“ALL’S
NOT GOLD
That
Glitters”

D. APPLETON & CO.
New York.

“All’s not Gold that Glitters;”
OR
THE YOUNG CALIFORNIAN.

BY
COUSIN ALICE,
AUTHOR OF “NO SUCH WORD AS FAIL;” “CONTENTMENT BETTER
THAN WEALTH,” ETC. ETC.

NEW-YORK:
D. APPLETON & COMPANY,
346 & 348 BROADWAY.
M.DCCC.LIX.

Entered, according to Act of Congress, in the year 1853, by
D. APPLETON & COMPANY,
In the Clerk’s office of the District Court of the United States for the
Southern District of New-York.

THE FOURTH HOME BOOK.

In her last note of introduction to the Home circle, Cousin Alice partly promised to tell a story of Virginia life when she came to them again. She has to confess that she has not redeemed this now, though she is sure the trials and adventures of the young Californian will prove not less interesting, and there are other days to come when her little Southern friends shall be introduced.

American boys, perhaps more than those growing up in any other country, are thinking of money-getting before they are fairly out of school; but the history of King Midas, which most of them read there, teaches that the possession of gold is not happiness, and they will find it out, as our young hero did, when they come to earn it for themselves. There is another lesson shadowed forth in the title,—all fair promises are not to be trusted, though we know there is one hope that never fails, one friend that never deceives.

Cousin Alice has no more earnest wish than that this hope, and this friend, may be theirs through life.

CONTENTS.

“ALL’S NOT GOLD THAT GLITTERS,”
The Young Californian.

CHAPTER I.
BAD MANAGEMENT.

“Ain’t the stage rather late, Squire? I’ve been waiting round a considerable while now.”

The “Squire” had just driven up to the Post Office, which was at one end of the village tavern, and a man hanging to a post that upheld the piazza addressed him.

“Perhaps it may be, I’m rather late myself; but I drove the long road past Deacon Chase’s. Do you expect any body, Gilman?”

“Well—I can’t say I do, Squire; but I like to see the newspapers, and hear what’s going on in the world, as well as most people, specially since the Californy gold’s turned up. I wouldn’t mind finding a big lump or so myself.”

Gilman chuckled as he said this, and set a dilapidated hat a little more over his eyes, to shade them from the strong light of the declining sun. No wonder they needed it; for they were weak and bleared, and told the same tale that could be read in every line of a once expressive face. The tavern bar had seen as much of him as the piazza. He knew by long experience the taste of all those fiery liquids, contained in the rows of decanters, and worse still, of many a cask of New England rum, dispensed by the landlord of “Mooney’s Tavern.”

“I’ve heard your wife’s father say there was gold buried on every farm in New Hampshire, if people only knew where to find it,” the Squire answered pleasantly, fastening his horse to the much used tying-up post; “there ought to be on what’s left of his, by this time—there’s been enough buried there.”

WAITING FOR THE STAGE.

[Page 9.]

The man, dull as his once clear mind had become, seemed to understand the allusion and the reproof it conveyed, for his face flushed even through deep unhealthy redness, as he walked off to a knot of idlers like himself. They stood with their hands in their pockets, and coats buttoned up to the chin—discussing the wonderful news that was then the only topic of conversation through the whole Atlantic coast, and even far in the backwoods, where much less of the great world’s doings came—the gold discovery in California.

At first it had been scarcely credited—many who were afterwards ready to stake life itself in gaining it, declared the whole thing a hoax, and ridiculed those who believed in it. But as month after month brought fresh arrivals, and more marvellous intelligence from the new-found El Dorado, even the endless discussion of politics was given up for this fascinating theme. So far, no one had gone from Merrill’s Corner, the name of this retired New England village; but many from neighboring towns were now on their way to “make their fortunes,” or lose their lives in “the diggings.”

The door of the post office had scarcely closed upon Squire Merrill, when the jingling of sleigh-bells and the quick tread of horses was heard coming up the hill. It was the stage-sleigh, that passed through from Concord every afternoon, bringing the eagerly expected mail and a few travellers, farmer-looking men, who were glad to spring out, and stamp their benumbed feet, the moment it drew up. One of them threw a morning paper into the knot of questioners, telling them rather abruptly to “look for themselves,” as they asked the invariable question, “what’s the news?” and Gilman, who was so fortunate as to seize it, was instantly surrounded as he unfolded the sheet.

The expected arrival was announced, in huge letters, at the top of the paper:—

ONE MONTH LATER FROM CALIFORNIA!!

ARRIVAL OF THE CRESCENT CITY.

HALF A MILLION IN GOLD DUST!!!

NEW DISCOVERIES MADE DAILY.

PROSPECTS OF THE MINERS CONSTANTLY IMPROVING!

And with a voice trembling with eagerness, the wonderful particulars were read aloud, interrupted only by exclamations of astonishment, more expressive than elegant.

Lumps of gold, according to these wonderful accounts, were to be picked up for the stooping. Some men had made a fortune in a single month, from steamer to steamer.

Every remarkable piece of good fortune was exaggerated, and the sufferings and privations, even of the successful, barely touched upon. There was scarcely enough shade to temper the dazzling light of this most brilliant picture. No wonder that it had all the magic of Aladdin’s wonderful lamp to these men, who had been born on the hard rocky soil of the Granite State, and, from their boyhood, had earned their bread by the sweat of the brow. If it dazzled speculators in the city, men who counted their gains by thousands, how much more the small farmer, the hard-working mechanic, of the villages, whose utmost industry and carefulness scarcely procured ordinary comforts for their families.

Just as the stage was ready to drive off again Squire Merrill came out on the piazza with several newspapers in their inviting brown wrappers, a new magazine, and one or two letters. There was of course a little bustle as the passengers took their seats, and the driver pulling on his buckskin gloves, came from the comfortable bar-room, followed by the tavern-keeper.

“More snow, Squire, I calculate,” remarked the sagacious Mr. Mooney, nodding towards a huge bank of dull-looking clouds in the west. “What’s your hurry?”

“All the more hurry if you’re right, Mr. Mooney,—I think you are; and somehow I never find too much time for any thing. Going right by your house, Gilman; shall I give you a lift?”

“Well I don’t care if you do,” answered Gilman, to the surprise of his fellows, and especially the hospitable Mr. Mooney. He had not yet taken his daily afternoon glass, and just before one of them had signified his intention of standing treat all round, to celebrate the good news from California.

The Squire seemed pleased at the ready assent, for it was equally unexpected to him, knowing Gilman’s bad habits. He did not give him time to withdraw it, for the instant the stage moved off, followed, in the broad track it made through the snow, the bells of both vehicles jingling cheerfully in the frosty air. It may seem strange to those unaccustomed to the plain ways of the country, especially at the North, that a man of Squire Merrill’s evident respectability should so willingly make a companion of a tavern lounger. But, in the first place, the genuine politeness of village life would make the neighborly offer a matter of every day occurrence, and besides this, the Squire had known Gilman in far different circumstances. They played together on the district school-ground, as boys, and their prospects in life had been equally fair. Both had small, well cultivated farms, the Squire’s inherited from his father, and Gilman’s his wife’s dowry, for he married the prettiest girl in the village. Squire Merrill, with true New England thrift, had gone on, adding “field to field,” until he was now considered the richest man in the neighborhood, and certainly the most respected. His old school-fellow was one of those scheming, visionary men, who are sure in the end to turn out badly. He was not industrious by nature, and after neglecting the business of the farm all the spring, he was sure to see some wonderful discovery that was to fertilize the land far more than any labor of his could do, and give him double crops in the fall; or whole fields of grain would lie spoiling, while he awaited the arrival of some newly invented reaping machine, that was to save time and work, but which scarcely ever answered either purpose. Gradually his barn became filled with this useless lumber, on which he had spent the ready money that should have been employed in paying laborers—his fences were out of repair, his cattle died from neglect.

Mr. Gilman, like many others, called these losses “bad luck,” and parted with valuable land to make them up. But his “luck” seemed to get worse and worse, while he waited for a favorable turn, especially after he became a regular visitor at Mooney’s. Of late he had barely managed to keep his family together, and that was more owing to Mrs. Gilman’s exertions than his own.

The light sleigh “cutter,” as it was called, glided swiftly over the snow, past gray substantial stone walls, red barns, and comfortable-looking farm houses. The snow was in a solid, compact mass, filling the meadows evenly, and making this ordinary country road picturesque. Sometimes they passed through a close pine wood, with tall feathery branches sighing far away above them, and then coming suddenly in sight of some brown homestead, where the ringing axe at the door-yard, the creaking of the well-pole, or the bark of a house-dog made a more cheerful music. There are many such quiet pictures of peace and contentment on the hill-sides of what we call the rugged North, where the rest of the long still winter is doubly welcome after the hard toil of more fruitful seasons.

Squire Merrill seemed to enjoy it all as he drove along, talking cheerfully to his silent companion. He pointed out the few improvements planned or going on in the neighborhood, and talked of the doings of the last “town meeting,” the new minister’s ways, and then of Mrs. Gilman and the children. Suddenly the other broke forth—

“I say it’s too bad, Squire, and I can’t make it out, anyhow.”

“What’s too bad, Gilman?”

“Well, the way some people get richer and richer, and others poorer and poorer the longer they live. Here I’ve hardly got a coat to my back, and Abby there—nothing but an old hood to wear to meetin’, and you drive your horse, and your wife’s got her fur muff, and her satin bonnet! That’s just the way, and it’s discouraging enough, I tell you.”

“My wife was brought up to work a good deal harder than yours, Gilman, and we didn’t have things half as nice as you when we were married.”

“I know it—hang it all—”

“Don’t swear—my horse isn’t used to it, and might shy—. Well, don’t you think there must be a leak somewhere?”

“Leak—just so—nothing but leaks the whole time! Hain’t I lost crop after crop, and yours a payin’ the best prices? Wasn’t my orchard all killed?—there ain’t ten trees but’s cankered! And hundreds of dollars I’ve sunk in them confounded—beg pardon, Squire—them—them—outrageous threshing machines.”

The Squire chirruped to his horse—“Steady, Bill—steady! Haven’t you been in too much of a hurry to get rich, Gilman, and so been discontented when you were doing well? You always seemed to have more time than I. I don’t believe I ever spent an afternoon at Mooney’s since I was grown up. I’ve worked hard, and so has my wife.” “Yours has, too,” he added, after a moment. “I don’t know of a more hard-working woman than Abby Gilman.”

“True as the gospel, Squire, poor soul!” and the fretful, discontented look on the man’s face passed away for a moment. A recollection of all her patient labor and care came over him, and how very different things would have been if he had followed her example, and listened to her entreaties.

“Why don’t you take a new start?” said the Squire, encouragingly, for he knew that if any thing could rouse his old companion it would be the love for his wife. “You’ve got some pretty good land left, and ought to be able to work. We’re both of us young men yet. My father made every cent he had after he was your age; and there’s Sam, quite a big boy, he ought to be considerable help.”

“Yes, he’s as good a boy as ever lived, I’ll own that—but hard work don’t agree with me. It never did.”

Gilman was quite right. It never had agreed with his indolent disposition. There are a great many children as well as men who make the same complaint.

“If a body could find a lump of gold, now, Squire, to set a fellow up again.”

“I do believe you’d think it was too much trouble to stoop and pick it up,” Mr. Merrill said, good-naturedly. He saw that California was still uppermost in his companion’s mind. “And just look at that stone wall, and your barn—it wouldn’t be very hard work to mend either of them, and I don’t believe a stone or a board has been touched for the last two years, except what Sam has contrived to do.”

Gilman looked thoroughly ashamed. With the evidence of neglect staring him in the face, he could not even resent it. He seemed relieved when the Squire drew up before the end door, to think that the lecture was over. There, too, were broken fences, dilapidated windows, every trace of neglect and decay. The place once appropriated to the wood-pile was empty, and instead of the daily harvest of well-seasoned chips, hickory and pine, a few knotted sticks and small branches lay near the block. One meagre-looking cow stood shivering in the most sheltered corner of the barn-yard, without even the cackle of a hen to cheer her solitude. The upper hinges of the great barn door had given way, but there was nothing to secure it by, and it had been left so since the cold weather first came. Every thing looked doubly desolate in the gray, fading light of a wintry day, and the blaze that streamed up through the kitchen window was too fitful to promise a cheerful fireside. Yet fifteen years ago, this very homestead had been known for miles around for its comfort and plenty.

CHAPTER II.
A NEW PLAN.

“Why, father!” was the surprised and cheerful exclamation of Mrs. Gilman, as her husband entered the room. It was an unusually early hour for him, and besides, she saw his step was steady. No wonder that she left the bread she was kneading, and came forward, her hands still covered with flour, to meet him. As she stood in the fire-light, she was handsome even yet, though her face looked careworn, and her figure was bent, as if she had been much older. Her ninepenny calico dress was neatly made, and though she had no collar, a small plaid silk handkerchief, tied closely around the throat, supplied the place of one. She must have had a cheerful, sunny temper originally, for in spite of her many trials, there was not a trace of despondency or fretfulness in her face or manner.

“Didn’t you go to the Corner? Oh, was that you in Squire Merrill’s sleigh? I thought I heard it stop. Abby, get father his shoes—Hannah, just look at the bannock, it must be almost done by this time, and we don’t have father home every day. Come, children, step round:” and Mrs. Gilman made a lively motion to quicken the tardy Hannah, who was straining her eyes out over a book by the very faint twilight of the west window.

Mr. Gilman felt that he did not deserve this hearty welcome, in a home to which he had brought only sorrow and trouble. There were other thoughts that kept him silent too, for after explaining that Squire Merrill had brought him home, he sat down by the fireplace and watched his wife and daughters while they prepared tea, as if it had been a holiday. Cold brown bread, that substantial New England loaf, and the smoking corn meal bannock, were all that they had to set forth, with a simple garnishing of butter and a bowlder of apple-sauce, made, also, by the good mother in the autumn. The largest and driest sticks of wood were added to the fire, so, though there was but one candle, and that but a “dip,” any thing in the room was plainly visible. The Windsor chairs and side-table were scoured clean and white; through the open door of the buttery was seen a dresser in perfect order, even to the row of shining, but, alas, too often empty milk-pans, turned up under the lower shelf, and the bread-bowl, covered by a clean towel. The looking-glass between the windows, surmounted by curious carving and gilding, and the tall peacocks’ feathers, the thin legs of the table at which they sat, indeed nearly every thing in the room were old friends of Mrs. Gilman’s childhood. The house and farm had been her father’s homestead, and she an only child. She often said she was too thankful that she did not have to go off among strangers, as so many young girls did when they were married, for she knew every rock and tree on the farm. Here she had been married, here her children were born, and here she hoped to die.

“Sam won’t be home in time to milk, I don’t believe,” observed Abby, the oldest girl, reaching her plate for a second supply of bannock. “He’s always out of the way when he’s wanted, seems to me.”

“I don’t know,” “mother” answered good-naturedly. “I think he’s worked most hard enough all day to earn a good long play-spell. Sam’s getting very handy, father. He fixed the well-sweep after dinner as well as you could have done it yourself. So after he’d brought in the wood, and gone to the store, I let him go over to Deacon Chase’s. I thought you’d have no objection.”

Mr. Gilman was home too little to know much about his children’s movements, but his wife always kept up a show of authority for him, that he might be respected at home at least. Abby had found time for another theme. “Mother, I should think you might let Hannah and me have some new hoods. Julia Chase has got an elegant one, lined with pink silk, and a new merino cloak. And there’s Anne Merrill and Jane Price. I’m sure we’re as good as any body; ain’t we, father?” for Abby, being her father’s favorite, was always sure of a hearing from him.

“So you are, Abby—every bit, and you shall ride over their heads yet. I tell you what, mother; I can’t stand this much longer; I don’t see why you shouldn’t have your silks and satins as well as Eliza Merrill, and Hannah, go to boarding school if she wants to, when she’s old enough. I’ve about made up my mind to go to California—there—and there’s the end of it!” and the excited man struck his knife upon the table so that every dish rattled.

Mrs. Gilman looked up with an anxious, questioning face. She was afraid that he had been drinking after all, and her hopes of a quiet evening, “like old times,” vanished. Hannah ceased to wonder absently what would have became of the Swiss Family Robinson, if it had not been for their mother’s wonderful bag, out of which every thing came precisely at the moment it was needed. Abby improved the opportunity to help herself to an extra quantity of “apple butter,” unobserved. Abby certainly had a strong fancy for all the good things of life, dainties and new hoods included.

“Why, what on earth has put that into your head, father?” Mrs. Gilman said, after a moment, still addressing him by the familiar household name, at first so endearing and afterwards habitual. She did not think it possible he could have any serious thoughts of such a scheme. Her husband’s plans very often ended in “talking over,” and from the time they were married some project occupied him.

“It ain’t any new plan; I’ve been turning it over ever since the last steamer, and I only waited to see if the luck would hold out. Now the news is come, and I’m goin’. That’s just all there is about it. I don’t see why I should stay here and be a poor man to the end of time, when other folks has only got to turn round and make a fortune. Why there was one man took five ounces of gold out of one hole, in among the rocks! The paper says so, and gold’s nineteen dollars an ounce. Five times nineteen is——”

“Ninety-five,” responded Abby, quickly. She had been a diligent student of Smith’s Arithmetic, at the district school all winter, and when her father was speaking considered she had a perfect right to join in the conversation.

“Yes—ninety-five dollars in ten minutes, just as fast as he could scoop it out, and I might work six months for it here on this plaguy farm. Why, it tells about lumps of real solid gold, as big as my fist! and one man’s just as good as another there. None of your Deacons and Squires, settin’ themselves up above other folks.”

Poor Mr. Gilman, like many other persons whose own faults have degraded them, had a bitter envy towards those who continued to do well. It must certainly be on the principle that “misery loves company;” there is no better way to account for this selfish desire to see others in trouble, when we are suffering from our own rashness or folly, “selfish,” to say the least.

“Is any body going from the Corner?” Mrs. Gilman had laid down her knife and fork, and pushed back her plate. She felt a sick, choking sensation, that would not let her eat. She saw her husband was in his sober senses, and more determined than he had been on any subject for a long time.

“Yes,” he answered doggedly, as if he did not wish to be questioned further.

“Who?” persisted his wife, with an anxious foreboding of the name she would hear.

“Well, if you must know, it’s Bill Colcord, and we’ve agreed to go into partnership. I know you don’t like him, but it’s just like one of your woman’s notions. Bill’s a first-rate fellow, and gives as long as he’s got a cent.”

Mrs. Gilman did not remonstrate. She knew it was of no use. The time had been when her husband would scarcely have spoken to this man, who had always been idle and dissolute. How he lived no one exactly knew. He was very clever at making a bargain, was always betting, and, it was said, could overreach any body he dealt with. It was only of late years that he had become Mr. Gilman’s companion. His wife had warned and entreated him in vain. Mr. Gilman would sometimes promise to give him up, but the man always had a hold on him, treating at Mooney’s, or lending him small sums of money.

In spite of herself, Mrs. Gilman drew a heavy sigh when she heard him mentioned; but she saw Hannah looking up earnestly, and Abby listening, and remembering every word.

“You can clear away the table, girls—come, be spry,”—she said, rising with a great air of alacrity herself; but she had a heavy heart, as she took up her knitting from the side-table, and sat down in her low arm-chair in the corner of the fireplace. Mr. Gilman followed and squared himself on the other side, leaning his elbows on his knees, with a show of obstinate determination, as he looked from his wife to the fire.

“Mustn’t we wait for Sam?” asked Hannah, who had already seized on volume second of her beloved history. She had a natural disinclination to household tasks, an indolence inherited from her father, and but partly excused to the notable Mrs. Gilman, by the love of reading, which kept her out of mischief.

“No; Sam knows when we have tea, and the table can’t be kept waiting for him.”

“He don’t deserve any, I’m sure,” Abby was quite ready to add. “I hate to strain the milk after dark, and he knows it, and stays away just to plague me. Come, Hannah, take the bread into the buttery, while I pile up the things. You know it’s your week for putting away, and you try to get things off on other people. Mother—mustn’t Hannah come and help me?”

The book was reluctantly closed, and Hannah’s tardy step made a slow accompaniment to her sister’s bustling movements. There was much more clatter than was necessary in piling up the four cups and saucers, emptying the tea tray, folding the cloth, and setting back the table. It was quite a picture to see the handy little housewife, tucking back her dress and apron, as she dexterously carried the still smoking tea-kettle into the buttery, and filled a large milk pan with clean hot water, while Hannah expended all her energies in reaching down a towel and preparing to dry the few dishes.

The buttery, a long wide closet at one end of the kitchen, added very much to the neatness of the family sitting-room. It was Abby’s especial pride to keep the sink, the numerous pails and buckets, in order, and the one low window as clear as hands could make it. Hannah, though a year the eldest, hated the buttery, and always made her escape as soon as possible. To use her own favorite word—she “hated” washing dishes, and dusting, and peeling potatoes, in fact, every thing like work. She liked reading and walking in the woods, especially in spring-time, making wreaths of wild flowers, and fanciful cups and baskets from the twigs and leaves, Hannah’s imagination was already captured by these wonderful golden visions. Plenty of money, stood for plenty of time to do just as she pleased. Her mother could not be always telling her, “you must learn to be industrious, for you are a poor man’s child, and have got to make your own way in the world.”

“I hope father will go to California,” was the first symptom of consciousness she showed, while Abby splashed away in the water, regardless of scalded hands and mottled elbows.

“My goodness, Hannah! do see what you are about—letting the end of the towel go right into the dishwater. I’m sure I don’t want my father to go clear off there and die, if you do.”

“People don’t always die—there’s Robinson Crusoe, taken home after all he went through, and I’m sure the Swiss Family will. I don’t like to look at the last chapter ever, but of course they will be. I heard father tell mother, when I was folding up the table-cloth, that he wouldn’t be gone over a year and a half, and was sure to make ten or twenty thousand dollars.”

“Twenty-thousand-dollars! Why, Hannah, that’s more than Squire Merrill’s worth! Why, how rich we’d be! perhaps we’d have a new house.”

“And a big book-case in the parlor, full of—every thing!” added Hannah, intent only on her personal accommodation.

“And handsome carpets all over it, and a mahogany sofa, and a big looking-glass. Just ’spose it once.”

“I hope we’ll have a garden, with an elegant arbor, as shady as can be.”

“With grapes, and lots of fruit-trees, and plenty of dahlias! Well, it would be nice,” and Abby suffered the knife handles to slip into the hot water, a piece of carelessness expressly forbidden by the careful Mrs. Gilman, while she rested her chubby hands thoughtfully on the rim of the milk pan.

“But come, the water’s all getting cold, and there’s Sam round by the barn whistling. There’s the knives.”

“It’s always cold here,” shivered Hannah, fretfully; “I should think mother might let us wash dishes on the table in the kitchen. I’m most frozen here every night. It takes twice as long—”

“There’s Sam slamming the door as usual,” interrupted Abby, “tracking up the whole floor, of course.”

And there stood Sam, as she looked over her shoulder into the centre room, his face glowing with the quick walk, a woollen comforter knotted about his throat, and the torn vizor of a seal-skin cap hanging over his eyes. His old round-about, buttoned up close to the chin, was powdered with feathery flakes of snow, and his gray satinet pantaloons, with “eyes,” as he called the patches on the knees, scarcely reached to his boots. But for all this, he was a fine, hardy-looking boy, full of life, and health, and spirits, and would have demonstrated the latter by an impromptu war dance, on the kitchen floor, if he had not caught his mother’s look of warning.

“Been to supper at the deacon’s—give us the milk pail, Chunk,” he called out very unceremoniously in answer to Abby’s threatened lecture. “I know you like to strain the milk after dark, so you can have me to hold the light for you. Don’t she, Nan?—hurry up there,” and snatching the pail, he was gone again in a moment, out into the darkness and increasing storm, caring neither for the loneliness nor the exposure.

Mrs. Gilman’s face lighted as she looked after him. She had been listening to her husband’s plans, clearer, and more capable of being carried out, than most of them, showing that some one else had been assisting to make them. Mr. Gilman had persuaded himself, with this adviser’s assistance, that he would be perfectly right in selling the remnant of the farm, with the house, to pay for his passage and outfit to California. “As he only went to make money for his wife and children, they ought not to complain,” he reasoned, “and he would return so soon, to give them all that heart could wish. Meantime,” he said he would leave them something, and by time winter came he would send money from California. Mrs. Gilman well knew that she must be the entire dependence of her family, however fair all might seem in prospect.

CHAPTER III.
THE MOTHER AND SON.

But this was not the thought that weighed heaviest, when all but Mrs. Gilman had forgotten their plans and their pleasures in sleep.

As she sat alone by the broad flagging of the hearth, she could hear the heavy breathing of her husband in the next room, the ceaseless ticking of the clock, the purr of the cat, in its warm corner by the ashes. Overhead were her sleeping children, she alone, watchful and anxious. Slowly the old clock marked the passing hour, the brands mouldered with a dim redness, then broke, and fell with a shower of sparks upon the hearth. The rising wind rattled the loose window frames, the cold snow drifted upon the sill, white and chilling. She had kept many a midnight watch since she had been a wife, but this was the dreariest of all. She did not bury her face in her hands, and sob—her habitual industry had retained the coarse stocking, and her hands moved rapidly to the monotonous click of the needles, while hot tears gathered slowly in her eyes, and plashed down upon them. She did not wipe them away,—she did not know they were there. She was thinking over all the long time since her marriage; how very happy she had been at first, with her dear baby in the cradle, and her young husband, so fond of her and his first born, and the gradual and entire change that had since come over him and over their home. She had never ceased to hope through it all, that the time would come when he should be given back to her “in his right mind.” How earnestly she had prayed for it, sitting there, watching patiently night after night, trying to keep cheerful through all things; to make his home pleasant for him, when he least deserved it. And this was the end. She knew he was going, she felt it from that first abrupt announcement, and with the perils of the sea, and that new country, he might not return. She must go out from that old homestead, must see even the very burial-place owned by others, and he who had promised to love and protect her was the cause of all. It was hard to put down the bitter, reproachful feeling that had tempted her before, and to think of him with love, of God’s will, with submission and hope. Then came a picture of her husband, suffering, sick, dying on that long journey, for she knew how his health had been weakened, and how little fitted he was to bear exposure. This was terrible. If some friend, some one she could trust, was going with him, instead of that bad man, she could bear it better.

A noise that she would not have noticed in the stir of daylight, made her look up. It was only her boy’s cap, which he had hung carelessly behind the door, falling from the nail. “How strong and well he is,” thought the lonely woman—“why could not he go, and take care of his father?”

When she first tried to reason with herself about the future, he had seemed her only comfort and stay. Must she give him up too?

Mrs. Gilman did not often act from impulse, but she had become restless, and eager, thinking these things over. She took the candle, already burned to the very socket, hurried up the narrow winding stairs leading from the room in which she sat, to the “garret chamber,” chosen by her boy as his winter sleeping room, for the greater convenience of disposing of and watching over his hoard of treasures. They were few enough, but invaluable to him. The ears of corn he had saved for parching, hung by their braided husks, the soft pine blocks, prepared for whittling,—his skates, his new sled, not yet trusted to the doorless barn, the pile of hickory nuts in the corner, were nearly all that he owned; but no money could have purchased him more valued possessions.

The boy was sleeping soundly after the day’s hard work and exercise. His mother put down the light upon the chest that served him for a table, and sat down upon the bed beside him. He looked very beautiful to her, his long brown hair thrown back over the pillow, and his face flushed with a red glow of health. One arm was thrown above his head in a careless, graceful way, the brown hand bent, as if reaching to grasp a branch above him. Should she, who had held him in her arms, with the first prayerful thrill of a mother’s love, innocent and pure, send him forth to contact with the world unshielded! To see vice, and perhaps crime in every form—to be the companion of those long familiar with it! But, surely, it was a sacred mission to watch over and care for an erring parent, perhaps to save him from still greater degradation. Would not God reward her for this loving sacrifice, by keeping him in the charge of all good angels!

Her strong faith trusted in this, as she knelt down, still watching his heaving chest, and laid her hand lightly in unconscious blessing upon his broad forehead. It may have been that blessing which bore him through strange trials and temptations. We know that those who ask “in faith,” nothing wavering, have their reward; and what can exceed the yearning faithfulness of a mother’s love?

“No, nothing is the matter, my son,” Mrs. Gilman answered to the boy’s start of surprise, and half frightened, half sleepy question. “I did not mean to wake you up, Sam, I came to see if you were asleep yet and quite comfortable. Are you sure you have clothes enough? It’s going to be a very cold night.”

“Plenty, mother,—it’s just like you to be worried. I thought it must be morning first, or father was sick, or something. Good night,” and he turned still drowsily to his pillow.

“Sam, did you know your father had concluded to go to California?”

“Goodness, mother!” and all sleepiness was gone in an instant, the boy sat up in bed, and looked at his mother eagerly.

“Yes, he has decided to go, and I’ve been thinking if it wouldn’t be better for you to go along.”

“Me?”

“I guess it’s best, Sam. I don’t see how I can spare you very well: but your father will need you more than we shall; we shall make out to get along somehow. You will be coming home some day with a fortune, like the young princes in the story books.”

Mrs. Gilman tried to speak playfully, but it was hard work to keep down the sobs.

“It isn’t like you, mother, to want me to leave you and the girls, just to make money. I’ve heard you say too many times, that you would be contented to live any way, so long as we could all be together, and work for each other. What put it into your mind?”

There was an earnest directness in the boy’s manner Mrs. Gilman could not evade. She had never before alluded to her husband’s weakness to one of his children. It was hard now, but it was right Sam should know all.

“You can remember, Sam, when we were all a great deal happier; before father took to going to the corner every day. You know how he comes home night after night, and how bad company has changed him. Bill Colcord has followed him every where, and has persuaded him into this. If father has you with him, he’ll think of us oftener, and perhaps it will keep him from doing a great many things Colcord might lead him into. You are old enough to know what’s right and what’s wrong.”

“I ought to, mother, when I’ve had you to tell me ever since I was a baby.”

“God knows I’ve tried to do my duty,” Mrs. Gilman said, clasping her hands together, “I’ve tried, Sam, and I’m trying now, though it’s hard to see whether it’s right to send you away with that bad man. But it must be! Look out for your father just as I would. Keep right yourself, and then he will listen to you. But it’s all in your Bible; and you won’t forget to read it, will you? You say your prayers, don’t you, like a good boy?”

“Sometimes I forget till I am almost asleep,” the boy confessed honestly. “But I don’t sleep half so well, I think, or wake up so good-natured at any rate. When is father going—does he know you want me to?”

“Not yet, but we must not mind that—Colcord won’t want you. Something tells me you ought to. Sam, I only want you to make me one promise. Never to touch a drop of any thing that could hurt you—you know what I mean, any spirit, and keep father from it as much as you can. You will, won’t you?”

“I never tasted spirit yet, mother, and I never will, so long as I can remember to-night. I’ll swear it on the Bible if you want me to.”

“No, I don’t ask that, only your promise. If you wouldn’t keep a solemn promise, you wouldn’t keep an oath. And never let yourself get lazy. People sit ’round and do nothing, and so they are tempted to drink just to pass away the time, and most men who will drink, will swear or do any thing else. I don’t say all will;” and a painful flush rose to the poor woman’s forehead as she thought of her misguided husband, “but it leads into mischief they never would think of or consent to in their sober senses. Don’t be afraid of hard work. I never was, and my father was called well off. If one kind of work is not handy do something else, it keeps away bad thoughts, and hard thoughts too, sometimes.”

It seemed that Mrs. Gilman could not bear to leave her son. It was the first time she had ever opened her heart to him at all. He was too young to understand half its silent loneliness and care; but he loved her better than anybody in the world, and was ready to do any thing or promise any thing that would make her look happier. He did not get asleep for a long time after she went away, though the candle had burnt out, and the snow sifting against the window made it very dark. He turned over the pillow, and drew up the quilt, but it was no use. To any boy of his age, the novelty of going to sea would have been exciting. And California!—he knew as much about it as any of his elders and betters. The boys had been talking about it once, as they helped Ben Chase shell a double quantity of corn, so that he could go skating with them after school, Monday; and boasting, as boys will, of what they would do, if they could only get there! How astonished they would be to find he was going! He could not help feeling very important, and suddenly improved almost to man’s estate, even in his own eyes. Then his imagination rambled on to a very distant and undefined future. How he would come home with piles and piles of gold—great bags full, and give five to his mother, and one to each of the girls, and buy back the farm. Whether he should put the old house in splendid order, or build a new one, he could not quite make up his mind. But there would be time enough for that. One thing was certain. His mother should have every thing she wanted, and never do another bit of work, if she didn’t choose to. His mother’s troubled face brought him back very suddenly to the present. He understood better than ever he did before, how many things she must have to worry her, especially about his father. He thought about this a long time, and made new resolution to keep his promise, and be very good and industrious. His good resolves were a little confused and misty at the last, mixed with wandering thoughts about the ship, for he had never seen one, and Ben Chase’s new skates, which had been the object of his highest ambition three hours before. Then he slept as soundly as if the whole plan of his life had not been changed that eventful day; unconscious of the hardships, the trials, and the temptations that were to mark every step of his future path through boyhood.

So it happened that our young hero, as his mother had said, like a prince in some marvellous fairy tale, “went out to seek his fortune.” He had no “shoes of swiftness,” or “invisible cap,” nor yet the “purse of Fortunatus,” that he expected to find. But he carried a light heart, willing hands, and a determination to do right, whatever happened, “three gifts” that perhaps could bring him as much in the end.

CHAPTER IV.
GOING TO CALIFORNIA!

It is strange how soon the most startling things that happen to us, settle into a matter of course. Before another Saturday night the whole Gilman family thought and talked of “going to California,” as if they had looked forward to it for a year. Sam contrived to gather more information about Cape Horn and the Pacific coast than he could have learned from a study of Olney’s Geography all his life. As Mrs. Gilman expected, her husband’s adviser made a determined opposition against taking a boy, and one as sharp-sighted as Sam Gilman particularly. But she was equally determined, and as Colcord knew she had it in her power to stop the sale of the farm, and cut off their means of going, he thought it best to give up. He concluded he should be able to manage both father and son after a while, and it might not be such a bad plan in the end.

Squire Merrill tried his best to dissuade Mr. Gilman, when he saw what was on foot. He even offered to lend him money to stock his farm, and get started again, but he could have had about as much influence on the wind. He proved himself to be a true friend, even though his advice was not taken.

He bought the remnant of the once valuable farm, paying ready money for it, though he was afterwards sorry he had not kept the sum intended for Mrs. Gilman’s use in his own hands. It would have been much better if he had. His old neighbor could not bear to have money and not be generous. With his hundred dollars clear, in his pocket, after paying Colcord enough to secure his passage in the same ship,—it was called a loan,—he felt quite as good as any one in the county, and would not listen to the suggestion that they should take passage in the steerage. He even debated going in the Crescent City, but found that quite beyond his means.

There was one comfort in this self-importance. He renewed a promise made and broken, many, many times, not to drink any more, and in spite of the past sad experience, his wife almost believed he would keep it. It was this hope, and seeing him more like his old self, kind and affectionate, that helped her through those two weeks of preparation. Her busy thoughts flew fast into the future, as her needle kept time to them. She said to herself she would forget the unhappy years that were gone, and work on cheerfully. How many bright pictures of the future were wrought into her daily tasks! She could even see them measuring the land, and sign the deed that gave up all right to it, thinking how soon the old homestead might be theirs again, and once more have fields crowned with plenty.

Sam seemed to think a long face was expected from him, and tried to put on one every time the matter was talked over. He found this harder and harder, as the time came near. A journey to Boston was an event in the life of Ben Chase he had never quite recovered from. Ben Chase had seen the Bunker Hill Monument and the State House, with Washington’s Statue, and, dear to a boy’s heart, the Common, with its renowned Frog Pond, which he never would own, even to himself, had disappointed him. Ben Chase talked of Boston Harbor, and like all boys brought up out of sight of salt water, thought of all things in the world he should like to be a sailor. He had even contemplated running away and persuading Sam Gilman to go with him. But Ben was a deacon’s son, and heard “honor thy father and mother” read out of the big family Bible very often. He had compunctious visitings the next day after concocting this notable scheme, at family prayers, and quite repented of it when he saw his father go round with the collection plate, the Sunday after. Now all his enthusiasm revived. He looked up to Sam quite as much as Sam expected or desired, when he found they were going “round the Horn.” He favored him with many decidedly original suggestions, always prefaced with—“I’ll tell you what, Sam,” and read over in the retirement of the barn chamber his limited collection of voyages and travels, burning with a renewed desire to

“Walk the waters like a thing of life,”

as he poetically termed staggering across a ship’s deck. Sam sometimes felt a little uncertainty about his positive happiness in leaving home, when he saw how sorry Julia Chase looked; but Ben’s conversation had quite an opposite effect on his spirits. Julia presented him with a heart-shaped pincushion, made out of the pieces of her new hood, as a keepsake. Ben deliberated among his accumulated stores a long time, and finally decided on the big hickory bow and arrow he was making with a great deal of care and skill. “It would be so useful if you was cast away on a desert island, you know,” he said.

Julia and Ben came over on Saturday afternoon to bring their presents, and some dried apples from Mrs. Chase to Mrs. Gilman. The last were prefaced by the apology that “she didn’t know but Mrs. Gilman’s must be most out.” Many a useful gift had come from the same quarter, prompted by equal kindness, and offered with the same natural delicacy. “Neighbors” in New England, mean more than living near a person. The rule of the Samaritan is taken rather than the Levite’s, and certainly good wishes and kind acts were as “oil and wine” to Mrs. Gilman of late, however trifling they might seem in themselves.

The children passed a greater part of the afternoon in the garret chamber, which being directly over the kitchen, was warm and comfortable. Sam’s clothes were to go in his father’s chest—“a real sea-chest”—as he told Ben, but he was to have a box of his own besides. Packing this box was the excitement of the afternoon, as it included a distribution of that part of Sam’s treasures, he found it impossible to accommodate. One particular red ear of corn presented to Julia Chase, made a great deal of amusement; some speckled bird’s eggs, and the principal curiosity of his museum, a carved elephant’s tooth, brought home by some sailor uncle or cousin of his mother’s, completed her share of the spoils. The sled was presented to Ben, and Abby and Hannah shared the remainder, feeling far richer than many a grown up legatee does in receiving a bequest of thousands. An animated conversation was kept up, Julia bringing forward a fact in history that had troubled her very much for the past few days. Her class were studying Goodrich’s United States for the first time, and she remembered that when the English settled at Jamestown they discovered earth containing a great quantity of shining particles which were supposed to be gold by the colonists. She sympathized very heartily with them in their disappointment, when they found their ship loads sent to England turned out worthless, and she had become quite anxious on Sam’s account. What if after all the California gold should end in the same way! Hannah and Abby were very much agitated for a while with this startling historical inference, but Ben did not hesitate to say, “girls were fools, they knew nothing and never did;” while Sam gave such remarkable anecdotes and facts, that they were reassured, and all grew merry and good-natured again.

For the first time in many Sundays, Mr. Gilman went with his wife and family to meeting. His new rough great coat and respectable hat made him seem like another man. But he did not like the sermon at all, and considered it as meant for him. It was rather singular that the text should be—

“Lay not up for yourselves treasures upon earth, where moth and rust doth corrupt, and where thieves break through and steal:

“But lay up for yourselves treasures in heaven, where neither moth nor rust doth corrupt, and where thieves do not break through nor steal.”

Sam, who had persuaded his mother to let him sit in the gallery with Ben, became much more attentive than usual. The new minister evidently had the California adventure in his mind, though he only spoke of the feeling extending all over the country; the sudden haste to get rich, and the willingness people showed to leave their families and their homes to go in search of golden treasure. He said if they would make half as many sacrifices to lay up treasure in heaven, they would be thought to have lost their senses, and ridiculed on every side; yet there was no comparison between the worth and value of the two.

Ben on the contrary thought the sermon very long and tiresome, and amused himself by carving on the seat what he fondly called a ship, working most industriously with one eye on his father’s pew, to see when he was unobserved. Ben certainly never could have supported existence without a knife, and though it was only a jack-knife, and not a very elegant one at that, it was surprising what a number of things he managed to do with it.

All the neighbors stood in the entry, or porch, at the noon recess, and shook hands with Mr. Gilman, just as they used to do. His wife sat near the glowing stove, talking with Mrs. Chase, and could not help thinking how much happier it would be if, instead of going away the next morning, he would stay with her and the children, and try to get along at home. But then, perhaps, it was wrong not to be thankful for any change that promised better things. Squire Merrill spoke very kindly and encouragingly, Deacon Chase in his queer, forgetful way, shook hands twice over, and insisted on driving them home, after afternoon meeting, although Mrs. Gilman told him they were going back with Mr. Conner, whose wife was not well enough to go out, so there was plenty of room. Sam on his side had a large congregation of all the boys round him, most of them looking very stiff and uncomfortable in their Sunday clothes, with their straight, sunburnt locks, plastered down by an extra allowance of soap and water. In their secret hearts they all envied him, and he knew it, but tried not to overpower them by a sense of his own importance, leaving it for Ben to set forth his probable route and adventures. Julia had brought his sisters a big Baldwin apple apiece, and shared her luncheon of dough-nuts in the most generous manner; a kindness which Abby fully appreciated, as all their apples were gone long ago, and dough-nuts had been a rarity for the last two winters. Hannah, with characteristic forethought, saved her Baldwin until she could have a good chance to read her new library book. A book and an apple was the height of Hannah’s enjoyment. We must not forget, however, that she was capable of self-denial, for that same treasured Baldwin, with its beautiful crimson cheek, found its way into Sam’s overcoat pocket the next morning. Let those who have given up a hoarded dainty, appreciate the sacrifice!

Mr. Gilman was very restless—“fidgety” the Deacon would have called it, all that evening. It was Sunday; all preparations were completed; he could not make an excuse to go to Mooney’s, and he had to think. He went out to the barn, and even mounted to what was once the hay-loft. He walked to the road, back to the kitchen, and out to the road again, with his hands in his pockets, and his hat set down over his face. He began to whistle, but stopped, remembering it was Sunday. No one but He who can read the thoughts of our hearts, knew all that came into his, in the quiet and deep stillness of that last Sunday evening at home. The sermon, the journey, the next day’s parting with his wife, her love for him, and his selfish neglect, all mingled there, and brought remorse and self-condemnation with them. When he went into the house, Mrs. Gilman was sitting in the fire-light with her children, singing hymns that her own mother had taught her. This had once been the happiest hour of all the week, but now the mother’s voice was tremulous, and her heart full of heaviness. The last night of an unbroken family circle, perhaps for ever; the last Sunday beneath the roof of her father’s homestead! How could it be otherwise? Mr. Gilman was persuaded that this was the commencement of a new and better life for him. All the indifference and selfishness of years seemed to melt away; something like a silent prayer came in its place, a prayerful resolve only, not one for aid and guidance. Depending on himself, and forgetting how often he had been self-betrayed, he meant fully, at that moment, to be industrious and persevering for their dear sakes. He would toil with a strength and energy that must succeed, and his wife should be doubly rewarded for all she had suffered.

Perhaps she felt the certainty of this as he sat near her, shading his eyes with his hand; for her voice grew clearer and stronger as she sang—

Ye fearful souls fresh courage take,

The clouds ye so much dread,

Are big with mercy, and shall break

In blessings on your head.

Judge not the Lord by feeble sense

But trust him for his grace—

Behind a frowning Providence

He hides a smiling face.

His purposes will ripen fast,

Unfolding every hour;

The bud may have a bitter taste,

But sweet will be the flower.

Oh, these calm, thoughtful Sunday evenings in a New England home, where the strict, and it may be rigid rule of our forefathers, is still preserved! What a blessed memory they are, in after years, to the toil-worn and world-wearied heart! The dear circle gathered in the fire-light, one clasping a mother’s hand—the youngest nestling in a father’s arms!—the long quiet talk of pleasant and holy things—the wonderful Bible stories of Joseph and his brethren, Moses in the bulrushes, and the destruction of Pharaoh’s host—the old-fashioned hymns, led by a dear mother’s voice, in which all strive to join; the simple melodies, and the pious words sinking unconsciously into the memory! Who would exchange these recollections for the indulgence of carpeted nurseries, a servant’s twice-told tales of ghost or goblin, the muttered sleepy prayer at her knee, when another Sunday is over, a day of idle play, or marked only by a careful toilette for the dinner company who were expected, and engross the time and thoughts of worldly parents in the drawing-room? We may be mistaken, after all, about the privileges which the children of the rich enjoy.

Actually saying “good-bye,” is hardly ever as hard as we expect it will be, or the loneliness afterwards proves. The next morning found Mr. Gilman as confident as ever, and bustling around with great alacrity, to be ready in time for the stage. His wife did not allow herself to think. She had her breakfast to prepare—though Abby was the only one of the party that seemed to need it—and many things to see to at the last moment. Wherever she was, and whatever occupied her hands, her eyes and her heart followed Sam, who felt all the excitement of departure. His father had been so little comfort or company lately, that it would be easier to be accustomed to his absence. Sam she had depended on—his willing, cheerful readiness to assist her, the frank honesty that never deceived, young as he was, had filled up a great void in her heart. His very voice, and step, were music and lightness.—Do all she could the tears could not be kept back, but filled her eyes, and almost blinded her, as she went about her morning work. And then the time came—her husband kissing her hurriedly and nervously as the toiling horses came in sight, her boy not ashamed to cling to her neck, while she wrapped her arms around him, as if he had been still the baby in her bosom, and kissed him in an agony of love, and fear, and blessing. They were gone, and the house, no longer her home, was empty and desolate, and her straining eyes could not catch another glimpse of that bright boyish face.

All day long Mrs. Gilman busied herself with strange haste, and unnecessary care. It seemed as if she dreaded to have her hands unemployed for a moment. The children forgetting their tears, as children will, played, and worked, and disputed, but she scarcely seemed to notice them. It seemed to her as if death, not absence, had removed her son.

CHAPTER V.
SETTING SAIL.

Their future constant companion joined the father and son, as might be expected, at Mooney’s Tavern. He had no leave-takings to subdue the boisterous spirits in which he set out on an expedition that was to make a rich man of him. His brothers and sisters were married, and had lost all interest in him long ago. They were even glad that he would no longer be a daily disgrace to them. He was very grand with Mr. Gilman’s money, and expected, of course, to drink to their success in a parting glass at Mooney’s. He had drank to it so often already that morning, that it was doubtful whether he would be fit to start on the journey. It had the effect of making him unusually good-natured, fortunately, so that he took Mr. Gilman’s refusal with only the complacent remark, “more fool he.” The stage did not make long stoppages so early in the day; away they drove again—the tavern, the post-office, the white meeting-house on the hill, disappearing in turn, and then the young traveller felt that home was really left behind.

He was very quiet, he could not help it.—The day was exceedingly cold, and the road, for miles together, dreary and uninteresting. The noisy laugh of Colcord troubled him, while he thought of his mother and the girls. This could not last long, as the stage filled up, stopping now at a farm house, where a place had been bespoken for its owner the day before, or receiving a passenger at some wayside tavern. Sam began to feel all the dignity of being a traveller himself, and particularly when he saw how much the strangers were interested, hearing that they were bound for California. Colcord talked to every one, and made himself out the commander-in-chief of the expedition. He was going to “invest,” as he called it; he expected to see the time when he could buy up the whole of an insignificant little village like Merrill’s Corner!—And then the most incredible facts were related, exaggerated newspaper reports given, as having happened to the uncle, or cousin, or friend of the speaker. When they came to a tavern, Colcord was the first man out, strutting around the bar-room, and asking all his fellow-passengers to drink with him. Even Mr. Gilman seemed ashamed of his partner, as he loudly proclaimed himself to be.

Sam went to bed at Concord that night, wondering if New-York could be larger, or have handsomer houses, and what they were doing at home. It seemed as if months had passed since bidding them good-bye. Then came the novelty of a railroad, the hurried glimpse at Manchester and Lowell, with their tall piles of brick and mortar, the loud hiss of steam, and clanking of machinery. How busy and restless all the world began to seem, and how far off the eventless village life, which had till now been a world in itself.

Colcord did not let them lose a moment’s time. He had found out on the journey, that no ship was to sail from Boston for more than a week. A week, he said, would give them a long start; as they had the money, they might as well push through to New-York, where whole columns of vessels were advertised.

The morning of the third day after leaving home, Sam found himself following his father and Colcord along the crowded wharves of this great city, going to secure their passage.

The “Helen M. Feidler,” was the unromantic name of the ship Colcord had selected. She was to sail first, and the handbills pasted along the corners, described her as nearly new—fast sailing—with every possible accommodation for freight and passengers. The owners said she would make the voyage in half the usual time, and if they did not know, who should? In fact the clerk, or agent at the office, gave such a glowing account of her wonderful speed, the excellent fare, and the rush of people to engage their berths, that Mr. Gilman was all ready to secure three cabin vacancies that happened, by the most fortunate chance in the world, to be left. He had even taken out the old-fashioned leather pocket-book, in which the bills were laid, when he saw Colcord making signs to him not to be in too much of a hurry. The clerk assured them, his warm manner growing very cold and distant, as he replaced his pen behind his ear, that the next day would probably be too late. Sam did not understand what Colcord said to his father, but almost as soon as they were in the street, they told him he had better stroll around and amuse himself; they were going to look at the ship, and see if all that had been said was true.

“HE STROLLED ALONG THE WHARVES.”

[Page 66.]

This was certainly very reasonable. Sam wondered, at the same time, what had made Colcord so suddenly cautious, and why they did not take him with them. However, he strolled along the wharves, where all was new to him; the inviting eating saloons, with their gayly-painted signs, the sailors in their blue and red shirts, and rolling gait, that came out and went into them, the tall warehouses of the ship-chandlers, with the piles of ropes, and what seemed to him rusty chains, and useless lumber, scattered about the lower floor. It was a bitter day, and seemed doubly cold and disagreeable in the absence of snow, which only was found in dirty and crumbling piles out on the wharves or along the edge of the frozen gutters. The signs creaked and clanked in the wind, that came sweeping with icy chillness from the river; and the bareheaded emigrants, women and children, that came trooping along the sidewalk, looked half frozen and disconsolate. Still it was new and wonderful, and so were the rows of vessels, schooners and brigs, that lined the docks, some receiving and others discharging their cargoes, with a hurry and bustle of drays, and creaking pulleys, and a flapping of the sail-like canvas advertisements, fixed to the mast, that told their destination, and their days of sailing. The black hulls and dirty decks did not look very inviting; but, of course, the wonderful Helen M. Feidler, did not in the least resemble such uncouth hulks as these!

How he did wish for Ben as he walked along, trying to shield his face from the wind, with nobody to ask a question of, or tell his discoveries and conjectures to! He wished for him more than ever when he inquired his way back to the lodging house, in which they had left their chests, and found his father had not yet returned. It was a cheap place of entertainment, and chosen by them because near the water. Sam did not think it nice nor comfortable in the uncarpeted sitting-room, scarcely any fire in the dirty stove, and nothing to look at but an old file of newspapers on the baize-covered table. But that was better than the bar-room and its unwelcome sights and sounds.

He expected his father every moment, and told the waiter so, when he asked him if they would have dinner. The afternoon came on, still lonely, dark and gloomy. He began to be anxious for fear they had lost their way, or perhaps been robbed, and carried out to sea,—he had heard of such things. Hungry, and tired and lonely, he laid down on the long, wooden settee, and fell asleep, dreaming that he saw his mother, and made her very happy by telling her that his father had resisted all Colcord’s endeavors to get him to drink, and talked about her every time they were alone together.

It was very late—nearly midnight—before the men returned. They were quarrelling violently on the stairs, and poor Sam instantly knew that his father had again been led into temptation. He did not know until the next day what a misfortune this had proved. When his father awoke, haggard and sullen, it was to charge Colcord with having robbed him of every cent the pocket-book contained, more than half of all he possessed. Colcord’s own poverty disproved this charge. Between them, there was just enough to take a steerage passage for the three, and paying their bill at the lodging house, but a few dollars were left.

They had not yet purchased the necessary tools and stores for their business; with the exception of a newly invented patent gold-washer, in which Mr. Gilman had rashly invested a third of the sum originally intended for their outfit, on their way to the wharves, there was nothing to rely upon when they should arrive out. Colcord tried to get him to exchange this for the less expensive picks and spades; but Mr. Gilman was stubborn and dogged, as he always was under the influence of strong drink, and insisted on what he considered a fortunate speculation.

It was in this way, after all his father’s pride and spirit on leaving home, that Sam, with his two still unreconciled companions, was entered as a steerage passenger on one of those very vessels that he had considered so unpromising at first sight. He tried to write a cheerful letter home, the day of sailing, describing what he had seen, but saying as little as possible about his father, or the vessel, that he could not think of without disgust. It was indeed a comfortless prospect, to be shut up for months in that dreary-looking steerage, so dark and stifling, so crowded with human beings of every grade and country.

The same glowing description was given of the speed and safety of the “Swiftsure;” but Sam began to doubt even the merits of the Helen M. Feidler, when he read column after column, in which barks, schooners and brigs up for California, were advertised to possess every advantage that could possibly be desired. It was his first great lesson that promise and reality are by no means the same thing.

Boy as he was, and hopeful as he had always been, he sat down disconsolately on his father’s chest, and tried to realize all that had befallen him. The place described in the advertisement as “large, roomy, well lighted and ventilated,” seemed to him dark, crowded, and suffocating. The space between the rows of bunks, as the slightly built berths were called, was piled with chests and boxes, over which each new comer climbed, and fell, and stumbled along, venting their annoyance in oaths and imprecations. The air was damp, at the same time so close and heavy that he could scarcely breathe. A fear of stifling when night and darkness came, made him start up and rush on deck, while it was yet possible to do so. They had already moved out of the dock in tow of a small steamboat, that was to take them down the bay, and carry back the friends of the cabin passengers, who helped fill the decks. There was scarcely an inch of plank to stand upon, or an unobstructed path to any part of the ship. Water-casks, fresh provisions for the cabin table, crates of fowls, the cackle adding to the general uproar; chests, boxes and trunks of the passengers, and freight received up to the last moment, were scattered, piled and packed in what seemed hopeless confusion. If there was dreariness and heart-sinking in the steerage, the cabin made amends with its uproar and jollity. Every one seemed to be of Colcord’s opinion, that too many parting glasses could not be, and wine and brandy flowed as freely as water.

It might have seemed a festival day to Sam, if the sun had shone and the shores been covered with summer foliage; but the sky was in those close racks of clouds, so often seen in winter, chilling the very sunlight to transient watery beams. Cakes of ice, dirty, huge and discolored, were floating in the bay, crashing against the puffing little steamboat, with every revolution of the wheel. No golden horizon could gild the chilliness of the whole scene, or make it promise brightness to come.

It was late in the afternoon when the steamboat cast loose from them, and the ship, with every sail set to the strong breeze, went on her way alone. The friends of the cabin passengers departed with cheers on each side, while some on ship-board went below to write one more hasty word of farewell to still dearer ones left behind. The pilot, bearer of these messages, resigned his brief command to their captain, and left them last of all. The low line of coast—the Neversink highlands—that last glimpse of home became indistinct in the wintry twilight, as the swell that bore them on sank into the long, rolling, foam-crested waves—the boundless expanse of ocean.

The discomforts of the inevitable sea-sickness past, Sam began to find even the steerage endurable. It was crowded to be sure, and his fellow-voyagers were many of them quite as disagreeable as Colcord, who formed quantities of new acquaintances, and was so good as to trouble them very little with his society. After daylight,—and once accustomed to the rolling of the vessel, Sam slept as sound in his bunk as when his mother came to tuck in the bed-clothes in the garret chamber,—he saw very little between decks, until night came again. He made friends with the cook in the galley, and the sailors in the forecastle, where he was a welcome visitor. There was a never-ceasing interest in the long yarns which the sailors told of their various voyages in every quarter of the globe, and their numerous adventures in port; some of which did not speak much for their morality, I am sorry to say. It was as good as six volumes of Sinbad, as many of Munchausen, and libraries of Gulliver. Sam watched all their ways with the most lively interest, and considered them the best fellows that ever were born. “How he should like to astonish Ben!” he used to think, as he sat on deck, watching them unravelling the tarred ropes for “spun-yarn,” or in the dim light of the forecastle, while they cut and made, and mended their wide pantaloons, or overhauled the thick clothes provided for their passage round the Horn, a prospect that did not seem very agreeable to them. He found himself adopting their peculiar gait, and practising from a large collection of sea-phrases. They taught him to climb the rigging, the names of the different sails and ropes, and the meaning of the curious orders sung out by the captain or mate, that at first had seemed like a foreign language. It was all so new and exciting, particularly when he came to understand the working of the ship, that he wondered what people meant when they talked of the “monotony of sea-life.” It doubtless was monotonous to the young men in the cabin, who slept, and ate, and drank, and lolled around the deck, sometimes with a book, sometimes hanging over the ship’s sides in perfect lack of occupation, “like cows in a pasture”—Sam used to say. He managed to get up a great feeling of superiority and pity, when he saw them turn out on deck after breakfast, looking so languid and sleepy. He had been up since sunrise, and seen the decks washed down and cleansed, seated in some part of the rigging, above the unceremonious flood that followed his promenade on deck. It was his delight to follow the sailors to the galley for their kids of beef and cans of coffee—what an appetite he always had for the “hard tack,” and meat almost as unimpressible to the teeth, that fell to his own share! The poor fellows in the cabin were starving by their own account, and thought as longingly of the abundance and variety of the tables at Delmonico’s and the Astor, as ever the children of Israel in the desert did of the flesh-pots of Egypt!

Many good mothers would have been troubled at this constant companionship with men they are accustomed to think of as degraded beings; but for a boy with Sam’s disposition, it was far preferable to the example of the more refined circle in the cabin. Sam knew that the oaths and honestly told “scrapes” of the sailors were wrong. There was no concealment intended, and it was easy to distinguish good and evil, when so broadly marked.

The twenty cabin passengers, mostly young men, who had led idle and dissipated lives in large cities, had a code of morals, that would have had a more secret and fatal influence.—Their conversation over the card table, the unending games, in which money was always staked to make it exciting, would have had a much worse effect. Sam knew that almost any sailor would drink when it was possible to do so, and had heard the habit spoken of as the worst which they were given to. He might have thought his mother was mistaken in the harm, after all, if he had seen the daily excesses of the captain’s table, and educated men boasting of the quantity of wine they had, or could carry, without being considered intoxicated. Their recklessness of any thing good and holy was appalling, and Sam would not have wondered so much at one of them, who used to go aloft to the cross-trees every fair day, and read or muse hours over his Bible, if he had heard how jestingly the sacred volume was named by the rest.

CHAPTER VI.
THE STORM.

A fair and prosperous voyage was prophesied by all, as the vessel flew along the Gulf Stream, the air growing softer with every day’s advance, and a fair wind keeping the officers and crew in perfect good humor.

After he had once conquered the dizziness with which he first tried to climb the rigging, Sam began to think with Ben, that the most delightful life in the world was a sailor’s. He had never been very fond of study, though he liked to read when the book exactly suited him. The district school from time immemorial had been taught by a woman in the summer. This was partly from a motive of laudable economy on the part of the school committee, who thought it their duty to have the young ideas of Merrill’s Corner taught to shoot with as little expense as possible. As to a woman’s earning half as much as a man, or justice demanding she should receive an equal rate of wages, it had never entered into their wise heads. “A woman’s school,” all the boys in the neighborhood felt to be entirely beneath their dignity, whether their services were needed at home or not.

In winter, “fun” was the principal pursuit. School was all very well, as an excuse for the boys to get together, and most of them studied just enough to keep out of the reach of punishment. Snowballing, skating and practical jokes upon the master, were pursued much more industriously than the geography, grammar and arithmetic, which they “went through” again and again. Up to the time of his leaving home, Sam had not the least understanding what English grammar was intended for. The master who taught it, sinned against half the rules in explaining them. He would tell them they “dun their sums wrong,” and that they “hadn’t got no lesson for a week.” Nor did the boys bother themselves with wondering what it was all about. They were brought up to go to school so many months every year, and supposed it was all right.

Now, at sea, there were very few books to be found. The sailors had a collection of old song and jest books, voyages, and biographies of celebrated criminals. One of them had bought Fox’s Book of Martyrs by mistake, at a stall, thinking from the pictures that it was an account of some great executions, possibly of pirates and highwaymen. It was the only thing like a religious book in the forecastle, except a few tracts and Testaments, sent on board by some society before the vessel left New-York. There was a Bible on the cabin table, replaced regularly every morning, after cleaning up, but no one ever looked into it. Cheap novels was the only branch of literature that had any encouragement in the cabin, where dice, cards and dominoes, formed the principal amusement.

It was astonishing to Sam how much he recollected at sea of what he had read at home. All the books in the district school library relating to political life or history, he ran through as he read them, without attempting to remember. He could not recall three rules in syntax, or the population of a single country of Europe, but facts and events he had not read more than once, he could tell by the half-hour to the sailors in return for their long stories, until these simple-hearted, unlettered men, began to look on him as a prodigy. They taught him every kind of knot that could be tied, or plaits that could be twisted, all the practical seamanship that a boy could understand, and for the first time in his life Sam began to feel a pride and interest in acquiring knowledge, for its own sake, and for the use he could put it to.

So far he had met with only one great disappointment. He had privately longed for a storm at sea, with “waves rolling mountains high,” as Ben used to quote from his favorite authors, and the ship “scudding under bare poles,” one of his newly acquired nautical phrases. He began to be afraid he should not be gratified, as the Swiftsure was fast leaving the region of storms behind, and the Horn seemed too distant to calculate upon. Every day as he went aloft to watch for a sail, he looked quite as wistfully for clouds. The captain had promised to speak the first homeward bound vessel, that they might send letters to the States. He did not intend to go into any port but Valparaiso, as they were so fortunate in the outset of their voyage, and he was anxious to round the Horn as soon as possible. So all hands watched for homeward-bound vessels every fair day, and those who had not become too indolent, amused themselves keeping a diary, to be sent by them to their friends. Sam had an elaborate sea-letter to Ben on hand, as his father intended writing to Mrs. Gilman, an intention which stopped there, for though he found plenty of “nothing in the world to do,” he never found “time to commence.”

Ben was to be furnished with a practical commentary on navigation, that might fit him for his favorite pursuit, if his father ever came to consent to it. It opened with several bold allusions to Christopher Columbus and Captain Cook. Sam’s first great discovery in seamanship, that there were but eight “ropes” in a ship, after all, followed the historical introduction. It would seem as incomprehensible to Ben as it had been to him at first, and he enjoyed in anticipation the puzzled look of unbelief, until the clue to the riddle was found, when he proceeded to name the complicated rigging, as braces, stays, clue-lines, halyards, &c., and contradicted the popular fallacy that “sheets” were sails, as they had always supposed. A statement that “eight bells” did not mean eight o’clock alone, but were sounded every four hours in the day, was added. Ben “stood generally corrected,” and a great deal of useful information upon reefing, furling, and slushing down the masts, was combined in the next page.

The last was written the first stormy day they had met with since leaving New-York harbor. Sam had been on deck, as usual, in the morning, but retreated to the society of the forecastle, as the wind and rain gradually increased. None of the sailors thought it was going to end in “much of a blow” at first, or that it was worth honoring with thick jackets and “sou’ westers.” The cabin passengers sat as long as possible at dinner, to pass away the time, and bothered the captain with useless questions every time he appeared among them.

But the gale increased slowly and surely. One sail after another was taken in. The captain was on deck all night, the mate or himself shouting their orders in the teeth of the roaring wind, and even then the men could scarcely distinguish them. Shut up in the dark and crowded steerage, bruised with the rolling of the vessel, Sam began to think, on the second day, that a storm at sea was by no means so romantic as he imagined. Some of the men, Colcord among them, were horribly frightened, and sure they were all going to the bottom. Some slept and some prayed, and cried like boys—some boys would have scorned the cowardice—and never ceased wishing they were safe on land again. Others swore at them for making such a disturbance, and exhorted them, in no very pious way, to “die like men”—at any rate.

Still the gale increased until the morning of the third day. The captain had very little hope that the ship could live through the tempest, and did not attempt to conceal it from the few passengers that ventured upon deck, clinging to the ropes and sides, lest they should share in the fate of every thing movable, and be washed over-board by some retreating wave. It seemed impossible, as the huge foam-crested surges rose above them, that the vessel could ever be lifted in safety,—as though the roaring waters must close over, and drive the ship with its awful freight of human souls down, down, down to the very depths of the yawning sea.

And now came a stunning shock, as the dread changed to the horror of reality, and driven over by the mingled force of wind and wave, the ship lay beaten helplessly along, her tall yards dipping the dark turbid waters.

There was no time for thought, scarcely for fear. The worn-out crew, the helpless passengers guided by the frantic gestures of the captain, worked with a strength and courage impossible in a less awful moment. The orders shouted in their very ears died away in the roar of the storm before they could be understood; but all obeyed the instinct of the moment, and worked as one man to lighten the ship. They cut and tore away with reckless energy every thing within their reach. The foremast, with every stay severed by rapid hacking strokes—quivered, snapped like a reed in the gale, and fell away with a dull, heavy plunge, heard above the awful roar. Not till then did any dare to hope, or even see as the ship slowly righted,—every timber creaking and shuddering as in the strain of parting,—that the dense clouds drifted with less violence above them, and the gale had spent its utmost fury.

In the first certainty of safety, no one thought of the losses and inconveniences that they had suffered. Yet, by the time the sea began to subside, captain, crew and passengers seemed to forget the awful danger, in fretting about losses, trifling in themselves, at least in comparison to their escape. Not a trace of fresh provisions now could be found, more than half the water and meat casks had disappeared in company with the mast. The “doctor,” as the cook was called by the sailors, mourned vainly over absenting pots, pans and coppers, that had gone to cook, this “food for fishes,”—and the cabin table vented their disgust to half-raw ham, and coffee, which had more the flavor of beef tea,—on his devoted head. The sunshine of mate and captain vanished with the serene sky, as the rigging of the jury-mast was retarded, and the sailors exercised their ancient privilege of grumbling on every thing that “turned up,” or “didn’t turn up,” as the case might be. Five, ten, fifteen disconsolate days above and below, until from the change in the vessel’s course, and a momentary condescension on the captain’s part, it was discovered that the Swiftsure was nearing Rio, to refit and take in fresh provisions.

Perhaps no one but the very youngest among them remembered with more than a passing thought how near they had been to the end of life. The danger, though he had not known it until it was over, had been a sermon which Sam could not but listen to, and he wondered at first with child-like undoubting belief in a future life, how they could all seem so indifferent to it. Then the recollection became less vivid, as the sea and sky returned to their calm beauty, and were absorbed, except in some just waking or sleeping moment, in the eager anticipation of land; and above all, first setting foot in a foreign country.

Nothing could be more welcome, or more beautiful, than the first distant, then gradually deepening view of Rio and the country around it. “Land ho,” had a magical sound, that brought every passenger to crowd the deck. For the last week the discomforts of the ship had become almost intolerable. Head winds, increasing heat, salt provisions adding to the cravings of thirst, that could only make the thick slimy water doled out to them endurable, were included in the list of grievances. The “Swiftsure,” was declared to belie her name entirely. The owners were rated and blamed from morning till night for crowding freight and passengers into a vessel scarcely sea-worthy, as they now suddenly discovered. Sam usually kept out of the way of his old comrades, the sailors, unless especially invited to join them, and they in turn crossed the Captain’s path as seldom as possible. Now every thing was changed, even the wind. The men moved with alacrity, the passengers clustered sociably together, talking of tropical fruits and wines, and were even heard to mention spring-water complacently.

It was the realization of some of his many dreams of enchantment to Sam, as the shore became more defined. The rocks and foliage of New Hampshire, for his home had been in one of its least fertile parts, gave him very little idea of the luxuriance of tropical countries, or the vivid beauty of color of the earth, and sea and sky, in the glowing sunset which welcomed them. It was so strange, after the isolation of the voyage, to see other ships passing, even steamboats, trailing their lines of smoke and vapor in the distance. The sharp summits of the Sugar Loaf, and the other mountains that gird this fine harbor, were touched by the very clouds.

The city, picturesque and novel, in the first distant view, grew stranger still as they came nearer and nearer, and cast anchor at last in the far-famed harbor of Rio Janeiro.

CHAPTER VII.
THE FIRST LETTER.

“Where do you suppose they are now, mother?” Hannah Gilman kept her finger on the map, as she looked up to ask the question. She was tracing out for the twentieth time, the track of the vessel, by the aid of an Olney’s Atlas.

“Let me see,” answered the mother musingly, waxing the linen thread more slowly, as she dwelt on the thought of her absent ones. It was almost the only pleasure Mrs. Gilman allowed herself, a stolen respite from her never-ending daily labor. “What day of the month is it, Abby?”

“Twenty-ninth—Hannah, you won’t get your hat done—Mother, just see Hannah’s short straws scattered all ’round.”

“Perhaps it would be just as well if you would attend to your own work, Abby,—how often must I tell you, that I don’t like to see children, sisters especially, interfering with each other. Yes, it’s April 29th, Hannah, and they expected to get into San Francisco the middle of May, or first of June. You must look in the Pacific for them now, near Valparaiso, I hope. It will be a long, long time before we hear.”

Four months, a long New Hampshire winter, had gone slowly by. How slowly, only those who count days, and weeks, and months of absence can tell. At night Mrs. Gilman’s last thought was one of thankfulness, that another day was gone. In the morning she woke with a wish that it was night again. They were living in a small house near the end of the village, to which they removed the week after New-Years. Squire Merrill had begged Mrs. Gilman to stay in the homestead all winter at least, but this she could not consent to. Since she must leave it, it was best to go at once, and she could warm the hired house, the only empty one in the village, much more economically. It was one of those so often seen on a country road-side, standing in a little door-yard, low and unpainted. There were but two rooms on the ground floor, and an unfinished attic above; but it was all they would really need, and the rent was very low. Abby’s pride was greatly hurt when she first heard of the arrangement, and she declared very plainly, that she “never would, never go to that little mean place, where old Lyman had lived.” Abby’s threats were generally the extent of her disobedience, and after all, she proved the greatest help in moving, and getting settled again. The two girls divided the house-work between them now, even the baking; for which Abby began to show a decided genius, and Mrs. Gilman sat at her needle from morning till night. It was all she had to depend upon, but the first year’s house rent which she put aside.

She had a plan for the girls, which she expected Abby would rebel at, that might in the end be a great deal of assistance to her. When at the store she had seen piles of coarse palm-leaf hats brought in and exchanged for dry goods or groceries. She did not see why Abby’s nimble fingers could not braid these as well as knit stockings, for which there was little sale. The young lady for once proved reasonable, and even Hannah’s emulation was excited, when her sister entered into a precise calculation of what their gains might be before the end of the winter.

The palm-leaf came home, looking so fair and even in the long bundles, and the two sisters plunged into the mysteries of “setting up,” and “adding in,”—“double turns,” “binding off”—and “closing up.” While the fever lasted, Abby could scarcely be persuaded to take time for eating and sleeping; and when the novelty began to wear off, she had acquired a mechanical skill and dexterity that made her new profession quite as easy as knitting. It was harder for Hannah, until she discovered that she could read while she braided down the crown, so in her hurry to get to this favorite part of the work, her hat was completed almost as soon as her sister’s.

And how much do you suppose, my little city ladies, who are always in debt when allowance-day comes,—these industrious Yankee girls received, as the sum of a week’s hard work; rising at five o’clock, and never ceasing but for household duties until the sun went down? Eighteen and three-quarter cents at first, not half as much as you have wasted at the confectioner’s and the worsted stores in the same length of time! Three cents a piece for braiding a whole hat, and Abby thought herself very rich when she could do one and a half a day! So it is—but do not pity them too much—they had twice your enjoyment in spending it.

Abby was on the last round of the brim, when Hannah laid her hat down to look for the atlas. They had all been talking of father and Sam,—and wishing the captain had been going to stop at Rio.

“We should have heard of him before this if he had,” Hannah said, “for I looked in the ship list, the place that tells all about vessels, in Squire Merrill’s paper, the last time I was up there; and I saw some vessel had come in forty days from Rio. That’s less than six weeks, and it will be four months Thursday since they sailed.”

“Here comes Squire Merrill now,” remarked Abby from her post at the front window. She always took possession of it, and kept them informed of every passer-by, if it was only a boy driving a yoke of oxen. “I guess he doesn’t find it very good wheeling, his wagon is all spattered with mud. How high wagons look, after seeing sleighs all winter. Why I do believe he’s going to stop here! He is, just as sure as I’m alive. I’ll go to the door, Hannah—he’s beckoning with a letter or something, as if he didn’t want to get out.”

Mrs. Gilman, usually so calm, felt her heart give a sudden bound, as she hurried to the window in time to see Squire Merrill give the letter to Abby, and drive off again, with a smiling nod to herself, as if he shared in the pleasure it would give her. No doubt he did, knowing very well, when he found that heavy brown envelope lying at the post office, what a rejoicing it would make.

It was Sam’s coarse, but very plain school-boy hand, in the direction, and if there had been the least doubt in the matter, the ship-mark on it would have told who it came from. Abby thought her mother was the greatest while getting it open, and wondered what made her hands tremble so. Mrs. Gilman could not command her voice to read the very first lines, before Abby had made out half the first page, looking over her shoulder.

To be sure she had a right to—for it commenced:

“Dear mother and the girls.” It was dated Rio Janeiro, March 4th, and must have cost Sam a week’s hard work at least, covering three large sheets of foolscap, and full of “scratching out” and interlining.

“Here we are at last,” was the boy-like and abrupt commencement, “where I never expected to be last Thanksgiving Day, did I? The Captain doesn’t want to be here now; but I’ve told Ben all about that in my letter. What an awful storm that was, though! I never expected to see land, I can tell you, and old Jackson says (Jackson is the sailor I like best, you will see all about it in Ben’s letter) he never saw such a blow as that, and he never wants to see another. I don’t, I’m sure. I’ve got so much to tell you I don’t know where to begin. I suppose I ought to say ‘we are all well, and hope you are the same.’ Well, we are—father and me. Jackson says I’m a regular ‘lubber,’ that means very fat, with him. I shouldn’t like to have him call me a ‘land lubber,’ though. Dear mother, you don’t know how much I want to see you and the girls; I could talk to you all night, but I’m afraid I can’t tell half I want to, on paper.

“We got here two weeks ago. The Captain thought he was going right off again, but you never saw such a lazy set, as the people are here. Jackson says he and I could do as much as twenty Portuguese. I go on shore almost every day. She doesn’t lie at a dock as she did in New-York, for they do not have any docks. It seemed so queer at first, to see all the vessels anchored out in the bay, and the little boats pulling around them. Just think—there have been twenty-two vessels put in here this last month, from the United States, to refit. The reason is, so many were like ours, not fit to go to sea at all, they say, and too much loaded. I think the owners must be bad men to risk people’s lives for the sake of making a little more money. Don’t you?

“Father knows a great many people here, he’s got acquainted with them off the different vessels, and keeps very busy.” Good hearted Sam! he had puzzled half an hour over that sentence, lest he should betray his father’s faults, but Mr. Gilman well knew with all his caution, what he intended to conceal.

“I do not know whether he will find time to write home by this ship, but he means to”—the letter went on to say; for Sam had seen how writing had been put off from day to day, and wished to soften his mother’s disappointment, if no letter came.

“So I go round by myself, and see enough curious things. Why I could not tell you half in ten years. Just think! they are all Catholics in Rio; and have great big churches, that you could put two or three of our meeting-houses right inside! They don’t have any pews, but anybody kneels right down on the stone floor, and says their prayers. I guess our girls wouldn’t like it, with their Sunday-go-to-meeting dresses on! The ladies here don’t seem to mind it at all, but they don’t wear the same kind of clothes. Abby could tell you more about their rigging in ten minutes, than I could in a whole week, so I guess I won’t try. The priest (that’s like our minister) sings all the prayers, in Latin. I guess the folks don’t know much what he means. There are pictures all round some of the churches, and I like to go to hear the music—not singing, like our choir, but real bands of music, that play lively tunes.

I got acquainted with another boy, a real splendid fellow, last week; he came from Boston in the Mermaid, and the Captain is his father. We have great times. There isn’t many boys, going to California. His name is John. Well, John and me did think it was so queer to see real slaves at first. There’s hundreds, and hundreds of them in the streets, and the streets aren’t a bit like what I thought they were going to be—more like little narrow alleys, such as I saw in New-York. (I’m all out of breath with such a great long sentence, so I guess I’ll stop and rest a while.)”

The next page was written with blue ink, and dated two days later.

“Dear mother, I’ve seen such beautiful things this morning, that I must sit right down to tell you before I forget it. I wish Abby had been with John and me this morning. His father took him there yesterday, and he took me there to-day. I mean to the great flower-shop, which is enough handsomer than Squire Merrill’s garden. I thought just as much as could be they were all real flowers, and wondered how they kept them so fresh, without any water; and John laughed, and laughed when I said so! John is most as good a fellow as Ben—he knows all about navigation, his father is teaching him; I told Jackson yesterday I wish I had known him before I finished Ben’s letter. Just tell Ben that the sun doesn’t stop, when it’s just noon,—I thought it did a minute; but it begins to go down the minute it gets in the middle of the sky, and then the Captain knows when it’s exactly noon. Ben’s letter tells about it, if you want to know.

Oh, about the flowers. They were artificials. Abby would go out of her senses to have a bunch for her straw bonnet. If father and me stops here on our way home, I will bring her and Hannah, and Julia Chase, a bushel. They are made out of feathers, bird’s feathers, and colored shells—the littlest things! you ever saw, the shells are; and a good deal brighter and handsomer than real flowers are. I mean New Hampshire flowers. Rio flowers are splendid—tulips and dahlias ain’t nothing to them, tell Abby. Why, geraniums grow right along the road, as high and big as a great mustard bush—and that prickly, green-looking thing like a snake, Julia used to have in a flower pot. The cactuses are nothing but weeds here—not half so scarce as white clover in a hay-field.

Then they have whole farms out back of the city, where nothing but coffee grows! I haven’t seen it growing, but John has, he rode out with his father and some gentlemen. The slaves, (there, I meant to tell you about the slaves,) they bring it in on their heads in great bags, and trot along like old Prince, singing something or other, way down in their throats, and one of them has a rattle, something like Mrs. Chase’s baby’s. I don’t mind the slaves at all now,—it seems just as natural to see them all along the streets, or curled up going to sleep in their big baskets, on the door-steps. John says he’d rather be a nigger than go to sea before the mast, tell Ben. There are great high mountains all around Rio, not like the White Mountains look from our house, but right up sharp and steep, as a bare rock. They don’t have wells here, with buckets and a sweep, the acqueducts (I believe I’ve spelt it right) brings the water along in pipes from one of the mountains, and it spouts up in fountains all over the city. Then the slaves come and get it, and carry it home on their heads, like the coffee.—John says that he thinks they must have wooden heads, or very thick skulls to stand it. I should think so too. I told Jackson, and he said they didn’t have any feeling; any way, Jackson can’t learn ’em anyhow, he says he’d show ’em how to step ’round!

I guess, now, I must tell you about what we are going to do. Just as soon as the vessel is ready, we are going to sea, and bear right down for the Cape. Jackson has been round the Horn twice, and says we must look out for squalls. We are going right down to Staten Land, that’s an island, and perhaps through the strait, Le Maire, not Magellan. Our ship is too large for them. Then we come up to Valparaiso, and hope to get to San Francisco, the middle of June. I expect I shall be glad enough by that time. Father has just come on board, and says he will write by the “Racer” that goes out next week. He says he supposes I told all the news, and sends his love to you and the girls. I wish—well, I do wish that Colcord was in Jericho, and I can’t help it, there, if it is wicked. I’ve told John about my sisters, and Julia Chase, and he’s told me about his. We have real good times. Give my love to Mrs. Chase and Julia, and all inquiring friends. No more at present, from your affectionate son—

Sam’l Gilman.”

Sam had added “Esq.” to the above flourish, but afterwards scratched it out, as if he concluded it was not quite proper. There was a lengthy postscript, in which several messages for Ben were included, and ending—

“I try to do as I know you want me to, mother. I have read my Bible every Sunday, and keep my promise, so far.” Blotted and hurried as were the lines, it was the most precious part of that long, and carefully-written and boyishly egotistical letter; dear as it all was to his mother.

Ben came over the next day with the Sea Journal, which was as good as hearing again from the travellers, and though Mr. Gilman’s promised letter by the “Racer,” never arrived, his wife felt that she ought to be only too thankful for this. The precious letter was kept between the leaves of the family Bible, and every fold was worn long before another came.

CHAPTER VIII.
SAN FRANCISCO.

It was the Fourth of July, the great holiday of boys, if not of the nation, when the Swiftsure came slowly into the magnificent harbor of San Francisco. The weather-beaten sails and canvas told of a long and disastrous voyage. The crew were sullen and discontented, the passengers worn down by long confinement and miserable fare. They had escaped any furious gales after leaving Rio, but encountered head winds, and long unhealthy calms, almost from the time of entering the Pacific. They laid scarcely out of sight of Valparaiso twenty days together. Sam was not the only one on ship-board, who thought then, with almost longing, of the stiff gales and driving sleet and mist off Cape Horn. Our young sailor had comparatively a very comfortable experience of that great bugbear to all seamen. Sometimes the weather was fine for several days together; and gentle-eyed cape pigeons, so tame that it seemed cruel to capture them, came round the ship, or the passengers amused themselves in snaring an albatross, and watching the flapping of its useless wings from the deck.

This strange looking bird reminded Sam of the story he had read in verse, from a book belonging to his last teacher. Ben and he had carried it off from the desk to hide it, and have their own fun in the search, but finding the “Rhyme of the Ancient Mariner,” read it over so frequently, that they could remember more than half, when the hue and cry after the missing volume compelled them to restore it. Jackson and his messmates were favored with recitations as they passed within sight of the rugged and barren promontory, and stretching far away for a favorable wind, entered the long, rolling swell of the Pacific. There was life and excitement in the hardest squall they encountered there, that Sam considered in every way more agreeable than the sameness of a calm in a southern latitude.

Jackson was sure a sailor must have written the description Sam used to spout from his favorite “Ancient Mariner,” and was disappointed to find it was only a poet—“a kind of craft” he had very little respect for. And so it was—

“Down dropt the breeze, the sails dropt down,

’Twas sad as sad could be—

And they did speak only to break

The silence of the sea.

All in a hot and copper sky,

The bloody sun at noon,

Right up above the mast did stand

No bigger than the moon.

Day after day, day after day,

They stuck, nor sense nor motion,

As idle as a painted ship,

Upon a painted ocean.”

Life grew almost a blank to those on board, until the certainty of nearing San Francisco, roused once more the feverish excitement with which they had left home.

Sam thought the last night would never end. He walked the deck restlessly, and tried to plan what they were going to do. Colcord he knew had schemes of his own, that Mr. Gilman would be sure to follow. But how were they to get to the mines to begin with? They had no money, no friends to apply to. The day broke over the broad swell of the bay, and lifted the heavy fog that obscured the new city of San Francisco. It was as yet a wilderness of tents and canvas-covered sheds, stretching along the beach without order or regularity. Here they dropped anchor at last, and another eager crowd of adventurers landed on the shores of California.

Mr. Gilman planning the voyage in the bar-room of Mooney’s tavern, or talking it over, by his comfortable fireside, was a very different person from Mr. Gilman landed on the beach at San Francisco, not knowing where to get a breakfast, or the money to pay for it. Colcord too, was more crest-fallen than Sam ever saw him before or afterwards, and condescended to say, “Well, Sammy my boy, what are we going to do first?”

That was the question, for they could not sit on their chests all day and watch the vessels anchored near their own, and Mr. Gilman found, to his dismay, that it would cost twenty dollars even to land his cherished gold rocker. Colcord proposed that they should try to get an advance on it, and for this the two men left Sam to look after their baggage, a very useless precaution as he soon found. The whole shore was strewn with piles of goods far more valuable than a sea chest, and lighters were already coming and going from the different ships, adding to them. Sam strolled off towards one of these, as he thought he made out the ship from which it came. He was not mistaken; the Mermaid had arrived before them, and if the disheartened boy had suddenly been set down at home, he could scarcely have felt happier, than when he saw his Rio acquaintance, John, spring on shore. It was a most fortunate meeting. John had been a Californian three whole weeks, and gave Sam an astonishing account of what was going on in the country. People had to pay fifty dollars a week for board, and poor fare at that, John said; as for the gold-washer, on which so much depended, if they got themselves to the mines they would be fortunate, and nobody wanted to buy machinery on speculation for that reason. John had gone to work already, and advised Sam to do the same. He knew men were wanted to help unload the Mermaid, and other vessels in port, and some of them had ten dollars a day; boys like themselves were earning six and eight. John had not much time to talk. He looked as important as any business man on the New-York Exchange, and bustled around among the sailors and porters, assisting the clerk who had come down to take charge of the Mermaid’s cargo. Fourth of July gave no respite from business here, and but for the national flag flying from every ship, and an occasional ambitious discharge of Chinese crackers, no one seemed to notice it.

Colcord and Mr. Gilman came back, not very amiable towards each other or any one else. Sam had been thinking over his mother’s parting counsel, and came to the conclusion that she was right about work, as well as other things.

“Never be afraid of hard work”—he said to himself. “If one kind of work is not handy, do something else.”—He had come to dig gold, but as far as that was concerned he might as well have been at home. So he thought the next best thing would be to earn it. Sam walked up and down the beach, with hands in both pockets, whistling Hail Columbia, in honor of the day, with an absent air, when the two men came up; but in half an hour from that time he was working away alongside the Mermaid, under John’s orders. Colcord followed his example, when he found it was the only thing to be done, but Mr. Gilman could not forget his pride, or conquer his indolence, until driven to it by a very uncomfortable night on the beach. Even the shelter of a canvas tent had to be paid for. He did more real hard work, that one week in San Francisco, than he had on the farm in six years.

Sam now began to be of some consequence in the partnership, and felt his importance, as might be supposed. He contributed almost as much as either of the others to the common stock, when they came to purchase their tools and provisions for the mines.

Mr. Gilman insisted on taking the gold-washer, until the very last moment, although after he succeeded in getting it landed, it was said to be useless by people coming from the diggings. No one would make him the smallest offer for it, and finding at last that it would be impossible to get it carried across the country from the Sacramento, he left it reluctantly on the beach at San Francisco, the twenty dollars—two days’ hard work!—paid for landing, added to the original cost.

Sam was very glad to bid good-bye to San Francisco, and find himself actually on his way to the mines. He had seen very little of it, except at night, when the eating houses and gambling saloons were like so many great transparencies, as the light struck through the canvas roofs and sides. There were no other places of amusement, no churches, no public buildings to visit. Men worked and speculated all day, and managed to spend at night almost as much money as they had made. They had no homes, no family circles, scarcely a tie to life; no wonder that half of them grew reckless. Sam was not old enough either in years or in the world to comprehend these things, and he longed for new adventures. He gave a last look to the old Swiftsure, rocking in the bay, without any other feeling of regret than a fear he should never see Jackson, his sailor friend, again. Jackson thought they might “run alongside” in China or Calcutta yet, but Sam did not think it was very likely his travels would ever extend so far. John said he might possibly “take a run up to the mines before the rainy season set in,”—for California boys talk very independently, and it was John’s great ambition to be considered grown up. He patronized Sam extensively, the last few days, and slapped him on the shoulder with a “good-bye old boy—take care of yourself”—as the little party embarked on the sloop in which they had engaged passage to Sacramento.

The clothes that Mrs. Gilman so carefully prepared, were reduced to a very small compass, when they selected what they could carry to the mines. Where every thing had to be paid for at the rate of twenty cents a pound, and provisions and mining tools were indispensable, ordinary baggage was not to be thought of. Many boys of Sam’s age think it impossible to leave home for a quarter at boarding-school, without at least “five changes of raiment”—not to mention dressing case, desk and carpet bag, including a silver fork and spoon. The catalogue of the young miner’s outfit was very brief. The clothes he wore—two shirts, and a huge jack-knife, with a common share in the pans, pick-axes and shovels, a tin cup, frying-pan, and coffee-pot. Boarding-school fare, much as it is berated, would be considered a feast in comparison to the crackers, jerked and salt beef—packed with their “assorted cargo”—the stock of provisions that was to last them to the mines.

Sam felt very dignified and Robinson Crusoe-ish, as he stuck his knife in a new leather belt, and slung a coarse blue blanket that was to serve as a bed,—mattress, quilts, pillows, and all,—over his shoulder. He found the last slightly uncomfortable when the sun beat down upon the narrow deck, and was obliged to deposit it ignobly beneath him. He was ready for any kind of adventure in the morning, Indians, coyotes or bears, but such an unworthy foe as a mosquito cloud damped his ardor very considerably. He was not at all prepared for the early advances these tormenting little insects made, nor the perseverance with which the attack was followed up. He could readily believe the stories some of the passengers told, of men who had gone mad from their torments, and especially of a thief, who could not be made to confess by the lash, or any threat of death, but came to terms very suddenly when tied to a tree, where he was exposed, defenceless, to a swarm of mosquitoes. Some of these men had already been to the mines, and were returning with supplies from San Francisco. Their marvellous stories of the increasing abundance of the gold, the great yield of the gulches on the Yuba and Feather Rivers, and the ease with which it was attained, elated Mr. Gilman wonderfully. He was in better humor all through the trip than he had been since leaving New-York, and talked more to Sam of home. To have listened to him, any one would have thought he had always been a most loving and considerate husband, and was now exiled from all that he cared for, a martyr for their sakes; when the truth was, he had wasted all that belonged to them, and came away when his wife would willingly have worked twice as hard, rather than have him and her son exposed to the hardships and temptations they were now encountering.

The low, foliage-covered banks of the Sacramento looked pleasant, late as it was in the season, to those who had been so long on ship-board. Sometimes they had a distant glimpse of the mountainous country they were approaching, through the glades and openings along the bank. Then the river spread through the tule-marshes, all overflowed in the rainy season, but now only beds of rank coarse rushes. The voyage to Sacramento City, which lasted three days, was on the whole monotonous and uncomfortable, varied only by a succession of mosquito battles, or going on shore as the sloop warped slowly through the cut-away, a kind of canal, made by a turn in the river, which had forced its way through, instead of winding around a jutting point of land.

Sacramento City, like San Francisco, they found to be a collection of temporary houses, half the population living in tents, which were pitched under the old forest trees, so recently standing there in solitude. The streets were more regularly laid out, and filled with a motley crowd, the teams of emigrants and miners arriving and departing constantly. The canvas-covered stores were as busy as if they had been the most respectable brick warehouses, quick sales and large profits being the order of the day. The cattle market and auction sales going on in the open air, called together the oddest looking people Sam had ever seen; genuine miners, with their faces and hands like leather, their long beards and careless dress being the most noticeable. It was certainly a great contrast to the quiet routine of New England village life, more so even than the narrow, crowded streets of Rio; and Sam sometimes thought he must be dreaming over Gulliver’s Travels in the great barn chamber. What had altered him most of any thing since leaving home, was having no companion his own age. He had lived among men, and listened to their conversation, until he had almost lost the fresh simplicity of boyhood. When he first comprehended his father’s faults, it took away his simple faith, and the care which his mother impressed on him, had changed the ordinary feeling between father and son. Painfully sensitive to every weakness in his father’s habits and disposition, he could not bear any one else to notice them, and never thought for a moment that there was any less claim on his obedience. Yet the first love and devotion of his heart was his mother’s. It was the same everywhere; up aloft on the Swiftsure, watching for a sail, toiling on the hot beach at San Francisco, or lying in a dream of home, as the sloop glided up the Sacramento, the thought of his mother brought a glow to his heart, and often tears to his eyes. She should not be disappointed in him at any rate, he said to himself, a hundred times, as he remembered the troubled, anxious look he had seen at times steal over her cheerful face.

CHAPTER IX.
THE PLAINS.

Sam did wish Ben could have seen them, as they started across the plains in the wake of the team on which their cooking and mining utensils were carried. Several of the sloop’s passengers had joined the party, so that the wagon was heavily loaded, and the oxen toiled patiently along. Before them stretched an endless reach of level country, the road winding through it past clumps of oaks, that dotted the plain like islands, for miles and miles, with scarcely a shrub or rock to break the uniformity. The only danger to be dreaded was a scarcity of food for the oxen, and water for themselves. The springs and wayside pools had all disappeared in the heat of the dry season, and every person carried their bottle of water, as carefully as if it had been some costly luxury. If water had been the only liquid that the party carried, it would perhaps have been better for many of them, Mr. Gilman included.

The afternoon shadows were stretching from the tents pitched on the outskirts of Sacramento, when they left it, and the first stage of their journey lengthened to midnight. The owner of the oxen, a fortune in themselves at this time, took good care to guide them to a spring, and here they halted for the night. The cattle were turned loose to graze, fires were built of dry twigs and branches, kettles boiled, and beef hissed in the frying-pan. Sam was installed the cook for their party. His father stretched himself on the grass as soon as possible, and Colcord knew very little about the matter. It was no hardship to the young cook, who watched the rest of the party, and practised on his recollections of the galley of the Swiftsure. Never had beef or coffee tasted like that to him, though he was no more remarkable for a bad appetite than most boys of his age, at any time. He was so delighted with his success, that he thought it was useless to try to go to sleep. And so it was. He found it the very easiest thing in the world, once rolled in his blanket, watching the moonlight flicker through the leaves on the queer figures stretched around him.

Long before daylight the little camp was again in motion, the remnants of the last night’s supper made them a hurried meal, the kettles were slung to the wagon, the oxen driven in and harnessed, the water bottles filled, and they were miles on their journey when the sun rose. This early start was to avoid the great heat of the unsheltered road at mid-day, and halting as before, at a clump of low scrub oaks, they lolled around in what shade they could find, cooked their dinners, and waited until almost nightfall to recommence their journey.

The fourth day they were not so successful in finding water. They were later in starting, as the cattle had strayed some distance, and the sun came out hot and red. Neither the men nor animals were fresh, the loose gravelly ridges of the road impeded them, and their flasks were all empty, from the lengthened merry-making of the night before. The straggling party dragged slowly along, their steps impeded by as little clothing as it was possible to wear. The patient oxen lolled their parched tongues, and the jokes and snatches of negro melodies, with which the men beguiled the time, died away in an ominous quiet. They had not breath to waste even in complaining. It was almost noon when they came to a shallow stagnant pool, mantling with green mould, and the driver tried in vain to make them pass it without halting. He expected to find a spring by digging in the dry hollows, through which the road sometimes ran; but they would not listen to him in their frantic thirst. Some of the party threw themselves on the ground, and drank where the oxen themselves turned away, and then sickened of the nauseous draught. Others tried in vain to conquer their disgust, and but moistened their parched lips.

Poor Sam, the bravest of them all, had never imagined such suffering. His feet seemed like bars of iron as he tried to keep in the sandy road, and his head grew dizzy, while his mind wandered to the old well at home, the ice-cold water brimming and dripping over the bucket, as he raised it to his lips. Then he seemed to hear the plash of the fountains at Rio, mocking him,—the recollection of the scanty allowance, warm and unpalatable as it then seemed, served out to them at sea, was delicious. He thought he must die as travellers in the great deserts had done, and he tried to pray, but his mind wandered again to the old well, to the mill pond, with its shadow of alder bushes, and sweet flags. Could it be possible that he had ever wasted water so—that it had ever been plentiful enough to bathe in, to float about, laving his limbs with its cool ripple. Then he looked around again to try and remember where he was, and saw the dreary plain, the short fringe of grass withered to dust beneath his feet, and the first belt of timber where they could hope for shade, miles beyond, the furnace glow of the plain cutting off all hope of reaching it alive. He would have laid down there, and died, or gone raging mad, as men have done from thirst, had not his father sunk with fatigue and fever, resisting the entreaties of his companions. It roused him for a moment to forgetfulness of his own agony. He urged and prayed, and entreated his father to struggle on a little longer, with no answer but moans of suffering. He could not leave him to die by the road-side. But they must both perish, if he staid there longer; the train, slowly as it moved, was far ahead of them. He lost sight of their guide descending in a dry ravine. Why did they stop there so long? they could not all have despaired; the last straggler hurried forward—he thought he heard a faint shout—a cry of joy! He left his father alone on the hot sand; he ran, he struggled on, as in some horrid dream, feeling that every step must be the last, that he should never, never reach the train. All consciousness of action left him,—but they saw him, they came towards him, some less selfish, less delirious than the rest; and as he staggered and fell, a kind hand held water to his lips, and dashed it on his face. In that first gasp of returning strength, he only thought that his father’s life was saved. What was gold—mines of gold—mountains of gold, to that one precious draught, that most common of all God’s blessings, water!

No one thought of food for hours after. A sleep, almost like lethargy, followed the intense thirst and exhaustion, and then as night came, they woke to drink and sleep again. They scarcely noticed the long unbroken outline of the Sierra rising before them, the first wooded slope of the highlands being almost gained. For once they forgot even their thirst for gold.

The next evening’s travel was delightful, after they had entered the scattered wood at the bottom of the hills, although the path was rough and uneven. The stir of foliage overhead was pleasant, and rocks and falling trees, though they made the way more difficult, were something to rest the eye after the unbroken sameness of the plains. Sam could scarcely realize their late danger, encamped for the night near a small but clear and sparkling lake one of the party had discovered among the hills. The camp fires streamed up, the coffee bubbled and steamed over the glowing coals, they ate and drank and sang, and speculated over the sums they expected to make, with reckless unconcern, though only the day before they would have given all but life for a cup of cold water! Most of them had met with too many perils and hairbreadth escapes, to give one thought to any thing that was fairly over with, however frightful or disagreeable it might be at the time, and they were within one day’s journey of the waters of the Yuba—and boundless wealth. At least it was theirs in anticipation, though many of them were never to have it in reality.

It was almost as thrilling as the first cry of “land!” when Sam reached the summit of the mountain ridge, and looked down upon the camp of the miners on Larkin’s Bar.

Here he was,—the same good-hearted daring boy, that a year ago had considered a ducking in the mill-pond, or climbing Prospect Mountain, an adventure,—in the very heart of a California range, thinking as eagerly of gold hunting, as the party of bearded, travel-worn men around him. His brown sunburnt face, neglected hair, and careless dress, would have drawn a crowd in Yankee-land, but here it was the costume of the country. He stood on the very highest spur of the hill, looking back with a wave of the tin cup in his hand to cheer on less active climbers, and then down into the ravine, through which the shrunken stream brawled and foamed, as if fretted at the many intruders that were tearing up its banks.

Sam had heard them talk of bars, and knew they were going to one, but he had always supposed it was like the bar at the entrance of a river or harbor. To his great wonder, it was only the bed of the river, laid bare by the water subsiding in the dry season, into a narrow, rocky channel. As the particles of gold were washed down from the mountains, they were deposited on these bars, beneath the loose, gravelly soil, or in the fissures of the rocks. The miners’ camp was beneath the high bluff on which he stood. A few small tents, a rough canvas-covered shed, dignified into a store,—some benches and a table, at which meals were served to those who could afford the luxury of having their cooking done for them, and groups of cooking utensils at intervals marking the place where less opulent individuals “did their own work,” and slept in their blankets, was all that made Larkin’s Bar a habitable place.

It was nearly sundown when they reached it, and most of the miners had finished a week’s hard toil, and were collecting or calculating their gains. The only curiosity they showed in receiving the new comers, was for news from the States, and when a mail was expected; but they were very good-natured in giving them all the information they wanted.

Mr. Gilman was not at all pleased with his first discovery. All the bar had been claimed, or bought of the original discoverers, and the privilege of working it was to be paid for, accordingly. The smallest claim, as the water lots were called, could not be had under three hundred dollars. Mr. Gilman was for resisting any such injustice, and Sam did not like the idea of working two or three weeks for other people, when they might as well be helping themselves. It was found the best and only thing they could do in the end, as all the bars in the neighborhood were occupied, and they would lose more time in going on to the Feather River; it might be only to find the same thing there.

There was some comfort in hearing that nearly every one who arrived hired themselves out for a few days, to learn how to handle their tools; but the commencement of Mr. Gilman’s schemes of independence, was to find himself using a spade and pickaxe as a day-laborer.