ears are garnered in my cribs, my flocks and herds feed fat upon the
hills; and yet, because of my loneliness, am I unhappy.
“I will arise at eve and repair to my neighbor’s cottage. Peradventure
the aged widow of the murdered gypsy can counsel me.”
So when the evening hour was come, the farmer arose and sought the aged
widow’s abode.
And as he drew nigh to the cottage, he lifted up his eyes and, behold!
the crone sat upon her door-step.
[Illustration: THE CRONE.]
And when the dame looked upon the farmer she knew his heart was
troubled; but she knew not the cause.
So, lifting up her voice she cried, inquiringly: “What aileth my
neighbor? Has aught befel thy goods? Has bruin descended from the
mountains to worry thy flocks? Or, are thy stacks consumed? that thus
you droop your eyelids to the path, and move as by a hearse.”
And the farmer, drawing nigh, replied: “My flocks unharmed graze sleek
upon the hills; my stacks stand unconsumed; yet is my spirit heavy,
because my walks are lonely and my heart is sad, and I come as one
seeking counsel.”
Then answered the dame reprovingly: “Out upon thee, for a fusty, dreamy
bachelor! Go take to thyself a wife; then will thy walks be no more
lonely, neither will thy heart be sad.”
But he, answering her sorrowfully, said: “Mock me not, good madam, but
look with pitying eyes upon me, and hearken to my voice.
“Behold I am now well stricken in years, my body is stooping to the
grave, my manners, like my hands, are rough; my blood, like my hair, is
thin; and my teeth but shine in memories of the past.
“How, then, can I win maidens’ hearts? Alas! on the contrary, they would
giggling flee from before me; no hope for me remains; if I would wed, I
needs must wed a squaw!” And his countenance fell.
Then was the crone exceedingly displeased, because he said, “I needs
must wed a squaw,” and she answered him derisively, saying:—
“Go to! Ye speak as with the beak of a parrot, and with the
understanding of a babe! Are ye studied in books and know not the
proverb, ‘A golden snare will catch the wildest hare?’
“Do not your stacks dot the vale below like an Egyptian camp? Are not
your tanks brimming with wine and your cribs grinning with corn?
“Do not your cattle graze upon an hundred hills? and your industrious
laborers follow in the furrow? And are ye still afeared? Oh, ye of
doubting mind!
“Go, get thee to thy chest and take to thyself suitable coin, and hasten
to that great city by the sea—whose churches point to heaven, but whose
people bow to gold.
“There sojourn for a season, and make no delay in adorning thyself with
precious stones.
“Put diamonds upon thy bosom and rings upon thy fingers, and be zealous
to stand in the hall-ways and in the market-places, and in the houses of
exchange.
“Seek to be observed of the people, and take heed that ye look upon all
men as being thy servants.
“And let thy wealth be noised abroad.
“Then shall rise up in the house of mourning the widow of a month, and
dry her weeping eyes.
“Then shall the maid of many summers lay aside her pets, to readjust her
charms, and disinter her smiles.
“Then shall the doting damsel, when her parent maketh fast the door,
creep out some other way.
“And they all shall come trooping as with the voice of birds to court
thy smiles and thy manners, and thy years shall be as the silk of the
spider in thy way.”
Then was he exceedingly glad because of the crone’s advice, and he went
away to his own home rejoicing.
[Illustration: ATTENDING TO BUSINESS.]
And on the morrow he arose before it was yet day, and saddled his mule,
and journeyed to the great city by the sea, and lodged at the house of a
friend.
And he made haste to purchase diamonds, and rubies, and emeralds, and
onyx-stones, and sapphires, and put massive rings upon his fingers, and
seals upon his chain.
And even as the crone had directed, he scrupled not to stand in the
hall-ways, and in the market-places, and in the houses of exchange, and
sought to be observed of the people, and lived as a man having great
possessions.
And not many days after, a fair lady of that place looking from her
window, saw that the stranger shone like the mid-day sun, even so much
that her heart was warmed.
So she called the keeper of the house aside and questioned him
concerning the stranger, saying:—
“Who is this stranger that lodgeth in thy house, who beameth with jewels
like the noonday sun? Make him known to me, for he is a choice and
goodly man, and my heart warmeth for the stranger.”
[Illustration: PARTNER WANTED.]
Then answered the good man of the house, “He is a sojourner from the
valley of Berryessa, and lo, he is a man of great possessions; and
moreover, take heed if he cometh in your way, that ye smile graciously
upon him, for be it known unto you he is a bachelor, who cometh amongst
us seeking a wife.”
Then was the damsel exceedingly moved.
And when it came to pass that the stranger was introduced to her, she
smiled graciously upon him, and she opened her mouth and spake knowingly
of barley, and of rye, and of corn in the ear, and of tares.
And she also spake of four-footed beasts, of calves, of pigs, and of
goats, and cattle after their kind; and of fowls; of doves, and of
ducks, and of geese, and poultry after their kind.
And she spoke also of cabbages, and of squashes, and of turnips, and of
new laid eggs, and of honey, and of buckwheat cakes, and of cheese, and
of sausages!
And lo! the farmer’s heart was touched, for she was comely to look upon,
and wise withal.
And he communed within himself, saying: “Surely this maid would indeed
be a great catch, she would make her husband’s home cheerful, and in
divers ways pluck from the palm of life the festering thorns. Beshrew
me, but I will lay strong siege to the damsel’s heart.”
So he made haste to pull wide open the mouth of his purse and loaded her
with presents, for the damsel had found favor in his eyes, and he sought
to win her.
And not many days after he espoused the maiden, and there was great
feasting and merry making at that house, and the same was heard of the
neighbors.
And on the following day, the farmer took her to his own home, in the
valley of Berryessa, and they lived happily together for the space of
many years.
DAVID GOYLE, THE MILLER MAN.
“’Tis a strange cap: ’Twill give and take, and fit many heads.”—_Old
Volume._
Oh, will you hear with patient ear,
The story I’ll relate
About man’s infidelity,
And learn his losses great?
There lived a little miller once,
Who owned a tiny mill;
While there was water in his pond
The stones were never still.
For not a man the country round,
From Inyo to the Bay,
Was closer to his business found,
Than David Goyle, they say.
Let people pass at eve, or noon,
Or at the break of day,
They’d see the dusty miller there
And hear the hoppers play;
But when the narrow stream run dry,
The miller was at fault;
The rack-a-tacket mill reposed
As silent as a vault.
The little vicious artisan
Had spun his silken snare
Across the dusty flour-chute,
And silent gearing there;
While in the elevator’s cup
Was heard the mouse’s squeak,
And village children in the flume
Dry-shod, played hide-and-seek.
Said David to his wife one day,
“I think, while water’s low,
I’ll take a business trip to town,
Just for a week or so;
I have not ground a peck of grain,
’Tis now eight days or more;
But sat and picked, and picked the stones,
And dressed their surface o’er.”
Then turned his little loving wife—
With much concern, said she,
“I hope while you are stopping there,
That you will careful be;
And shun those dark and narrow streets
Where rogues do congregate,
And look from out their low retreats
As spiders watch and wait.
“Have not the city papers teemed
With incidents, wherein
Some people proved not what they seemed,
And took the stranger in?
Then trust not smiles, or cunning wiles;
Be careful where you tread;
The very ground beneath your feet
With pitfalls may be spread;
There’s not a trick, a trap, or plot,
Or scheme of any sort—
From playing fine to drugging wine—
To which they’ll not resort.”
Then leaned this little miller man
Away back in his chair,
And laughed until his anxious wife
Thought he would strangle there.
Said he, “You much amuse me, wife;
Have you forgot, my dear,
That I have traveled in my life,
And came from Jersey here?
“Or can you for a moment think
Your husband’s mind is crude?
Or deem that I the cup would drink,
By Temperance men tabooed?
Those who can get the start of me,
In country or in town,
By Jove, must early risers be,
And you can put that down.”
For he was vain, this miller man,
Who thought his mind so vast;
But look with me, and we will see
How he comes out at last.
In course of time he reached the town,
To stop a week or more;
And in a large hotel was lodged,
Upon the second floor;
If you should doubt my word in this,
Step over to the “Grand;”
You’ll find his name recorded there,
And in a scrawling hand.
It chanced—but hold! ere more I say,
Or sentence more you read,
Are you prepared with me to stray
Wherever he may lead?
You are! all right, then “on’s” the word,
Again my pen I hold,
And blame me not, if I should jot
Down facts he’d wish untold.
It chanced while Dave was strolling down
A certain crowded street,—
(Its name at present slips my mind,
Or you’d have all complete)—
He met a stranger in the way,
Who brought him to a stand;
He smiled upon him as in joy
And reached a friendly hand.
[Illustration: THE NEW ACQUAINTANCE.]
He hailed the stranger, no, I think,
The stranger him addressed;
I would not do the fellow wrong,
He’s bad enough at best.
The stranger spoke him very free;
He came from Jersey, too;
For he was sharp as one can be;
He thought his folks he knew.
“There was a Goyle;—yes, yes, I’m sure;
How strange that we should meet!
I’ve passed his house a thousand times,
And met him on the street.”
The miller scarce could credit this;
But frank he seemed and fair,
So he resolved to step inside,
And talk the matter there.
There is a drug that bunco men
Do mingle with the wine
They give to country friends like Dave,
For what, I can’t divine.
Perhaps those thoughtful rascals deem
The noisiness of town
Might not allow refreshing sleep
To weigh their eyelids down.
But whether this the cause, or not,
Enough for you and me
To know, the wine that David got
Was not from mixtures free!
Oh! for a club to brain the knave
Who could not see the snare;
Oh! for a spade to dig his grave,
And dump him headlong there.
The night has passed away at last;
Now hand in hand we’ll scout,
Now here, now there, with greatest care,
To search that miller out.
Thus, side and side, we first will glide
O’er letter, word, and line;
Until we stand that house beside,
Where Dave was drinking wine.
Oh, sight! so painful to the eyes,
It dims them like a fog!
Within the house the miller lies,
As still as any log!
And not until the sun was high,
And bells in towers spoke,
From out that deep lethargic sleep
He wonderingly awoke.
He gazed upon the papered wall;
The ceiling overhead;
But strange was paper, pictures all,
The foot-board of the bed.
Swift as the lightning’s flash destroys
The spider’s flimsy toil,
Suspicion traveled through the head
Of the awakening Goyle.
As starts the lodger from repose,
When flames burst in the door,
So suddenly that miller rose,
And bounced upon the floor;
One stride sufficed to reach the chair;
On which his robes were cast;
But seemed it to that man an age,
Until he grasped them fast.
No nimbler does the maiden’s hand
Play o’er the keys of sound,
Than did that miller’s fingers glide
In searching pockets round.
In vain he felt from tail to top;
The thief had gone before,
And harvested a golden crop,
While he did dream and snore.
Gone was his purse, and all within;
A ring he valued more;
Gone watch and chain, the diamond pin
That on his scarf he wore.
His little wife with miser care,
(And warning words, no doubt,)
With her own hands affixed it there
The morning he set out.
Enraged, that miller waltzed around,
And like his hopper shook:
And swore by all the grists he ground,
And all the tolls he took,
That since the days when he was schooled
In games of pitch and toss,
He never was so deeply fooled,
Or so betrayed to loss!
Ten times at least, that pallid man
Strove to insinuate
His nervous limbs into his pants,
But failed to guide them straight.
First hop, hop, hop, to left he went,
Now, hop, hop, hop, to right!
Then hop, hop, backwards, till he rent
The pants asunder quite!
[Illustration: A ONE-SIDED OPERATION.]
Now partly in and partly out,
He polka’d here and there,
Now _chasse_ up, now _chasse_ back,
Then balanced o’er the chair.
At last his toilet was complete,
The yawning rent was pinned,
And out into the narrow street
He bolted like the wind.
He traveled towards the City Hall,
And vowed at every bound
That justice would he seek and have,
If justice could be found.
The milkmen stopped their reckless drive,
Or dropped the cup and can,
And leaned to catch a glimpse of Dave
As down the street he ran.
Old women early out to mass
When Dave went racking by,
Would jump aside to let him pass,
Then to each other cry:
“The saints protect us! see him go
Upon his wild career;
A crazy creature well I know,
From some asylum near.”
Suffice it here to be explained
Before I close the tale,
The justice David Goyle obtained,
Was not of much avail.
Go net the sea to catch the whale
That did on Jonah dine;
Go rake the land to find the stone
That slew the Philistine;
But seek not her whose hoodwink’d eyes,
Proclaim her dealings just;
Well hangs her balance in the skies,
For here on earth they’d rust.
The rumbling stones are grinding now,
The water’s rushing down;
But do not bet that miller yet
Forgets his trip to town.
For every waking hour he knows
Throughout the twenty-four,
His scowling face and muttering shows
He counts his losses o’er.
There’s not a time he laves his hands,
But what that ring is missed!
(Its gold he gathered from the sands,
A gift the amethyst).
And oh, the query gives him pain,
“What is the time of day?”
For to the missing watch and chain
The miller’s mind will stray.
And now no more upon his breast
The brilliant diamond shines,
Its lustre falls in other halls
Where flow the noxious wines.
[Illustration]
HEELS UP AND HEAD DOWN.
A stout old gentleman was enjoying the luxury of a salt-water bath in
the bay, a short distance from where I was fishing. As he was a poor
swimmer—notwithstanding he had a good supply of blubber—he attached a
couple of inflated air-bags to his shoulders, by means of a string under
his arm-pits. During his splashing about, and his repeated endeavors to
strike out like Cassius bearing Cæsar from the troubled waters of the
Tiber, the floats changed their position from his shoulders to his hips.
This change he was not prepared for, and the result was distressing in
the extreme. He immediately commenced sinking—as sailors say—by the
head. In vain would he make long and desperate reaches toward the
bottom, striving to anchor his feet in the soft sand. Just as his toes
would touch the bed below, the buoyancy of the supports and undercurrent
combined would prevail against him.
Up would come his pedal extremities to the surface, and consequently
down he would go, head first, like a pearl diver, grasping at the
pebbles beneath. After making a commotion in the water like the screw of
a tug boat, which brought small crabs and crawfish to the top with
dismembered limbs, he would manage to get his head above water long
enough to get a mouthful of fresh air, but retire immediately below to
digest it. Some Italian fishermen, running in from the offing with their
day’s catch, sighted the old gentleman beating off the Point. They
mistook him for a “devil fish,” or some other odd-looking inhabitant of
the briny deep, disporting itself in the sheltered waters of the bay.
Getting out their hooks and harpoons ready for action, and changing
course, they bore down with all possible speed in the direction of the
singular monster.
The wind was blowing quite fresh, and it wasn’t long until the Italians
came nigh enough to ascertain the real state of affairs, and rescue the
unfortunate swimmer from his perilous situation. The fishermen rolled
the old gentleman over a keg they had in the boat for half an hour,
before his stomach could be emptied of its washy load and breathing
rendered easy. When sufficiently relieved to admit of speech, the bather
gave his rescuers to understand that in future the tide might ebb and
flow, be warm as milk new drawn from the cow, and tranquil as a frozen
pond, but a common bath-tub would be rivers, lakes—yea, oceans—to him
during the remainder of his natural life.
THE BITTER END.
While in one of the interior counties to-day I stood beside the graves
of six members of one household. The father and his five sons all fell
in one sanguinary family feud.
It seems an ill feeling had long existed between two families named
respectively Frost and Coates. Though they frequently indulged in small
skirmishes—from which black eyes, bloody noses, or slit ears were the
principal trophies borne away—they had never met when their full forces
were under arms. And for the happy hour that would bring about such a
meeting, each party looked forward with interest, if not impatience.
A day arrived at last, full of promise. It was an election day. Each
party expected the other out in strength, with furbished arms, and
prepared themselves accordingly. They took the street, resolved, that—
“Ere the bat had flown
His cloistered flight: ere to black Hecate’s summons
The shard-borne beetle, with his drowsy hums,
Had rung night’s yawning peal, there would be done
A deed of dreadful note.”
Two planets keep not their motion in one sphere, nor could two
quarrelsome families move long in a small village, or freely patronize
the same groggeries without a collision. Towards evening they met, some
mounted and more on foot, and from low jests amongst themselves
respecting each other’s lack of prowess upon former occasions, the
controversy soon reached the point of positive contradictions. As the
“lie direct” is equivalent to a well-developed kick to your average
fighting man, hostilities soon commenced.
[Illustration: LIVELY WORK.]
The Coates family opened the engagement with a brisk fusilade, and at
the first fire the gray-bearded patriarch of the Frost faction went down
with all his imperfections on his head.
The firing now became general. “From rank to rank, the volleyed thunder
flew.”
Neutral parties fled from the street, and for a time transacted business
with “closed doors.” The report of the firearms frightened the horse of
a disinterested gentleman, who was riding through the village, and
despite his efforts to control the animal, it dashed directly between
the belligerent parties. The fighting men, however, did not slacken fire
on his account, but blazed away without seeming to notice or care
whether the agitated stranger went down in the general _melee_ or not.
Fortunately, the gentleman escaped injury, but it was certainly more by
chance than good guidance. It is said so rapid was the fire that a
steady blaze seemed issuing from the muzzle of their weapons. When the
smoke of battle raised, five of the Coates family were lying dead.
On the other side, Frost and one of his sons were killed, and a
son-in-law mortally wounded. People say the funeral was a saddening
spectacle. Amongst the mourners were mothers, daughters, sisters and
wives.
But the end was not yet.
Before the grass had taken root upon the graves, the ground was again
broken, and another victim of the malignant feud was hidden from the
sight of friends and foes.
The fires of hate still smouldered, and within a year another of the
Coates family was put _hors du combat_, while going one night from the
village to his ranch.
He was seen leaving for home on horseback at nine o’clock, but about ten
his horse ran masterless into the farm-yard. The man was found lying by
the roadside dead, a bullet having passed through his head. Suspicion
reverted to the Frost family, but no proof could be brought to establish
their guilt. The public finger still points toward them, however, and
doubtless will continue so to do for many a day, or until the mystery is
cleared up.
[Illustration]
A TRIP TO THE INTERIOR.
A flying trip into the interior has not favorably impressed me. There
were too many mosquitoes—too many graybacks. It is too far from
civilization, and too nigh the sun. I stopped over night in a small
city, and the first thing that attracted my attention on entering the
place was the pale and sickly look of the inhabitants. This I attributed
to the fever and ague, the hot weather, and impure river water which
they drink. I was credibly informed by several parties that their pallor
was owing to the quantity of blood that is nightly extracted from their
veins by the mosquitoes. From the number of these pests infesting the
place, it has taken the name of “The Mosquito City.”
Those people who cannot indulge in such a luxury as mosquito bars, have
to sleep during the day. They sit up nights and wage war against their
ferocious enemies with tobacco smoke, burning leather, wet towels, or
any other weapon to which they can conveniently resort.
[Illustration: A MOSQUITO ON THE SCENT.]
To be stung by a black hornet or a scorpion is bad; to be bitten by a
tarantula or rattlesnake is worse; but to be punctured to the bone by
the bugle of one of these mosquitoes is terrible. They are enormous
insects. When flying through the air they are as discernible as
thistle-down, or even humming birds. The sharp tube through which they
sap their victim’s blood is fully three-quarters of an inch long, and
resembles a cambric needle; this they steadily and unhesitatingly press
into the flesh until they either strike a bone, or their forehead
prevents them from doing deeper injury.
Towards evening they rise with pining maws from the low, damp land
around the city—
“Innumerable as the blades of green,
That carpet the vale of the San Joaquin;”
and as they close in upon the devoted inhabitants, their blended cries
swell in pitch and compass until the sound resembles the impassioned
tone of a fish-peddler’s horn. I stopped at a hotel in the lower part of
the city, and before retiring for the night looked carefully about the
room. As few mosquitoes were in sight, I concluded to sleep without
using the bar. Congratulating myself on being assigned a room where so
few of the common enemy of man were lying in wait, I extinguished the
light and turned in.
Scarce was I stretched upon the couch when
“At once there rose such hungry yells,
From every point the compass tells,”
that I lost no time in striking a light and adjusting the netting. I now
saw them emerging from every conceivable hiding place. Trooping they
came, from behind picture-frames, from under the bureau; out of vases
and old empty bottles. They were climbing and clambering and pitching
towards me with energy. I noticed a steady stream of them shooting out
of the closet through the key-hole, with such velocity that they went
warping half-way across the apartment before they could check themselves
sufficiently to tack around and dive for the bed.
They had all they bargained for, to get safely through that key-hole,
too. There was not much spare room, I can tell you. But for the great
pressure from behind kept up by others anxious to get through, many a
large fellow would have been sticking in that opening yet. But once they
got started in, there was no backing out; no, indeed! On! on’, was the
cry, and they pressed forward with a rush, often sacrificing a leg or
wing by the maneuver. But they didn’t seem to care for the loss of one
of those members so long as their bill remained intact. Deprive a
mosquito of one wing, and he will seem to laugh at you while he makes
the other do double duty. Brush off one leg, and he will shake the
remaining ones triumphantly in your face.
[Illustration: TO THE HILT IN BLOOD.]