ of the animils,” replied the Trapper, “and ye must have been tempted to onload the sled more’n once, Bill.”

“I would have unloaded it,” responded the other, “I would have unloaded the cussed things more than once, but I had nothing else to bring you, and I thought they’d look mighty fine standing up on the table with an apple in each mouth and their tails curled up, as I’ve seen them at the barbecues.”

“So they would, so they would, Bill; but ye never could have kept ’em on the table. No amount of cookin’ would have ever taken the speed out of them pigs. Ef ye had nailed ’em to the table they’d have taken the table and cabin with ’em. It’s better as it is, Bill; so cheer up and we’ll git at the cookin’.”

Cooking is more than an art; it is a gift. Genius, and genius alone, can prepare a feast fit for the feaster. Woe be to the wretch who sees nothing in preparing food for the mouth of man save manual labor. Such a knave should be basted on his own spit. An artist in eating can alone appreciate an artist in cooking. When food is well prepared it delights the eye, it intoxicates the nose, it pleases the tongue, it stimulates the appetite, and prolongs the healthy craving which it finally satisfies, even as the song of the mother charms the child which it gradually composes for slumber.

The Old Trapper was a man of gifts and among his gifts was that of cooking. For sixty years he had been his own chef, with a continent for his larder, and to more than one gourmand of the great cities the tastiness and delicacy of his dishes had been a revelation more than one epicure of the clubs had gone from his cabin not only with a full but a surprised stomach.

It is easy to imagine the happiness that this host of the woods experienced in preparing the feast for the morrow. He entered upon his labors, whose culmination was to be the great event of the year, with the alacrity of one who had mentally discussed and decided every point in anticipation. There was no cause for haste, and hence there was no confusion. He could not foretell the number of his guests, but this did in no way disconcert him. He had already decided that no matter how many might come there should be enough. In Wild Bill he had an able and willing assistant, and all through the afternoon and well into the evening the two men pushed on the preparation for the great dinner.

The large table, constructed of strong maple plank, was sanded and scoured until it shone almost snowy white. On it was placed a buck, roasted a la barbecue, the skin and head skillfully reconnected with the body and posed, muzzle lifted, antlers laid well back, head turned, ears alert, as he stood in the bush when the Trapper’s bullet cut him down. At one end of the table a bear’s cub was in the act of climbing a small tree, while at the other end a wild goose hung in mid-air, suspended by a fine wire from the ceiling, with neck extended, wings spread, legs streaming backward, as he looked when he drove downward toward open water to his last feeding.

The great cabin was a bower of beauty and fragrance. The pungent odor of gummy boughs and of bark, under which still lurked the amber-colored sweat of heated days and sweltering nights, pervaded it. On one side of the cabin hung a huge piece of white cotton cloth, on which the Trapper, with a vast outlay of patience, had stitched small cones of the pine into the conventional phrase,

“A MERRY CHRISTMAS TO YE ALL.”

“It must have taken you a good many evenings to have done that job,” said Wild Bill, pointing with the ladle he held in his hand toward the illuminated bit of sheeting.

“It did, Bill, it did,” replied the Trapper, “and a solemn and a lively time I had of it, for I hadn’t but six big needles in the cabin and I broke five on ’em the fust night, for the cones was gummy and hard, and it takes a good, stiff needle to go through one ef the man who is punchin’ it through hasn’t any thimble and the ball of his thumb is bleedin’. Lord-a-massy, Bill, Rover knew the trouble I was havin’ as well as I did, for arter I had broken the second needle and talked about it a moment, the old dog got oneasy and began to edge away, and by the time I had broken the fourth needle and got through washin’ my thumb he had backed clean across the cabin and sat jammed up in the corner out there flatter than a shingle.”

“And what did he do when the fifth needle broke?” queried Bill, as he thrust his ladle into the pot.

“Heavens and ’arth, Bill, why do ye ax sech foolish questions? Ye know it wasn’t a minit arter that fifth needle broke, leavin’ the bigger half stickin’ under the nail of my forefinger, afore both of the pups was goin’ out through the door there as ef the devil was arter ’em with a fryin’ pan, and a chair a leetle behind him. But a man can’t stand everything, ef he be a Christian man and workin’ away to git a Christmas sign ready; can he, Bill?”

It is in harmony with the facts of the case for me to record that Wild Bill never answered the Old Trapper’s very proper interrogation, but sat down on the floor and thrust his legs up in the air and yelled, and after the spasm left him he got up slowly, sat down in a chair, and looked at the Trapper with wet eyes and mouth wide open.

The Old Trapper evidently relished the mirthfulness of his companion, for his face was lighted with the amused expression of the humorist when he has told to an appreciative comrade an experience against himself. But in an instant his countenance dropped, and, looking at the huge kettle that stood half buried in the coals and warm ashes in front of the glowing logs and into which Bill had been so determinedly thrusting his ladle only a moment before, he exclaimed:

“Bill, I have lost all confidence in yer cookin’ abilities. Ye said that ye knew the natur’ of corn meal and that ye could fill a puddin’ bag jediciously, and though it isn’t ten minits sence ye tied the string and the meal isn’t half swollen yit, yer whole bag there is on the p’int of comin’ out of the pot.”

At this alarming announcement Wild Bill jumped for the fireplace and in an instant he had placed the spade-shaped end of his ladle, whose handle was full three feet long, at the very center of the lid that was already lifted two inches from the rim of the kettle, and was putting a good deal of pressure upon it. Confident in his ability to resist any further upward tendency, and to escape the threatened catastrophe, he coolly replied:

“It strikes me that you are a good deal excited over a little matter, old man. The meal has got through swelling ”

“No, it hasn’t, no, it hasn’t,” returned the Trapper. “Half the karnels haven’t felt the warmin’ of the hot water yit, and I can see that the old lid is liftin’.”

“No, it isn’t lifting, either, John Norton,” returned Wild Bill determinedly; “and it won’t lift unless the shaft of this ladle snaps.”

“The ladle be a good un,” returned the Trapper, now fully assured that no human power could avert the coming catastrophe, and keenly enjoying his companion’s extremity and the humor of the situation. “The ladle be a good un, for I fashioned it from an old paddle of second growth ash, whose blade I had twisted in the rapids, and ye can put yer whole weight on it.”

“Old man,” cried Bill, now thoroughly alarmed, “the lid is lifting.”

“Sartinly, sartinly,” returned the Trapper. “It’s lifted fully half an inch sence ye placed yer ladle to it, and it’ll keep on liftin’. Rover knows what is comin’ as well as I do, for the old dog, as ye see, begins to edge away, and Sport has started for the door already.”

“What shall I do, John Norton? What shall I do? The lid is lifting again.”

“Is yer ladle well placed, Bill? Have ye got it in the center of the lid?” returned the Trapper.

“Dead in the center, old man,” responded Bill, confidently, “dead in the center.”

“Put yer whole weight on it, then, and don’t waste yer strength in talkin’. Ye know yer own strength, and I know the strength of Indian meal when hot water gits at it, and ef the ladle don’t slip or the kettle-lid split it’s about nip and tuck atween ye.”

“Old man,” yelled Bill, as he put his whole weight on the ladle handle, “this lid has lifted again. Get a stick and come here and help me.”

“No, no, Bill,” answered the Trapper, “the puddin’ is of yer own mixin’ and ye must attend to the job yerself. I stuck to yer box with a hole underneath me and a pig under the hole till somethin’ happened and ye must stick to yer puddin’.”

“But I can’t hold it down, John Norton,” yelled poor Bill. “The lid has lifted again and the whole darned thing is coming out of the pot.”

“I conceit as much, I conceit as much,” answered the Trapper. “There go the pups out of the door, Bill, and when the dogs quit the cabin it’s time for the master to foller.” And the old man started for the door.

The catastrophe! Who could describe it? Bill’s strength was adequate, but no human power could save the pudding. Even as Bill put his strength on to the ladle, the wooden cover of the kettle split with a sharp concussion in the middle, the kettle was upset, and poor Bill, covered with ashes and pursued by a cloud of steam, shot out of the door and plunged into the snow.

Oh, laughter, sweet laughter, laugh on and laugh ever! In the smile of the babe thou comest from heaven. In the girl’s rosy dimples, in the boy’s noisy glee, in the humor of strong men, and the wit of sweet women, thou art seen as a joy and a comfort to us humans. When fortune deserts and friends fall away, he who keeps thee keeps solace and health, hope and heart, in his bosom. When the head groweth white and the eye getteth dim, and the soul goeth out through the slow closing gates of the senses, be thou then in us and of us, thou sweet angel of heaven, that the smile of the babe in its first happy sleep may come back to our faces as we lie at the gates in our last and perhaps most peaceful slumber!

The laughter and the labor of the day were ended. The work of preparation for the dinner on the morrow had extended well into the evening, and at its conclusion the two men, satisfied with the result of the pleasant task and healthily weary, retired to their cots. It is needless to say that the thoughts of each were happy and their feelings peaceful, and to such slumber comes quickly. Outside the world was white and still, with the stillness that precedes the coming of a winter storm. Through the voiceless darkness a few feathery prophecies of coming snow were settling lazily downward. The great stones in the fireplace were still white with heat, and the cabin was filled with the warm afterglow of burned logs and massive brands that ever and anon broke apart and flamed anew.

Suddenly the Trapper lifted himself on his couch, and, looking over toward his companion, said:

“Bill, didn’t ye hear the bells ring?”

Wild Bill lifted himself to his elbow, and in sheer astonishment stared at the Trapper, for he well knew there wasn’t a bell within fifty miles. The old man noticed the astonishment of his companion and, realizing the incredibility of the supposition, said as if in explanation of the strangeness of his questioning:

“This be the night on which memory takes the home trail, Bill, and the thoughts of the aged go backward.” And, laying his head again on the pillow, he murmured: “I sartinly conceited I heerd the bells ringin’.” And then he slept.

Aye, aye, Old Trapper; we of whitening heads know the truth of thy saying and thy dreaming. Thou didst hear the bells ring. For often as we sleep on Christmas eve the ringing of bells comes to us. Marriage peal and funeral knell, chimes and tolling, clash of summons and measured stroke, dying noises from a dead past swelling and sinking, sinking and swelling, like falling and failing surf on a wreck-strewn beach. Ah, me! where be the ships, the proud, white-sailed ships, the rich-laden ships, whose broken timbers and splintered spars lie now dank, weed-grown, sand-covered, on that sorrowful shore, on that mournfully resounding shore of our past?

But other bells, thank God, sound for us all, Old Trapper, on Christmas eve, not the bells of the past, but the bells of the future. And they ring loud and clear, and they will ring forever, for they are swung by the angels of God. And they tell of a new life, a new chance, and a new opportunity for us all.

Morning dawned. The day verified the Trapper’s prophecy, for it came with storm. The mountain back of the cabin roared as if aerial surf was breaking against it. The air was thick with snow that streamed, whirled, and eddied through it dry and light as feathers of down.

“Never mind the storm, Bill,” said the Trapper cheerily, as he pushed the door open in the gray dawn and looked out into the maze of whirling, rushing snowflakes. “A few may be hindered, and one or two fetch through a leetle late, but there’ll be an ’arnest movement of teeth when the hour for eatin’ comes and the plates be well filled.”

Dinner was called prompt to the hour, and again was the old man’s prediction realized. The table lacked not guests, for nearly every chair was occupied. Twenty men had breasted the storm that they might be at that dinner, and some had traversed a thirty mile trail that they might honor the old man and share his generous cheer. It was a remarkable and, perhaps we may say, a motley company that the Trapper looked upon as he took his place, knife and fork in hand, at the head of the table, with a hound on either side of his great chair, to perform the duty of host and chief carver.

“Friends,” said the Trapper, standing erect in his place and looking cheerfully at the row of bearded and expectant faces on either hand in front of him, “friends, I axed ye to come and eat this Christmas dinner with me because I love the companionship of the woods and hated, on this day of human feastin’ and gladness, to eat my food alone. I also conceited that some of ye felt as I did, and that the day would be happier ef we spent it together. I knew, furdermore, that some of ye were not born in the woods, but were newcomers, driven here as a canoe to a beach in a gale, and that the day might be long and lonesome to ye ef ye had to stay in yer cabins from mornin’ till night alone by yerselves. And I also conceited that here and there might be a man who had been onfortunit in his trappin’ or his venturs in the settlements, and might act’ally be in need of food and garments, or it may be he had acted wickedly at times, and had lost confidence in his own goodness and the goodness of others, and I said I will make the tarms of the invitin’ broad enough to include each and all, whoever and whatever he may be.

“And now, friends,” continued the old man, “I be glad to see ye at my table, and I hope ye have brought a good appetite with ye, for the vic’tals be plenty and no one need scrimp the size of his eatin’. Let us all eat heartily and be merry, for this be Christmas. Ef we’ve had bad luck in the past we’ll hope for better luck in the futur’ and take heart. Ef we’ve been heavy-hearted or sorrowful we will chirk up. Ef any have wronged us we will forgive and forgit. For this be Christmas, friends, and Christmas be a day for forgivin’ and forgittin.’ And now, then,” continued the old man, as he flourished his knife and grasped the huge fork preparatory to plunging it into the venison haunch in front of him, “with good appetites and a cheerful mind let us all fall to eatin’.”

III.

Thus went the feasting. Hunger had brought its appetite to the plentiful table, and the well cooked viands provoked its indulgence. If the past of any of the Trapper’s guests had been sorrowful, the unhappiness of it for the moment was forgotten. Stories crisp as snow-crust and edged with aptness, happy memories and reminiscences of frolic and fun, sly hits and keen retorts, jokes and laughter, rollicked around the table and shook it with mirthful explosions. The merriment was at its height when a loud summons sounded upon the door. It was so imperious as well as so unexpected that every noise was instantly hushed, and every face at the table was turned in surprise to wait the entrance.

“Come in,” cried the Trapper, cheerily; “whoever ye be, ye be welcome ef ye be a leetle late.”

The response of him who so emphatically sought admission to the feast was as prompt as his summons had been determined. For, without an instant’s delay or the least hesitancy of movement, the great door was pushed suddenly inward and a man stepped into the room.

A sturdy fellow he was, swarth of skin and full whiskered. His hair was black and coarse and grown to his shoulders. His eyes were black as night, largely orbed under heavy brows, not lacking a certain wicked splendor. His face was strongly featured and stamped in every line and curve and prominence with the impress of unmistakable power. In his right hand he carried a rifle, and in his left a bundle, snugly packed and protected from the storm in wrappings of oiled cloth. The strong light, into the circle of which he had so suddenly stepped, blinded him for a moment, while to those who sat staring at him it brought out with vivid distinctiveness every feature of his strong and, save for a certain hardness of expression, handsome face. It was evident that the man, whoever he was and whatever he might be, was under the pressure of some impulse or conviction which had urged him on to the Trapper’s cabin and the Trapper’s presence. For, no sooner had he closed the door and shaken the snow, with which he was covered, from his garments, than, regardless of those who sat staring in startled interrogation at him, he strode to the head of the table where the Old Trapper sat, and, looking him straight in the face, said:

“Do you know who I am, John Norton?”

“Sartinly,” answered the Trapper, “ye be Shanty Jim, and ye have camped these three year and more at the outlet of Bog Lake.”

“Do you know that I am a thief, and a sneak thief at that?” continued the newcomer, speaking with a fierce directness that was startling.

“I’ve conceited ye was,” answered the Trapper, calmly.

“Do you know it, know it to a certainty?” and the words came out of his mouth like the thrust of a knife.

“Yis, I know that ye be a thief, Shanty Jim,” replied the Trapper, “know it to a sartinty.”

“Do you know that I have stolen skins from you, old man, skins and traps both?” continued the other.

“I laid in ambush for ye once at the falls of Bog River, and I seed ye take an otter from a trap that I sot,” replied the Trapper.

“Why didn’t you shoot me when I stood skin in hand?” queried the self-confessed thief.

“I can’t tell ye,” answered the Trapper, “fer my eye was at the sights and my finger on the trigger, and the feelin’ of natur’ was strong within me to crop one of yer ears then and there, Shanty Jim, but somethin’, mayhap the sperit of the Lord, staid my finger, and ye went with yer thievin’ in yer hand to yer camp ontetched and onhindered.”

“Do you know what brought me to this cabin and to your presence the presence of the man whose skins and whose traps I have stolen and made me confess to his face and before these men here that I am a thief and a scoundrel; do you know what brought me here, a miserable cuss that I am and have been for years, John Norton?” And the man’s speech was the speech of one who had been educated to use words rightly and was marked with intense, even dramatic, earnestness.

“I can’t conceit, onless the sperit of the Lord.”

“The spirit of the Lord had nothing to do with it,” interrupted the other fiercely. “If there is any such influence at work in this world as the preachers tell of, why has it not prevented me from being a thief? Why did it not prevent me from doing what I did and being what I was in my youth, me, whose mother was an angel and whose father was a patriarch? No, it was nothing under God’s heavens, old man, but your invitation scrawled with a coal on a bit of birch bark inviting anyone in these woods who needed victuals and clothes and a right spirit to come to your cabin on Christmas day; and had you written nothing else I would not have cared a cuss for it or for you, but you did write something else, and it was this: ‘Vagabonds included in this invite.’

“When I read that, old man, my breath left me and I stood and stared at the letters on that bark as a devil might gaze at a pardon signed with the seal manual of the Almighty, for in my hand was a trap that bore the stamp ‘J. N.’ and the skin of an otter I had taken from the trap. And there I stood, a thief and a scoundrel, with your property in my hands and read your invitation to all the needy in the woods to come to your cabin on Christmas day and that vagabonds were included.”

“That meant you, by thunder!” exclaimed Wild Bill.

“Yes, it did mean me,” returned Shanty Jim, “and I knew it. Standing there in the snow with the stolen skin and trap in my hand, I realized what I was and what John Norton was and the difference between him and myself and most of the world. I went to the tree to which the bark that bore the blessed letters was nailed; I took it down from the tree; I placed it next my bosom and buttoned my coat above it and, thus resting upon my heart, I bore it to my shanty.”

“It was as good as a Bible to you,” said Wild Bill.

“A Bible!” rejoined the man with emphasis. “Better than all Bibles. Better than churches and preachers, better than formal texts and utterances, for that bit of bark told me of a man here in the woods good enough and big enough to forgive and forget. All that night I sat and gazed at that piece of bark and the writing on it, and as I gazed my heart melted within me. For there it was ever before my eyes ’Vagabonds included in this invite.’ ’Vagabonds included in this invite.’ And finally the words passed into the air, and wherever I looked I saw, ‘Vagabonds included in this invite.’”

“Yis, them be the very words I writ,” said the Trapper, gravely.

“And I saw more than the words written on the bark, John Norton,” resumed the man. “For looking at it I saw all my past life and the evil of it and what a scoundrel I had become; my eyes saw with a new sight, and I said, when the sun comes I will rise and go to the man who wrote those words and tell him what they did for me. And here I am, a vagabond who has accepted your invitation to spend Christmas with you, and here in this pack are the skins and the traps I have stolen from you, and I ask your forgiveness and that you will take my hand in proof of it, that I may come to your table feeling that I am a man, and a vagabond no longer.”

“Heart and hand be yours now and forever, Shanty Jim,” cried the Trapper, joyfully; and, rising from his chair, he met the outstretched hand of the repentant vagabond with his own hearty grasp. “And may the Lord be with ye ever more.”

“Amen!” It was Wild Bill, the once drunkard, who said the sweet word of prayer and assent, and he said it softly. And that murmur of amen and amen went round the great table like the murmur of prayer and of praise. And then it passed out and rose up from the cabin, and the air in its joy passed it on, and the stars took it up and thrilled it around their vast courses of glorified light, and through the high heavens it sang itself onward from order to order of angels until it reached Him whom no man hath seen or may ever see, in all and over all, God! blessed forever!

Has Nature knowledge? Is she conscious of the evil and the good among men, and has she a heart that saddens at their sorrow and rejoices in their joy? Perhaps. For, suddenly, even as the two men joined their hands, the fury of the storm checked itself, and a stillness the stillness of a great calm fell on the woods, and through the sudden, the unexpected, the blessed stillness, to the ears of one of the two men yea, to him who had forgiven there came the melody of bells swinging slowly and softly to and fro.

Oh, bells, invisible bells! Bells of the soul, bells high in heaven, swing softly, swing low, swing sweet, and swing ever for us, one and all, when we at our tables sit feasting. Swing for us living, swing for us dying, and may the cause of your swinging be our forgiving and forgetting.

“John Norton,” said the man, “you have called me Shanty Jim, and that is well, for in the woods here that is my name, but in the city where I lived and whence I fled, fled because of my misdeeds, years ago, I have another name, a name of power and wealth and honor for more than two centuries. There I have a home, and in that home to-night sits my aged father and white-haired mother. I am going back to them clothed and in my right mind. Think of it, Old Trapper, going back to my home, my boyhood’s home, to my father and my mother. All day as I tramped on the trail toward your cabin, my mind has been filled with memories of the past, and the words of a sweet old song I used to sing when too young to feel the tenderness of it, have been ringing in my ears.”

“Sing us the song, sing us the song!” cried Wild Bill, and every man at the table cried with him, “Sing us the song!”

“Aye, aye,” assented the Trapper, “sing us the song, Shanty Jim; we be men of the woods at this table, and some of us have had losses and sorrers, and all of us have memories of happy days that be gone. Stand here by my side and sing us the song that has been ringin’ in yer ears all day. This is a table of feastin’, and feastin’ means more than eatin’. Sing us the song that tells ye of the past, of yer boyhood’s days and father and mother.”

Oh, the secrets of the woods! How many have fled to them for concealment and refuge! In them piety has built its retreat, learning has sought retirement, broken pride a mask, and misfortune a haven. And in response to the Trapper’s invitation there had come to his cabin and were now grouped about his table more of ability, more of knowledge, more of struggle and failure, and more of reminiscence than might be found, perhaps, in the same number of guests at any other table on that Christmas day in the world.

Never did singer sing sweeter or more touching song, or to more receptive company.

“Backward, turn backward, oh, Time, in your flight,
Make me a child again just for to-night.
Mother, come back from the echoless shore,
Take me again to your heart, as of yore;
Kiss from my forehead the furrows of care,
Smooth the few silver threads out of my hair,
Over my slumbers your loving watch keep;
Rock me to sleep, mother, rock me to sleep.

CHORUS: “Clasped to your heart in a loving embrace,
With your light lashes just sweeping my face,
Never hereafter to wake or to weep;
Rock me to sleep, mother, rock me to sleep.

“Over my heart, in the days that are flown,
No love like mother-love ever has shone;
No other worship abides and endures,
Faithful, unselfish, and patient like yours;
None like a mother can charm away pain
From the sick soul and the world-weary brain.
Slumber’s soft calms o’er my heavy lids creep;
Rock me to sleep, mother, rock me to sleep.

CHORUS.

“Come, let your brown hair, just lighted with gold,
Fall on your shoulders again, as of old;
Let it drop over my forehead to-night,
Shading my faint eyes away from the light;
For with its sunny-edged shadows once more,
Haply, will throng the sweet visions of yore;
Lovingly, softly, its bright billows sweep;
Rock me to sleep, mother, rock me to sleep.”

CHORUS.

Never was the sweet and touching song sung under more suggestive circumstances, and never was it received into more receptive hearts. The voice of the repentant vagabond was of the finest quality, a pure, resonant tenor, and, through the splendid avenue of expression which the words and music of the song made for his emotions, he poured his soul forth without restraint. The effect of his effort was what would be expected when the character of the audience and the occasion is considered. Many an eye was wet with tears, and the voices that took up the refrain here and there trembled with emotion. The Old Trapper, himself, was not unmoved, for, as the song closed, after a few moments of silence, he said:

“Ye sang the song well, Shanty Jim, and many be the memories it has stirred in the breasts of us all. May yer home-comin’ be as happy as was the boy’s we read of in the Scriptur’, although I never could conceit why the mother was not there to go forth to meet him, and fall on his neck with the father, and ef I’d had the writin’ of it I’d had the mother git to him a leetle fust, and hers the fust arms that was thrown round his neck, for that would be more nateral, as I conceit. And I sartinly trust, as do all of us here, that ye will find mother and father both waitin’ and watchin’ for ye when the curve of the trail brings ye in the sight of the cabin. And ye sartinly will take with ye the good wishes of us all. Come, take the chair here by my side, and we will all talk as we eat; aye, and sing, too, for this be Christmas, and Christmas be the time for eatin’ and singin’, but, above all else, for forgivin’ and forgittin’.” At the word the happy feasters went on with the feasting.

Long and merry was the meal. As the hours passed the eating ceased, and the feast of reason and the flow of soul began. Memories of other days were recalled, confessions made, sorrow for misdoings felt and spoken, and, gradually growing, as grows the light of dawn, a fine atmosphere of hope, charity, and courage spread from heart to heart, until at last it filled with its genial and illuminating presence every bosom. In such a mood on the part of the host and guests alike the feast came to its close. His Christmas dinner had been all that the Old Trapper had hoped, and his heart was filled with happiness. He rose from his chair, and, standing erect in his place, said:

“Ye tell me that the time has come for ye to go, and I dare say ye be right, but I be sorry we must part, for in partin’ we be never sure of a meetin’, and, therefore, as I conceit, all the partin’s on the ’arth be more or less sad, but all parted trails, it may be, will come together in the eend. But afore ye go I want to thank ye for comin’, and I hope ye will all come agin, and whenever yer needs or yer feelin’s incline ye this way. One thing I want to say to ye in goin’, and I want ye to take it away with ye, for it may help some of ye to aid some onfortunit man and to feel as happy as I feel to-night. It is this” and here the old man paused a moment and looked with the face of an angel at his guests as they stood gazing at him; then he impressively said:

“I’ve lived nigh on to eighty year, and my head be whitenin’ with the comin’ and goin’ of the years I have lived, and the Book has long been in my cabin. I have kept many a Christmas alone and in company, both, but never afore have I knowed the raal meanin’ of the day nor read the lesson of it aright. And this be the lesson that I have larned and the one I want ye all to take away with ye as ye go that Christmas is a day of feastin’ and givin’ and laughin’, but, above everythin’ else, it is the day for forgivin’ and forgittin’. Some of ye be young and may yer days be long on the ’arth, and some of yer heads be as white as mine and yer years be not many, but be that as it may, whether our Christmas days be many or few, when the great day comes round let us remember in good or ill fortun’, alone or with many, that Christmas, above all else, is the day for forgivin’ and forgittin’.”

The guests were gone and the Trapper seated himself in front of the fireplace, and called the two dogs to his side. It was a signal that they had heard many times and they responded with happy hearts. Each rested his muzzle on the Trapper’s knee, and fixed his large hazel, love-lighted eyes wistfully on his master’s face. The old man placed a large and age-wrinkled hand on either head, and murmured: “Whether ye be in sorrer or joy, friends come and go, but, ontil death enters kennel or cabin, the hunter and his hounds bide together. The lad camps beyend sight and beyend hearin’. Henry be on the other side of the world, to-night, and guests be gone. Rover, yer muzzle be as gray as my head, and few be livin’ of the many we have met on the trail.” And the Trapper lifted his eyes and looked around the large and empty room, and then added:

“It took me a good many years, yis, it sartinly took me a good many years, but, if I’ve larned the lesson of Christmas a leetle late, I’ve larned it at last. But the cabin does look a leetle empty now that the guests be gone. No, the lad can never come back, and Henry is on the other side of the world, and there is no good in longin’. But I do wish I could jest tech the boy’s hand.”

“Friends come and go, but until death enters kennel or cabin, the hunter and his hounds bide together.”]

Ah, friends, dear friends, as years go on and heads get gray how fast the guests do go! Touch hands, touch hands with those that stay. Strong hands to weak, old hands to young, around the Christmas board, touch hands. The false forget, the foe forgive, for every guest will go and every fire burn low and cabin empty stand. Forget, forgive, for who may say that Christmas day may ever come to host or guest again. Touch hands.