A Romance of the Club

With no less interest than the “Toastmaster ” himself, I read of the lone sheepherder’s “Readable Proposition,” in the January Atlantic. For thirty years I knew the warm smile of that Rocky Mountain land, and I wonder now if there is not something in the expanse of the outlook, the height of the mountains, and the tonic of the air, that creates, as it were, Atlantic readers. Certainly I have found that “dull orange” friend of my girlhood in more out-of-the-way, wholly unexpected places in “ sunny Colorado,” than the Toastmaster would ever dream of.

One Christmas Day we, in our little mountain town, had to get rid of the hours in some way, for we could not say our “Merry Christmas” until the incoming evening stage brought back our belated absentees. That is how it happened that we two girls — my sister, a young widow of twenty, and myself — started up Henson Creek for a picnic.

Tempted by the wintry warmth of that Colorado air, we had extended our walk far up the mountain, when we suddenly felt a chilling gust of wind, and, finding that a cloud had covered the sun, knew that we were caught in one of those violent storms that sometimes disturb one’s peace of mind in “sunny Colorado.” We ran for a nearby cabin, in a blinding blizzard that nearly obscured the way, but reached the door, and burst in.

Instead of the dark, dusty hole that we expected, what should meet our eyes but a room as clean and tidy as though kept by a woman. The bed was neatly made, and covered with a blue-and-white counterpane. A dozen or more choice books were on a small shelf over the table. The table itself was covered with clean papers, where breakfast evidently had been served for two, the unwashed dishes being piled away in a pan, on the stove, ready for the washing. In a roughly constructed cupboard, between the stove and the “Mexican” fireplace, were the supplies common to a miner’s cabin, — bacon, potatoes, flour, canned milk, dried fruit, and the inevitable baking-powder, of which the grocers said in those days, that they sold as much in quantity as of flour. While we were looking around in the first wonder of the sight, my sister exclaimed, “Look at this, will you! ”and held up an Atlantic, left open at “The Contributors’ Club.” Immediately we knew there were friends not far away.

We went at it at once, to surprise the boys by finishing their work, and having dinner ready when they should return. We knew they were boys, for there were no old people in Colorado in ’79. Such a merry hour or two as we put in! We decked the room as best we could, then commenced the dinner. Here our own lunch served us well, — turkey, and cranberries, cake, salads, pickles, and jelly. We toasted bacon, and “browned” potatoes. The storm had died down, and we were in a hurry to get away. We placed the dinner in pans of hot water, in the oven, to keep it from drying, and last of all my sister spread her prettiest lunchcloth on the table, and placed the rude dishes and utensils upon it. “That is my Christmas gift,” she said.

We took one last look around, then donned our wraps, and started down the mountain. The snow had drifted somewhat, and we had considerable difficulty picking our way, keeping a sharp lookout meanwhile for our absent hosts. When nearly down the mountain we looked around, and saw the men hurrying toward the cabin, from another direction, attracted by the smoke curling from the cabin chimney. We hurried along, like two guilty creatures, and had reached the bottom of the gully, when we heard them calling from above, and there, standing in the doorway, were the two figures, arms and hats waving, while cheer after cheer came echoing down the mountain side. It was their Merry Christmas.

Yes, there was a sequel, and if I were writing the story, I should call it The Widow’s Lunchcloth.

For comment on the contributors to this number, see advertising pages 19 and 20.