[Picture: Book cover]
A Summer in a Cañon
A CALIFORNIA STORY: _By_
KATE DOUGLAS WIGGIN
[Picture: Decorative graphic]
GAY AND HANCOCK, LTD.
12 AND 13 HENRIETTA STREET, COVENT GARDEN
LONDON
1914
_All rights reserved_
* * * * *
_Popular Edition_ 1914
_Reprinted_ 1914
* * * * *
CONTENTS
CHAPTER I PREPARATION AND DEPARTURE
CHAPTER II THE JOURNEY
CHAPTER III LIFE IN THE CAÑON—THE HEIR APPARENT LOSES HIMSELF
CHAPTER IV RHYME AND REASON
CHAPTER V THE FOREST OF ARDEN—GOOD NEWS
CHAPTER VI QUEEN ELSIE VISITS THE COURT
CHAPTER VII POLLY’S BIRTHDAY: FIRST HALF IN WHICH SHE REJOICES AT THE MERE FACT OF HER EXISTENCE
CHAPTER VIII POLLY’S BIRTHDAY: SECOND HALF
CHAPTER IX ROUND THE CAMP-FIRE
CHAPTER X MORE CAMP-FIRE STORIES
CHAPTER XI BREAKING CAMP
SCENE: _A Camping Ground in the Cañon Las Flores_.
PEOPLE IN THE TENTS.
DR. PAUL WINSHIP _Mine Host_.
MRS. TRUTH WINSHIP _The Guardian Angel_.
DICKY WINSHIP _A Small Scamp of Six Years_.
BELL WINSHIP _The Camp Poetess_.
POLLY OLIVER _A Sweet but Saucy Lass_.
MARGERY NOBLE _A Nut-Brown Mayde_.
PHILIP NOBLE _The Useful Member_.
GEOFFREY STRONG _A Harvard Boy_.
JACK HOWARD _Prince of Mischief_.
HOP YET _A Heathen Chinee_.
PANCHO GUTIERREZ _A Mexican man-of-all-work_.
CHAPTER I
PREPARATION AND DEPARTURE
‘One to make ready, and two to prepare.’
IT was nine o’clock one sunny California morning, and Geoffrey Strong
stood under the live-oak trees in Las Flores Cañon, with a pot of black
paint in one hand and a huge brush in the other. He could have handled
these implements to better purpose and with better grace had not his arms
been firmly held by three laughing girls, who pulled not wisely, but too
well. He was further incommoded by the presence of a small urchin who
lay on the dusty ground beneath his feet, fastening an upward clutch on
the legs of his trousers.
There were three large canvas tents directly in front of them, yet no one
of these seemed to be the object of dissension, but rather a redwood
board, some three feet in length, which was nailed on a tree near by.
‘Camp Frolic! Please let us name it Camp Frolic!’ cried Bell Winship,
with a persuasive twitch of her cousin’s sleeve.
‘No, no; not Camp Frolic,’ pleaded Polly Oliver. ‘Pray, pray let us have
Camp Ha-Ha; my heart is set upon it.’
‘As you are Strong, be merciful,’ quoted Margery Noble, coaxingly; ‘take
my advice and call it Harmony Camp.’
At this juncture, a lovely woman, whose sweet face and smile made you
love her at once, came up the hill from the brookside. ‘What, what!
still quarrelling, children?’ she asked, laughingly. ‘Let me be
peacemaker. I’ve just asked the Doctor for a name, and he suggests Camp
Chaparral. What do you say?’
Bell released one coat-tail. ‘That isn’t wholly bad,’ she said,
critically, while the other girls clapped their hands with approval; for
anything that Aunt Truth suggested was sure to be quite right.
‘Wait a minute, good people,’ cried Jack Howard, flinging his
fishing-tackle under a tree and sauntering toward the scene of action.
‘Suppose we have a referee, a wise and noble judge. Call Hop Yet, and
let him decide this all-important subject.’
His name being sung and shouted in various keys by the assembled company,
Hop Yet appeared at the door of the brush kitchen, a broad grin on his
countenance, a plucked fowl in his hand.
Geoffrey took the floor. ‘Now, Hop Yet, you know I got name, you got
name, everybody got name. We want name this camp: you sabe? Miss Bell,
she say Camp Frolic. Frolic all same heap good time’ (here he executed a
sort of war-dance which was intended to express wild joy). ‘Miss
Pauline, she say Camp Ha-Ha, big laugh: sabe? Ha! ha! ha! ha! ha! ha!’
(chorus joined in by all to fully illustrate the subject). ‘Miss Madge,
she say Camp Harmony. Harmony all same heap quiet time, plenty eat,
plenty drink, plenty sleep, no fight, no too muchee talk. Mrs. Winship,
she say Camp Chaparral: you sabe? Chaparral, Hop Yet. Now what you
say?’
Hop Yet seemed to regard the question with mingled embarrassment and
amusement, but being a sharp and talkative Chinaman gave his answer
promptly: ‘Me say Camp Chap-lal heap good name; plenty chap-lal all
lound; me hang um dish-cloth, tow’l, little boy’s stockin’, on
chap-lal; all same clo’se-line velly good. Miss Bell she flolic, Miss
Polly she ha! ha! allee same Camp Chap-lal.’
And so Camp Chaparral it was; the redwood board flaunted the assertion
before the eyes of the public (which was a rather limited one, to be
sure) in less than half an hour, and the artist, after painting the words
in rustic letters a foot long, cut branches of the stiff, ungracious
bushes and nailed them to the tree in confirmation and illustration of
the fact. He then carefully deposited the paint-pot in a secret place,
where it might be out of sight and touch of a certain searching eye and
mischievous hand well known and feared of him; but before the setting sun
had dropped below the line of purple mountain tops, a small boy, who will
be known in these annals as Dicky Winship, might have been seen sitting
on the empty paint-pot, while from a dingy pool upon the ground he was
attempting to paint a copy of the aforesaid inscription upon the side of
a too patient goat, who saw no harm in the operation. He was alone, and
very, very happy.
[Picture: He was attempting to paint a copy of the aforesaid inscription]
And now I must tell you the way in which all this began. You may not
realise it, dear young folks, but this method of telling a story is very
much the fashion with grown-up people, and of course I am not to blame,
since I didn’t begin it.
The plan is this: You must first write a chapter showing all your people,
men, women, children, dogs, and cats, in a certain place, doing certain
things. Then you must go back a year or two and explain how they all
happen to be there. Perhaps you may have to drag your readers
twenty-five years into the regions of the past, and show them the first
tooth of your oldest character; but that doesn’t matter a bit,—the
further the better. Then, when everybody has forgotten what came to pass
in the first chapter, you are ready to take it up again, as if there had
never been any parenthesis. However, I shall not introduce you to the
cradles, cribs, or trundle-beds of my merry young campers, but merely ask
you to retrace your steps one week, and look upon them in their homes.
On one of the pleasantest streets of a certain little California town
stood, and still stands for aught I know, a pretty brown cottage, with
its verandahs covered with passion-vine and a brilliant rose-garden in
front. It is picturesque enough to attract the attention of any
passer-by, and if you had chosen to peep through the crevices in the
thick vines and look in at the open window, you might have thought it
lovelier within than without.
It was a bright day, and the gracious June sunshine flooded the room with
yellow light. Three young girls, perhaps fourteen or fifteen years old,
were seated in different parts of the large room, plying industrious
crochet needles and tatting shuttles. Three pairs of bright eyes were
dancing with fun and gladness; and another pair, the softest and clearest
of all, looked out from a broad white bed in the corner,—tired eyes, and
oh, so patient, for the health-giving breezes wafted in from the blue
ocean and carried over mountain tops and vine-covered slopes had so far
failed to bring back Elsie Howard’s strength and vigour.
The graceful, brown-haired girl with the bright, laughter-loving face,
was Bell Winship. She of the dancing blue eyes, pink cheeks, and
reckless little sun-bonnet was Pauline, otherwise Polly Oliver. Did you
ever know a Polly without some one of these things? Well, my Polly had
them all, and, besides, a saucy freckled nose, a crown of fluffy,
reddish-yellow hair, and a shower of coaxing little pitfalls called
dimples round her pretty mouth. She made you think of a sunbeam, a
morning songbird, a dancing butterfly, or an impetuous little crocus just
out after the first spring shower. Dislike her? You couldn’t. Approve
of her? You wouldn’t always. Love her? Of course; you couldn’t help
yourself,—I defy you.
To be sure, if you prefer a quiet life, and do not want to be led into
exploits of all kinds, invariably beginning with risk, attended with
danger, and culminating in despair, you had better not engage in an
intimate friendship with Miss Pauline Oliver, but fix your affections on
the quiet, thoughtful, but not less lovable girl who sits by the bedside
stroking Elsie Howard’s thin white hand. Nevertheless, I am obliged to
state that Margery Noble herself, earnest, demure, and given to
reflection, was Polly’s willing slave and victim. However, I’ve
forgotten to tell you that Polly was as open and frank as the daylight,
at once torrid and constant in her affections, brave, self-forgetting as
well as self-willed; and that though she did have a tongue just the least
bit saucy, she used it valiantly in the defence of others. ‘She’ll come
out all right,’ said a dear old-fashioned grandfather of hers whom she
had left way back in a Vermont farmhouse. ‘She’s got to be purged o’
considerable dross, but she’ll come out pure gold, I tell you.’
Pretty, wise, tender Margery Noble, with her sleek brown braids, her
innocent, questioning eyes, her soft voice, willing hands, and shy, quiet
manners! ‘She will either end as the matron of an orphan asylum or as
head-nurse in a hospital.’ So Bell Winship often used to say; but then
she was chiefly celebrated for talking nonsense, and nobody ever paid
much attention to her. But if you should crave a breath of fresh air, or
want to believe that the spring has come, just call Bell Winship in, as
she walks with her breezy step down the street. Her very hair seems
instinct with life, with its flying tendrils of bronze brightness and the
riotous little curls on her brow and temples. Then, too, she has a
particularly jaunty way of putting on her jacket, or wearing a flower or
a ribbon; and as for her ringing peal of laughter, it is like a chime of
silver bells.
Elsie Howard, the invalid friend of the girls, was as dear to them as
they were to each other. She kept the secrets of the ‘firm’; mourned
over their griefs and smiled over their joys; was proud of their talents
and tenderly blind to their faults. The little wicker rocking-chair by
the bedside was often made a sort of confessional, at which she presided,
the tenderest and most sympathetic little priestess in the universe; and
every afternoon the piazza, with its lattice of green vines, served as a
mimic throne-room, where she was wont to hold high court, surrounded by
her devoted subjects. Here Geoffrey Strong used often to read to the
assembled company _David Copperfield_, _Alice in Wonderland_, or snatches
from the magazines, while Jack Howard lazily stretched himself under the
orange-trees and braided lariats, a favourite occupation with California
boys. About four o’clock Philip Noble would ride up from his father’s
fruit ranch, some three miles out on the San Marcos road, and, hitching
his little sorrel mare Chispa at the gate, stay an hour before going to
the post-office.
This particular afternoon, however, was not one of Elsie’s bright ones,
and there was no sign of court or invalid queen on the piazza. The
voices of the girls floated out from Elsie’s bedroom, while the boys,
too, seemed to be somewhere in the vicinity, for there was a constant
stirring about as of lively preparation, together with noise of hammering
and sawing.
‘If you were only going, Elsie, our cup of happiness would be full,’
sighed Bell.
‘Not only would it be full, Bell, but it would be running over, and we
should positively stand in the slop,’ said Polly. ‘No, you needn’t frown
at me, miss; that expression is borrowed from no less a person than
Sydney Smith.’
‘Don’t think any more about me,’ smiled Elsie. ‘Perhaps I can come down
in the course of the summer. I know it will be the happiest time in the
world, but I don’t envy you a bit; in fact, I’m very glad you’re going,
because you’ll have such a lovely budget of adventures to tell me when
you come back.’
‘When we come back, indeed!’ exclaimed Bell. ‘Why, we shall write long
round-robin letters every few days, and send them by the team. Papa says
Pancho will have to go over to the stage station at least once a week for
letters and any provisions we may need.’
‘Oh, won’t that be delightful,—almost as good as being there myself!
And, Margery dear, you must make them tell me every least little thing
that happens. You know they are such fly-aways that they’ll only write
me when they learn to swim, or shoot a wildcat, or get lost in the woods.
I want to know all the stupid bits: what you have for dinner, how and
where you sleep, how your camp looks, what you do from morning till
night, and how Dicky behaves.’
‘I can tell you that beforehand,’ said Bell, dolefully. ‘Jack will shoot
him by mistake on Thursday; he will be kicked by the horses Friday, and
bitten by tarantulas and rattlesnakes Saturday; he will eat poison oak on
Sunday, get lost in the cañon Monday, be eaten by a bear Tuesday, and
drowned in the pool Wednesday. These incidents will complete his first
week; and if they produce no effect on his naturally strong constitution,
he will treat us to another week, containing just as many mishaps, but no
duplicates.’
By the time this dismal prophecy was ended the other girls were in a
breathless fit of laughter, though all acknowledged it was likely to be
fulfilled.
‘I went over the camping-ground last summer,’ said Margery. ‘You know it
is quite near papa’s sheep ranch, and it is certainly the most beautiful
place in California. The tents will be pitched at the mouth of the
cañon, where there is a view of the ocean, and just at the back will be a
lovely grove of wild oaks and sycamore-trees.’
‘Oh, won’t it be delicious!’ sighed Elsie. ‘I feel as if I could sniff
the air this minute. But there! I won’t pretend that I’m dying for
fresh air, with the breath of the sea coming in at my south window, and a
whiff of jasmine and honeysuckle from the piazza. That would be
nonsense. Are your trunks packed?’
‘Trunks!’ exclaimed Polly. ‘Would you believe it, our clothes are packed
in gunny-sacks! We start in our camping-dresses, with ulsters for the
steamer and dusters for the long drive. Then we each have—let me see
what we have: a short, tough riding-skirt with a jersey, a bathing-dress,
and some gingham morning-gowns to wear about the camp at breakfast-time.’
‘And flannel gowns for the night, and two pairs of boots, and a
riding-cap and one hat apiece,’ added Margery.
‘But oh, Elsie, my dear, you should see Dicky in his camping-suits,’
laughed Bell. ‘They are a triumph of invention on mamma’s part. Just
imagine! one is of some enamelled cloth that was left over from the new
carriage cushions; it is very shiny and elegant; and the other, truly, is
of soft tanned leather, and just as pretty as it can be. Then he has
hob-nailed, copper-toed boots, and a hat that ties under his chin. Poor
little man, he has lost his curls, too, and looks rather like a convict.’
Mrs. Howard came in the door while Bell was speaking, and laughed
heartily at the description of Dicky’s curious outfit. ‘What time do you
start?’ she asked, as she laid a bunch of mignonette on Elsie’s table.
‘At eleven to-morrow morning,’ Bell answered. ‘Everything is packed. We
are to start in the steamer, and when we come to our old landing, about
forty miles down the coast, we are to get off and take a three-seated
thorough-brace wagon, and drive over to Las Flores Cañon. Pancho has
hired a funny little pack mule; he says we shall need one in going up the
mountain, and that the boys can take him when they go out shooting,—to
carry the deer home, you know.’
‘If I can bring Elsie down, as I hope, we must come by land,’ said Mrs.
Howard. ‘I thought we could take two days for the journey, sleeping at
the Burtons’ ranch on the way. The doctor says that if she can get
strength enough to bear the ride, the open-air life will do her good,
even if she does nothing but lie in the hammock.’
‘And be waited upon by six willing slaves,’ added Polly.
‘And be fed on canned corned beef and tomato stew,’ laughed Bell.
‘Not a bit of it,’ said Margery. ‘Hop Yet is a splendid cook, if he has
anything to cook, and we’ll feed her on broiled tidbits of baby venison,
goat’s milk, wild bees’ honey, and cunning little mourning doves, roasted
on a spit.’
‘Good gracious,’ cried Bell, ‘what angels’ food! only I would as soon
devour a pet canary as a mourning dove. But to think that I’ve been
trying to diet for a week in order to get intimate with suffering and
privation! Polly came to stay with me one night, and we slept on the
floor, with only a blanket under us, and no pillow; it was perfectly
horrid. Polly dreamed that her grandfather ate up her grandmother, and I
that Dicky stabbed the Jersey calf with a pickle-fork.’
‘Horrors!’ ejaculated Margery; ‘that’s a pleasant prospect for your
future bedfellows. I hope the gophers won’t make you nervous, gnawing
and scratching in the straw; I got used to them last summer. But we
really must go, darling,’ and she stooped to kiss Elsie good-bye.
‘Well, I suppose you ought,’ she answered. ‘But remember you are to
start from this gate; Aunt Truth has promised me the fun of seeing you
out of sight.’
The girls went out at a side door, and joined the boys, who were busily
at work cleaning their guns on the broad western porch.
‘How are you coming on?’ questioned Polly.
‘Oh, finely,’ answered Jack, who always constituted himself chief
spokesman, unless driven from the rostrum by some one possessed of a
nimbler tongue. ‘I only hope your feminine togs are in half as good
order.’
‘We take no baggage to speak of,’ said Bell, loftily. ‘Papa has cut us
down to the very last notch, and says the law allows very few pounds on
this trip.’
‘The less the better,’ quoth Geoff, cheerily; ‘then you’ll have to polish
up your mental jewels.’
‘Which you consider imitation, I suppose,’ sniffed Polly.
‘Perish the thought!’ cried Jack. ‘But, speaking of mental jewels, you
should see the arrangements Geoff has made for polishing his. He has
actually stuck in six large volumes, any one of which would be a remedy
for sleeplessness. What are you going to study, Miss Pol-y-on-o-mous
Oliver?’
‘Now, Jack, let us decide at once whether you intend to be respectful or
not. I don’t propose to expose myself to your nonsense for two months
unless you make me good promises.’
‘Why, that wasn’t disrespectful. It is my newest word, and it simply
means having many titles. I’m sure you have more than most people.’
‘Very well, then! I’ll overlook the irreverence this time, and announce
that I shall not take anything whatever to read, but simply reflect upon
what I know already.’
‘That may last for the first week,’ said Bell, slyly, ‘but what will you
do afterward?’
‘I’ll reflect upon what you don’t know,’ retorted Polly. ‘That will
easily occupy me two months.’
Fortunately, at the very moment this stinging remark was made, Phil Noble
dashed up to the front gate, flung his bridle over the hitching-post, and
lifted his hat from a very warm brow.
‘Hail, chief of the commissary department!’ cried Geoffrey, with mock
salute. ‘Have you despatched the team?’
‘Yes; everything is all right,’ said Phil, breathlessly, delivering
himself of his information in spasmodic bursts of words. ‘Such a lot of
work it was! here’s the list. Pancho will dump them on the ground and
let us settle them when we get there. Such a load! You should have seen
it! Hardly room for him to sit up in front with the Chinaman. Just hear
this,’ and he drew a large document from what Polly called ‘a back-stairs
pocket.’
‘Forty cans corned beef, four guns, three Dutch cheeses, pickles,
fishing-tackle, flour, bacon, three bushels onions, crate of dishes,
Jack’s banjo, potatoes, Short History of the English People, cooking
utensils, three hair pillows, box of ginger-snaps, four hammocks, coffee,
cartridges, sugar, Macaulay’s Essays, Pond’s extract, sixteen hams,
Bell’s guitar, pop-corn, molasses, salt, St. Jacob’s Oil, Conquest of
Mexico, sack of almonds, flea-powder, and smoked herring. Whew! I
packed them all myself.’
‘In precisely that order?’ questioned Polly.
‘In precisely that order, Miss Oliver,’ returned Phil, urbanely. ‘Any
one who feels that said packing might be improved upon has only to mount
the fleet Arabian yonder’ (the animal alluded to seized this moment to
stand on three legs, hang his head, and look dejected), ‘and, giving him
the rein, speed o’er the trackless plain which leads to San Miguel,
o’ertake the team, and re-pack the contents according to her own
satisfaction.’
‘No butter, nor eggs, nor fresh vegetables?’ asked Margery. ‘We shall
starve!’
‘Not at all,’ quoth Jack. ‘Polly will gracefully dispose a horse-blanket
about her shoulders, to shield her from the chill dews of the early morn,
mount the pack mule exactly at cock-crow everyday, and ride to a
neighbouring ranch where there are tons of the aforesaid articles
awaiting our consumption.’
‘Can you see me doing it, girls? Does it seem entirely natural?’ asked
Polly, with great gravity.
‘Now hear my report as chairman of the committee of arrangements,’ said
Geoffrey Strong, seating himself with dignity on a barrel of nails. ‘The
tents, ropes, tool-boxes, bed-sacks, blankets, furniture, etc., all went
down on Monday’s steamer, and I have a telegram from Larry’s Landing
saying that they arrived in good order, and that a Mexican gentleman who
owns a mammoth wood-cart will take them up to-morrow when we go
ourselves. The procession will move at one P.M., wind and weather
permitting, in the following order:—
‘1. Chief Noble on his gallant broncho.
‘2. Commander Strong on his ditto, ditto.
‘3. Main conveyance or triumphal chariot, driven by Aide-de-Camp John
Howard, and carrying Dr. and Mrs. Winship, our most worshipful and
benignant host and hostess; Master Dick Winship, the heir-apparent; three
other young persons not worth mentioning; and four cans of best leaf
lard, which I omitted to put with the other provisions.
‘4. Wood-cart containing baggage, driven by Señor Don Manuel Felipe
Hilario Noriega from Dead Wood Gulch.
‘5. One small tan terrier.’
‘Oh, Geoff, Geoff, pray do stop! it’s too much!’ cried the girls in a fit
of laughter.
‘Hurrah!’ shouted Jack, tossing his hat into a tall eucalyptus-tree in
his excitement, ‘Tent life for ever!’
‘Good-bye, ye pomps and vanities!’ chanted Bell, kissing her hand in
imaginary farewell. ‘Verily the noisy city shall know us no more, for we
depart for the green forests.’
‘And the city will not be as noisy _when_ you depart,’ murmured Jack,
with an impudence that luckily passed unnoticed.
‘If Elsie could only come too!’ sighed Polly.
* * * * *
Wednesday morning dawned as bright and beautiful as all mornings are wont
to dawn in Southern California. A light mist hung over the old adobe
mission church, through which, with its snow-white towers and cold,
clear-cut lines, it rose like a frozen fairy castle. Bell opened her
sleepy eyes with the very earliest birds, and running to the little oval
window, framed with white-rose vines, looked out at the new day just
creeping up into the world.
‘Oh dear and beautiful home of mine, how charming, how charming you are!
I wonder if you are not really Paradise!’ she said, dreamily; and the
marvel is that the rising sun did not stop a moment in sheer surprise at
the sight of this radiant morning vision; for the oval window opening to
the east was a pretty frame, with its outline marked by the dewy
rose-vine covered with hundreds of pure, half-opened buds and swaying
tendrils, and she stood there in it, a fair image of the morning in her
innocent white gown. Her luminous eyes still mirrored the shadowy
visions of dreamland, mingled with dancing lights of hope and joyful
anticipation; while on her fresh cheeks, which had not yet lost the
roundness of childhood, there glowed, as in the eastern skies, the faint
pink blush of the morning.
The town is yet asleep, and in truth it is never apt to be fairly wide
awake. The air is soft and balmy; the lovely Pacific, a quivering,
sparkling sheet of blue and grey and green flecked with white foam,
stretches far out until it is lost in the rosy sky; and the mountains,
all purple and pink and faint crimson and grey, stand like sentinels
along the shore. The scent of the roses, violets, and mignonette mingled
with the cloying fragrance of the datura is heavy in the still air. The
bending, willowy pepper-trees show myriad bunches of yellow blossoms,
crimson seed-berries, and fresh green leaves, whose surface, not
rain-washed for months, is as full of colour as ever. The palm-trees
rise without a branch, tall, slender, and graceful, from the warmly
generous earth, and spread at last, as if tired of their straightness,
into beautiful crowns of fans, which sway toward each other with every
breath of air. Innumerable butterflies and humming-birds, in the hot,
dazzling sunshine of noonday, will be hovering over the beds of sweet
purple heliotrope and finding their way into the hearts of the
passion-flowers, but as yet not the faintest whirr of wings can be heard.
Looking eastward or westward, you see either brown foot-hills, or, a
little later on, emerald slopes whose vines hang heavy with the
half-ripened grapes.
And hark! A silvery note strikes on the dewy stillness. It is the
mission bell ringing for morning mass; and if you look yonder you may see
the Franciscan friars going to prayers, with their loose grey gowns,
their girdle of rope, their sandaled feet, and their jingling rosaries;
and perhaps a Spanish señorita, with her trailing dress, and black shawl
loosely thrown over her head, from out the folds of which her two dark
eyes burn like gleaming fires. A solitary Mexican gallops by, with gayly
decorated saddle and heavily laden saddle-bags hanging from it; perhaps
he is taking home provisions to his wife and dark-eyed babies who live up
in a little dimple of the mountain side, almost hidden from sight by the
olive-trees. And then a patient, hardy little mustang lopes along the
street, bearing on his back three laughing boys, one behind the other, on
a morning ride into town from the _mesa_.
The mist has floated away from the old mission now, the sun has climbed a
little higher, and Bell has come away from the window in a gentle mood.
‘Oh, Polly, I don’t see how anybody can be wicked in such a beautiful,
beautiful world.’
‘Humph!’ said Polly, dipping her curly head deep into the water-bowl, and
coming up looking like a little drowned kitten. ‘When you want to be
hateful, you don’t stop to think whether you’re looking at a cactus or a
rosebush, do you?’
‘Very true,’ sighed Bell, quite silenced by this practical illustration.
‘Now I’ll try the effect of the landscape on my temper by dressing Dicky,
while he dances about the room and plays with his tan terrier.’
But it happened that Dicky was on his very best behaviour, and stood as
still as a signpost while being dressed. It is true he ate a couple of
matches and tumbled down-stairs twice before breakfast, so that after
that hurried meal Bell tied him to one of the verandah posts, that he
might not commit any act vicious enough to keep them at home. As he had
a huge pocket full of apricots he was in perfect good-humour, not taking
his confinement at all to heart, inasmuch as it commanded a full view of
the scene of action. His amiability was further increased, moreover, by
the possession of a bright new policeman’s whistle, which was carefully
tied to his button-hole by a neat little silk cord, and which his fond
parents intended that he should blow if he chanced to fall into danger
during his rambles about the camp. We might as well state here, however,
that this precaution proved fruitless, for he blew it at all times and
seasons; and everybody became so hardened to its melodious shriek that
they paid no attention to it whatever,—history, or fable, thus again
repeating itself.
Mr. and Mrs. Noble had driven Margery and Phil into town from the fruit
ranch, and were waiting to see the party off.
Mrs. Oliver was to live in the Winship house during the absence of the
family, and was aiding them to do those numberless little things that are
always found undone at the last moment. She had given her impetuous
daughter a dozen fond embraces, smothering in each a gentle warning, and
stood now with Mrs. Winship at the gate, watching the three girls, who
had gone on to bid Elsie good-bye.
‘I hope Pauline won’t give you any trouble,’ she said. ‘She is so apt to
be too impulsive and thoughtless.’
‘I shall enjoy her,’ said sweet Aunt Truth, with that bright, cordial
smile of hers that was like a blessing. ‘She has a very loving heart,
and is easily led. How pretty the girls look, and how different they
are! Polly is like a thistledown or a firefly, Margery like one of our
home Mayflowers, and I can’t help thinking my Bell like a sunbeam.’
The girls did look very pretty; for their mothers had fashioned their
camping-dresses with much care and taste, taking great pains to make them
picturesque and appropriate to their summer life ‘under the greenwood
tree.’
Over a plain full skirt of heavy crimson serge Bell wore a hunting jacket
and drapery of dark leaf-green, like a bit of forest against a sunset.
Her hair, which fell in a waving mass of burnished brightness to her
waist, was caught by a silver arrow, and crowned by a wide soft hat of
crimson felt encircled with a bird’s breast.
Margery wore a soft grey flannel, the colour of a dove’s throat, adorned
with rows upon rows of silver braid and sparkling silver buttons; while
her big grey hat had nothing but a silver cord and tassel tied round it
in Spanish fashion.
Polly was all in sailor blue, with a distractingly natty little
double-breasted coat and great white rolling collar. Her hat swung in
her hand, as usual, showing her boyish head of sunny auburn curls, and
she carried on a neat chatelaine a silver cup and little clasp-knife, as
was the custom in the party.
‘It’s very difficult,’ Polly often exclaimed, ‘to get a dress that will
tone down your hair and a hat that will tone up your nose, when the first
is red and the last a snub! My nose is the root of all evil; it makes
people think I’m saucy before I say a word; and as for my hair, they
think I must be peppery, no matter if I were really as meek as Moses.
Now there’s Margery, the dear, darling mouse! People look at her two
sleek braids, every hair doing just what it ought to do and lying
straight and smooth, and ask, “Who is that sweet girl?” There’s
something wrong somewhere. I ought not to suffer because of one small,
simple, turned-up nose and a head of hair which reveals the glowing tints
of autumn, as Jack gracefully says.’
‘Here they come!’ shouted Jack from the group on the Howards’ piazza.
‘Christopher Columbus, what gorgeousness! The Flamingo, the Dove, and
the Blue-jay! Good-morning, young ladies; may we be allowed to travel in
the same steamer with your highnesses?’
‘You needn’t be troubled,’ laughed Bell. ‘We shall not disclose these
glories until we reach the camp. But you are dressed as usual. What’s
the matter?’
‘Why, the fact is,’ answered Geoffrey, ‘our courage failed us at the last
moment. We donned our uniforms, and looked like brigands, highway
robbers, cowboys, firemen,—anything but modest young men; and as it was
too warm for ulsters, we took refuge in civilised raiment for to-day.
When we arrive, you shall behold our dashing sombreros fixed up with
peacock feathers, and our refulgent shirts, which are of the most
original style and decoration.’
‘Aboriginal, in fact,’ said Jack. ‘We have broad belts of alligator
skin, pouches, pistols, bowie-knives, and tan-coloured shoes; but we
dislike to flaunt them before the eyes of a city public.’
‘Here they are!’ cried Geoffrey, from the gate. ‘Uncle, and aunt, and
Dicky, and—good gracious! Is he really going to take that wretched tan
terrier?’
‘Won’t go without him,’ said Bell, briefly. ‘There are cases where it is
better to submit than to fight.’
So the last good-byes were said, and Elsie bore up bravely; better,
indeed, than the others, who shed many a furtive tear at leaving her.
‘Make haste and get well, darling,’ whispered the girls, lovingly.
‘Pray, pray, dear Mrs. Howard, bring her down to us as soon as possible.
We’ll take such good care of her,’ teased Bell, with one last squeeze,
and strong signs of a shower in both eyes.
‘Come, girls and boys,’ said kind Dr. Paul, ‘the steamer has blown her
first whistle, and we must be off.’
Oh, how clear and beautiful a day it was, and how charmingly gracious
Dame Ocean looked in her white caps and blue ruffles! Even the
combination steamboat smell of dinner, oil, and close air was obliterated
by the keen sea-breeze.
The good ship Orizaba ploughed her way through the sparkling, sun-lit
waves, traversing quickly the distance which lay between the young people
and their destination. They watched the long white furrow that stretched
in her wake, the cloud of black smoke which floated like a dark shadow
above the laughing crests of the waves, and the flocks of sea-gulls
sailing overhead, with wild shrill screams ever and anon swooping down
for some bit of food flung from the ship, and then floating for miles on
the waves.
How they sung ‘Life on the Ocean Wave,’ ‘Bounding Billow,’ and ‘Rocked in
the Cradle of the Deep!’ How Jack chanted,—
‘I wish I were a fish,
With a great long tail;
A tiny little tittlebat,
A wiggle or a whale,
In the middle of the great blue sea. Oh, my!’
‘Oh, how I long to be there!’ exclaimed Philip, ‘to throw aside all the
formal customs of a wicked world I abhor, and live a free life under the
blue sky!’
‘Why, Philip Noble! I never saw you inside of a house in my life,’ cried
Polly.
‘Oh, yes; you’re mistaken. I’ve been obliged to eat most of my meals in
the house, and sleep there; but I don’t approve of it, and it’s a trial
to be borne with meekness only when there’s no remedy for it.’
‘Besides,’ said Jack, ‘even when we are out-of-doors we are shelling the
reluctant almond, poisoning the voracious gopher, pruning grape-vines,
and “sich.” Now I am only going to shoot to eat, and eat to shoot!’
‘Hope you’ve improved since last year, or you’ll have a low diet,’
murmured Phil, in an undertone.
‘The man of genius must expect to be the butt of ridicule,’ sighed Jack,
meekly.
‘But you’ll not repine, although your heartstrings break, will you?’ said
Polly, sympathisingly; ‘especially in the presence of several witnesses
who have seen you handle a gun.’
‘How glad I am that I’m too near-sighted to shoot,’ said Geoffrey, taking
off the eye-glasses that made him look so wise and dignified. ‘I shall
lounge under the trees, read Macaulay, and order the meals.’
‘I shall need an assistant about the camp,’ said Aunt Truth, smilingly;
‘but I hardly think he’ll have much time to lounge; when everything else
fails, there’s always Dicky, you know.’
Geoffrey looked discouraged.
‘And, furthermore, I declare by the nose of the great Tam o’ Shanter that
I will cut down every tree in the vicinity ere you shall lounge under
it,’ said Jack.
‘Softly, my boy. Hill’s blue-gum forest is not so very far away. You’ll
have your hands full,’ laughed Dr. Paul.
Here Margery and Bell joined the group after a quick walk up and down the
deck.
‘Papa,’ said Bell, excitedly, ‘we certainly are nearing the place. Do
you see that bend in the shore, and don’t you remember that the landing
isn’t far below?’
‘Bell’s bump of locality is immense. There are nineteen bends in the
shore exactly like that one before we reach the landing. How many knots
an hour do you suppose this ship travels, my fair cousin?’ asked
Geoffrey.
‘I could tell better,’ replied Bell calmly, ‘if I could ever remember how
many knots made a mile, or how many miles made a knot; but I always
forget.’
‘Oh, see! There’s a porpoise!’ cried Jack. ‘Polly, why is a porpoise
like a water-lily?’
But before he could say ‘Guess,’ Phil, Geoff, and the girls had drawn
themselves into a line, and, with a whispered ‘One, two, three,’ to
secure a good start, replied in concert, ‘We-give-it-up!’
‘What a deafening shout!’ cried Aunt Truth, coming out of the cabin.
‘What’s the matter, pray?’
‘Nothing, aunty,’ laughed Polly. ‘But we have formed a society for
suppressing Jack’s conundrums, and this is our first public meeting. How
do you like the watchword?’
Aunt Truth smiled. ‘It was very audible,’ she said. ‘Yours is evidently
not a secret society.’
‘I wish I could find out who originated this plan,’ quoth Jack,
murderously. ‘But I suppose it’s one of you girls, and I can’t revenge
myself. Oh, when will this barrier between the sexes be removed!’
‘I trust not in your lifetime,’ shuddered Polly, ‘or we might as well
begin to “stand round our dying beds” at once.’