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2021年2月23日发(作者：秋日恋歌)

The Californian's Tale

Thirty-five years ago I was out prospecting on the Stanislaus, tramping all day long with pick and

pan and horn, and washing a hatful of dirt here and there, always expecting to make a rich strike,

and never doing it. It was a lovely reason, woodsy, balmy, delicious, and had once been populous,

long years before, but now the people had vanished and the charming paradise was a solitude.

They went away when the surface diggings gave out. In one place, where a busy little city with

banks and newspapers and fire companies and a mayor and aldermen had been, was nothing but

a wide expanse of emerald turf, with not even the faintest sign that human life had ever been

present

there.

This

was

down

toward

Tuttletown.

In

the

country

neighborhood

thereabouts,

along the dusty roads, one found at intervals the prettiest little cottage homes, snug and cozy,

and so cobwebbed with vines snowed thick with roses that the doors and windows were wholly

hidden

from

sight--sign

that

these

were

deserted

homes,

forsaken

years

ago

by

defeated

and

disappointed families who could neither sell them nor give them away. Now and then, half an

hour

apart,

one

came

across

solitary

log

cabins

of

the

earliest

mining

days,

built

by

the

first

gold-miners, the predecessors of the cottage-builders. In some few cases these cabins were still

occupied;

and

when

this

was

so,

you

could

depend

upon

it

that

the

occupant

was

the

very

pioneer who had built the cabin; and you could depend on another thing, too--that he was there

because he had once had his opportunity to go home to the States rich, and had not done it; had

rather lost his wealth, and had then in his humiliation resolved to sever all communication with

his home relatives and friends, and be to them thenceforth as one dead. Round about California

in that day were scattered a host of these living dead men-- pride-smitten poor fellows, grizzled

and old at forty, whose secret thoughts were made all of regrets and longings--regrets for their

wasted lives, and longings to be out of the struggle and done with it all.

It was a lonesome land! Not a sound in all those peaceful expanses of grass and woods but the

drowsy hum of insects; no glimpse of man or beast; nothing to keep up your spirits and make you

glad to be alive. And so, at last, in the early part of the afternoon, when I caught sight of a human

creature, I felt a most grateful uplift. This person was a man about forty-five years old, and he was

standing at the gate of one of those cozy little rose-clad cottages of the sort already referred to.

However, this one hadn't a deserted look; it had the look of being lived in and petted and cared

for and looked after; and so had its front yard, which was a garden of flowers, abundant, gay, and

flourishing. I was invited in, of course, and required to make myself at home-- it was the custom

of the country..

It

was

delightful

to

be

in

such

a

place,

after

long

weeks

of

daily

and

nightly

familiarity

with

miners'

cabins--with

all

which

this

implies

of

dirt

floor,

never-made

beds,

tin

plates

and

cups,

bacon and beans and black coffee, and nothing of ornament but war pictures from the Eastern

illustrated papers tacked to the log walls. That was all hard, cheerless, materialistic desolation,

but here was a nest which had aspects to rest the tired eye and refresh that something in one's

nature

which,

after

long

fasting,

recognizes,

when

confronted

by

the

belongings

of

art,

howsoever cheap and modest they may be, that it has unconsciously been famishing and now

has

found

nourishment.

I

could

not

have

believed

that

a

rag

carpet

could

feast

me

so,

and

so

content me; or that there could be such solace to the soul in wall-paper and framed lithographs,

and

bright-colored

tidies

and

lamp- mats,

and

Windsor

chairs,

and

varnished

what-nots,

with

sea-shells

and

books

and

china

vases

on

them,

and

the

score

of

little

unclassifiable

tricks

and

touches that a woman's hand distributes about a home, which one sees without knowing he sees

them, yet

would

miss

in

a moment

if

they were

taken

away. The

delight

that

was

in

my

heart

showed in my face, and the man saw it and was pleased; saw it so plainly that he answered it as if

it had been spoken.

with

a

glance

which

was

full

of

affectionate

worship.

One

of

those

soft

Japanese

fabrics

with

which

women

drape

with

careful

negligence

the

upper

part

of

a

picture-frame

was

out

of

adjustment. He noticed it, and rearranged it with cautious pains, stepping back several times to

gauge the effect before he got it to suit him. Then he gave it a light finishing pat or two with his

hand, and said:

until you've done that--you can see it yourself after it's done, but that is all you know; you can't

find out the law of it. It's like the finishing pats a mother gives the child's hair after she's got it

combed and brushed, I reckon. I've seen her fix all these things so much that I can do them all

just her way, though I don't know the law of any of them. But she knows the law. She knows the

why and the how both; but I don't know the why; I only know the how.

He took me into a bedroom so that I might wash my hands; such a bedroom as I had not seen for

years: white counterpane, white pillows, carpeted floor, papered walls, pictures, dressing-table,

with mirror and pin-cushion and dainty toilet things; and in the corner a wash-stand, with real

china-ware bowl and pitcher, and with soap in a china

dish, and on

a rack more than a dozen

towels--towels too clean and white for one out of practice to use without some vague sense of

profanation. So my face spoke again, and he answered with gratified words:

Now you would think-- But I mustn't talk so much.

By this time I was wiping my hands and glancing from detail to detail of the room's belongings, as

one is apt to do when he is in a new place, where everything he sees is a comfort to his eye and

his spirit; and I became conscious, in one of those unaccountable ways, you know, that there was

something there somewhere that the man wanted me to discover for myself. I knew it perfectly,

and I knew he was trying to help me by furtive indications with his eye, so I tried hard to get on

the right track, being eager to gratify him. I failed several times, as I could see out of the corner of

my eye without being told; but at last I knew I must be looking straight at the thing-- knew it from

the

pleasure

issuing

in

invisible

waves

from

him. He

broke

into

a

happy

laugh,

and

rubbed his

hands together, and cried out:

I went to the little black-walnut bracket on the farther wall, and did find there what I had not yet

noticed--a daguerreotype-case. It contained the sweetest girlish face, and the most beautiful, as

it seemed to me, that I had ever seen. The man drank the admiration from my face, and was fully

satisfied.

married. When you see her-- ah, just wait till you see her!

been gone two weeks today.

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