REAPING AND THRESHING--A PIONEER FUNERAL--THE HOMELESS AND WAYFARING
APPEAL TO MRS. BRUNNER--RETURN OF THE MINERS--SOCIAL GATHERINGS--OUR
DAILY ROUTINE--STOLEN PLEASURES--A LITTLE DAIRYMAID--MY DOGSKIN SHOES.
Reaping and threshing were interesting events to us that summer.
Mission Indians, scantily clothed, came and cut the grain with long
knives and sickles, bound it in small sheaves, and stacked it in the
back yard opposite grandma's lookout window, then encircled it with a
rustic fence, leaving a wide bare space between the stack and the
fence, which they swept clean with green branches from live oak trees.
After many days, Mexican drivers brought a band of wild mares to help
with the work. A thick layer of unthreshed grain was pitched on to the
bare space surrounding the stack and the mares were driven around and
around upon it. From time to time, fresh material was supplied to meet
the needs of the threshers. And, at given signals from the men on the
stack, the mares were turned out for a short rest, also in order to
allow the Indians a chance to throw out the waste straw and to heap the
loose grain on the winnowing ground. So they did again and again,
until the last sheaf had been trodden under foot.
When the threshing was finished, the Indians rested; then prepared
their fires, and feasted on the head, feet, and offal of a bullock
which grandpa had slaughtered.
Like buzzards came the squaws and papooses to take what was left of the
food, and to claim a share from the pile of worn-out clothes which
grandma brought out for distribution. Amid shouts of pleasure,
gesticulations, and all manner of begging, the distribution began, and
when it ended, our front yard looked as though it were stocked with
prize scarecrows.
One big fellow was resplendent in a battered silk hat and a tattered
army coat; another was well dressed in a pair of cast-off boots and one
of grandma's ragged aprons. Georgia and I tried to help to sort the
things as they should be worn, but our efforts were in vain. Wrong
hands would reach around and get the articles, and both sexes
interchanged suits with apparent satisfaction. Grandma got quite out of
patience with one great fellow who was trying to put on a petticoat
that his squaw needed, and rushed up to him, jerked it off, gave him a
vigorous push, and had the garment on his squaw, before he could do
more than grunt. In the end they went away caring more for the clothes
that had been given them than for the money they had earned.
Before the summer waned, death claimed one of our own brave women, and
immigrants from far and near gathered to do her honor. I do not
recollect her name, but know that she was tall and fair, and that
grandma, who had watched with her through her last hours, told Georgia
and me that when we saw the procession leave the house, we might creep
through our back fence and reach the grave before those who should walk
around by the road. We were glad to go, for we had watched the growth
of the fresh ridge under a large oak tree, not far from our house, and
had heard a friend say that it would be "a heavenly resting place for
the freed sufferer."
Her family and nearest neighbors left the house afoot, behind the wagon
which carried the plain redwood coffin. At the cross-road several fell
in line, and at the grave was quite a gathering. A number came in their
ox wagons, others on horseback; among them, a father afoot, leading a
horse upon whose back sat his wife with an infant in arms and a child
behind clinging to her waist; and several old nags, freighted with
children, were led by one parent, while the other walked alongside to
see that none should lose their balance and fall off.
No minister of the Gospel was within call, so, after the coffin was
placed upon the bars above the open grave, and the lid removed, a
friend who had crossed the plains with the dead, offered a prayer, and
all the listeners said, "Amen."
I might not have remembered all these things, if Georgia and I had not
watched over that grave, when all others seemed to have forgotten it.
As we brought brush to cover it, in order to keep the cattle from
dusting themselves in the loose earth, we talked matters over, and felt
as though that mother's grave had been bequeathed to us. Grandma had
instructed us that the graveyard is "God's acre," and that it is a sin
to live near and not tend it. Still, no matter how often we chased the
cattle away, they would return. We could not make them understand that
their old resting-place had become sacred ground.
About the middle of October, 1848, the last of the volunteers were
mustered out of service, and shortly thereafter the excess of army
stores were condemned and sold. Ex-soldiers had preference over
settlers, and could buy the goods at Government rates, plus a small
cost of transportation to the Pacific coast. Grandma profited by the
good-will of those whom she had befriended. They stocked her store-room
with salt pork, flour, rice, coffee, sugar, ship-bread, dried fruit,
and camp condiments at a nominal figure above what they themselves paid
for them.
This was fortunate, for the hotel was still closed, and the homeless
and wayfaring appealing to grandma, easily persuaded her to make room
for them at her table. The greater the number, the harder she worked,
and the more she expected of us. Although we rose at dawn, and rolled
our sleeves high as she rolled hers, and like her, turned up our dress
skirts and pinned them behind under our long belt aprons, we could not
keep pace with her work.
Nevertheless, we were pleasing reminders of little girls whom she had
known in her native village, and she was proud of us, and had two
little white dresses fashioned to be worn on very special occasions.
After they were finished, we also were proud, and made many trips into
the room to see how beautiful they looked hanging against the wall
under the curtain.
Marvellous accounts of the extent and richness of the gold-diggings
were now brought to town by traffickers in provisions for mining-camps.
This good news inspired our home-keepers with renewed courage. They
worked faster while planning the comfort they should enjoy after the
return of the absent.
The first to come were the unfortunate, who sought to shake off
rheumatism, lung trouble, or the stubborn low-grade fever brought on by
working in the water, sleeping on damp ground, eating poorly cooked
food, or wearing clothing insufficient to guard against the morning and
evening chill. Few had much to show for their toil and privation; yet,
not disheartened, even in delirium, they clamored to hasten back for
the precious treasure which seemed ever beckoning them onward.
When wind and weather drove them home, the robust came with bags of
gold rolled in their snug packs. They called each other "lucky dogs,"
yet looked like grimy beggars, with faces so bewhiskered, and clothing
so ragged, or so wonderfully patched, that little children cried when
they drew near, and wives threw up their hands, exclaiming, "For the
land's sake! can it be?" Yet each home-comer found glad welcome, and
messengers were quick to spread the news, and friends gathered to
rejoice with the returned.
Now each home-cooked dish was a feast for the camp-fed to contrast with
their fare at Coloma, Wood's Camp,[16] and sundry other places, where
flour, rice, ship-bread, and coffee were three dollars a pound; salt
pork and white beans, two dollars a pound; jerked beef, eight dollars a
pound; saleratus, sixteen dollars an ounce; and salt, sugar, and
raisins were put on the scales to balance their weight in gold dust;
where liquor was fifty cents a tablespoonful, and candles five dollars
each. It was not the prices at which they complained, but at the dearth
of these staples, which had forced them home to wait until spring
should again open the road to supply-trains.
The homeless, who in the evenings found comfort and cheer around
grandma's table, would take out their treasure bags and boxes and pour
their dust and grains of gold in separate piles, to show the quality
and quantity, then pass the nuggets around that all might see what
strange figures nature had moulded in secret up among the rocks and
ravines of the Sierras.
One Roman Catholic claimed as his choicest prize a perfectly shaped
cross of free gold, which he had cradled from the sands in the bed of a
creek. Another had an image of the Virgin and Child. A slight stretch
of the imagination turned many of the beautifully fretted pieces into
miniature birds and other admirable designs for sweetheart brooches.
The exhibition over, each would scrape his hoard back into its
receptacle, blow the remaining yellow particles on to the floor so that
the table should not show stain, and then settle himself to take his
part in relating amusing and thrilling incidents of life in the mining
camps. Not a window was closed, nor a door locked, nor a wink of sleep
lost in those days, guarding bags of gold. "Hands off" was the miners'
law, and all knew that death awaited him who should venture to break
it.
Heavy purses made willing spenders, and generous impulses were
untrammelled. Nothing could be more gratifying or touching than the
respect shown by those homeless men to the pioneer women and children.
They would walk long distances and suffer delays and inconveniences for
the privilege of passing a few hours under home influences, and were
ever ready to contribute toward pleasures in which all might
participate.
There were so few young girls in the community, and their presence was
so greatly desired, that in the early winter, Georgia and I attended as
welcome guests some of the social gatherings which began at early
candle-light, and we wore the little white dresses that were so
precious in our eyes.
[Illustration: GOLD ROCKER, WASHING PAN AND GOLD BORER]
[Illustration: SCENE DURING THE RUSH TO THE GOLD MINES FROM SAN
FRANCISCO IN 1848]
Before the season was half over, heavy rain was followed by such bitter
cold that all the ground and still waters were frozen stiff. Although
we were well muffled, and grandma warmed us up with a drink of hot
water and sweetened cream before starting us out after the cows, the
frost nipped at our feet until the old scars became so angry and
painful that we could scarcely hobble about the house. Many remedies
were tried, to no purpose, the most severe being the early foot bath
with floats of ice in the water. It chilled us through and through, and
also made grandma keep us from the fire, lest the heat should undo the
benefit expected from the cold. So, while we sat with shivering forms
and chattering teeth looking across the room at the blazing logs under
the breakfast pots and kettles, our string of cows was coming home in
care of a new driver.
We were glad to be together, even in misery, and all things considered,
were perhaps as useful in our crippled condition as before, for there
was enough to keep our hands busy while our feet rested. Grandma
thought she made our work lighter by bringing it to us, yet she came
too often for it to seem easy to us.
First, the six brass candlesticks, with hoods, snuffers, and trays had
to be brightened; and next, there were the small brass kettles in which
she boiled the milk for coffee, to be polished inside and out. However,
we did not dread the kettles much, unless burned, for there was always
a spoon in the bottom to help to gather the scrapings, of which we were
very fond.
But when she would come with a large pan of dried beans or peas to be
picked over quickly, so that she could get them soaked for early
cooking, we would measure its contents with critical eyes to make sure
that it was not more than we had had the previous day. By the time we
would get to the bottom of the pan, she would be ready to put before
us a discouraging pile of iron knives, forks, and pewter spoons to
scour with wood ashes. How we did hate those old black knives and
forks! She said her sight was poor--but she could always see when we
slighted any.
The redeeming work of the day was sorting the dried fruit for sauce or
pies. We could take little nibbles as we handled it, and knew that we
should get an extra taste when it was ready for use. And after she had
put the upper crust on the pies, she would generally permit us to make
the fancy print around the edges with a fork, and then prick a figure
in the centre to let the steam escape while baking.
Sometimes she received a dollar apiece for these pies; and she had so
many customers for them and for such loaves of bread as she could
spare, that she often declared the farm was as good as a gold mine.
We were supposed not to play with dolls, consequently we durst not ask
any one to step around and see how our little house in the back yard
was weathering the storms, nor how the beloved nine in it were getting
along. Though only bottles of different sizes, to us they were dear
children, named after great personages whom the soldiers had taught us
to honor.
The most distinguished had cork stoppers for heads, with faces marked
on the sides, the rest, only wads of paper or cloth fastened on the
ends of sticks that reached down into the bodies. A strip of cloth tied
around each neck, below the bulge, served as make-believe arms,
suitable for all ordinary purposes, and, with a little assistance,
capable of saluting an officer or waving to a comrade.
We worried because they were clothed in fragments of cloth and paper
too thin for the season; and the very first chance we got, we slipped
out and found our darlings in a pitiable plight. Generals Washington
and Jackson, and little Van Buren were mired at the foot of a land
slide from the overhanging bank. Taylor, Webster, Clay, and Benton had
been knocked down and buried almost out of sight. Martha Washington's
white shawl and the chicken plumes in her hat were ruined; and Dandy
Jim from North Carolina lay at her feet with a broken neck!
Such a shock! Not until we realized that everything could be restored
was our grief assuaged--that is, everything but Dandy Jim. He was a
serious loss, for he was our only black bottle and had always been kept
to wait on Martha Washington.
We worked fast, and had accomplished so much before being called into
the house that we might have put everything in order next day, had
Georgia not waked up toward morning with a severe cold, and had grandma
not found out how she caught it. The outcome was that our treasures
were taken to the store-room to become medicine and vinegar bottles,
and we mourned like birds robbed of their young.
New duties were opened to me as soon as I could wear my shoes, and by
the time Georgia was out again, I was a busy little dairymaid, and
quite at home in the corrals. I had been decorated with the regulation
salt bag, which hung close to my left side, like a fisherman's basket.
I owned a quart cup and could milk with either hand, also knew how to
administer the pinch of salt which each cow expected. After a little
practice I became able to do all the "stripping." In some cases it
amounted to not more than half a pint from each animal. However, much
or little, the strippings were of importance, and were kept separate,
because grandma considered them "good as cream in the cheese kettle."
When I could sit on the one-legged stool, which Jakie had made me, hold
a pail between my knees and milk one or more cows, without help, they
both praised my cleverness--a cleverness which fixed more outside
responsibilities upon me, and kept me from Georgia a longer while each
day. My work was hard, still I remained noticeably taller and stronger
than she, who was assigned to lighter household duties. I felt that I
had no reason to complain of my tasks, because everybody about me was
busy, and the work had to be done.
If I was more helpful than my little sister, I was also a source of
greater trouble, for I wore out my clothes faster, and they were
difficult to replace, especially shoes.
There was but one shoemaker in the town, and he was kept so busy that
he took a generous measure of children's feet and then allowed a size
or more, to guard against the shoes being too small by the time he
should get them finished.
When my little stogies began to leak, he shook his head thoughtfully,
and declared that he had so many orders for men's boots that he could
not possibly work for women or children until those orders were filled.
Consequently, grandma kept her eye on my shoes, and as they got worse
and worse, she became sorely perplexed. She would not let me go
barefooted, because she was afraid of "snags" and ensuing lockjaw; she
could not loan me her own, because she was saving them for special
occasions, and wearing instead the heavy sabots she had brought from
her native land. She tried the effect of continually reminding me to
pick my way and save my shoes, which made life miserable for us both.
Finally she upbraided me harshly for a playful run across the yard with
Courage, and I lost my temper, and grumbled.
"I would rather go barefooted and get snags in my feet than have so
much bother about old shoes that are worn out and no good anyway!"
I was still crying when Hendrik, a roly-poly Hollander, came along and
asked the cause of my distress. Grandma told him that I was out of
humor, because she was trying to keep shoes on my feet, while I was
determined to run them off. He laughed, bade me cheer up, sang the
rollicking sailor song with which he used to drive away storms at sea,
then showed me a hole in the heel of the dogskin boots he wore, and
told me that, out of their tops, he would make me a beautiful pair of
shoes.
No clouds darkened my sky the morning that Hendrik came, wearing a pair
of new cowhide boots then squeaked as though singing crickets were
between the heavy soles; for he had his workbox and the dogskins under
his arm, and we took seats under the oak tree, where he laid out his
tools and went to work without more ado.
He had brought a piece of tanned cowhide for the soles of my shoes, an
awl, a sailor's thimble, needles, coarse thread, a ball of wax, and a
sharp knife. The hair on the inside of the boot legs was thick and
smooth, and the colors showed that one of the skins had been taken from
the body of a black and white dog, and the other from that of a tawny
brindle. As Hendrik modelled and sewed, he told me a wondrous tale of
the great North Polar Sea, where he had gone in a whaling vessel, and
had stayed all winter among mountains of ice and snow. There his boots
had worn out. So he had bought these skins from queer little people
there, who live in snow huts, and instead of horses or oxen, use dogs
to draw their sleds.
I liked the black and white skin better than the brindle, so he cut
that for the right foot, and told me always to make it start first. And
when I put the shoes on they felt so soft and warm that I knew I could
never forget Hendrik's generosity and kindness.
The longer I wore them the more I became attached to them, and the
better I understood the story he had told me; for in my musings they
were not shoes, but "Spot" and "Brindle," live Eskimo dogs, that had
drawn families of queer little people in sleds over the frozen sea, and
had always been hungry and ready to fight over their scanty meals. At
times I imagined that they wanted to race and scamper about as happy
dogs do, and I would run myself out of breath to keep them going, and
always stop with Spot in the lead.
When I needed shoestrings, I was sent to the shoemaker, who only
glanced up and replied, "Come to-morrow, and I'll have a piece of
leather big enough."
The next day, he made the same answer, "Come to-morrow," and kept
pegging away as fast as he could on a boot sole. The third time I
appeared before him, he looked up with the ejaculation, "Well, I'll be
damned, if she ain't here again!"
I was well aware that he should not have used that evil word, yet was
not alarmed, for I had heard grandpa and others use worse, and mean no
harm, nor yet intend to be cross. So I stood quietly, and in a trice he
was up, had rushed across the shop, brought back two round pieces of
leather not larger than cookies, and before I knew what he was about,
had turned them into good straight shoestrings. He waxed them, and
handed them to me with the remark, "Tell your grandma that since you
had to wait so long, I charge her only twenty-five cents for them."
[Footnote 16: Now Jamestown.]