How Santa Claus Came to Simpson's Bar Page #2

"How Santa Claus Came to Simpson's Bar" by Bret Harte is a charming short story set in a small mining town during the Christmas season. The narrative unfolds in a rough and rugged frontier community, where the arrival of Santa Claus brings warmth and joy amidst the harsh conditions of frontier life. Through Harte's engaging storytelling and vivid descriptions, the tale explores themes of generosity, the spirit of Christmas, and the unexpected magic that can flourish even in unlikely places. The story captures the essence of community, showcasing how the holiday can inspire kindness and connection among its residents.

• Short story

								

him on the bluff heavin' rocks at Chinamen. Didn't seem to take much
interest in it. Thar was a gang of 'em by yar yesterday,--drownded out
up the river,--and I kinder thought o' Johnny, and how he'd miss 'em!
May be now, we'd be in the way ef he wus sick?"

The father, evidently touched not only by this pathetic picture of
Johnny's deprivation, but by the considerate delicacy of the speaker,
hastened to assure him that Johnny was better and that a "little fun
might 'liven him up." Whereupon Dick arose, shook himself, and saying,
"I'm ready. Lead the way, Old Man: here goes," himself led the way with
a leap, a characteristic howl, and darted out into the night. As he
passed through the outer room he caught up a blazing brand from the
hearth. The action was repeated by the rest of the party, closely
following and elbowing each other, and before the astonished proprietor
of Thompson's grocery was aware of the intention of his guests, the room
was deserted.

The night was pitchy dark. In the first gust of wind their temporary
torches were extinguished, and only the red brands dancing and flitting
in the gloom like drunken will-o'-the-wisps indicated their whereabouts.
Their way led up Pine-Tree Canyon, at the head of which a broad, low,
bark-thatched cabin burrowed in the mountain-side. It was the home of
the Old Man, and the entrance to the tunnel in which he worked when
he worked at all. Here the crowd paused for a moment, out of delicate
deference to their host, who came up panting in the rear.

"P'r'aps ye'd better hold on a second out yer, whilst I go in and see
thet things is all right," said the Old Man, with an indifference he
was far from feeling. The suggestion was graciously accepted, the
door opened and closed on the host, and the crowd, leaning their backs
against the wall and cowering under the eaves, waited and listened.

For a few moments there was no sound but the dripping of water from the
eaves, and the stir and rustle of wrestling boughs above them. Then the
men became uneasy, and whispered suggestion and suspicion passed from
the one to the other. "Reckon she's caved in his head the first lick!"
"Decoyed him inter the tunnel and barred him up, likely." "Got him down
and sittin' on him." "Prob'ly bilin suthin to heave on us: stand clear
the door, boys!" For just then the latch clicked, the door slowly
opened, and a voice said, "Come in out o' the wet."

The voice was neither that of the Old Man nor of his wife. It was the
voice of a small boy, its weak treble broken by that preternatural
hoarseness which only vagabondage and the habit of premature
self-assertion can give. It was the face of a small boy that looked up
at theirs,--a face that might have been pretty and even refined but
that it was darkened by evil knowledge from within, and dirt and hard
experience from without. He had a blanket around his shoulders and had
evidently just risen from his bed. "Come in," he repeated, "and don't
make no noise. The Old Man's in there talking to mar," he continued,
pointing to an adjacent room which seemed to be a kitchen, from which
the Old Man's voice came in deprecating accents. "Let me be," he added,
querulously, to Dick Bullen, who had caught him up, blanket and all, and
was affecting to toss him into the fire, "let go o' me, you d----d old
fool, d'ye hear?"

Thus adjured, Dick Bullen lowered Johnny to the ground with a smothered
laugh, while the men, entering quietly, ranged themselves around a long
table of rough boards which occupied the centre of the room. Johnny then
gravely proceeded to a cupboard and brought out several articles which
he deposited on the table. "Thar's whiskey. And crackers. And red
herons. And cheese." He took a bite of the latter on his way to the
table. "And sugar." He scooped up a mouthful en route with a small and
very dirty hand. "And terbacker. Thar's dried appils too on the shelf,
but I don't admire 'em. Appils is swellin'. Thar," he concluded, "now
wade in, and don't be afeard. I don't mind the old woman. She don't
b'long to ME. S'long."

He had stepped to the threshold of a small room, scarcely larger than a
closet, partitioned off from the main apartment, and holding in its dim
recess a small bed. He stood there a moment looking at the company, his
bare feet peeping from the blanket, and nodded.

"Hello, Johnny! You ain't goin' to turn in agin, are ye?" said Dick.

"Yes, I are," responded Johnny, decidedly.

"Why, wot's up, old fellow?"

"I'm sick."

"How sick!"

"I've got a fevier. And childblains. And roomatiz," returned Johnny,
and vanished within. After a moment's pause, he added in the dark,
apparently from under the bedclothes,--"And biles!"

There was an embarrassing silence. The men looked at each other, and at
the fire. Even with the appetizing banquet before them, it seemed as if
they might again fall into the despondency of Thompson's grocery, when
the voice of the Old Man, incautiously lifted, came deprecatingly from
the kitchen.

"Certainly! Thet's so. In course they is. A gang o' lazy drunken
loafers, and that ar Dick Bullen's the ornariest of all. Didn't hev
no more sabe than to come round yar with sickness in the house and no
provision. Thet's what I said: 'Bullen,' sez I, 'it's crazy drunk you
are, or a fool,' sez I, 'to think o' such a thing.' 'Staples,' I sez,
'be you a man, Staples, and 'spect to raise h-ll under my roof and
invalids lyin' round?' But they would come,--they would. Thet's wot you
must 'spect o' such trash as lays round the Bar."

A burst of laughter from the men followed this unfortunate exposure.
Whether it was overheard in the kitchen, or whether the Old Man's irate
companion had just then exhausted all other modes of expressing her
contemptuous indignation, I cannot say, but a back door was suddenly
slammed with great violence. A moment later and the Old Man reappeared,
haply unconscious of the cause of the late hilarious outburst, and
smiled blandly.

"The old woman thought she'd jest run over to Mrs. McFadden's for a
sociable call," he explained, with jaunty indifference, as he took a
seat at the board.

Oddly enough it needed this untoward incident to relieve the
embarrassment that was beginning to be felt by the party, and their
natural audacity returned with their host. I do not propose to record
the convivialities of that evening. The inquisitive reader will accept
the statement that the conversation was characterized by the same
intellectual exaltation, the same cautious reverence, the same
fastidious delicacy, the same rhetorical precision, and the same logical
and coherent discourse somewhat later in the evening, which distinguish
similar gatherings of the masculine sex in more civilized localities and
under more favorable auspices. No glasses were broken in the absence of
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