maiden. Her form gained strength and beauty. Her hair grew soft and
glossy; her skin clear and smooth, and her brown eyes were tender with
the light of happiness. But, most wonderful of all, her voice was
a marvel of sweetness. It was a great pleasure to hear her sing at
evening, accompanied by the soft music of her light guitar. She was
loved by all, but especially so by the young hidalgo, who won her for
his bride.
Leon and Gracia danced together at the wedding, and it was plain enough
to see how devoted the brave young señor was to the graceful señorita
whose life he had saved.
Gracia had grown more and more beautiful every year, till in all the
country she was called _La Bonita_.
She had many admirers, but the señor said, “Young Leon restored her to
us, and to him only will we give our child.” Thus, upon her sixteenth
birthday, the great wedding feast was made, and all San Diego around
re-echoed the great joy. There were tables spread under the lime-trees
for the poor, and all the country was there.
In the quaint adobe church the marriage ceremony was performed, and
with a happy heart Leon received his bride, while the father and mother
thanked God for His most blessed gifts, their son and daughter. Thus
all their sorrows ended, and all their lives were circled by the light
of happiness and love.
THE DANCING SUNBEAM.
In a dark, narrow street of the city stood a dingy tenement house. Many
people lived within, and called it by the dear name of home; yet it
was very different from the luxurious homes of the rich, surrounded by
pleasant gardens, filled with costly pictures, and a thousand beautiful
things very delightful to possess. Nor was it like the comfortable
homes of the middle class, where the fire burns brightly in the
polished grate, and the table is always plentifully spread. Oh, no! The
people in the tenement house were all poor, from the first floor front
to the attic back, which was the worst of all.
It was the rainy season, and through the roof, round the chimney, and
between the cracked and loosened weather-boards, came the driving rain.
Then there was a continual opening and shutting of doors; and at
the common entrance, all day long and far into the night, there was
somebody always coming in, or going out, letting in the chilling blast,
that rushed through the muddy halls, and into the rooms, pinching the
sick and old in a pitiless way.
Altogether, it was not a pleasant place to live in; but most of the
people in the tenement house had always been poor, and had learned to
be content with what the day brought them, so they were not hungry.
Only one in the house had known the luxury of being very rich, and she
was now the poorest of them all.
Just under the roof she sat, wearily stitching upon the coarse work
that must bring bread to her little child. How the rain pattered
and clattered upon the roof, as the daintily-bred woman bent above
her unaccustomed task, thinking over the old thoughts, that made the
present more than desolate.
“It was not so once,” said the rain. “The old home, how comfortable and
beautiful it was! There you were a fair lady with lily-white hands;
now, you are the same, only one can not think so. There are silver
threads in your hair, and your hands are too red. People say: ‘What a
pity the woman with the pretty child is so poor!’ but they do not help
you.”
“The old home! the old home!” echoed the sad thoughts all day long and
into the still hours of the night.
In the corner of the room sat a little child, playing with a doll, made
of an old apron; yet, to the child it was “the pretty Dolladine.”
She was very beautiful, with silken white hair, shimmered over with a
golden luster. A little garden flower, thrown out by chance upon the
common wayside, yet blossoming in her own sweet beauty, in contrast
with every thing around her.
She was a real princess born, and her coarse, ragged clothes could make
no difference.
The work was finished, and, though it was raining still, the mother put
on her worn bonnet to take it home.
“If the sun would only shine again,” she sighed heavily, looking down
into the dismal back alley; “but I must go.”
She kissed the child, saying, “Be good, darling--mamma will not be gone
long.”
“I will be good, mamma,” she answered, “and Dolladine and I will catch
the sunshine for you.”
“You are my only sunshine now,” said the mother, hastening away to
conceal the tears that would not stay in their hiding-place.
Then the little one was left alone in the attic-room, and began, as she
often did, to talk to her doll.
“Now, Dolladine,” she said, “mamma is very sad, and sick, I fear, and
you and I must make sunshine for her; but how shall we do it? that is
the question.
“Don’t you remember, Dolladine, one day the pretty lady said my hair
was beaming sunshine? We must shake it out for poor mamma--we must
shake it out;” and the little girl began jumping around the room,
shaking her curls, and singing:--
“We will make the bright sunshine,
Dolladine, Dolladine;
Make for mamma glad sunshine,
Dolladine, Dolladine.”
Just then she saw the sunbeams dancing into the room. The rain was
over, and, on the roof of the next house, a washerwoman was hanging
out her clothes, which were blowing about in the wind, casting gleams
of light and shadow upon the little attic window, so that the sunshine
went flitting about like the will-o’-the-wisp, for the shadow was
always chasing it.
The child was delighted. “Do you see it, Dolladine,” she said--“the
glorious sunshine which the loving God gives us? Now, we must catch it
for mamma.”
She took the doll in her arms, and gave chase to the dancing phantom.
But it was no use; just as her little hand was ready to grasp it, it
flew away.
“You don’t help me enough, Dolladine,” said the child, her little eyes
filling with tears.
Just then, a great double-knock came at the door, and, before she
could answer it, in walked a little old man, with a very wrinkled face
and long white beard; a big hat almost covered his face, so that the
upper part was all in shadow.
“What are you doing, little chick?” he said, pleasantly; “and where is
the mother?”
“Mamma has gone to carry home the work,” answered the child, timidly;
“and Dolladine and I have been making sunshine for her. But, see! it
flies away!” and again she tried to catch the dancing beams.
“It often does from older and wiser hands than yours; but how did you
make it, fairy?” asked the old man, laughing.
“God put it in my hair, and I shook it out for dear mamma, who is sick,
and so tired of the dark days,” replied the little one, again shaking
her pretty curls, that were luminous with beauty.
“I see!” said the old man. “Now, I am a great magician, and can help
you;” and he sang, with a clear, ringing voice:--
“Sunshine, sunshine, flitting and airy,
Dwell in the heart of the little fairy;
Make her gentle, loving, and mild,
Make her the mother’s sunshine child.”
Just at that moment the washerwoman took down a big sheet, and the
little room was flooded with warm, glowing sunshine.
“Oh! it is glorious, is it not, Dolladine?” exclaimed the child,
clapping her hands, and dancing about with pleasure. “Mamma will be so
happy, and so will Dolladine and I.”
“Remember,” said the old magician, “that all good comes from the
loving God, who has blessed you, and made you the sunshine child. You
can make the mother and every one very happy, so long as you keep God’s
sunshine in your heart; but if you forget the blessed Christ, it will
fly away, and will not be the warm, beautiful light of God’s love, but
only the dancing sunshine that always escapes your grasp. And then, how
sad! you would change to the little stormy-weather child, which would
be worse than the darkest winter’s day to the dear mother.”
“Oh! no, no! I will never forget to bless the good God. It is so
delightful to make mamma and every one happy.”
“This box,” said the old man, “is full of sunshine; I will give it you
for the mother.”
“Let me kiss you, dear magician,” said the child, gently; “I always
love anybody who is kind to poor mamma.”
The old man took the little one in his arms, and kissed her fondly,
saying, “God bless you, darling; God bless you!” Then he went away, to
be her life-long friend.
“I am so happy, I can not keep still, Dolladine,” said the child; and
she danced about till the mother came in, weary and worn. “Oh! mamma,”
said she, running up and kissing her, “we shall always be happy now, in
God’s glorious sunshine, and the old magician gave me this box, full of
it, for you, mamma.”
It was some time before the mother could understand all; but when she
opened the box, sure enough, it was full of sunshine. There was the
missing deed, that restored to her her own--the dear old home, and all
her great wealth.
Again she became the fair lady with the lily-white hands; but her
greatest joy was in the warm, genial sunshine her good little daughter
made. From a child she grew up to be a loving, beautiful, and pure
woman. But she never forgot the good God, and, all her life, remained
the mother’s sunshine child.
THE YOUNG GOLD-SEEKER.
In the olden time, between the Mission of San Gabriel and Los Angeles,
lived an old Spaniard, his wife, and one son.
In his early manhood, Don Pedro had been very rich, but sickness and
misfortune had followed him, until, in his old age, he was destitute of
many of the comforts of life.
Sorrowful and dispirited, he looked forward to death as the only portal
of hope for future repose.
Francisco, his son, was full of youthful ambition and ardent life.
One morning he went to the bedside of his father and mother, and
kneeling down beside them begged their blessing.
“I am going,” he said, “dear father and mother, to retrieve your fallen
fortunes.”
The father blessed him, and bade him Godspeed, but the mother wept
and clasped her arms about him, till her silver hair mingled with the
glossy black of his; and when he tore himself regretfully from her
embrace, she called him again and again to return for one more kiss. At
last, when he rushed out, and was nearly gone from her, she buried her
head in the bed-clothes and sobbed as if her heart would break.
Francisco was at first greatly saddened and subdued by his dear
mother’s grief; but soon with the fresh morning air, the elastic
spirits of youth, rose joyous and hopeful, and he sung merrily as he
wandered on through the open country.
He had taken with him some tortillas (coarse Indian-meal cakes) and
dried beef.
When he was hungry, he sat down in the shade, ate sparingly of these
and of the delicious fruits that abound through all the country, and
drank from the clear spring.
Thus passed the first few days of his journeying; but there came a
time, when, out in the desert, his food became exhausted, and there
were no cooling springs bubbling up from the yellow heat of the burning
sand.
There were no trees, no fruit, no shade. He wandered on for two days
and nights, until nature was almost exhausted, and when the third night
came, he threw himself upon the sand to die.
He prayed devoutly to the Holy Virgin to intercede for his soul, and
grant his fevered body rest; when, as he turned his head wearily, far
out on the desert gleamed a light.
Hope rose in his bosom, and he drew his aching limbs onward, till
nearer and nearer gleamed the blessed light from a cool oasis in the
desert. Soon his foot pressed the soft turf, and green trees waved
above his head.
The blessed Virgin had pitied him and listened to his prayer. He was
saved.
He thought the waters of the running stream the sweetest music he had
ever beard, and bending over, with his hand he raised to his parched
lips a draught of holy water--for ’twas the Mother of Mercy’s gift--the
gift of life.
Extreme thirst is the most intolerable of all sufferings--greater far
than hunger. None but those who have endured its pangs, can have the
least idea of the excruciating pain it brings.
After Francisco had drank the water, he was for a time very sick, but
soon was sufficiently relieved to long for food and rest, so again he
looked for the light that had guided him to the oasis.
Just before him, from the thicket of palm-trees it gleamed. He drew
near cautiously, fearing it might prove the encampment of hostile
Indians.
Softly as he stepped, the quick ear of an old Indian woman detected his
approach, and she raised her eyes to meet his eager and hungry gaze, as
he looked longingly at the supper she was preparing over the fire just
outside her little cane hut.
When he saw that he was discovered, he went up to her, holding out his
hand, and saying:--
“Good mother, I am very hungry and weary, give me something to eat and
let me rest here to-night, or I shall die. Oh, mother! mother!”
He was thinking of his own mother at home; but his words and tones sunk
into the heart of the old Indian woman, and tears gathered in her dim
eyes as she placed her hand softly on Francisco’s shoulders.
“You call me mother,” she said, in Spanish, sadly, “those who used to
call me mother are all dead! My boy would have been like you. My brave
boy! my timid girl, gone! all gone!”
She wept bitterly as she gave Francisco the choicest morsels, and a
cool, delicious drink, that was a balm to his parched and aching throat.
When Francisco had eaten, he was overcome with fatigue and want of
sleep, but when he would have thrown himself down upon a mat in the
hut, and fallen asleep immediately, the old mother caught him by the
arm, exclaiming:--
“You must not lie down there to sleep, you would never wake again; for
when the chief, my husband, returns, he would kill you, for he hates
the Spaniards. What can I do with you, my poor boy?”
“I can go no farther, mother, I shall die of fatigue if I try; think of
the two days and nights I passed upon the desert, without food, drink
or sleep.” And he threw himself in the corner, saying: “he must kill me
if he will,” and in a moment was fast asleep.
The old woman bent over and kissed him, weeping.
“He called me mother,” she said, “poor boy, poor boy.”
She covered him over with cool boughs, with the thick green leaves
still fresh upon them.
How long he slept he could not tell, but while it was yet dark, a rough
voice very near, awoke him.
Opening his eyes and peering through the mass of foliage, he saw a
gigantic Indian, surrounded by half a dozen younger men, all eating
what appeared to be an early breakfast, and talking over some adventure
in which they were about engaging.
From their conversation he learned that he was approaching the borders
of the rich Arizona country; and he noticed, when the chief put up his
ammunition (he was the only one who carried a gun), that the bullet was
of pure gold.
He lay for some time motionless, carefully watching their movements. At
one time he came very near being discovered.
One of the young Indians had mislaid his bow and arrow, and went to the
pile of brush to look for it; but the old woman, whose mother’s heart
had warmed to the perishing young stranger, drove the Indian boy away,
with a sharp reproof for his carelessness in disturbing her basket of
reeds, which were mingled with the concealing boughs.
At last the missing bow was found, and the company mounted and rode
away.
Again silence fell upon the palm-shaded hut.
Still weary, Francisco lay quietly watching the old woman, as she moved
about with a lighted taper, silently putting the things to rights; but
at last she blew out the light, and lay down to rest upon a mat near
the door, and in the darkness, the green oasis of the desert faded into
the land of dreams.
The morning sun was shining clear and bright, through the waving
branches of the palm-trees, when Francisco again awoke.
There was no one in the hut when he arose and went to the spring, where
the night before he had slaked his thirst.
Again he drank from its pure fountain, bathing his face and neck in
the sparkling water, till he felt quite refreshed.
Above his head, amid the glossy leaves hung the rich yellow bananas.
He gathered some and ate them as he returned to the hut, with a
hopeful, happy heart.
The old mother met him at the door, and greeted him pleasantly.
They sat down together and ate their morning meal. Francisco told her
how he had left home to seek his fortune, and of his father and mother,
who had once been very rich, and had become poor, and in their old
age were suffering for the comforts of life. How he had vowed, if his
life was spared, that they should enjoy all that money and love could
provide for them. “And now, mother,” he said, “I am seeking gold, and
gold I must have, if my life pays the forfeit.”
“Were it not that the chieftain, my husband, would kill you, I could
show you where gold is plenty enough,” said the old woman. “Only one
day’s journey from here are the great mines, and even on the ground you
can pick up quite large nuggets of almost pure gold; but every hour you
stay here your life is in danger, and you must live to be happy.
“There are places in the Arizona country where the ground is yellow
with gold. The Indians care little for it, but you could never go there
and return alive. At every step your way would be beset with a more
deadly foe than the hunger and thirst of the desert.
“Boy, you have wakened a love that was dead in my heart. I will save
you if possible, and, as nearly as I can will grant your wishes.”
Then the old woman prepared food and water for a journey, and taking
two deer-skin bags, she filled them with great nuggets of pure gold,
and laid across the back of a strong mule, as much as he could carry,
and embracing Francisco, she bade him take the mule and recross the
desert with all possible dispatch.
“To-night our men will return, and you must be far away.”
Then she gave him directions about the way. “By to-night, if you keep
the trail, you will reach green trees and water. Go home now, be rich
and happy; but some times remember the lonely Indian mother far away in
Arizona.”
The old woman embraced him again, weeping, and said: “All who call me
mother must go from me.”
Francisco kissed her brown cheek, and went out from under the shade of
the palm-trees into the arid waste.
Looking back, as long as he could see over the desert, in the distance
he saw the old woman watching him. She, too, had gone out from the
shadow of the palm-trees, and stood upon the burning sand, shading her
tearful eyes with her wrinkled hand from the blinding sunshine.
God pity the childless mother.
Francisco was fortunate in keeping the trail, and at night reached the
trees and water the old woman had spoken of, but the desert was still
before him--a long and toilsome journey.
For six weary days he traveled through an arid sandy waste, finding
water at intervals; and when at last the green hills of San Gabriel
rose before him, he wept like a child for joy; but he soon called back
his manhood and laughed at his weakness.
With a full happy heart he journeyed on, till Los Angeles, dear Los
Angeles, the home of his infancy, lay before him. There was the
cottage of his mother, and she herself standing at the door. He had
returned after all his hardships, strong, rich, and happy. Again the
gray hair of his mother rested on his shoulder, but this time she wept
tears of joy, as he whispered in her ear: “Mother, dear! you and
father can never want again, I am rich now. I have gold enough to last
a lifetime; and, mother, you shall have a beautiful home: and I will
ask Juanita, who loves you, to come and be your daughter and my wife.”
THE WISHING-CAP.
Through the branches of a great almond-tree sported the golden
sunlight, till it fell in shining flecks upon the broad verandas of a
spacious adobe house. Nothing could be pleasanter than this homestead
in the southern Gold Land, with the great garden around it, filled with
all kinds of tropical flowers and fruits in their season. Here dwelt a
little boy and girl, whose father and mother were both dead, so they,
poor children, had their sorrows.
After the mother died, the father had married a poor widow, who had two
children, about the age of his own little ones.
At first, while the comfort of the new home was a novelty to the woman,
she had been kind to the children; but, as the strangeness wore off,
she began to feel like the real mistress. In a thousand ways she
favored her own children, who were proud and selfish; and in all their
childish differences, only the motherless ones were punished.
Then the father died, and the step-mother became like a great shadow
between them and the bright sunshine of childhood. She would have sent
them away from home, but their own mother had been very rich, and,
after the father’s death, the house in which they lived, the vineyard,
and the large herd of cattle feeding upon the hills, all belonged to
them.
The step-mother was very angry at this, but she was their guardian, so
she managed every thing to suit herself, and lived in great ease and
luxury.
One day, as the children were playing in the garden, the step-mother’s
son threw his ball into a wild-rosebush that was covered with thorns.
“Go and get it for me, Zoie,” said he, sharply, to the little girl.
“I can not,” replied the child, “for the thorns will tear my dress, and
the señora will whip me.”
“How dare you call my mother the señora? It is not from respect, but
because you are a hateful little beast.” And he struck the child a
cruel blow, and made her go for the ball.
Her dress was torn, and her pretty hands bleeding when she recovered
it. Just then her own brother came up, and would have fought the unkind
boy, but the little Zoie entreated, weeping, “Dear brother, do not
strike him. Come with me, while I say, ‘Forgive us our trespasses, as
we forgive those who trespass against us.’”
The heart of the young boy swelled with anger, and his quickened pulse
beat fearfully; but, because he loved his sister, he suffered her to
lead him away, for well he knew, nothing would grieve her so much as
his returning blow for blow.
“Oh! to be a man!” he thought, as the hot tears filled his eyes. “Why
don’t the years fly fast? How long must I wait, before I can take care
of my little sister like a man?”
Already the manhood was dawning in his heart; and if he could have
protected the dear little maiden, he would have dared any thing.
At this moment the garden gate opened, and an old Indian woman came
up the walk, crying--“Strawberries! fresh and ripe, red and bright.
Strawberries! strawberries!”
All the children ran to meet her, and looked so eagerly at the pretty
crimson fruit, that she gave to each of them a handful, but to the
little sister, who was so modest and beautiful, she gave a small
basket, covered with green leaves, and filled with the delicious
berries.
When the other children would have taken the basket for themselves,
the old woman prevented them; and, while they went, crying, to
their mother, Zoie hid her treasure under the trailing vines of a
passion-flower.
“Be quick, little señorita,” said the old Indian. “Your mother once
saved the life of my child, and an Indian never forgets. In the basket
is a wonderful talisman, which will give you any thing you want, just
for the wishing.”
She had hardly time to say this, when the step-mother came out, and
bought all the fruit she had left.
The señora was very angry with the orphans, and, after whipping them
both for quarreling, sent them supperless to bed, in an old out-house
where the Indian servants slept, but she and her children sat down to
a luxurious meal, with a large basket of delicious strawberries in the
center of the table, plenty of nice white sugar, and three bowls of
fresh, rich cream.
For some time the lonely orphans lay talking of their own dear parents,
and weeping, as they lay shivering in each other’s arms. The evening
was coming on, and, though the days were very warm, there was a chill
in the damp night air, and they had only a thin sheet to cover them.
At last the brother said: “Sister, I can not endure it. If they would
only whip me--but to see them strike you! I can not endure it! You,
whom I promised the dear papa to love and protect. We have nothing but
sorrow here. Let us go out into the wide world alone. It will not be
so bad--at least we shall be away from the señora, who gives only hard
crusts to eat.”
“Dear brother, let us go! The good God, who takes care of the pretty
birds, will take care of us. But first bring me my blue shawl, for it
was the last thing the dear mamma gave me.”
Very softly the boy rose and went for the shawl, but the old Indian
cook, who had lived in the family before he was born, and loved the
children dearly, saw him and gave him some tortillas.
“The old wizzen witch, to treat the real señora’s children so!” said
the woman, angrily. “She, the señora, to be sure! A cane hut in the
chaparral would be good enough for her.”