A NUGGET
In a sacred corner (as soon as ever we could attend to any thing) we
hung up the leathern bag of tools, which had done much more toward
saving the life of Uncle Sam than I did; for this had served as a kind
of kedge, or drag, upon his little craft, retarding it from the great
roll of billows, in which he must have been drowned outright. And even
as it was, he took some days before he was like himself again.
Firm, who had been at the head of the valley, repairing some broken
hurdles, declared that a water-spout had burst in the bosom of the
mountain gorge where the Blue River has its origin, and the whole of its
power got ponded back by a dam, which the Sawyer himself had made, at
about five furlongs above the mill. Ephraim, being further up the gulch,
and high above the roaring flood, did his utmost with the keen edge of
his eyes to pierce into the mischief; but it rained so hard, and at the
same time blew so violently around him, that he could see nothing of
what went on, but hoped for the best, with uneasiness.
Now when the Sawyer came round so well as to have a clear mind of
things, and learn that his mill was gone and his business lost, and
himself, at this ripe time of life, almost driven to begin the world
again, it was natural to expect that he ought to indulge in a good deal
of grumbling. Many people came to comfort him, and to offer him deep
condolence and the truest of true sympathy, and every thing that could
be thought of, unless it were a loan of money. Of that they never
thought, because it was such a trifling matter; and they all had
confidence in his power to do any thing but pay them. They told him that
he was a young man still, and Providence watched over him; in a year or
two he would be all the better for this sad visitation. And he said yes
to their excellent advice, and was very much obliged to them. At the
same time it was clear to me, who watched him like a daughter, that he
became heavy in his mind, and sighed, as these kind friends, one after
the other, enjoyed what he still could do for them, but rode away out of
his gate with too much delicacy to draw purse-strings. Not that he would
have accepted a loan from the heartiest heart of all of them, only that
he would have liked the offer, to understand their meaning. And several
of them were men--as Firm, in his young indignation, told me--who had
been altogether set up in life by the kindness of Sampson Gundry.
Perhaps the Sawyer, after all his years, had no right to be vexed by
this. But whether he was right or wrong, I am sure that it preyed upon
his mind, though he was too proud to speak of it. He knew that he was
not ruined, although these friends assumed that he must be; and some of
them were quite angry with him because they had vainly warned him. He
could not remember these warnings, yet he contradicted none of them; and
fully believing in the goodness of the world, he became convinced that
he must have been hard in the days of his prosperity.
No sooner was he able to get about again than he went to San Francisco
to raise money on his house and property for the rebuilding of the mill.
Firm rode with him to escort him back, and so did Martin, the foreman;
for although the times were not so bad as they used to be some ten years
back, in the height of the gold fever, it still was a highly undesirable
thing for a man who was known to have money about him to ride forth
alone from San Francisco, or even Sacramento town. And having mentioned
the foreman Martin, in justice to him I ought to say that although his
entire loss from the disaster amounted only to a worn-out waistcoat of
the value of about twenty cents, his vehemence in grumbling could only
be equaled by his lofty persistence. By his great activity in running
away and leaving his employer to meet the brunt, he had saved not only
himself, but his wife and children and goods and chattels. This failed,
however, to remove or even assuage his regret for the waistcoat; and he
moaned and threatened to such good purpose that a speedy subscription
was raised, which must have found him in clothes for the rest of his
life, as well as a silver tea-pot with an inscription about his bravery.
When the three were gone, after strict injunctions from Mr. Gundry, and
his grandson too, that I was on no account to venture beyond calling
distance from the house, for fear of being run away with, I found the
place so sad and lonesome that I scarcely knew what to do. I had no fear
of robbers, though there were plenty in the neighborhood; for we still
had three or four men about, who could be thoroughly trusted, and
who staid with us on half wages rather than abandon the Sawyer in his
trouble. Suan Isco, also, was as brave as any man, and could shoot well
with a rifle. Moreover, the great dog Jowler was known and dreaded by
all his enemies. He could pull down an Indian, or two half-castes, or
three Mexicans, in about a second; and now he always went about with me,
having formed a sacred friendship.
Uncle Sam had kissed me very warmly when he said “good-by,” and Firm had
shown some disposition to follow his example; but much as I liked and
admired Firm, I had my own ideas as to what was unbecoming, and now
in my lonely little walks I began to think about it. My father's
resting-place had not been invaded by the imperious flood, although a
line of driftage, in a zigzag swath, lay near the mound. This was my
favorite spot for thinking, when I felt perplexed and downcast in my
young unaided mind. For although I have not spoken of my musings very
copiously, any one would do me wrong who fancied that I was indifferent.
Through the great kindness of Mr. Gundry and other good friends around
me, I had no bitter sense as yet of my own dependence and poverty. But
the vile thing I had heard about my father, the horrible slander
and wicked falsehood--for such I was certain it must be--this was
continually in my thoughts, and quite destroyed my cheerfulness. And
the worst of it was that I never could get my host to enter into it.
Whenever I began, his face would change and his manner grow constrained,
and his chief desire always seemed to lead me to some other subject.
One day, when the heat of the summer came forth, and the peaches began
to blush toward it, and bronze-ribbed figs grew damask-gray with a
globule of sirup in their eyes, and melons and pumpkins already had
curved their fluted stalks with heaviness, and the dust of the plains
was beginning to fly, and the bright spring flowers were dead more
swiftly even than they first were born, I sat with Suan Isco at my
father's cross, and told her to make me cry with some of all the many
sad things she knew. She knew a wondrous number of things insatiably sad
and wild; and the quiet way in which she told them (not only without any
horror, but as if they were rightly to be expected), also the deep and
rather guttural tone of voice, and the stillness of the form, made it
impossible to help believing verily every word she said.
That there should be in the world such things, so dark, unjust, and
full of woe, was enough to puzzle a child brought up among the noblest
philosophers; whereas I had simply been educated by good unpretentious
women, who had partly retired from the world, but not to such a depth as
to drown all thought of what was left behind them. These were ready at
any time to return upon good opportunity; and some of them had done so,
with many tears, when they came into property.
“Please to tell me no more now,” I said at last to Suan; “my eyes are
so sore they will be quite red, and perhaps Uncle Sam will come home
to-night. I am afraid he has found some trouble with the money, or he
ought to have been at home before. Don't you think so, Suan?”
“Yes, yes; trouble with the money. Always with the white mans that.”
“Very well. I shall go and look for some money. I had a most wonderful
dream last night. Only I must go quite alone. You had better go and look
to the larder, Suan. If they come, they are sure to be hungry.”
“Yes, yes; the white mans always hungry, sep when thirsty.”
The Indian woman, who had in her heart a general contempt for the white
race, save those of our own household, drew her bright-colored shawl
around her, and set off with her peculiar walk. Her walk was not
ungraceful, because it was so purely natural; but it differed almost as
much as the step of a quadruped from what we are taught. I, with heavy
thoughts but careless steps, set off on my wanderings. I wanted to try
to have no set purpose, course, or consideration, but to go wherever
chance should lead me, without choice, as in my dream. And after many
vague turns, and even closings of rebellious eyes, I found myself,
perhaps by the force of habit, at the ruins of the mill.
I seemed to recognize some resemblance (which is as much as one can
expect) to the scene which had been in my sleep before me. But sleeping
I had seen roaring torrents; waking, I beheld a quiet stream. The little
river, as blue as ever, and shrinking from all thoughts of wrath, showed
nothing in its pure gaze now but a gladness to refresh and cool. In many
nicely sheltered corners it was full of soft reflection as to the good
it had to do; and then, in silver and golden runnels, on it went to do
it. And the happy voice and many sweetly flashing little glances told
that it knew of the lovely lives beside it, created and comforted by
itself.
But I looked at the dark ruin it had wrought, and like a child I was
angry with it for the sake of Uncle Sam. Only the foundations and the
big heavy stones of the mill were left, and the clear bright water
purled around, or made little eddies among them. All were touched
with silvery sound, and soft caressing dimples. But I looked at the
passionate mountains first, to be sure of no more violence; for if a
burned child dreads the fire, one half drowned may be excused for little
faith in water. The mountains in the sunshine looked as if nothing could
move their grandeur, and so I stepped from stone to stone, in the bed of
the placid brightness.
Presently I came to a place where one of the great black piles, driven
in by order of the Sawyer, to serve as a back-stay for his walls, had
been swept by the flood from its vertical sinking, but had not been
swept away. The square tarred post of mountain pine reclined down
stream, and gently nodded to the current's impact. But overthrown as it
was, it could not make its exit and float away, as all its brethren
had done. At this I had wondered before, and now I went to see what the
reason was. By throwing a short piece of plank from one of the shattered
foundations into a nick in the shoulder of the reclining pile, I managed
to get there and sit upon it, and search for its obstruction.
The water was flowing smoothly toward me, and as clear as crystal, being
scarcely more than a foot in depth. And there, on the upper verge of the
hole, raised by the leverage of the butt from the granite sand of the
river-bed, I saw a great bowlder of rich yellow light. I was so much
amazed that I cried out at once, “Oh! what a beautiful great yellow
fish!” And I shouted to Jowler, who had found where I was, and followed
me, as usual. The great dog was famous for his love of fishing, and had
often brought a fine salmon forth.
Jowler was always a zealous fellow, and he answered eagerly to my call
by dashing at once into the water, and following the guidance of my
hand. But when he saw what I pointed at, he was bitterly disappointed,
and gave me to understand as much by looking at me foolishly. “Now don't
be a stupid dog,” I said; “do what I tell you immediately. Whatever it
is, bring it out, Sir.”
Jowler knew that I would be obeyed whenever I called him “Sir;” so he
ducked his great head under the water, and tugged with his teeth at the
object. His back corded up, and his tail grew rigid with the intensity
of his labor, but the task was quite beyond him. He could not even
stir the mighty mass at which he struggled, but he bit off a little
projecting corner, and came to me with it in his mouth. Then he laid his
dripping jaws on my lap, and his ears fell back, and his tail hung down
with utter sense of failure.
I patted his broad intelligent forehead, and wiped his black eyes with
his ears, and took from his lips what he offered to me. Then I saw
that his grinders were framed with gold, as if he had been to a dentist
regardless of expense, and into my hand he dropped a lump of solid
glittering virgin ore. He had not the smallest idea of having done any
thing worthy of human applause; and he put out his long red tongue and
licked his teeth to get rid of uneatable dross, and gave me a quiet
nudge to ask what more I wanted of him.