High on mountainside by little line
cabin in the crisp, clean dusk of evening
Stubby Pringle swings into saddle. He has
shape of bear in dimness, bundled thick
against cold. Double socks crowd scarred
boots. Leather chaps with hair out cover
patched corduroy pants. Fleece-lined jacket
with wear of winters on it bulges body, and
heavy gloves blunt fingers. Two gay red
bandannas folded together fatten throat under
chin. Battered hat is pulled down to sit on
ears, and in side-pocket of jacket are
rabbit-skin earmuffs he can put to use if he
needs them.
Stubby Pringle swings up into saddle. He looks
out and down over world of snow and ice and
tree and rock. He spreads arms wide, and they
embrace whole ranges of hills. He stretches
tall, and hat brushes stars in sky. He is
Stubby Pringle, cowhand of the Triple X, and
this is his night to howl. He is Stubby
Pringle, son of the wild jackass, and he is
heading for the Christmas Eve dance at the
schoolhouse in the valley.
Stubby Pringle swings up, and his horse
stands like rock. This is the pride of his
string - flop-eared, ewe-necked, cat-hipped
strawberry roan that looks like it should
have died weeks ago but has iron rods for
bones and nitroglycerin for blood and can go
from here to doomsday with nothing more than
mouthfuls of snow for water and tufts of
winter-cured bunch-grass snatched between
drifts for food. It stands like rock. It
knows the folly of trying to unseat Stubby.
It wastes no energy in futile explosions. It
knows that twenty-seven miles of hard winter
going are foreordained for this evening and
twenty-seven more of harder uphill return by
morning. It has done this before. It is
saving the dynamite under its hide for the
destiny of a true cowpony, which is to take
its rider where he wants to go - and bring
him back again.
Stubby Pringle sits in his saddle and he
grins into cold and distance and future full
of festivity. Join me and look at him as
this chance offers, at what can be seen of
him despite the bundling and frosty breath
vapor that soon will hang icicles on his
nose. Those are careless, haphazard,
scrambled features under the low hat brim,
about as handsome as a blue boar's snout.
Not much fuzz yet on his chin. Why, shucks,
is he just a boy? Don't make that mistake,
though his twentieth birthday is still six
weeks away. Don't make the mistake Hutch
Handley made last summer when he thought
this was young unseasoned stuff and took to
ragging Stubby and wound up with ears pinned
back and upper lip split and nose mashed
flat and the whole of him dumped in a rain
barrel. Stubby has been taking care of
himself since he was orphaned at thirteen.
Stubby has been doing man's work since he
was fifteen. Do you think Hardrock Harper of
the Triple X would have anything but an
all-around hard-proved hand up here at his
farthest winter line camp siding Old Jake
Hanlon, toughest hard-bitten old cowman ever
to ride range?
Stubby Pringle slips gloved hand under
rump to wipe frost off saddle. No sense
letting it melt into patches of corduroy
pants. He slaps right-side saddlebag. It
contains burlap bag wrapped around two-pound
box of candy, of fancy chocolates with
variegated interiors he acquired two months
ago and has kept hidden from Old Jake. He
slaps left-side saddlebag. It holds burlap
bag wrapped around paper parcel that
contains a close-folded piece of fine dress
goods and a roll of pink ribbon. Interesting
items, yes? They are ammunition for the
campaign he has in mind to soften the
affections of whichever female of right
vintage among those at the schoolhouse
appeals to him most and seems most
susceptible.
Stubby Pringle settles himself firmly into
the saddle. He is just another of
far-scattered poorly-paid, patched-clothes
cowhands that inhabit these parts, and
likely marks and smells of his calling have
not all been scrubbed away. He knows that.
But this is his night to howl. He is Stubby
Pringle, true-begotten son of the wildest
jackass, and he has been riding line through
hell and highwater and winter storms for two
months without a break, and he has done his
share of the work and more than his share
because Old Jake is getting along and
slowing some, and this is his night to stomp
floorboards till schoolhouse shakes and kick
heels up to lanterns above and whirl a
willing female till she is dizzy enough to
see past patched clothes to the man inside
them. He wriggles toes deep into stirrups
and settles himself firmly in the saddle.
"I could of et them choc'lates," says Old
Jake from cabin doorway. "They wasn't hid
good," he says. "No good at all."
"An' be beat like a drum," says Stubby.
"An' wrung out like a dirty dishrag."
"By who?" says Old Jake. "By a young un
like you? Why, I'd of tied you in knots
afore you knew what's what iffen you tried
it. You're a dang-blatted young fool," he
says. "A ding-busted dang-blatted fool.
Riding out on a night like this iffen it is
Chris'mas eve. A dong-bonging ding-busted
dang-blatted fool," he says. "But iffen I
was your age agin, I reckon I'd be doing it
too." He cackles like an old rooster.
"Squeeze one of ‘em for me," he says and he
steps back inside and he closes the door.
Stubby Pringle is alone out there in
darkening dusk, alone with flop-eared
ewe-necked cat-hipped roan that can go to
last trumpet call under him and with cold of
wicked winter wind around him and with
twenty-seven miles of snow-dumped distance
ahead of him. "Wahoo!" he yells. "Skip to my
Lou!" he shouts. "Do-si-do and round about!"
He lifts reins and roan sighs and lifts
feet. At easy warming-up amble they drop
over the edge of benchland where cabin snugs
into tall pines and on down great bleak
expanse of mountainside.
Stubby Pringle, spurs a-jingle, jogs
upslope through crusted snow. The roan,
warmed through, moves strong and steady
under him. Line cabin and line work are far
forgotten things back and back and up and up
the mighty mass of mountain. He is Stubby
Pringle, rooting, tooting hard-working
hard-playing cowhand of the Triple X,
heading for the Christmas dance at the
schoolhouse in the valley.
He tops out on one of the lower ridges. He
pulls reins to give roan a breather. He
brushes icicles off his nose. He leans
forward and reaches to brush several more
off sidebars of old bit in briddle. He
straightens tall. Far ahead, over top of
last and lowest ridge, on into the valley,
he can see tiny specks of glowing allure
that are schoolhouse windows. Light and
gaiety and good liquor and fluttering skirts
are there. "Wahoo!" he yells. "Gals an'
women an' grandmothers!" he shouts. "Raise
your skirts and start a-skipping! I'm
a-coming!"
He slaps spurs to roan. It leaps like
mountain lion, out and down, full into hard
gallop downslope, rushing, reckless of
crusted drifts and ice-coated bush-branches
slapping at them. He is Stubby Pringle, born
with spurs on, nursed on tarantula juice,
weaned on rawhide, at home in saddle of
hurricane in shape of horse that can race to
outer edge of eternity and back, heading now
for high jinks two months overdue. He is ten
feet tall, and the horse is gigantic, with
wings, iron-boned and dynamite-fueled,
soaring in forty-foot leaps down the flank
of the whitened wonder of a winter world.
They slow at the bottom. They stop. They
look up rise of last low ridge ahead. Roan
paws frozen ground and snorts twin plumes of
frosty vapor. Stubby reaches around to pull
down fleece-lined jacket that has worked a
bit up back. He pats right-side saddlebag.
He pats left-side saddlebag. He lifts reins
to soar up and over last low ridge.
Hold it, Stubby. What is that? Off to the
right.
He listens. He has ears that can catch
snitch of mouse chewing on chunk of bacon
rind beyond log wall by his bunk. He hears.
Sound of ax striking wood.
What kind of dong-bonging, ding-busted,
dang-blatted fool would be chopping wood on
night like this and on Christmas Eve and
with a dance underway at the schoolhouse in
the valley? What kind of chopping is this
anyway? Uneven in rhythm, feeble in stroke.
Trust Stubby Pringle, who has chopped wood
enough for cookstove and fireplace to fill
long freight train, to know how an ax should
be handled.
There. That does it. That whopping sound
can only mean that the blade has hit at an
angle and bounced away without biting. Some
dong-bonging, ding-busted, dang-blatted fool
is going to be cutting off some of his own
toes.
He pulls roan around to the right. He is
Stubby Pringle, born to tune of bawling
bulls and blatting calves, branded at birth,
cowman raised and cowman to the marrow, and
no true cowman rides on without stopping to
check anything strange on range. Roan chomps
on bit, annoyed at interruption. It
remembers who is in saddle. It sighs and
obeys. They move quietly in dark of night
past boles of trees jet black against dim
greyness of crusted snow on ground. Light
shows faintly ahead. Lantern light through
small oiled-paper window.
Yes. Of course. Just where it has been for
eight months now. The Henderson place. Man
and woman and small girl and waist-high boy.
Homesteaders. Not even fools, homesteaders.
Worse than that. Out of their minds
altogether. All of them. Out here anyway.
Betting the government they can stave off
starving for five years in exchange for one
hundred sixty acres of land. Land that just
might be able to support seven jack-rabbits
and two coyotes and nine rattlesnakes and
maybe all of four thin steers to a whole
section. In a good year. Homesteaders.
Always almost out of almost everything:
money and food and tools and smiles and joy
of living. Everything. Except maybe hope and
stubborn endurance.
Stubby Pringle nudges reluctant roan
along. In patch-light from window by tangled
pile of dead tree branches he sees a woman.
Her face is grey and pinched and tired. An
old stocking-cap is pulled down on her head.
Ragged man's jacket bumps over long Woolsey
dress and clogs arms as she tries to swing
an ax into a good-sized branch on the
ground.
Whopping sound and ax bounces and barely
misses an ankle.
"Quit that!" says Stubby, sharp. He swings
roan in close. He looks down at her. She
drops ax and backs away, frightened. She is
ready to bolt into two-room bark-slab shack.
She looks up. She sees that haphazard
scrambled features under low hatbrim are
crinkled in what could be a grin. She
relaxes some, hand on door latch.
"Ma'am," says Stubby. "You trying to
cripple yourself?" She just stares at him.
"Man's work," he says. "Where's your man?"
"Inside," she says, then, quick, "He's
sick."
"Bad?" says Stubby.
"Was," she says. "Doctor that was here
this morning thinks he'll be all right now.
Only he's almighty weak. All wobbly. Sleeps
most of the time."
"Sleeps," says Stubby, indignant. "When
there's wood to be chopped."
"He's been almighty tired," she says,
quick, defensive. "Even 'fore he was took
sick. Wore out." She is rubbing cold hands
together, trying to warm them. "He tried,"
she says, proud. "Only a while ago. Couldn't
even get his pants on. Just fell flat on the
floor."
Stubby looks down at her. "An' you ain't
tired?" he says.
"I ain't got time to be tired," she says.
"Not with all I got to do."
Stubby Pringle looks off past dark boles
of trees at last row ridge top that hides
valley and schoolhouse. "I reckon I could
spare a bit of time," he says. "Likely they
ain't much more'n started yet," he says. He
looks again at the woman. He sees grey
pinched face. He sees cold-shivering under
bumpy jacket. "Ma'am," he says. "Get on in
there an' warm your gizzard some. I'll just
chop you a bit of wood."
Roan stands with drooping reins,
ground-tied, disgusted. It shakes head to
send icicles tinkling from bit and bridle.
Stopped in midst of epic run, wind-eating,
mile-gobbling, iron-boned and
dynamite-fueled, and for what? For silly
chore of chopping.
Fifteen feet away Stubby Pringle chops
wood. Moon is rising over last low ridgetop
and its light, filtered through trees,
shines on leaping blade. He is Stubby
Pringle, moonstruck maverick of the Triple
X, born with ax in hands, with strength of
strokes in muscles, weaned on whetstone, fed
on cordwood, raised to fell whole forests.
He is ten feet tall, and ax is enormous in
moonlight, and chips fly like stormflakes of
snow, and blade slices through branches
thick as his arm, through logs thick as his
thigh.
He leans ax against a stump and he spreads
arms wide, and he scoops up whole cords at a
time and strides to door and kicks it open .
. .
Both corners of front room by fireplace
are piled full now, floor to ceiling, good
wood, stout wood, seasoned wood, wood enough
for a whole wicked winter week. Chore done
and done right, Stubby looks around him.
Fire is burning bright and well-fed, working
on warmth. Man lies on big old bed along
opposite wall, blanket over, eyes closed,
face grey-pale, snoring long and slow. Woman
fusses with something at old woodstove.
Stubby steps to doorway of back room. He
pulls aside hanging cloth. Faint in dimness
inside he sees two low bunks and in one,
under an old quilt, a curly-headed small
girl and in other, under another old quilt,
a boy who would be waist-high awake and
standing. He sees them still and quiet,
sleeping sound. "Cute little devils," he
says.
He turns back and woman is coming toward
him, cup of coffee in hand, strong and hot
and steaming. Coffee the kind to warm the
throat and gizzard of chore-doing,
hard-chopping cowhand on a cold cold night.
He takes cup and raises it to his lips.
Drains it in two gulps. "Thank you, ma'am,"
he says. "That was right kind of you." He
sets cup on table. "I got to be getting
along," he says. He starts toward outer
door.
He stops, hand on door latch. Something is
missing in two-room shack. Trust Stubby
Pringle to know what. "Where's your tree?"
he says. "Kids got to have a Christmas
tree."
He sees woman sink down on chair. He hears
a sigh come from her. "I ain't had time to
cut one," she says.
"I reckon not," says Stubby. "Man's job
anyway," he says. "I'll get it for you.
Won't take a minute. Then I got to be
going."
He strides out. He scoops up ax and
strides off, upslope some, where small pines
climb. He stretches tall and his legs
lengthen and he towers huge among trees,
swinging with ten-foot steps. He is Stubby
Pringle, born an expert on Christmas trees,
nursed on pine needles, weaned on pine
cones, raised with an eye for size and shape
and symmetry. There. A beauty. Perfect.
Grown for this and for nothing else. Ax
blade slices keen and swift. Tree topples.
He strides back with tree on shoulder. He
rips leather whangs from his saddle and
lashes two pieces of wood to tree bottom,
crosswise, so tree can stand upright again.
Stubby Pringle strides into shack,
carrying tree. He sets it up, center of
front-room floor, and it stands straight,
trim and straight, perky and proud and
pointed. "There you are, ma'am," he says.
"Get your things an' start decorating. I got
to be going". He moves toward outer door.
He stops in open doorway. He hears a sigh
behind him. "We got no things," she says. "I
was figuring to buy some, but sickness took
the money."
Stubby Pringle looks off at last low
ridgetop hiding valley and schoolhouse.
"Reckon I still got a bit of time," he says.
"They'll be whooping it mighty late." He
turns back, closing door. He sheds hat and
gloves and bandannas and jacket. He moves
about checking everything in sparse front
room. He asks for things, and woman jumps to
get those few of them she has. He tells her
what to do, and she does. He does plenty
himself. With this and with that, magic
wonders arrive. He is Stubby Pringle, born
to poverty and hard work, weaned on nothing,
fed on less, raised to make do with least
possible and make the most of that. Pinto
beans strung on thread brighten tree in
firelight and lantern light like strings of
store-bought beads. Strips of one bandanna,
cut with shears from sewing-box, bob in bows
on branch-ends like gay red flowers.
Snippets of fleece from jacket-lining
sprinkled over tree glisten like fresh falls
of snow. Miracles flow from strong blunt
fingers through bits of old paper-bags and
dabs of flour paste into link chains and
twisted small streamers and two jaunty
little hats and two smart little boats with
sails.
"Got to finish it right," says Stubby
Pringle. From strong blunt fingers comes
five-pointed star, triple-thickness to make
it stiff, twisted bit of old wire to hold it
upright. He fastens this to topmost tip of
topmost bough. He wraps lone bandanna left
around throat and jams battered hat on head
and shrugs into now-skimpy-lined jacket. "A
right nice little tree," he says. "All you
got to do now is get out what you got for
the kids and put it under. I really got to
be going." He starts toward outer door.
He stops in open doorway. He hears the
sigh behind him. He knows without looking
around the woman has slumped into old
rocking chair. "We ain't got anything for
them," she says. "Only now this tree. Which
I don't mean it isn't a fine, grand tree.
It's more'n we'd of had ‘xcept for you."
Stubby Pringle stands in open doorway
looking out into cold clean moonlit night.
Somehow he knows without turning head two
tears are sliding down thin pinched cheeks.
"You go on along," she says. "They're good
young uns. They know how it is. They ain't
expecting a thing."
Stubby Pringle stands in open doorway
looking out at last ridgetop that hides
valley and schoolhouse. "All the more
reason," he says soft to himself. "All the
more reason something should be there when
they wake." He sighs too. "I'm a
dong-bonging, ding-busted, dang-blatted
fool," he says. "But I reckon I still got a
mite more time. Likely they'll be sashaying
around till it's most morning."
Stubby Pringle strides on out, leaving
door open. He strides back, closing door
with heel behind him. In one hand he has
burlap bag wrapped around paper parcel. In
other hand he has squarish chunk of good
pinewood. He tosses bag-parcel into
lap-folds of woman's apron.
"Unwrap it," he says. "There's the makings
for a right cute dress for the girl.
Needle-and-threader like you can whip it up
in no time. I'll just whittle me out a
little something for the boy."
Moon is high in cold, cold sky. Frosty
clouds drift up there with it. Tiny flakes
of snow float through upper air. Down below
by a two-room shack droops a disgusted
cowpony roan, ground-tied, drooping like
statue snow-crusted. It is accepting the
inescapable destiny of its kind, which is to
wait for its rider, to conserve
deep-bottomed dynamite energy, to be ready
to race to the last margin of motion when
waiting is done.
Inside shack, fire in fireplace cheerily
gobbles wood, good wood, stout wood,
seasoned wood, warming two rooms well. Man
lies in bed, turned on side, curled up some,
snoring slow and steady. Woman sits in
rocking chair, sewing. Her head nods slow
and drowsy, and her eyelids sag weary, but
her fingers fly, stitch-stitch-stitch. A
dress has shaped under her hands, small and
flounced with little puff-sleeves, fine
dress, fancy dress, dress for smiles and joy
of living. She is sewing pink ribbon around
collar and down front and into fluffy bow on
back.
On a stool nearby sits Stubby Pringle,
piece of good pinewood in one hand, knife in
other hand, fine knife, splendid knife,
all-around-accomplished knife, knife he
always has with him, seven-bladed knife with
four for cutting from little to big and
corkscrew and can opener and screwdriver.
Big cutting blade has done its work. Little
cutting blade is in use now. He is Stubby
Pringle, born with feel for knives in hand,
weaned on emery wheel, fed on shavings,
raised to whittle his way through the world.
Tiny chips fly and shavings flutter. There
in his hands, out of good pinewood,
something is shaping. A horse. Yes.
Flop-eared, ewe-necked, cat-hipped horse.
Flop-eared head is high on ewe-neck,
stretched out, sniffing wind, snorting into
distance. Cat-hips are hunched forward,
caught in crouch for forward leap. It is a
horse fit to carry waist-high boy to
uttermost edge of eternity and back.
Stubby Pringle carves swift and sure.
Little cutting blade makes final little
cutting snitches. Yes. Tiny mottlings and
markings make no mistaking. It is a
strawberry roan. He closes knife and puts it
in pocket. He looks up. Dress is finished in
woman's lap. She sits slumped deep in
rocking chair and she too snores slow and
steady.
Stubby Pringle stands up. He takes dress
and puts it under tree, fine dress, fancy
dress, dress waiting now for small girl to
wake and wear it with smiles and joy of
living. He sets wooden horse beside it, fine
horse, proud horse, snorting-into-distance
horse, cat-hips crouched, waiting now for
waist-high boy to wake and ride it around
the world.
Quietly he piles wood on fire and banks
ashes around to hold it for morning. Quietly
he pulls on hat and wraps bandanna around
and shrugs into skimpy-lined jacket. He
looks at old rocking chair and tired woman
slumped in it. He strides to outer door and
out, leaving door open. He strides back,
closing door with heel behind. He carries
other burlap bag wrapped around box of
candy, of fine chocolates, fancy chocolates
with variegated interiors. Gently he lays
this in lap of woman. Gently he takes big
old shawl from wall nail and lays this over
her. He stands by big old bed and looks down
at snoring man. "Poor devil," he says.
"Ain't fair to forget him." He takes knife
from pocket, fine knife, seven-bladed knife,
and lays this on blanket on bed. He picks up
gloves and blows out lantern, and swift as
sliding moon shadow he is gone.
High-up frosty clouds scuttle across face
of moon. Wind whips through topmost tips of
tall pines. What is it that hurtles like
hurricane far down there on upslope of last
low ridge, scattering drifts, smashing
through brush, snorting defiance at
distance? It is flop-eared ewe-necked
cat-hipped roan, iron- boned and
dynamite-fueled, ramming full gallop through
dark of night. Firm in saddle is Stubby
Pringle, spurs a-jingle, toes a-tingle, out
on prowl, ready to howl, heading for dance
at schoolhouse in the valley. He is ten feet
fall, great as a grizzly, and roan is
gigantic, with wings, soaring upward in
thirty-foot leaps. They top out and roan
rears high, pawing stars out of sky, and
drops down, cat-hips hunched for fresh leap
out and down.
Hold it, Stubby. Hold hard on reins. Do
you see what is happening out there in the
valley?
Tiny lights that are schoolhouse windows
are winking out. Tiny dark shapes moving
about are horsemen riding off, are wagons
pulling away.
Moon is dropping down the sky, haloed in
frosty mist. Dark grey clouds dip and swoop
around sweep of horizon. Cold winds weave
rustling through ice-coated brushes and
trees. What is that moving slow and lonesome
up snow-covered mountainside? It is
flop-eared, ewe-necked, cat-hipped roan,
just that, nothing more, small cowpony, worn
and weary, taking its rider back to clammy
bunk in cold line cabin. Slumped in saddle
is Stubby Pringle, head down, shoulders
sagged. He is just another of far-scattered,
poorly-paid, patched-clothes cowhands who
inhabit these parts. Just that. And
something more. He is the biggest thing
there is in the whole wide roster of the
human race. He is a man who has given of
himself, of what little he has and is, to
bring smiles and joy of living to others
along his way.
He jogs along, slump-sagged in saddle,
thinking of none of this. He is thinking of
dances undanced, of floorboard unstomped, of
willing women left unwhirled.
He jogs along, half-asleep in saddle, and
he is thinking now of bygone Christmas
seasons and of a boy born to poverty and
hard work and make-do, poring in flicker of
firelight over ragged old Christmas
picturebook. And suddenly he hears
something. The tinkle of sleigh bells.
Sleigh bells?
Yes. I am telling this straight. He and
roan are weaving through thick-clumped
brush. Winds are sighing high overhead and
on up the mountainside and lower down here
they are whipping mists and snow flurries
all around him. He can see nothing in mystic
moving dimness. But he can hear. The tinkle
of sleigh bells, faint but clear, ghostly
but unmistakable. And suddenly he sees
something. Movement off to the left. Swift
as wind, glimmers only through brush and
mist and whirling snow, but unmistakable
again. Antlered heads high, frosty breath
streaming, bodies rushing swift and silent,
floating in flash of movement past, seeming
to leap in air alone, needing no touch of
ground beneath. Reindeer? Yes. Reindeer
strong and silent and fleet out of some far
frozen northland marked on no map. Reindeer
swooping down and leaping past and rising
again and away, strong and effortless and
fleeting. And with them, hand on their
heels, almost lost in swirling snow mist of
their passing, vague and formless but there,
something big and bulky with runners like
sleigh and flash of white beard whipping in
wind and crack of long whip snapping.
Startled roan has seen something too. It
stands rigid, head up, staring left and
forward. Stubby Pringle, body a-tingle,
stares too. Out of dark of night ahead,
mingled with moan of wind, comes long-drawn
chuckle, deep deep chuckle, jolly and cheery
and full of smiles and joy of living. And
with it long-drawn words.
We-e-e-l-l-l do-o-o-n-e . . .
pa-a-a-artner!
Stubby Pringle shakes his head. He brushes
an icicle from his nose. "An' I didn't have
a single drink," he says. "Only coffee an'
can't count that. Reckon I'm getting soft in
the head." But he is cowman through and
through, cowman to the marrow. He can't ride
on without stopping to check anything
strange on his range. He swings down and
leads off to the left. He fumbles in jacket
pocket and finds a match. Strikes it. Holds
it cupped and bends down. There they are.
Unmistakable. Reindeer tracks.
Stubby Pringle stretches up tall. Stubby
Pringle swings into saddle. Roan needs no
slap of spurs to unleash strength in upward
surge, up, up, up steep mountainside. It
knows. There in saddle once more is Stubby
Pringle, moonstruck maverick of the Triple
X, all-around hard-proved hard-honed
cowhand, ten feet tall, needing horse
gigantic, with wings, iron-boned and
dynamite-fueled, to take him home to little
line cabin and some few winks of sleep
before another day's hard work . . .
Stubby Pringle slips into cold clammy
bunk. He wriggles vigorously to warm blanket
under and blanket over.
"Was it worth all that riding?" comes
voice of Old Jake Hanlon from other bunk on
other wall.
"Why, sure," says Stubby. "I had me a
right good time."
All right, now. Say anything you want. I
know, you know, any dong-bonged,
ding-busted, dang-blatted fool ought to
know, that icicles breaking off branches can
sound to drowsy ears something like sleigh
bells. That blurry eyes half-asleep can see
strange things. That deer and elk make
tracks like those of reindeer. That wind
sighing and soughing and moaning and
maundering down mountains and through piney
treetops can sound like someone shaping
words. But we could talk and talk and it
would mean nothing to Stubby Pringle.
Stubby is wiser than we are. He knows, he
will always know, who it was, plump and
jolly and belly-bouncing, that spoke to him
that night out on wind-whipped, winter-worn,
mountainside.
We-e-e-l-l-l do-o-o-n-e . . .
pa-a-a-artner!
If you've been reading our pages, you know
that we have more articles planned, and a
lot on our plate, so keep checking back.
And contact us with any questions
or suggestions you have in the meantime.
Paul Race
www.familychristmasonline.com