Eight Maids A-Milking

Stubby Pringle's Christmas

by Jack Schaefer

High on the mountainside by the little line cabin in the crisp clean dusk of evening, Stubby Pringle swings into the saddle.  He has shape of bear bundled think against cold.  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 into the saddle.  He looks out and down over worlds of snow and ice and tree and rock.

"I'm Stubby Pringle, cowhand of the Triple X, and this is my night to howl.  I'm Stubby Pringle, son of the wild jackass, and I'm heading for the Christmas dance at the schoolhouse in the valley."

Stubby Pringle swings up, and his horse stands like rock.  It knows the folly of trying to unseat Stubby Pringle.

"Why you flop-eared ewe-necked cat-hipped strawberry roan, you look like you should have died weeks ago but you won't 'cuz you got iron rods for bones and nitroglycerin for blood."

Stubby Pringle sits in his saddle and he grins into cold in distance.  Why, shucks, he's still just a boy.  His twentieth birthday is still six weeks away.  He has been taking care of himself since he was orphaned at thirteen.  He's been doing man's work since he was fifteen.

Stubby Pringle slips gloved hand to wipe frost off the saddle.  he slaps right-side saddle bag.  It contains a burlap bag wrapped around a two-pound box of candy, of fancy chocolates he acquired two months ago and has kept hidden from Old Jake.  He slaps left-side saddle bag.  It holds a burlap bag wrapped around a paper parcel that contains a close-folded piece of dress goods and a roll of pink ribbon.  Interesting items, yes.  They are ammunition for his campaign to soften the afflictions of whichever female among those at the schoolhouse appeals to him most and seems most susceptible.

"I'm Stubby Pringle, true begotten son of the wildest jackass, and this is my night to stomp floorboards till schoolhouse shakes and kick heels up to lanterns above and I'm gonna whirl me a willing female till she is dizzy enough to see past these patched clothes to the man inside them, Right Jake?"

"I could of et them choc'lates.  They wasn't hid good.  No good at all."

"Hah--and be beat like a drum and wrung out like a dirty dishrag?"

"By who?  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.  A ding busted dang-blatted fool.  Riding out on a night like this even iffen it is Chris'mas eve, a dong-bonging ding-busted dang-blatted fool.  But iffen I was your again again, I reckon I'd be doing it too.  Squeeze one of 'em for me--so long Stubby."

"Wahoo!  Skip to my lou!  Do-si-do and round about!  I'm gone now Jake, say goodbye to me."

Stubby Pringle, spurs ajingle, jogs upslope through crusted snow.  His horse moves strong and steady under him.  Line cabin and line work are far forgotten things.  He reaches tall pines and heads into bleak expanse of mountain side.

"I'm Stubby Pringle, rootin-tootin hard workin' hard playin' cowhand of the Triple X.  I'm gettin' for the Christmas dance at the schoolhouse in the valley."

He pulls rein to give the roan a breather.  He brushes an icicle off his nose.  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.  Lights and gaiety await him.

"Wahoo!  Gals and women and grandmothers!  Get ready to dance up a storm.  I'm Stubby Pringle, born with spurs on, nursed on tarantula juice, weaned on rawhide, at home in the saddle of a hurricane in shape of horse that can race to outer edge of eternity and back."

They slow at the bottom.  They stop.  They look up the rise of the last low ridge ahead.  The roan paws frozen ground.  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.

"What's that?  Now hold on there Stubby.  I hear something off to the right.  I hear the sound of axe striking wood.  Wonder what kind of dong-bonging dang-blatted fool would be chopping wood on a night like this and on ChristmasEve and with a dance under way at the schoolhouse in the valley?  What kind of chopping is this anyway?  Uneven in rhythm, feeble in stroke.  Why I've chopped wood enough for cookstove and fireplace to fill a long freight train, so I know how an axe should be handled and that ain't the way.  Now some dong-bonging ding-busted dang-blatted fool is going to be chopping off some of his own toes.

He pulls the 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.  Then he sees the cabin lantern light through a small oiled-paper window.

"Ah yes, of course.  The Henderson place.  Man and woman and small girl and waist-high boy.  Huh, homesteaders.  Not even fools, homesteaders.  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 jackrabbits and two coyotes and nine rattlesnakes and maybe all of four thin steers to a whole section.  In a good year.  Homesteaders.  Always 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 the reluctant roan along.  In patch light from the window he sees a woman.  Her face is gray ind pinched and tired.  An old stocking cap is pulled down on her head.  Her axe bounces and barely misses an ankle.

"Oh now--quit that!  Oh, I'm sorry I didn't mean to frighten ya',  No don't run away ma'am.  Ma'am--you trying to cripple yourself?  That's a man's work, where's your man?"

"He's inside--he's sick."

"Bad?"

"Was...Doctor came this morning thinks he'll be all right now.  Only he's almighty weak.  All wobbly.  Sleeps most of the time."

"Sleeps, when there's wood to be chopped?"

"He's been almighty tired.  Even afore he was took sick.  Wore out.  He tried.  Only a while ago.  Couldn't even get his pants on.  Just fell falt on the floor."

"Oh, an you ain't tired?"

"I ain't got time to be tired--not with all I got to do."

"Well I--Well I recok I could spare a bit of time, likely they ain't much more'n started.  Ma'am you get on in there and warm your gizzard some.  I'll just chop you a bit of wood."

Stubby Pringle chops wood.  He is Stubby Pringle, moonstruck maverick of the Triple X, born with axe in hands, with strength of stroke in muscles, weaned on whetstone, fed on cordwood, raised to fell whole forests.  He is ten feet tall and axe is enormous.  Chips fly like stormflakes of snow.  He leans axe 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 soon piled full.  Chore done and done right.

Stubby looks around him.  Man lies on big old bed along opposite wall, blanket over, eyes closed, face gray-paled, snoring long and slow.  Woman fusses with something at old woodstove.  Stubby steps to doorway to back room.  He sees two low bunks and in one, under an old quilt, a curly-headed small girl and in the other, under other old quilt, a boy who would be waist-high awake and standing.  He sees them still and quiet, sleeping sound.

"Cute little devils."

"Here, I thought you might like this coffee.  Not very strong but hot anyway."

"Why thank you, Ma'am, that was right kindly of you.  I gotta be goin'.  Uh, where's your tree?  Kids got to have a Christmas tree."

"I ain't had time to cut one."

"I reckon not, that's a man's job anyway.  I'll get it for you.  Won't take a minute.  then I got to be goin'."

He strides out, scoops up axe--stretches tall.  he is Stubby Pringle, born an expert on Christmas trees, nursed on pine needles, weaned on pine cones.  There, a beauty.  Perfect.  Grown for this and for nothing else.  He strides back with tree on shoulder, and sets it up, center of front-room floor."

"There you are, Ma'am, get your things out an' start decorating.  I got to be going."

"We got no things, I was figuring to buy some but sickness took the money."

"Oh yeah--I well... I reckon I still got a bit of time.  They'll be whooping it up mighty late.  Now you bring out everything you can to pretty up this tree.  Find some pinto beans, some beads, strips of this bandanna and we'll take some snippets of fleece from my jacket lining and we'll sprinkle it over this tree like fresh fall of snow.  We'll make paper chains and streamers, all sorts of things."

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.

"Got to finish it right, put this star up on top.  Now that's a right pretty little tree.  All you gotta do now is get out what you got for the kids and put it under.  I really got to be going!"

"We ain't got anything for them.  Only now this tree.  Which I don't mean it isn't a fine grand tree.  It's more'n we'd of had 'cept for you.  I'm sorry about these tears.  You go along, they're good young uns.  They know how it is.  They ain't expecting a thing."

"All the more reason.  All the more reason something should be there when they wake.  I'm a dong-bonging ding-busted dang-blatted fool.  But I reckon I still got a mite more time.  Likely they'll be sashaying around till it's most morning."

"But I don't want you to miss your party."

"Oh, I'll make it yet.  You hold on a minute.  I've got something in my saddlebags.  Now here, you unwrap that.  There's the makings for a right cute dress for the girl.  You can whip it up in no time.  I'll just whittle me out a little something for the boy."

Moon is high in the cold sky.  Frosty clouds drift up there with it.  Inside shack fire in fireplace cheerily gobbles wood.  Good wood, warming two rooms well.  Man lies on bed, turned on side, 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, fancy dress, dress for smiles and joy of living.

On a stool nearby sits Stubby Pringle, piece of good pine wood in one hand, knife in other hand.  Fine knife, splendid knife, knife he always has with him, seven-bladed knife.  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.  Something is shaping in his hand.  A horse.  Yes.  Flop-eared ewe-necked cat-hipped horse.  He closes knife and puts it in pocket.  He looks up.  Dress is finished in woman's lap.  But woman's head has dropped down in exhaustion.  She sits slumped deep in rocking chair and she too snores slow and steady.

"Well I must get that dress and horse under the tree for the little folks to find.  Fire needs a little more wood too."

Quietly he pulls on hat.  He looks at old rocking chair and tired woman slumped in it.  He strides to outer door and out, leaving door open.  When he returns he carries other burlap bag wrapped around box of candy, fine chocolates, fancy chocolates.  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--ain't fair to forget him.  Oh my--I guess he could use my knife--my fine seven-bladed knife.  Yes, I'll bet he could find a use for that."

He picks up gloves and blows out lantern and swift as sliding moon shadow he is gone.

Wind whips through topmost tips of tall pines.  What is it that hurtles like hurricane far down there?  It is flop-eared ewe-necked cat-hipped, iron-boned and dynamite-fueled.  Firm in saddle is Stubby Pringle, spurs ajingle, toes atingle, out on prowl, ready to howl, heading for the dance at the schoolhouse in the valley.  He is ten feet tall, great as a grizzly.

"Hold on there Stubby Pringle.  Hold hard on those reins.  Do you see what is happening on out there in the valley?  Why the lights that are schoolhouse windows are winking out.  I see tiny dark shapes moving about--horsemen riding off, wagons movin' away."

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 cow pony, 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 floorboards unstomped, of willing women left unwhirled and suddenly he hears something--the tinkle of sleigh bells.

"Sleigh bells?  Yes, Yes, I do hear the tinkle of sleigh bells, faint but clear, and what do I see?  Movement off to the left.  Swift as wind, and antlered heads high, with frosty breath steaming, bodies leaping in the air.  Yes.  Reindeer strong and silent and fleet.  Reindeer swooping down and leaping past."

Stubby Pringle, body atingle, stares.  Out of dark of night ahead mingled with moan of wind, comes a long-drawn chuckle, deep, deep chuckle, jolly and cheery and full of smiles and joy of living.

"We-e-e-l-l-l do-o-one....pa-a-artner!"

"And I didn't have a single drink!  Only coffee an' that can't count.  Oh I reckon I'm getting soft in the head.  Now hold on!  Now look at that.  I see 'em for sure.  Tracks in the snow.  Reindeer tracks.  Unmistakable!"

Stubby Pringle stretches up tall.  Stubby Pringle swings into saddle.  Stubby Pringle, moon-struck maverick of the Triple X, all around hard-proved hard-honed cowhand, ten feet tall Stubby Pringle slips into cold clammy bunk.  He wriggles vigorous to warm blanket under and blanket over.

"Well was it worth all that riding?"

"Why I, I had me a right good time.  Now you go on back to sleep Jake."

"Sure, stubby, you tell me about all those women you danced with in the morning.  Maybe I should a dragged along.  Good night."

"Good night, Jake"

Yeah, good night Stubby Pringle.  You can 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 moaning can sound like someone shaping words...but I don't know!

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-ne....pa-a-a-art-ner!"