Part 4

“You! Catrina, you speak!” exclaimed little Gracia, as soon as she could speak, for Catrina’s caresses.

“You speak, who never spoke in your life. The good God heard your prayer last night. He shed His glory upon you, and now you speak.” They embraced each other, and wept for joy.

Then they noticed the handsome boy standing near them, resting upon his gun, and Catrina pressed his hand to her lips, and thanked him again and again.

They all went to look at the cougar together, and Catrina told the wondering Gracia how very near to heaven she had been, and young Leon De Lande told them both how he had started by moonlight to hunt in the mountains, and how he thanked God he had been able to save the little señorita.

They sat down to eat their tortillas and fruit, and then started for the valley. Poor Catrina! How delightful to be able to talk, though she needed practice to be able to speak plainly.

She was like a little child just learning, but she managed to let Leon know all about Gracia, and he, with delighted surprise, told her that he knew her father, who was the richest señor in all the country, and that in a few hours they could reach the vineyard.

Never were there happier young people than went down the mountain together. As they entered the wood, whom should they meet but poor old nurse, Macata, hunting for her lost darling.

“I have found the little señorita for you, good Macata,” said Leon. Macata gave one glance at Gracia, then caught her in her arms, exclaiming, “_Ninita mia! Ninita mia! Waconda!_ the Master of Life has heard my cry! I knew you were not lost for ever.”

The old Indian started off at full speed, carrying Gracia in her arms, sobbing all the time, and blessing the Great Spirit that she had lived to restore the lost child to the dear señora.

Leon and Catrina could barely keep pace with her, but at last they entered the very room, where, five years before, the beautiful child lay sleeping in her little willow cradle.

“I have brought her back, señora,” cried old Macata, out of breath. “It is our little white bud, señora, dear! Oh! _Alma mia! Mijita mia_, Waconda has not forgotten us!” The old woman placed the child in the mother’s arms, and fell with her face upon the floor, weeping for joy.

No words can tell the joy that filled the house. Only the heart of the father and mother could feel how greatly God had blessed them.

Now the years went pleasantly by. The good Catrina become a lovely 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.