A miner’s Christmas tale

By Arizona Historian Jim Turner and Pioneer Newsman George H. Smalley

Several years ago I had the good fortune to interview Mrs. Yndia Smalley Moore, born in Tucson in 1902, and former Director of the Arizona Historical Society. She told me many stories about her father, George H. Smalley, who was District Clerk in Globe from 1905 through 1912.

Lung problems forced Smalley to move to Arizona in 1896. Like many other authors exiled to the Southwest for their health, Smalley got a job as a reporter. He covered the mining beat for the Phoenix Republican, but wrote stories for St. Louis, Los Angeles, and San Francisco newspapers. Mark Twain and Bret Harte made Wild West stories popular, and Smalley kept up the tradition with down-to-earth stories of cowboys, prospectors, and even outlaws he met in his travels across Arizona and Mexico.

Interstate 17 from Phoenix to Flagstaff is full of interesting signs denoting our Old West prospecting past, with colorful names such as Bumblebee, Bloody Basin, and Big Bug Creek. Smalley’s holiday tale takes place in a silver mining camp about 20 miles southwest of Prescott in the Bradshaw Mountains. No need to change a word of it, this is how he wrote it more than a century ago, typed verbatim from yellowed newspaper columns pasted on faded construction paper at the Arizona Historical Society in Tucson.

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Santa Claus Arrived There Two Days Ahead of Time

By George H. Smalley

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Big Bug, Arizona, Dec. 23, 1898  –  Santa Claus arranged his dates so as to arrive at Big Bug Creek two days ahead of time. He did this purposely to accommodate the schoolteacher of the camp, Miss Clay Henshaw, a Phoenix young lady. Miss Henshaw had previously won the hearts of all the miners in the camp, and it is not strange that Santa Claus succumbed to her charms and slid down off the Bradshaws a couple of days early.

There was excitement the entire length of the creek as I rode into camp last night. Miners were bringing their families down the trails from their homes perched on the mountainside. The lanterns they carried threw gigantic shadows across the gulch and my horse was in a constant state of terror. It was with difficulty that I ever reached the camp at all. The miners were coming down from their homes to attend the Christmas festivities, and the gulch rang out joyous echoes as the young rushed toward the schoolhouse yelling their ovation to Santa Claus. On the road, a procession of miners dressed in their best togs moved toward the schoolhouse. Everywhere were figures moving in the dark and my bronco tried to recognize each shadow with a toss of his body that would be called bucking in some countries.

“Hurrah for Santa Claus!” yelled the kids, and each one tried to make as much noise as he could so that Santa Claus would have no trouble in locating Big Bug Creek. The little fellows ran up and down the narrow camp street, scaring the horses and making the dogs bark. The kids were determined that he should not escape, and the echoes of the gulches repeated the sounds and sent them over the hills and snow banks as if they, too, were lending their power to attract the white whiskered man and his fleet-footed four-in-hand reindeers.

The snow on the mountains, the whistling of the wind in the pines, and the cold made it seem like Christmas Eve. All that was needed was the presence of Santa Claus. As I rode into camp, the kids thought I was he. I am not surprised that my horse was mistaken for a reindeer, for he pranced excitedly as the band of boys approached.  At the one restaurant in the camp I was informed that I could not get supper because the cook and waiter were making preparations to attend the “doings” at the schoolhouse. I tried to bribe the cook, but she was true to her Santa Claus. The corral man kindly directed me to a store where I might get a lunch of sardines and crackers. The storekeeper’s wife made a pot of tea to go with the meal and take away the chill.

As I sat down to eat there was a renewal of the ovation to Santa Claus outside, and presently Deputy Sheriff Johns rode into camp. His great mustache was white with frost, and snow clung to his spurs and boots. I asked the deputy sheriff where he was going to sleep and he said he knew where there was a stack of hay. There was not an empty bed in the camp, so I made up my mind to follow Deputy Sheriff Johns to the haystack.

The big schoolhouse was filled with miners and their families, and the wooden benches were crowded soon after the doors of the house were thrown open to the visitors. The little ones who were to take part in the entertainment were seated on the front benches. Sometimes the room broke out in loud whispers as some little fellow discovered a drum hidden in the branches of the big Christmas tree, which took up a large portion of the room. Some precocious youth set the alarm on the wall clock to ring at 8 o’clock, and this started the crowd laughing. A little dog that was resting near the big box stove jumped to his feet and turned to look at the clock, and Santa Claus entered amid the disturbance. The young folk jumped to their feet and greeted him, and old Santa danced down the aisle with the most approved rag-time step.

Before the presents were distributed the school children performed under the direction of Miss Henshaw.  Mrs. Carpenter, who was well known in Phoenix as Miss Maggie Williscroft, assisted the teacher and took part in a pantomime performance, which was interesting. After the tree was unloaded, the house was cleared for dancing. This pleasure was enjoyed by a large number until after midnight. The Christmas festivities in Big Bug will long be remembered.