very small Christmas with Frightful.
About four-thirty Christmas Eve I hung a small red cluster of teaberries on the deerskin door. I went in my tree room for a snack of beechnuts when I heard a faint “halloooo” from far down the mountain. I snuffed out my tallow candle, jumped into my coat and moccasins, and plunged out into the snow. Again a “halloooo” floated over the quiet snow. I took a bearing on the sound and bounced down the hill to meet Bando. I ran into him just as he turned up the valley to follow the stream bed. I was so glad to see him that I hugged him and pounded him on the back.
“Never thought I’d make it,” he said. “I walked all the way from the entrance of the State Park; pretty good, eh?” He smiled and slapped his tired legs. Then he grabbed my arm, and with three quick pinches, tested the meat on me.
“You’ve been living well,” he said. He looked closely at my face. “But you’re gonna need a shave in a year or two.” I thanked him and we sprang up the mountain, cut across through the gorge and home.
“How’s the Frightful?” he asked as soon as we were inside and the light was lit.
I whistled. She jumped to my fist. He got bold and stroked her. “And the jam?” he asked.
“Excellent, except the crocks are absorbent and are sopping up all the juice.”
“Well, I brought you some more sugar; we’ll try next year. Merry Christmas, Thoreau!” he shouted, and looked about the room.
“I see you have been busy. A blanket, new clothes, and an ingenious fireplace—with a real chimney—and say, you have silverware!” He picked up the forks I had carved.
We ate smoked fish for dinner with boiled dogtooth violet bulbs. Walnuts dipped in jam were dessert. Bando was pleased with his jam.
When we were done, Bando stretched out on my bed. He propped his feet up and lit his pipe.
“And now, I have something to show you,” he said. He reached in his coat pocket and took out a newspaper clipping. It was from a New York paper, and it read:
WILD BOY SUSPECTED LIVING OFF DEER
AND NUTS IN WILDERNESS OF CATSKILLS
I looked at Bando and leaned over to read the headline myself.
“Have you been talking?” I asked.
“Me? Don’t be ridiculous. You have had several visitors other than me.”
“The fire warden—the old lady!” I cried out.
“Now, Thoreau, this could only be a rumor. Just because it is in print, doesn’t mean it’s true. Before you get excited, sit still and listen.” He read:
“ ‘Residents of Delhi, in the Catskill Mountains, report that a wild boy, who lives off deer and nuts, is hiding out in the mountains.
“ ‘Several hunters stated that this boy stole deer from them during hunting season.’ ”
“I did not!” I shouted. “I only took the ones they had wounded and couldn’t find.”
“Well, that’s what they told their wives when they came home without their deer. Anyway, listen to this:
“ ‘This wild boy has been seen from time to time by Catskill residents, some of whom believe he is crazy!’ ”
“Well, that’s a terrible thing to say!”
“Just awful,” he stated. “Any normal red-blooded American boy wants to live in a tree house and trap his own food. They just don’t do it, that’s all.”
“Read on,” I said.
“ ‘Officials say that there is no evidence of any boy living alone in the mountains, and add that all abandoned houses and sheds are routinely checked for just such events. Nevertheless, the residents are sure that such a boy exists!’ End story.”
“That’s a lot of nonsense!” I leaned back against the bedstead and smiled.
“Ho, ho, don’t think that ends it,” Bando said, and reached in his pocket for another clipping. “This one is dated December fifth, the other was November twenty-third. Shall I read?”
“Yes.”
OLD WOMAN REPORTS MEETING WILD BOY
WHILE PICKING STRAWBERRIES IN CATSKILLS
“ ‘Mrs. Thomas Fielder, ninety-seven, resident of Delhi, N.Y., told this reporter that
About four-thirty Christmas Eve I hung a small red cluster of teaberries on the deerskin door. I went in my tree room for a snack of beechnuts when I heard a faint “halloooo” from far down the mountain. I snuffed out my tallow candle, jumped into my coat and moccasins, and plunged out into the snow. Again a “halloooo” floated over the quiet snow. I took a bearing on the sound and bounced down the hill to meet Bando. I ran into him just as he turned up the valley to follow the stream bed. I was so glad to see him that I hugged him and pounded him on the back.
“Never thought I’d make it,” he said. “I walked all the way from the entrance of the State Park; pretty good, eh?” He smiled and slapped his tired legs. Then he grabbed my arm, and with three quick pinches, tested the meat on me.
“You’ve been living well,” he said. He looked closely at my face. “But you’re gonna need a shave in a year or two.” I thanked him and we sprang up the mountain, cut across through the gorge and home.
“How’s the Frightful?” he asked as soon as we were inside and the light was lit.
I whistled. She jumped to my fist. He got bold and stroked her. “And the jam?” he asked.
“Excellent, except the crocks are absorbent and are sopping up all the juice.”
“Well, I brought you some more sugar; we’ll try next year. Merry Christmas, Thoreau!” he shouted, and looked about the room.
“I see you have been busy. A blanket, new clothes, and an ingenious fireplace—with a real chimney—and say, you have silverware!” He picked up the forks I had carved.
We ate smoked fish for dinner with boiled dogtooth violet bulbs. Walnuts dipped in jam were dessert. Bando was pleased with his jam.
When we were done, Bando stretched out on my bed. He propped his feet up and lit his pipe.
“And now, I have something to show you,” he said. He reached in his coat pocket and took out a newspaper clipping. It was from a New York paper, and it read:
WILD BOY SUSPECTED LIVING OFF DEER
AND NUTS IN WILDERNESS OF CATSKILLS
I looked at Bando and leaned over to read the headline myself.
“Have you been talking?” I asked.
“Me? Don’t be ridiculous. You have had several visitors other than me.”
“The fire warden—the old lady!” I cried out.
“Now, Thoreau, this could only be a rumor. Just because it is in print, doesn’t mean it’s true. Before you get excited, sit still and listen.” He read:
“ ‘Residents of Delhi, in the Catskill Mountains, report that a wild boy, who lives off deer and nuts, is hiding out in the mountains.
“ ‘Several hunters stated that this boy stole deer from them during hunting season.’ ”
“I did not!” I shouted. “I only took the ones they had wounded and couldn’t find.”
“Well, that’s what they told their wives when they came home without their deer. Anyway, listen to this:
“ ‘This wild boy has been seen from time to time by Catskill residents, some of whom believe he is crazy!’ ”
“Well, that’s a terrible thing to say!”
“Just awful,” he stated. “Any normal red-blooded American boy wants to live in a tree house and trap his own food. They just don’t do it, that’s all.”
“Read on,” I said.
“ ‘Officials say that there is no evidence of any boy living alone in the mountains, and add that all abandoned houses and sheds are routinely checked for just such events. Nevertheless, the residents are sure that such a boy exists!’ End story.”
“That’s a lot of nonsense!” I leaned back against the bedstead and smiled.
“Ho, ho, don’t think that ends it,” Bando said, and reached in his pocket for another clipping. “This one is dated December fifth, the other was November twenty-third. Shall I read?”
“Yes.”
OLD WOMAN REPORTS MEETING WILD BOY
WHILE PICKING STRAWBERRIES IN CATSKILLS
“ ‘Mrs. Thomas Fielder, ninety-seven, resident of Delhi, N.Y., told this reporter that
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