A woman was standing beside an iron gate all but hidden in a riotous
growth of blossoming vines that opened upon a grass-grown mound.
"To the memory of Elijah Berl."
"He shall make the desert blossom as the rose"--was graven on the bronze
plate.
Far below her, and on either side, instead of the bare, brown hillsides
of a few, short years ago, grew rank on rank, leaves of glossy green,
flecked with tawny gold. Here and there, red-tiled houses, their walls
all but covered with climbing roses, stood at the head of marshalled
groves. Shining lines moved out and in, where the waters of the Sangre
de Cristo sank into the red earth and sprang upwards in fruit and
flower. The air was resonant with happy bird notes that trilled from
tree to tree as the tiny musicians with swelling throats poured out the
happiness that their little bodies could not contain.
There was no longer the old-time harshness of the desert air, the sky
was bluer, the sunlight softer. There was nothing that whispered of
death, save the bronze tablet; even this spoke not so much of death as
of triumph over it.
By the side of the grave stood a woman clad in somber black. Her robes
were out of harmony with the inscription, the blossoming landscape; out
of harmony with the soft, patient eyes, the rounded, tinted cheeks, the
fluffy masses of tawny hair. Not a line, not a wrinkle, not a gray
thread told that the heart of Amy Berl was lying with her husband
beneath the guarding bronze.
A tall, earnest faced boy was coming down the path, trying to preserve a
dignified walk that was yet pulled into abrupt steps by a dancing,
laughing girl who tugged at his outstretched arm.
"Mama," she cried, "Uncle Sid is waiting for you."
Amy slowly turned her eyes to the child, as if with an effort, then
moved up the path. The boy was by his mother's side, walking evenly with
her. The girl was dancing and skipping, now before them, now behind,
dragging her mother to admire a new-blown rose, then starting off in
vain chase of a rainbow-tinted lizard that skittered up a tree trunk,
and, having reached a safe height, turned calmly and curiously towards
its pursuer, and with palpitating throat and lazily blinking eyes,
composed itself to rest.
Where the path opened out to the palm-bordered drive-way, the child
abandoned her companions and, with a merry shout, clambered into the
carriage with Uncle Sid. Before he was aware of her purpose, she had
clutched the lines from his fingers and had snapped the drowsy horses
into action. Uncle Sid regained his balance with difficulty.
"You pesky little jack-rabbit, you!" he growled. "Anybody'd know who
your father was, with his eyes shut!"
Uncle Sid brought the horses to a halt and turned to Amy.
"You don't know of no orphan asylum nor no reform school, do you, where
a respectable, steady-minded old sea captain could end his days in
peace? Because if you do, I'm goin' to apply at once, if it takes me out
of California. I'm gettin' used up. If Ralph jr. ain't got the colic
an's a howlin' over it, he's cheerful, which is worse, an' when he does
get to sleep, then Ralph an' Helen tackles the job right where he left
off."
"You know you're always welcome here, Uncle Sid." Amy smiled at the old
face that seemed to get no older in spite of his complaints.
"Yes," growled Uncle Sid, "to get yanked around by this bundle of
electricity. The only thing that's restsome here, is that boy. Ain't you
got no dance in your shanks?" Uncle Sid flicked his whip threateningly
at the boy, who skipped aside smiling. "That's right. You keep it up
till you've skipped the whole kit an' kerboodle into this wagon, an'
I'll take the lot o' you to Palm Wells. That's what I'm here for."
They drove over a winding, palm-bordered road, through spicy orange
groves, through ragged-barked, spindling groups of eucalyptus, and drew
up before the doors of the Palm Wells cottage.
Ralph and Helen came out to meet their guests. Perhaps Ralph would have
chosen to be more dignified in the welcoming of his friends, but a
wriggling, crowing mass of pink and white prevented him.
"There he is!" groaned Uncle Sid. "There he is! The most wonderful thing
in the whole world, exceptin' sixty hundred millions more just like him.
He can't talk Latin nor Greek, nor anythin' but "googoo," when he's
happy, an' "yow" when his feelin's are troublin' him, an' he don't know
any better'n to play horse with his daddy's transit when he finds it
lyin' round loose, just like any other good-for-nuthin' baby."
Published by LITTLE, BROWN, & CO.