From the Improvement Era, December 1968 –

The Wonderful Christmas Tree

By Reed Blake

Let all the Saints … gather immediately to the east hank of the [Missouri] river … or as soon as they can, bringing their money, goods, and effects with them; and, so far as they can consistently, gather young stock by the way, which is much needed here and will be ready sale; and when here, let all who can go directly over the mountains; and those who cannot, let them go immediately to work at making improvements, raising grain and stock on the lands recently vacated by the Potawatomi Indians and owned by the United States, and by industry … their young cattle will grow into teams; by interchange of labor they can raise their own grain and provisions, and build their own wagons; … thus speedily and comfortably procure an outfit. …” (General Epistle from the Council of the Twelve Apostles, December 2S, 1847.)

Red ribbons indicated the ends of the two braids that struck her midway down her back. They were blond, with overtones of brown. Her eyes, as she watched the man who had just come up the road, were typically those of one who is now intent, now curious, now openly happy. Her name was Nan, she said, “and this is Fredrick. He’s 14.”

“And doing a man’s work, I can tell that,” the man answered.

“Are you from around here?” the boy asked, standing a little taller in his too-short pants, his black hair jutting over his ears.

“No,” the man said. “I have come from Iowa Territory.”

“My father is in Iowa,” the girl spoke quickly. The man smiled.

In the sod house Elizabeth Harmony Small Duncan put the water on to boil and went out to the cellar to fetch some potatoes. It was an open winter, as those still living on the Potawatomi lands called it; it was now the 23rd of December and there had been only one flurry of snow – it had melted in an hour – in late November. Harvard wrote that it was heaven-sent, enabling him to stay longer in Iowa, working for landowners there and taking his pay in corn and grain and sometimes even in gold coin.

This, of course, was the history of the trail, the history of the gathering – not just for them, but for hundreds of others. They had started from Arkansas the summer before, traveling up the river by steamboat and outfitting themselves at Keokuk (where they used up the last of their money), then going west across the Iowa Territory and across the Missouri River. Here in an abandoned sod hut Harvard had left the family while he returned to work for as long as the weather would hold.

But Christmas! Couldn’t he come home for Christmas and then go back, if there were work still to go back to? Surely Zion could wait for Christmas. But in her heart Elizabeth knew that it couldn’t. There was precious little here: a good wagon made from sturdy wood from the Mississippi bottom, but nothing in it. He should work as long as he could.

In the distance she could see the rolling hills – hills that were as wrinkles in a quilt compared to the mountains they had yet to cross and canyons to traverse. That was the barrier that stopped east from going west, the barrier that had stopped them for nine months already. During the day the shading of the liills had been shifting. Above the hills clouds gathered and dispersed and gathered again, the green on the cedar-dotted bluffs varying from black to green. Now a dark bank of clouds came rolling in, obscuring the gray of the broad valley of the Platte, covering the full flush of the late afternoon sun, and bringing with it, Elizabeth knew, a snowfall that would soon be measured in inches.

As Elizabeth rounded the house with the potatoes, she was startled to see the stranger. She clutched the load tightly and hoped the man wouldn’t see the fear in her eyes.

Elizabeth’s fears, however, soon proved groundless. The young stranger introduced himself as Stefan Groff , a Mormon who, like themselves, was going west. His parents and sisters had remained in New York. He was planning to cross the mountains now so that, when spring came, he could plant seeds and build a cabin. Then his family would follow him west next summer. Meanwhile, he said, his father was working in a print shop in New York.

“When we arrived in America, we were out of money,” he added.

“Are you from Europe?” Elizabeth asked. He nodded and smiled. “In our town in Bavaria, we could speak the best English of anyone, my family and I; but over here we find it not so good.”

“It isn’t the words,” Elizabeth assured him. “It’s the way they sound. But your English is really very good.”

“I think it’s not so bad,” he said. She looked toward the west. “Can you cross the mountains in the snow?”

“I am a good walker in the snow,” he said. “I will walk to Fort Kearney. There I will buy a mount and cross in company with the first riders to make the trip.

He offered to help the children do their evening chores, to chop wood, to milk the cow, to do whatever else he could in exchange for a night’s lodging. He had hoped to reach the Henderson cabin, which by his calculation should be another seven miles, but with a storm approaching and darkness upon him, he didn’t think it wise to continue his journey.

“We would be pleased to have you,” Elizabeth said. “Have you traveled far today?”

“About 37 miles,” he answered.

When she seemed surprised at the distance, he added, “I always walk close to 40 miles. It’s just a good day’s walk.”

Suddenly a flicker of hope came into her voice. “How do you know the Hendersons?” she asked. “Have you been working with Carl Henderson in Iowa?”

“No,” he answered. “I have been walking these past weeks – all the distance from New York. I met the man Henderson on the trail near the Elkhorn. He offered me his place to rest. He’s bringing a wagon load of goods, he and another man. The wagon is old, the load heavy.”

“Stefan,” she said, the excitement coming to her voice, “you could be a ‘Santeklas.’ Tell me, did the other man have black hair and a brown overcoat?”

“The other man was called Harv.”

“Oh, Stefan,” she cried, “how many days behind you is he?”

Elizabeth waited until supper to tell the children. Now the emotion of the moment overcame her as she said, “‘Santeklas’ has something to say.”

Stefan looked startled, then said, “Sleeping down the road this night is a man called Harv Duncan. And he will be home for Christmas.”

To call him “Santeklas” delighted the children, and when Elizabeth told them to stop, Stefan said to let them continue; he didn’t mind. They sat around the fire and talked about Iowa and how their father had looked when Stefan saw him, what he was doing, and what he had said. When the talk drifted to Stefan, he told them that he and his family were all converts to the Church and had been baptized two years ago. He traced his family’s voyage across Europe and the Atlantic Ocean and his own journey across the United States to the frontier. Nan was captivated by the young man, who brought still more joy or excitement or happiness with each new breath. When he was finished, she said, “Stefan, tell us about Christmas.”

“All right,” Stefan said. “I will tell you a story from the old country – a story from Bavaria.”

“From Bavaria?” the children echoed.

“Yes, from Bavaria,” he said, speaking faster now, warming to the subject. “From the beautiful forests of the Bavarian Alps. There on a Christmas Eve long ago, a tiny knock came to the door of a small but warm cottage standing all alone in a forested vale.”

“All alone like we’re all alone?” asked Nan.

The man nodded. “In this home lived a forester, and his family, and when they opened the door to the tiny knock, there stood a small child in the snow, cold and hungry and very tired. The family took the child in and warmed him by their fire. And while their lot was a very simple one, they nevertheless gave him their best clothes, fed him their best food, and bade him sleep in their best bed.

“In the morning the family awoke to see the child standing over them, glowing as they had never before seen a person glow. The child said, ‘I can give you nothing beyond what you already have, except one thing.’ The child went from the house and broke a branch from a fir tree nearby and planted it by the door. Instantly it blossomed.

” ‘Here is my gift to you,’ he said. ‘Henceforth it shall always bear fruit at Christmastide, when all the rest of the world is empty and dead.’ The child smiled and left, saying, ‘To you it shall be a sign of faith that does not die.’ ”

The room was silent. The fire was dying, and outside the wind came up stronger, pushing against the door. Nan spoke first. “I wish we could have that kind of Christmas.”

Young Fredrick added, “We’ve got the cottage and the love. That’s what the story was about – the love the Savior brought.”

Stefan stood with his back to the fire. “Well,” he said, “since you’ve got everything else in the legend, and since I’m the visitor and it’s nearly Christmas Eve, perhaps I should produce a tree.”

“Can you?” gasped Nan.

“I can,” Stefan said. “I will.” The next day passed slowly for Nan and Fredrick, and even for Elizabeth, as the clouds began to shed large, silent flakes. Then when the darkness made it seem as if evening had come, but in reality it was only four o’clock, Fredrick, who had stationed himself at the west window most of the day, let out a yelp and ran from the cabin. Nan dropped her embroidery work and followed.

Striding down the road, his forearm bent across the stump of a tree, came Stefan. “You’ve been to the hills,” Elizabeth said, and he replied, as she knew he would, that it was only a good day’s walk.

“It isn’t a fir,” he said to the children. “It’s a cedar, but an evergreen nonetheless.”

“It’s the beautiful Christmas tree – just like the story,” said Nan.

They placed the tree in a bucket and packed it with stones to hold it erect. Then Elizabeth brought out a white tablecloth and placed it around the bottom. The tree looked as if it were on the hillside again, growing skyward out of the snow.

“What shall we do for blossoms?” asked Nan.

“We could start with those pretty ribbons in your hair,” Stefan answered.

“Really?” Nan squealed. Before anyone could answer her, she had them off and on the tree.

They spent an hour decorating the tree. Fredrick took string from his pocket and strung it through a pretty picture cut into squares from Godey’s Lady’s Book. Elizabeth found a sugar sack stuffed with odds and ends of clothing that would someday become a rag rug. They tied some of them into bows, rolled them into balls, and tied them at the top; they tore others into long strips and draped them from branch to branch.

Even Stefan made a contribution to the tree. He tied six five-inch willows together at the center to make a star, covered it with his red and black handkerchief, and secured it to the top of the tree.

“It’s a wonderful star!” Nan exclaimed.

When the tree was all decorated, Stefan bade his farewell. The children were still calling, “We’ll see you in Zion,” long after the tall man was lost from view, the words falling on the whiteness of the earth.

Then the door was closed on the approaching night, the curtains were pulled back from the two windows, and a lamp was placed in each.