The Snows of the Sierras
After the heat and turmoil of a day when the children have been
especially vexing, what mother does not smile in forgiveness upon the
peaceful faces of her offspring, whose characters in sleep appear as
spotless as the sheets which cover them? So smiled the sun upon the
grown-up children of the Sierras asleep under the winter snow. After the
heat and turmoil of the summer, the mad search for gold was over. Save
when there was a heavy snowstorm, the Graniteville stage traveled over
the mountains, as usual; but no highwayman molested it. It would have
been a practical impossibility for a robber to have made off with booty.
The snow was light and feathery, and the drifts were often twenty-five
feet deep. The web-footed snow-shoes of New England could not be used
with advantage in such snow, so recourse was had to skis. But it was
difficult to manage these upon the steep trails of the cañons, so that
people generally were content to hibernate like grizzlies. Many a miner,
glad to indulge his liking of conviviality, would take up his residence
in some mountain village for the winter, spending with a liberal hand
the precious yellow dust that he had worked so hard to get. Many, forced
to keep the wolf from the door, found work with lumbermen and ditch
companies.
In my opinion, Mat Bailey and Dr. Mason had a decided advantage over
both miners and villagers. Like the man-o-war's man of song they enjoyed
steady occupations summer and winter, and spent much of their time in
the open. The cold was never extreme, the thermometer very rarely
dropping below zero Fahrenheit. The dust of summer was buried deep under
the gleaming snow, and the air was crisp and exhilarating. Often the
doctor was one of Mat's passengers. Often he would leave the stage where
some trail wound down into a cañon, and putting on his skis glide away
among the great pines, which, covered with snow and ornamented with
shining icicles, were scattered over the mountain slopes like great
wigwams of white canvas. A doctor anywhere is a welcome visitor and a
friend in need; in the wilderness, in the depth of winter he ranks but
little lower than the angels. Often, coming to a lonely cabin, fairly
buried in snow-drifts, he would climb in through the gable window of the
loft; and no doubt his descent to the patient lying below suggested the
arrival of a heavenly visitor.
One glorious winter day Mamie Slocum through Mat's persuasions
accompanied him from Nevada City to Graniteville. He wanted her to see
the magnificence of the Sierras in winter. Mamie needed little coaxing.
Indeed, her admiration for Mat was making her unmindful of very eligible
suitors. Besides, she enjoyed life in the open almost as much as he did.
But I suspect on that beautiful winter morning both enjoyed each other's
society even more than the scenery. As far as North Bloomfield, she was
the only passenger, so well had Mat and the weather bureau contrived
matters. He explained that he was really in need of her assistance, for
in the open places where the snow had drifted across the road, it was
often necessary to attack the drifts with a snow-shovel. He would then
pass the reins to Mamie, who, demurely perched aloft, rosy-cheeked and
most bewitching, was a picture for an artist.
No wonder Mat should have grown confidential and talked about his
personal history--which was usually bad form in California, where
present fortune counted for everything and family history was regarded
as ancient history. He told her how in boyhood he came to California
from Virginia with his parents. That was back in the fifties, when
respectable women were so rare in the gold fields that their arrival was
hailed by the rough miners with a sort of religious fervor. One of Mat's
earliest recollections was a scene with emigrant wagon and camp-fire in
the background, and in the foreground his mother, clasping him by the
hand and greeting a score of bearded men, who, with hats off, were
paying her homage.
He could remember, too, how they had come over the mountains through
Emigrant Gap, passing the graves of the Donner party. The tragedy of the
snow-bound emigrants had made a deep impression upon his imagination. He
spoke of it to Mamie, and she rather saucily inquired what he would do
with her if they, too, were caught in a severe snowstorm.
"In the first place," said Mat, "I wouldn't let you start out in a
snowstorm. And in the second place, if we should get caught, on the
return trip, we would make for the nearest shelter and stay there till
traveling was safe again."
"Oh, dear, what a stupid adventure that would be! There's very little
excitement in this civilized country."
Mat laughed. "So this is what you call a civilized country? I don't see
any signs of civilization except this road and the water ditch yonder."
Mat was quite right. In every direction the frost-king held sway over an
unbroken wilderness. The massive ranges of the Sierras, clothed all in
white, were as majestic and as untamed as when Fremont and Kit Carson
gazed down upon them from their snowy summit. To cross that mountain
barrier, ninety-three hundred feet above the level of the sea, would
require as much heroism as ever. The wise old Indians knew better than
to attempt it; and so did the miners. Only a Fremont or a Kit Carson
might pass over that awful divide in safety, pushing on through the deep
drifts, half their mules and horses dead, and their comrades staggering
with exhaustion. How absolutely essential was that stage-road, winding
over the snow fields!
Soon Mat perceived signs that made him anxious. They would reach
Graniteville without mishap. But the return trip to-morrow? A falling
barometer could not have made him feel more certain of an approaching
storm. He began to question the disinterestedness which had led him to
show Miss Slocum the splendor of the winter landscape. The girl's gay
chatter could not drown the voice of his accusing conscience.
Fortunately for Mat, at this juncture Dr. Mason came to the rescue like
a fairy godfather.
They picked the doctor up at North Bloomfield. His baggage included not
only his skis and medicine-case but a violin as well. For the doctor was
a musical genius; and it had been his proud achievement to construct his
own instrument, which friends vowed was as excellent as a Stradivarius.
Often of a winter evening his music was more sought after than his
medicine. Mamie was delighted.
"So there's going to be a party to-night," she exclaimed. Mat promptly
seized the opportunity to secure the lion's share of the dances, and
immediately congratulated himself upon the approach of the storm, hoping
it might bring a whole series of parties.
"Bless you, my children," said the doctor, "it will be a pleasure to
call off the figures for the likes of you." The word "eugenics" had not
been coined as yet, but like all wise physicians the doctor believed in
the idea. It made his heart rejoice to watch the budding affection of
these normal, healthy young people. And he knew the magic of the violin.
And so they waltzed on to their heart's content in the large dining-room
of the hotel at Graniteville. At midnight, the feathery snow began to
fall, insuring several other blissful nights. Between dances they looked
out of doors and windows; when the drifts buried the whole first story
of the hotel, the warmth of that great bare room seemed even more
genial.
"The lamps shone o'er fair women and brave men--
Soft eyes look'd love to eyes which spake again,
And all went merry as a marriage bell."
When refreshments were served, so pleased was the doctor with his young
friends' pleasure, that he drew them aside to tell them a bit of his
family history.
"My family," said the doctor, "lived for many generations in Ayrshire,
Scotland, neighbors to the family of Robert Burns. And, like the poet's
people, they were very poor. No wonder! The poor man has no chance in
the old country. Years ago an ancestor of mine leased a tract of
worthless swamp land for forty-nine years at a penny an acre per year.
By hard labor and perseverance he drained the land and made it
productive. So when the forty-nine years were up and the family sought
an extension of the lease, the rent went up to one pound an acre. This
was pretty hard; but by frugality and perseverance the family still
prospered. At the end of the second forty-nine years the rent demanded
was five pounds an acre. Think of it--twenty-five dollars a year! That
was too much to endure, so my father, then a young blacksmith, was sent
over to Canada to buy land. He bought three farms of a hundred acres
each, one for himself, one for his brother, and one for their father,
paying four dollars an acre. Here again the rich man had the upper hand.
For this same land had been sold by the British Government to
capitalists for twenty-five cents an acre. Of course, my people had no
money to pay cash down, but they quit Scotland nevertheless. They came
over in 1832, in a small sailing vessel, which took four weeks to make
the passage. Then came another struggle. The land was very productive,
but money was scarce and crops brought hardly anything. But at least the
Mason family had enough to eat. Finally, after many years, the mortgages
were paid off, and the family established."
The doctor paused, and Mat thought he saw a reason for Scotch grit. He
contrasted such a history with the get-rich-quick methods of California!
"America," continued the doctor, "is the land of opportunity. With good
health and industry the poor man can succeed." And he looked at Mat
significantly.