The Project Gutenberg eBook of Santa Claus' Message, by E. Franklin Tregaskis.

BY
E. FRANKLIN TREGASKIS
AUTHOR OF
“BOYSIE IN THE BUSH,”
“SANTA CLAUS’ MESSAGE”
ETC.

Twenty-foot was an almost deserted mining camp, and presented the desolate appearance of such localities: A wide valley, honeycombed by old workings, and strewn with debris. On one side stretched miles of barren ranges, denuded of heavy trees, which had been felled to feed the boilers and timber the underground workings when some of the quartz reefs had been developed, after the alluvial gold had been won. These also had petered out. On the other side of the valley were farms, for here rich volcanic soil overlay the silurian formation. Consequently, there was still a small population in the district, which accounted for the survival of a place of worship, a State school, general store, blacksmith’s shop, and, on a side road, a coffee palace. There were only two men here now seeking gold, or fossicking, as it is called. One was a relic of the sixties, known behind his back as Bushranger Bill, or B.B., who, needless to say, had never followed that occupation, and probably, had he visited the barber (who was also the local blacksmith) more regularly, would never have been so designated. The second fossicker was a man of different stamp. With his family, he lived about a mile above the township, at the head of the gully, in a comfortable, though small, cottage, surrounded by a garden. He had brought his young wife here in the early seventies, just after the volcanic land had been made available for selection, but too late to secure a holding, and here he had remained, digging, with varying results. When there was enough rain, he sluiced the old workings, and, with the aid of one of the defunct companies’ dams, could win gold during several months of the year. During the dry spells he sought old tailings and headings among the abandoned holes, and had them carted to the sluice boxes. It was a precarious existence (I use the word purposely). Still, to him, the life presented a certain fascination, and occasional “windfalls” lured him on.

At the time of which I write, funds were very low—in fact, there were none. It had been a dry winter, the wash dirt put through was poor, and only a portion had been treated, for Hampton had not been able to sluice since August, and now, near the end of December, rain looked as far off as ever. Troubles seldom come singly. The local storekeeper had died recently, and his successor, who decided to run the business on city lines, discouraged long credit. Formerly, the family had the necessaries of life assured, for the old storekeeper knew that when the dirt paid, his account had been squared; but this stranger had intimated that unless a payment was forthcoming the account would be closed. There were now three children. The eldest, about ten years, was named Hope. Some of the schoolgirls, whose parents were in comfortable circumstances, sometimes called her “The folorn Hope”—but this is Christmas time; we will not recall slights nor unkindness now. The other two were twins—Grace and Joy. The eldest child was robust and dark, like her father; the twins were fair, and resembled the mother, but had short golden curls, like spiral springs. They were about seven years old.

It was within a few days of Christmas, and the parents were talking over ways and means. “We must have some extra things for the children,” the mother said. She had an anxious, but not unhappy, expression. Her life for years had been one long struggle to make ends meet. There had always been sufficient food, though of the plainest, sometimes even making a meal of goat’s milk and potatoes. At times, for days their larder knew no butcher’s meat, when her husband chanced to shoot a rabbit or other game. It was providing clothes and shoes for the children which was the great burden, so that she could send them suitably clad to school. What had gone to her heart most was keeping Hope, at times, from Sunday school, because of her shabby boots. How often had she washed and ironed the children’s clothes, and mended their much-worn socks, after the little ones were asleep! Still, through it all, she was not unhappy. “I’ve these miniatures of my grandparents, in a gold frame. It could be sold for a good sum. Mr. Stowman would buy it at any time. Leave that at the store for security, and take the letter, too, stating its value. Mr. Douglas does not know us yet.”

The husband pressed his hands over his face. His voice, though strained, was gentle.

“I never expected to bring you to this, Jessie. We should have left this life long ago, but those rich patches in the old workings drew me on. This must end it. When there is water enough, and I’ve cleaned up, I’ll take a position in Sydney.”

“I’ve been very happy here, more so than many of my companions in the old life. I realise this when reading between the lines of their letters,” replied the wife.

So the miniatures found their way into the Douglas safe, and the good business man said, in his most oily manner: “Of course, we respect your word, Mr. Hampton, and, looking over the old ledgers, I find you have always paid up. Still, you won’t object to my getting confirmation of Mr. Stowman’s letter? Business is business, you know.”

B.B. had visited the “Corfie Palis,” as the sign announced it, a place which much belied its name, for it did not resemble a palace in any land. It was built of galvanised iron and stringy bark, and coffee was never seen on the premises. There was a tradition that a traveller could procure a cup of tea, if he waited long enough. They certainly dispensed hop beer, and other liquid refreshment.

B.B. was on his way home (it was two days before Christmas), and sat down to rest on an old red gum log on the hillside, which had proved too tough to split, and too heavy to cart away. Many a camp fire had been lighted against it, in years gone by. Now the bracken fern provided, on one side, a soft bed, and some dogwood scrub, a shield. As this looked inviting, B.B. sought repose.

It was now evening. The lingering rays of the sun streaming over the western hills made even the score-lined gullies and unsightly mullock heaps, with their undergrowth fringes of green, things of beauty. The three children were seeking a stray goat, and chanced to sit on the old log to rest. “We are going to have a lovely Christmas,” said Joy; “roast beef and plum pudding, and almonds and raisins.”

B.B. thought he heard voices. He had heard and seen many strange things in the bush, after drinking hop beer and other beverages at the coffee palace.

“I think I’d rather do without them,” replied Hope, who was sedate beyond her years. “Perhaps I should not tell you that mother sold those pictures in the gold frame to buy us clothes and things.”

“Of course, pictures are very pretty,” assented Joy, “but something nice to eat is much better; and they are real raisins, too, like mother used to have in England—not the sort you put in puddings, but hanging on stalks; and the almonds are a lot nicer than the nuts we get out of jam.”

“My sock’s not very big,” remarked Joy; “I’d like to hang up a sugar bag, only it would look greedy.”

Oh! you girls whose every wish has been granted, whose every fancy has been gratified, have you any thought for your poorer sisters, whose lives are so restricted, yet they are thankful for so little, and through it all are good and happy? We hope so!

The children ran off, chasing each other round the deserted holes and heaps. B.B. sat up and looked after them. Having worked as a “hatter”[A] for so many years, he had contracted the habit of voicing his thoughts. “Poor little beggars! And the old man is too proud to take a fiver!” B.B. always had gold. He was still watching the children fading in the distance, when he struck his hands together. “I’ve got it! I’ll salt his claim. He’ll never find out its Bendigo gold. He doesn’t know the game.”

There is an unwritten law, strictly observed among the diggers, that no man shall go down the shaft of another, without invitation; and to do so at night during the “rushes” was carrying one’s life in one’s hand; and B.B. was aware of this.

Just after midnight B.B., dressed in a digger’s woollen jumper, which hung down to his knees, a woollen muffler right up to his chin, and a felt hat, with a crown pushed up like a cone, appeared about a quarter of a mile from Hampton’s home. There was a slight surface depression here, which seemed to indicate a “gutter” below. Several holes had been sunk along it years before, without payable results. B.B., who was an authority, had told Mr. Hampton that he thought the old workings were not worth spending time on.

B.B. looked warily round, on emerging from the scrub, then cautiously approached, and, after a casual glance at the windlass, seized the rope and disappeared. The shaft was only about 18 feet deep. A drive ran in for some distance from each end along the gutter. B.B. produced a candle, and examined the workings, then drew a tin containing gold dust from his pocket. He paused, again studied the strata and slate underfoot, then tested it with a pick. Now, B.B. was a geologist—of a sort. He had not learned the science by correspondence, but by working on most of the alluvial fields in the “rush” days. The candle burned down almost to the clay, as he hesitated. Then he remarked: “False bottom, like the McIvor lead,” and returned the gold to his pocket. Taking a length of broken board, he wrote on it with a piece of pipe-clay, and drove the sharp end into the floor, at the entrance to one of the drives, remarking: “If he gets nothing out of it, I’ll salt his show later.” Although he could read print, B.B. did not profess to be able to write—in fact, he used to sign for his miner’s right with a cross—so the spelling presented difficulties, in particular the word “father.”

Although B.B. believed his nocturnal visit had been unobserved, he was mistaken, for a small white-robed figure had been standing at a window, looking toward the ranges, just made discernable by the rising moon. She noticed someone emerge from the saplings, and approach the claim. Hope neither spoke nor moved, but gazed, spell-bound. Yes, it was Santa Claus! She could see the hoar frost sparkling all over him. (In the dryest season, at that altitude, there is a heavy dew, so on every minute hair of the digger’s clothes, and every hair of his whiskers, glistened a particle of moisture.) Strange he should come a night too soon, and not to the house, she thought, as B.B. disappeared down the shaft. Her eyes never left the spot. Then, after what seemed a long time, the figure reappeared, crossed the flat, and was enveloped in the foliage. But, in the broad light of day, Hope was not quite sure that the whole occurrence was not a dream, so, being a reserved child, she held her peace.

During breakfast the father said: “I’ll not go to work to-day, as there are several things about the place that require seeing to. I’ll just bring home the tools and windlass rope.”

“Be careful of the twins, then, and on your return you can help me with the pudding,” said the mother.

“I’ll go down the shaft and put the tools in the bucket, one at a time, and you two can wind them up. Mind you both don’t let go the handles at the same time,” cautioned Hope.

Many a shaft had she descended, for, by swinging the rope from side to side, she could reach the footholes made in either side of the shaft, with her toes, but not without the aid of the rope. When her eyes became accustomed to the subdued light, she saw the message:

So it was not a dream, after all. She was far from an excitable child, but her heart beat faster, as she determined to test the value of the message. She quickly ascended, and lowered the twins, and then set to work, meanwhile telling her sisters of the visitor.

“We must not make remarks about kind friends,” admonished Hope. “Santa Claus is very, very old, and perhaps they spelled that way when he was a boy in the Reindeer country.”

“Not this weather,” said Grace. “Besides, reindeers are very strong. Think what big horns they have.”

“Well, I expect he just put on their nosebags, with moss in them, and gave them a rest. I’m sure he is a kind man, for he loves children, and I believe he put some gold here for us to buy things for mother. Now you can tell that horrid Mabel that you have seen Santa Claus. She said it was all made up.” This from Joy.

The slate floor was only a couple of inches in depth; then came some rubble “headings.” These Hope put carefully aside. Then came the wash dirt. She understood enough of the art to seek here for the gold, so, taking a double handful, and spreading it on the notice board, she examined it, in the lightest position, under the shaft. Joy was the first to cry “nugget.” The children had often seen such when the father had been “cleaning up” the sluice boxes. As they spread and re-spread the wash, each particle of gold was deposited in a pannikin. Just as the first lot of wash was being scraped into the bucket, a voice called out: “Below, there! Are you stealing your father’s gold? I’m coming down.”

“We don’t want you! Go away!” shouted Hope. Then, putting the pannikin in the hole she had dug, she whispered to the twins: “Go and sit there, and don’t move for anything.”

“I’m not frightened of girls. I’m coming down, anyway.” The speaker, Master Pierpoint, a boy of about twelve, evidently led the simple life, judging by his apparel, which consisted of a striped blue cotton shirt, rather small, cut-down moleskin pants, much too large, and one hayband suspender.

A body obstructed the light, then two bare legs appeared overhead. Hope made two vigorous blows with the board. There was a yell, “You’ve broken my little toe,” followed by several more yells as the legs rapidly vanished. “You spiteful, black-eyed, turned-up-nose native cat! Oh, my toe! I’ll get square with you, and you two grinning, curley-headed little bandicoots.” Pointer’s natural history must have received a bump, also.

On landing, he took the peg out of the windlass, revolved the barrel, so that the rope ran out and fell down the shaft. “Now you can stop down there until you starve,” he yelled down to them, and limped away.

“I’ll tell father what he called us,” said Grace, who was sensitive. “We can’t help our hair being curly. And how are we to get up, Hope? Daddy will come for us, and we must not tell tales unless he asks us about the rope. Boys are all like that; they can’t help it.”

“I’m glad I won’t grow up into a boy; aren’t you, Grace?” said Joy, with fervor.

“While we are waiting for father we will pick out all the gold we can,” said Hope.

“This is all our gold, because we found it,” said Hope; “and we will give it all to mother, just as father does, except what we keep to buy them presents. Now, each choose. Joy first, because she is the youngest.”

It is remarkable the capital Joy made out of such a short period. She never allowed anyone to overlook the fact.

“I’ll choose a new frying pan, because ours has a crack in it, and, if I can have two ‘goes,’ a side of bacon.”

“I’ll buy a strip of carpet for mother’s bedside, and two glass dishes to put jam in, instead of saucers,” said Grace.

“I’ll get her a piano to play on and teach us, and a silk dress like Mrs. Brown’s, only more rustley,” chose Hope. “And Daddy, we will buy him a box full of old books; he likes the smellie sort, without pictures in them.”

“I think we should buy him something nice to eat; chocolates and dates; they smell so nice,” said Joy.

“No!” replied Hope, with decision; “men don’t care what they have to eat as long as there is enough of it.” Joy heaved a sigh. “Glad I’m not going to be a man. Will we be allowed to buy anything for ourselves?”

“Certainly not! Nice people don’t buy themselves presents.” Joy heaved another long-drawn sigh.

They were so engrossed in picking out small nuggets, from the size of irregular peas to large pins’ heads, that their father’s voice, “Below there,” quite startled them. “All’s well,” replied Hope; “I could not climb up.”

“Your mother became anxious. Nice diggers you’ll make, letting your rope free,” he said, as he descended by the foot holes. “We have a Christmas present for mother,” said Hope, “just feel the weight,” as she held a half-filled pannikin toward him. At first he could not see clearly in the subdued light, for the day was cloudy, and most of the particles of gold were covered with clay. Still, a few shone brightly. Then all the blood seemed to rush to his heart, then surge back again, and throb at his temples. He leaned against the wall, and for a few seconds gasped for breath and could not see clearly. Had the dreams of years come true? Had success crowned his efforts at last? Still, he said never a word.

Hope, aided by Joy, told the story. “And this is the board. Daddy, with the writing on it.” He had not touched the pannikin, but examined the board carefully; there was nothing visible. He produced a candle and matches from a tin box; not a sign of a letter. At first, while the children were speaking, he thought it might have been B.B., but recollected that he could not write. No! It must have been a dream, and that conclusion was adhered to.

“I think it was God sent him, because mother is so good,” said Grace, who was devout.

“Oh! do ‘wind’ us up,” requested Joy. It would have been much quicker to have carried each up on his back, but he made a large loop at one end of the rope, climbed up, and attached the other end to the windlass. Then, Hope put Joy first—being the younger—into the loop, tucked her clothes under her, and the father slowly ‘wound’ her up. As he landed each twin, he looked into her eyes and said, “Daddy’s girl,” and each daddy’s girl bored her curly head into his chest, as evidence of her affection. Those two were doubly dear to their parents; for some time previously when that scourge, diphtheria, swept through the district, it carried their little brother in its train, and for many anxious days the parents were afraid that the twins would follow, and they were so like their mother. With the assistance of the rope, Hope soon appeared.

“Now, not a word to your mother until dinner time. Come and call me, and bring the barrow and two sugar bags for the wash dirt in the bucket.”

Here in parentheses we state: (Although the false bottom ran for some distance along the lead, the rest of the wash was scarcely worth sluicing.) B.B. had unconsciously driven in the board just over a rich pocket. Still there was gold enough to buy a grazing farm on the rich volcanic land, and when the rains came in February and March, with B.B’s. assistance, the accumulated wash was sluiced, and the returns provided funds to purchase stock. B.B. would not accept wages, but the lease of the dam was transferred to him, and he had the use of the races and sluice boxes; but he would pay rent for the cottage, so every fortnight he called at the farm, and placed two shillings on the kitchen table.

The last time I heard from there, the family were living in comfort, and B.B.—well, he was the same old B.B. Now we must return.

There was one member of this family who never forgot that Christmas morning, who laid and watched the daylight break over the eastern mountains, and listened to the magpies welcoming the coming day. Gradually the sun appeared, his shading beams turning every dewdrop on leaf and fern into a matchless gem. Even the unsightly “mullock” heaps shared in the splendour, and reflected hues of purple and of gold as if kind nature, forgiving man’s wantoness, were endeavouring to “cover transgressions with love,” and as the children, in tune with the Angelic Choir on this glad Christmas morning, chanted

it found an echo in each grateful heart, but with a sweeter melody in the mothereplace with, as she realised that the struggle to provide for her little brood was at an end. And I trust the reader and the writer will hear that same glad song, and each heart will echo the message,

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