Part 13

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.

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!

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

But damage his bill and you demoralize him at once. He becomes immediately disheartened. He loses caste among his companions and confidence in himself. He wabbles about here and there to no purpose, like an old bachelor. You deprive him at once of his song and his supper. You can hardly picture to yourself a more dejected insect, one more hopelessly down in the mouth. He withdraws to the ceiling, or curtain, and looks with envious eyes upon his associates gorging themselves while his poor digestive organs are drying through inactivity.

We would be inclined to pity him in his sad condition, were it not that we hold the whole insect race as coming under our ban. The whine of disappointment, long, loud and quavering, that went up when they ascertained I was protected, will always remain a fixture in my memory.

As they closed around the bed, so numerous were they, their flight was actually impeded. Down they settled with locked wings on the bar above me, thick as snow-flakes around some old uprooted pine by the Madawaska. I had long heard of the mosquitoes of this locality, and was prepared for an introduction to formidable insects, but found them even worse than I expected.

Discouraged by the mosquitoes, I fled to a neighboring city, only to find that it is the stronghold of fever and ague. In other parts it may be more active for a few months of the year, but here it stays by the people like their consciences. The winds may rise and comb the valley until the very grass is lifted by the roots and borne to the mountains. The sun may grow weary of well doing, enter Capricorn, and for a season be hid; or the rains may descend until the narrow slough—by which the city is situated—becomes a wide-spreading lake, through which ships of the line might plow with safety; but the chills and fever stays by them still. There is no “shaking” it off. It holds its grip like a mortgage. The tender limbs of the new-born babe, and the pithless bones of ripe old age, shiver alike in its awful grasp.

The citizens of this sad place are a serious, matter-of-fact people, who seem to think it was not the original intention that men should spend any time in laughter, for they indulge very little in witticisms or humor. A good joke is often lost upon them, and the perpetrator of a bad one places himself in jeopardy. A person who attempts a pun that does not carry its point before it, like a sword-fish, is in danger of being immediately seized from behind and hurried in the direction of the Insane Asylum.

While stopping in this delightful place I visited the small theatre of which the inhabitants are justly proud, and shall never forgive myself if I fail to mention the orchestra, that discoursed most eloquent music on that occasion.

Whether the regular musicians of the theatre were on a strike for higher wages, and the manager was obliged to bring in outside talent, I did not learn; but certain it was, the sole instrument that kept the audience awake between the acts, the night in question, was a large piece—a bassoon, I think—filled and manipulated by a stout, spectacled representative from the Faderland.

In addition to the musician’s frog-shaped body—which of itself would doubtless have attracted my attention—he had a head that was truly a study. To say he was bald, is to make a remark that would be applicable to about two-thirds of the gentlemen in the theatre, but to say that his head was as smooth, as shiny, and devoid of hair, from the eyebrows to the very nape of the neck, as a billiard ball, is hardly doing the head justice. It seemed actually peeled.

Besides, it was of a conical form, and as I looked upon it I thought what an advantage it would have been to me in my younger days if I had had some such thing in the barn-yard, over which to break pumpkins for the cattle. I am certain a pumpkin or squash brought down upon such an object with well-centred precision, would fly into as many fragments as the Turkish Empire.