Christmas at Red Butte
First sentence: "Of course Santa Claus will come," said Jimmy Martin confidently. Jimmy was ten, and at ten it is easy to be confident.
Premise/plot: Will Santa Claus come visit the poor family in this story? Someone comes to visit. And there are gifts. But technically it is not Santa Claus.
My thoughts: This is a generic Christmas story. In December, I think it would be a pleasant enough read, but maybe not so much in March.
How We Went to the Wedding: "If it were to clear up I wouldn't know how to behave, it would seem so unnatural," said Kate. "Do you, by any chance, remember what the sun looks like, Phil?" "Does the sun ever shine in Saskatchewan anyhow?" I asked with assumed sarcasm, just to make Kate's big, bonny black eyes flash.
Premise/plot: Kate and Phil have quite the adventure in traveling to a friend's wedding.
My thoughts: I've never really thought of Montgomery writing stories starring Native Americans before...it felt like an odd story. Yet the twist about the ham made up for it a bit.
The sergeant gave us the tent and stove, and sent a man down to the Reserve for Peter Crow. Moreover, he vindicated his title of friend by making us take a dozen prairie chickens and a large ham—besides any quantity of advice. We didn't want the advice but we hugely welcomed the ham.
Presently our guide appeared—quite a spruce old Indian, as Indians go. I had never been able to shake off my childhood conviction that an Indian was a fearsome creature, hopelessly addicted to scalping knives and tomahawks, and I secretly felt quite horrified at the idea of two defenceless females starting out on a lonely prairie trail with an Indian for guide.
Kate, however, was as blithe and buoyant as usual. She knew no fear, being one of those enviable folk who can because they think they can.
"I don't believe Peter Crow could be so dishonest," said Kate rather shortly. "His wife has worked for us for years, and she's as honest as the sunlight." "Honesty isn't catching," I remarked, but I said nothing more just then, for Kate's black eyes were snapping. "Anyway, we can't have ham for breakfast," she said, twitching out the frying pan rather viciously.
She'll never know he isn't with us till the trip is over, so that is all right. We're going to have a glorious day. But, oh, for our lost ham! 'The Ham That Was Never Eaten.' There's a subject for a poem, Phil. You write one when we get back to civilization. Methinks I can sniff the savoury odour of that lost ham on all the prairie breezes."
My very thoughts are tired. I can't even think anything funny about the ham.
"Mary," said Kate in a tragic whisper, "have—you—any—ham—in—the—house?"
© 2018 Becky Laney of Becky's Book Reviews