Helen Hunt Jackson, 1830-1885, was the daughter of the late Professor
Nathan W. Fiske, of Amherst College. She was born in Amherst, and educated
at Ipswich, Massachusetts, and at New York. Mrs. Jackson was twice
married. In the latter years of her life, she became deeply interested in
the Indians, and wrote two books, "Ramona," a novel, and "A Century of
Dishonor," setting forth vividly the wrongs to which the red race has been
subjected. She had previously published several books of prose and poetry,
less important but charming in their way. The following selection is
adapted from "Bits of Travel at Home."
###
Garland City is six miles from Fort Garland. The road to it from the fort
lies for the last three miles on the top of a sage-grown plateau. It is
straight as an arrow, looks in the distance like a brown furrow on the
pale gray plain, and seems to pierce the mountains beyond. Up to within an
eighth of a mile of Garland City, there is no trace of human habitation.
Knowing that the city must be near, you look in all directions for a
glimpse of it; the hills ahead of you rise sharply across your way. Where
is the city? At your very feet, but you do not suspect it.
The sunset light was fading when we reached the edge of the ravine in
which the city lies. It was like looking unawares over the edge of a
precipice; the gulch opened beneath us as suddenly as if the earth had
that moment parted and made it. With brakes set firm, we drove cautiously
down the steep road; the ravine twinkled with lights, and almost seemed to
flutter with white tents and wagon tops. At the farther end it widened,
opening out on an inlet of the San Luis Park; and, in its center, near
this widening mouth, lay the twelve-days-old city. A strange din arose
from it.
"What is going on?" we exclaimed. "The building of the city," was the
reply. "Twelve days ago there was not a house here. To-day there are one
hundred and five, and in a week more there will be two hundred; each man
is building his own home, and working day and night to get it done ahead
of his neighbor. There are four sawmills going constantly, but they can't
turn out lumber half fast enough. Everybody has to be content with a board
at a time. If it were not for that, there would have been twice as many
houses done as there are."
We drove on down the ravine. A little creek on our right was half hid in
willow thickets. Hundreds of white tents gleamed among them: tents with
poles; tents made by spreading sailcloth over the tops of bushes; round
tents; square tents; big tents; little tents; and for every tent a camp
fire; hundreds of white-topped wagons, also, at rest for the night, their
great poles propped up by sticks, and their mules and drivers lying and
standing in picturesque groups around them.
It was a scene not to be forgotten. Louder and louder sounded the chorus
of the hammers as we drew near the center of the "city;" more and more the
bustle thickened; great ox teams swaying unwieldily about, drawing logs
and planks, backing up steep places; all sorts of vehicles driving at
reckless speed up and down; men carrying doors; men walking along inside
of window sashes,--the easiest way to carry them; men shoveling; men
wheeling wheelbarrows; not a man standing still; not a man with empty
hands; every man picking up something, and running to put it down
somewhere else, as in a play; and, all the while, "Clink! clink! clink!"
ringing above the other sounds,--the strokes of hundreds of hammers, like
the "Anvil Chorus."
"Where is Perry's Hotel?" we asked. One of the least busy of the throng
spared time to point to it with his thumb, as he passed us. In some
bewilderment we drew up in front of a large unfinished house, through the
many uncased apertures of which we could see only scaffoldings, rough
boards, carpenters' benches, and heaps of shavings. Streams of men were
passing in and out through these openings, which might be either doors or
windows; no steps led to any of them.
"Oh, yes! oh, yes! can accommodate you all!" was the landlord's reply to
our hesitating inquiries. He stood in the doorway of his dining-room; the
streams of men we had seen going in and out were the fed and the unfed
guests of the house. It was supper time; we also were hungry. We peered
into the dining room: three tables full of men; a huge pile of beds on the
floor, covered with hats and coats; a singular wall, made entirely of
doors propped upright; a triangular space walled off by sailcloth,--this
is what we saw. We stood outside, waiting among the scaffolding and
benches. A black man was lighting the candles in a candelabrum made of two
narrow bars of wood nailed across each other at right angles, and
perforated with holes. The candles sputtered, and the hot fat fell on the
shavings below.
"Dangerous way of lighting a room full of shavings," some one said. The
landlord looked up at the swinging candelabra and laughed. "Tried it
pretty often," he said. "Never burned a house down yet."
I observed one peculiarity in the speech at Garland City. Personal
pronouns, as a rule, were omitted; there was no time for a superfluous
word.
"Took down this house at Wagon Creek," he continued, "just one week ago;
took it down one morning while the people were eating breakfast; took it
down over their heads; putting it up again over their heads now."
This was literally true. The last part of it we ourselves were seeing
while he spoke, and a friend at our elbow had seen the Wagon Creek crisis.
"Waiting for that round table for you," said the landlord; " 'll bring the
chairs out here's fast's they quit 'em. That's the only way to get the
table."
So, watching his chances, as fast as a seat was vacated, he sprang into
the room, seized the chair and brought it out to us; and we sat there in
our "reserved seats," biding the time when there should be room enough
vacant at the table for us to take our places.
What an indescribable scene it was! The strange-looking wall of propped
doors which we had seen, was the impromptu, wall separating the bedrooms
from the dining-room. Bedrooms? Yes, five of them; that is, five
bedsteads in a row, with just space enough between them to hang up a
sheet, and with just room enough between them and the propped doors for a
moderate-sized person to stand upright if he faced either the doors or the
bed. Chairs? Oh, no! What do you want of a chair in a bedroom which has a
bed in it? Washstands? One tin basin out in the unfinished room. Towels?
Uncertain.
The little triangular space walled off by the sailcloth was a sixth
bedroom, quite private and exclusive; and the big pile of beds on the
dining-room floor was to be made up into seven bedrooms more between the
tables, after everybody had finished supper.
Luckily for us we found a friend here,--a man who has been from the
beginning one of Colorado's chief pioneers; and who is never, even in the
wildest wilderness, without resources of comfort.
"You can't sleep here," he said. "I can do better for you than this."
"Better!"
He offered us luxury. How movable a thing is one's standard of comfort! A
two-roomed pine shanty, board walls, board floors, board ceilings, board
partitions not reaching to the roof, looked to us that night like a
palace. To have been entertained at Windsor Castle would not have made us
half so grateful.
It was late before the "city" grew quiet; and, long after most of the
lights were out, and most of the sounds had ceased, I heard one solitary
hammer in the distance, clink, clink, clink. I fell asleep listening to
it.