The Miner's Daughter — a Christmas Tale

The Miner's Daughter and the Night

"Next year," said the mother, "next year Christ-mas will be different, my child. Why, we'll have real presents, not just those home-made things, and we'll have candles for the tree, and for dinner we'll have roast goose with apple stuffing and all the trimmings, and . . . ."

"And plum pudding, Mama?" "Yes dear, and plum pudding." The woman put down her sewing and leaned across the table and placed her hand on her daughter's hand and squeezed it. Tears welled in her mother's eyes, and the girl wished she could reach out and wipe them away forever, and with them the hurt, the loss that were behind the tears.

Too well the girl remembered that September night when the tears began. The terrifying shriek of the steam whistle had awakened her an accident at the mine - and she had lain sleepless in her bed, knowing, somehow, yet not really knowing, not believing until close to morning when the company men in dark blue suits came to the door.

Cave-in . . . three dead . . . her father. Her father!

Though barely 11, she was the oldest of four children, and on the day they buried her father, her mother took her aside and shared her intention to remain in that house, that town."We'll manage," the mother said. "I'll take in laundry, and I'll do sewing. There's no money now for us to go elsewhere, and, goodness knows, Arizona Territory is the only home you children know." Though not a place known for its beauty or charm mining towns seldom are it was a pleasant place, built upon mountain slopes and within a few minutes' walk of the cop-per mine, which was the sole reason for the town's being. And it was home.

So they remained in the small house, and if times had been hard before, they were even harder now. Her mother's hands never were idle, and each day, it seemed, the girl saw new wrinkles in her tired face. But somehow they managed. Each month the rent was paid on time, and though not new, the children's clothes always were clean and mended, and not once had the little ones gone to bed hungry.The girl helped, too. She worked every day after school, all day Saturday, and sometimes on Sunday for the wife of the mine superintendent. The girl cleaned house and did the laundry and looked after the baby, and when there was nothing else to be done, she helped in the kitchen. Themoney she earned she gave to her mother to "help out," save those few coins she secretly held back each week, which she wrapped in a hanky and kept hidden beneath her mattress.

So yes, they had managed; they had made do. But as the days passed and Christmas neared, all of them missed the one who was gone, and now on the night before Christmas, with the little ones in bed, the girl and mother spoke of him.

"I miss Pa," said the girl. "I miss him something awful." Her mother smiled, but there was sadness in the smile.

"So do I, child. We all do. But we have our memories."

"I know, Mama, but that's not the same. It's not like it was when he was here with us." The mother brushed at a curl that had fallen over her forehead.

"No, it's not the same, but we can never have more than that. We must be thankful for those memories."

Memories. The girl had her memories. She remembered how, just a year ago that very evening, Pa brought the family Bible to the kitchen table, as he did every Christmas Eve, and when all were seated, he opened it. Holding it in his hands, he told the story of how the baby Jesus was born in a stable because there was no room for Mary and Joseph at the inn. And he told about the shepherds and the three wise men and about the angels on high. Pa didn't read the story from the Bible he never learned to read he told it. Simply having the book open in front of him made the story seem that much more real. Memories. That was a year ago, and on this night her mother told the Christmas story, just as Pa always had.

And now the two sat alone in the kitchen, and the mother cleared her throat and, shaking her head, told the girl she wished there were more presents beneath the tree for her children.

The mother made apologies for the muffler, the sweater, the mittens, the made-over dress. Practical things, homemade things, the fruits of a loving mother's toils. But there would be oranges for the stockings, said the mother, brightening, and a few nuts, a piece of candy, a Christmas cookie.

"But just you wait until next year, child. It'll be some Christmas, with real presents toys and surprises."

The mother sat quietly for a few moments, alone with her thoughts, her memories. Then she rose, kissed the girl, and wished her good night. It had been a long day, she said wearily, and tomorrow would be a longer one. She asked her daughter to tend to things, to close up for the night, and then she retired.

So the girl sat alone at the table. From the parlor came the flickering glow of the candle the little ones had placed in the front window to light the way for Mary and Joseph. And on the parlor table, beside the Christmas tree they cut and brought down from the mountains above town, sat the cookie and glass of milk her sisters and brother left "for Santa Claus."

Before she went to sleep, the girl would blow out the candle, and she would drink the milk and nibble the cookie, leaving a scatter of crumbs on the tabletop so the little ones would know Santa had enjoyed his treat.

But first there was something else she must tend to. When she was certain her mother was in bed and asleep, she slipped quietly into her own bedroom and got the small package a present for her mother from its hiding place beneath the mattress.

Memories. It was one evening not long before he died that she had walked with her father to the mine, and they paused at the display window of the company store to look at the many fine things.

"See that fan?" he said, tapping the windowpane with a stubby finger. "I'm going to buy it for your mother. Christmas present."

The girl's eyes widened as she looked at the fan, an exquisite thing of black lace and glimmering mother-of-pearl. Surely there wasn't anything quite that elegant in the whole town, she thought. In all Arizona Territory, for that matter.

"It's a present fit for a lady," Pa had said, "and there's not a grander lady anywhere than your mother."

The coins in the hanky were not quite enough to pay for the fan, but the store manager had known her father, and he smiled and pushed it across the counter to the girl, and wished her a Merry Christmas.

The girl looked one more time at the card on the package "From Pa," she had written and she placed the present beneath the Christmas tree, hiding it under packages that held the muffler, the sweater, the mittens, the made-over dress.

Before Christmas