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                          A NAPA CHRISTCHILD.

                               --AND--

                          BENICIA'S LETTERS.


                                 BY

                         CHARLES A. GUNNISON


                              PRESS OF
                    COMMERCIAL PUBLISHING COMPANY.


                                 TO

                       THE MOTHER AND SISTERS

                                 OF

                        EDOUARD STOLTERFOHT,

     This Christmas book is offered, to keep in memory sunny winter
     days, spent in Rostock, Hohen Niendorf bei Kroepelin, and Gross
     Kussewitz, and with the added hope that Poppendorf bei Bentwish
     will not forget that I wrote in the house-book--


               You have a gentle cure for parting's pain;
               It is your German word Aufwiederseh'n.


    These are just old-fashioned Christmas tales, to be read before an
    open fire, with a heart full of charity for me. There is no modern
    realism in them, for every word is a lie, the telling of which has
    given me the greatest pleasure. I have also stolen a quotation from
    Hawthorne, which is the best thing in the book, and last I have had
    the exquisite joy of bloodless murder in killing one of my people.
    Thus, you see, I need your charity truly, for I have broken
    deliberately, for your entertainment, Three out of a possible Ten.

                   CHARLES A. GUNNISON,
                        In the Embarcadero Rd.
                               Palo Alto, Santa Clara.
    _Christmas, 1896._


[Illustration: Scroll]




A Napa Christchild.




I.


An evening sky, broken by wandering clouds, which hastening onward
toward the north, bear their rich gifts of longed-for rain to the brown
meadows, filling the heavens from east to west with graceful lines and
swelling bosoms, save, just at the horizon where the sun descended
paints a broad, lurid streak of crimson, glowing amid the deepening
shadows, a coal in dead, gray ashes.

Darker grows the streak, as a stain of blood, while the clouds about it
now assume a purple tinge with gloomier shadings; suddenly in the centre
of the lurid field starts out as if that moment born to Earth, with
clear, silver light, the Evening Star. The colour slowly fades till all
is dead and ashy, and the silver star drops down below the purpled
hills, leaving for a moment a soft, trembling twilight; the dense clouds
then rolling in between, blot out the last sign of departed day and
night is come.

It was Christmas Eve. The winter was late, and rain had fallen during
the last few weeks only, so that the fields were just assuming the fresh
pea-green colour of their new life, and the long, dead grass still
standing above the recent growth gave that odd smokey appearance to the
hills and mesas, so familiar to all us Californians also in our olive
groves. The night, however, was dark and nothing of hills, or mesas, or
gray fields, could be seen as the hurrying bands of clouds joined
together in one great company, overspreading the whole sky and clothing
all in a dreary shroud of blackness.

The little arroyo, which was dry in the summertime, had now risen,
increased by last week's tribute to be quite a large stream, tearing
noisely among the rocks and over its old courses, giving friendly
greetings of recognition to the old water-marks and dashing a playful
wave now and then about the worn roots of the enormous laurel tree whose
branches reached high above and far around.

Beneath the tree's protecting limbs, a little cabin, of roughest
workmanship, found shelter from the wind, or shade from the intense heat
of summer; the house was built almost entirely of logs, excepting the
upper part where boards had been used and through which were cut the
three windows which served to light the single room it contained.

This Christmas Eve, only the dark form of the cabin was to be seen with
the tall adobe chimney built up the outside; the smoke blew, beaten here
and there, about the roof till it finally disappeared, a cloud of
ghosts, among the swaying branches of the laurel tree.

By day in the sunshine, no pleasanter spot could be found than the
little cabin and broad fields of Crescimir the Illyrian, no lovelier
view of the rich Napa Valley could be had than from the hill where
Crescimir's cattle grazed and no happier home could have been found in
all the Californias than his, had he not been so alone, without a friend
and far from his native country.

On the very day which opens this story, one might have stood upon the
bridge and watched the lazy flowing of the river on whose dull green
surface all the spans and bars were shadowed, and on the buttress seen
the sunshine in ever changing, trembling glints of gold. Dead thistles
were on the bank rustling in the breeze and the long tules by the
water-side, some broken, others upright, waved gracefully, moved by both
wind and current. To the left hand on both sides of the arroyo which
here joined the river, one could have seen Crescimir's fields and the
vegetable garden with its whitey-green cabbages, the rich brown heaps of
manure and straw, and the beds of beets all crimson and green, then the
borders of oaks and the far, blue hills, while myriads of little
gray-winged moths hovered over the masses of tangled blackberry vines
and giant dock. To the southward rose, far away, the peak of glorious
Tamalpais, a dark blue dash without a shadow. There were the black,
ploughed fields, steaming in the sunshine, larks springing up from the
glittering leaves, and noisy squirrels in the bay tree laying away their
stores of nuts and maize in its hundred hollows. Leaning upon the rail
and watching the river, rippled in the centre but calm and glassy near
the banks, one could have seen the silver fish springing from the water
for the insects playing about the surface, and could have breathed the
rich perfume of growing onions and the sweet, fresh, green life.

On the hillside Crescimir had planted grape vines, but they were young
yet and bore no fruit, still, had they borne the heaviest of clusters
there was no one to eat them then for there were but few settlers in the
valley and Crescimir had no neighbours, but the Rancho Tulucay, nearer
than the little village three miles distant.

Thus Crescimir the Illyrian lived alone improving his lands and selling
vegetables to the Yankee traders who came up the river in their little
schooners; he was always busy ploughing and dressing the gardens or
clearing away the chaparral.

Two years had been spent here since he had left his fatherland, amid the
wild scenes of the Julian Alps. It was on a Christmas Eve that he had
bidden his old friends good bye and at each return of the day he thought
more sadly of his lonely life, sighing for the old mountain village
where he had so often made merry with his comrades.

There was one bright spot in Crescimir's daily routine and he prized
that above all the day, for it showed to him that there was one person
who did think of him, though who he could never learn. For a year or
more he had found each day at his cabin door a bunch of garden flowers
and in their place he daily left a bunch of his sweetest onions or some
rare vegetable, which were always taken away.

The rain began to fall, after Crescimir, having made the horse and
cattle right for the night, started to his cabin. The barn was on the
summit of the knoll, at the foot of which, by the arroyo, he had built
his little house of one room.

Crescimir felt his way along through the vegetable garden, carrying the
milk pail in one hand and holding the lantern out before him with the
other; the light glistened upon the tall stalks of last year's maize and
gleamed back from the glossy, pungent leaves of the bay tree, from the
tin pail and his wet boots, all reflected in the little pools fast
collecting in the path. As he neared the cabin the rain fell as it
seldom does, save in the tropics, and Crescimir entering the cabin
closed the door with a noise, warning the storm not to encroach on the
little bit of the world which was his own.

Inside the cabin there was a blazing wood-fire on the open hearth and a
lighted candle on the table; the interior was homelike and comfortable;
in one corner stood the bed with white cover, there were two arm chairs,
a tall dresser and two tables, one of the tables set for supper, which
consisted simply of bread and milk which Crescimir was ready for as soon
as he had washed his hands at the pump in the little "lean-to," and
exchanged his long boots for a pair of easy slippers.

Over the fireplace hung a bunch of crimson toyone berries and a branch
of hemlock, which Crescimir had hung there to mark the holiday. He did
not sit down at once to his meal, but stood, leaning against the
chimney piece, meditatively picking off bits of the hemlock and
throwing them into the fire where they crackled with a merry noise and
blazed up, scenting the room with their fragrance of the forest.

As he threw the bits into the fire he sang that melody which the
Illyrian children sing when bearing home their Christmas trees, found
always in the deep forests; it was a song dear to him and the words
brought up memories of all his happy home life and he grew sad as he
thought of the lonely present.


     "Deep in the wilds of Illyria's mountains
           Under a hemlock tree,
     Good Spirits buried a wonderful treasure,
           Long years ago for me.
     There in the gloom by a snow-born fountain
           We found the hemlock tree,
     Bore it away with loud notes of pleasure,
           Hearts overrunning with glee.
           Here is my hemlock tree
           Christchild kiss it for me,
           Make every branch bear
           A gift that is fair,
           This glossy-leaved hemlock tree,
           Evergreen hemlock tree.

     Hemlock ne'er blooms unless kissed by the Christchild,
           Glossy-leaved hemlock tree!
     Come little Christchild and breathe on its branches
           That its fair blossoms we see;
     Kissed by the lips of the Heavenly Christchild,
           Blessed by the wind so free,
     Grown o'er the treasure the Good Spirits planted
           Wondrous its fruit must be!
           Here is my hemlock tree,
           Christchild kiss it for me.
           Make every branch bear
           A gift that is fair,
           This glossy-leaved hemlock tree,
           Evergreen hemlock tree."


"Alas for me," exclaimed Crescimir, "my happy Christchild days are over
and I fear he has forgotten where I live out in Alta California and
will never bring me anything again."

Just as the song was finished, a sound was heard at the door but
Crescimir thinking that it was the wind, gave no attention to it,
sitting down to his supper.

He had not eaten the first spoonful of his bread and milk when the door
opened and by the aid of the firelight, for the draught extinguished the
candle, he saw a pretty, little, golden haired child in a short, white
frock which reached to the knees; the child wore neither hat, shoes, nor
stockings and, what seemed most remarkable, was dry despite the heavy
rain. The little creature as quietly closed the door as he had opened
it, and smiling, walked up to the hearth, spreading out before it his
tiny, pink hands.

[Illustration: Scroll]




II.


As the little visitor stretched out his hands to warm them at the fire,
his shadow formed a flickering cross upon the floor. Crescimir noticed
this, and also wondering at the mysterious advent of the child, which
coming so closely upon his song, caused him almost to think that he must
be dreaming.

"Art thou the Christchild?" he said finally, to the little figure which
stood with its back toward him gazing up at the branch of hemlock above
the fireplace.

The child turned around and looking merrily at Crescimir, broke into a
fit of boisterous laughter, but did not answer.

"Thou art not a very polite little boy, to break into a house this way
and then not answer a simple question. Thou art no Austrian Christchild,
I am sure of that. No matter," he added, as he saw the little face
pucker up for a cry, "wait till we are better acquainted and then we can
talk it all over."

The child smiled again and made a sign indicating that he wanted the
hemlock branch above his head. Crescimir took it down for him and as
soon as the little creature received it, he began hopping about the
room, holding the branch aloft and humming the melody which Crescimir
had just been singing.

"Truly, thou art a strange little elf, but I know how to tell if thou
art mortal. Wilt thou have thy supper?" and he held out a spoonful of
the bread and milk to the dancing figure. The child immediately stopped
his whirling, and running to Crescimir, eagerly ate the food, and then
climbing into his lap, sat there quietly, with expectant face as if
anticipating a share in the rest of the supper. So Crescimir took one
spoonful and the Christchild the next, until the bowl was empty.

"I am glad that thou art come, little one," said Crescimir, as he held
the child in his arms, seated in the wooden armchair before the fire.
"Thou hast made my Christmas Eve a very pleasant one, but I wish that I
could know who thou art and whether thy parents are anxiously searching
for thee this stormy night. Canst thou not speak?"

The child shook his golden head solemnly and began throwing bits of the
hemlock into the flames, watching the blaze they made as if he could
read in it.

Crescimir had spoken in German and the little waif understood him, but
it seemed that he was unable to answer except in a cooing sound
expressive of his sensations; however, he could sing most sweetly, not
articulating, but singing as a bird and making beautiful melody. The
song which Crescimir had been singing when he entered, seemed to please
his ear greatly and he warbled it over again in his strangely sweet
tones. Crescimir sung the song a number of times to him and also many
others, some of which with their merry music, breathing fresh from the
high Alps, caused his little hand to keep time with the hemlock branch
as he joined in the songs with his curious notes.

"Thou art a little elf!" exclaimed Crescimir as he kissed the rosy
face. "Thou bringest back all the old days and makest me feel as merry
as I used in far off Illyria. Bless thee little Christchild."

The mysterious guest laughed gaily pulling Crescimir's hair and drawing
his smooth fingers over the dark, weather beaten face of the man. Then
he played horse, riding on Crescimir's knee using the branch for a whip,
while Crescimir sang little verses which came to his mind, verses which
set to rolicking music he had sung in his old home on feast days at
dances in the tavern, accompanied by zither or hackbretl.


     "My girl has ta'en her love away,
         I'm easier now I guess,
     Don't have to go so oft to church,
         Nor half so oft confess--
         Nor half so oft confess."


The wind blew harder but neither Crescimir nor his guest heeded it,
while the roaring of the arroyo and river and the steady pouring of the
rain on the roof did not mar their merry making in the least, and they
laughed and sung regardless of it all.


     "Now I have two girls,
         An old one and a new,
     So now I need two hearts,
         A false one and a true."


He continued:


     "Here Heavenly Father,
         'T were fine to remain
     If for just half an hour
         'T would gold dollars rain."


Just then the little cabin shook.

"Strong wind to-night; it is lucky for thee, Christchild, that thou hast
found shelter and lucky for me that the evening which promised to be so
dull has been a very merry one.


     "Don't be so sad, boy,
         If she did treat thee rough,
     The world is like a hen-roost,
         Has pullets quite enough."


Crescimir ceased singing, for the Christchild stopped suddenly in his
romping, gazing fixedly with his large, wondering eyes upon the floor.

"What see'st thou, little one?"

The child pointed to the door and Crescimir saw two small streams of
white, foamy water pouring in from each side, and the floor was covered.
Crescimir quickly placed the Christchild on the table and started to
open the door, but before he reached it, the house trembled as if in an
earthquake shock and the door fell back into the room with a loud crash,
while a volume of seething water washed over it almost throwing him down
with its terrible force. The water poured in little jets through the
cracks in the walls and rushing into the fireplace put out the flames
and left the room in total darkness.

The water rose rapidly and by the time that Crescimir had grasped the
form of his little guest and opening one of the windows had drawn
himself with his charge upon the roof, the flood had reached the upper
sashes.

The cabin swayed to and fro and every moment seemed about to be carried
from its foundations. The Christchild made no sound of fear and
Crescimir could not see his face, yet he held the long hemlock branch
tightly in his little hand.

The roof was firmly built of logs and planks so in case the house fell
it could be used as a raft and Crescimir exerting all his strength
pulled from the sides the flat boards which held it fixed to the cabin.

As the flood rose higher, he took the Christchild and lying down in the
middle of the roof held on firmly.

Suddenly the roof was lifted and whirled down the swollen arroyo into
the broad river. Floating logs struck against it, and as they tore
along under the bridge they struck against the buttress with terrific
force. Onward they were whirled; they could see the lights in the houses
of the village and could hear the voices of men and women along the
bluffs or in the trees where they had sought shelter.

The rain ceased falling, but the wind did not go down, rolling the waves
over their raft. Once they lodged for a moment against a great oak where
Crescimir strove in vain to make fast. The tide was too powerful and all
went with it whirling blindly onward.

[Illustration: Scroll]

[Illustration: Scroll]




III.


The waters fell almost as rapidly as they had risen, and by sunrise on
Christmas Day, the river had returned between its banks, though still
flowing fast and frothy.

Mists lay in strata along the hills showing the green grass between in
long, even stripes. Up from the high mesas sprang the larks ready to
greet the day, or perching for a moment on some sturdy manzanita they
spread their broad tails, with two white feathers, balancing and
chirping cheerily.

A little valley through which an arroyo flowed, scantily bordered by low
growing willows, formed the scene; on one side was a stubble-field with
many cattle grazing on the new grass; there were a few dark oaks and
then on the first risings, yellow patches of vineyards with red,
ploughed ground dotted with manzanitas. The high hills which formed the
background were rough and black.

In the hollow at the foot of the mesa was a newly formed pond on which
floated branches of trees, bits of wood and some broken pieces of
household furniture; about the grass was strewn the same sort of drift
and the grass itself was torn and bent and there were yellow-white bits
of foam upon it. At one side wedged between two encina trees lay the
roof of a house, on the edge of which a little child was sitting beside
the body of a man, who lying with one arm hung listlessly over the side
seemed asleep or dead. The pond was fast lowering, leaving its burden of
debris scattered about.

This was the scene which met the searching eyes of Jovita of Tulucay
Rancho as, mounted on her horse, she came around the knoll which hid the
house and buildings of the rancho from the meadow.

Jovita quickly alighted, took up the child in her arms, and seeing that
he was unhurt but simply dazed at his situation, placed him upon her
horse and gave her attention to the man who lay there, to all
appearances dead.

"Unfortunate man," she said aloud, unable to repress her tears, "his
wife has probably been lost and he has saved their child."

She took his hand in hers and felt that his pulse was yet beating; a
bruise on the temple seemed to be the only wound and was caused by the
blow which had stunned him.

As Jovita chafed his hands and smoothed his forehead, he opened his
eyes, and then looking about astonished at his surroundings, asked,
"Where is the Christchild? Surely I have saved him."

The little one from the back of the horse began in his strange tones to
sing the "Song of the Hemlock" in answer to Crescimir's enquiry.

"I hardly know where we are, for in the darkness and swift whirl of last
night I lost my way," he said, sitting up. "I remember now that
something struck me when the raft stopped. I thank God that the
Christchild was not lost, dear little fellow."

"Christchild?" exclaimed Jovita, looking at him in surprise, "Have you
given your boy that name?"

"I do not know, Señorita, who the child is, but he came to my door last
night, Christmas Eve, and brought me some of the merriest hours I have
had since I left old Illyria, and had not the flood carried away
everything, I would have marked yesterday as one of the happiest in my
life. He is a strange little fellow and will not, or else cannot speak,
yet he sings beautifully in his own odd way as you hear him now. I
called him Christchild as I knew no better name. Are you not the
Señorita of El Tulucay? I know that horse which you have and have often
seen him with a lady on his back flying over all the fields about here."

"Yes, I am Jovita of the Tulucay, and I know you now; you are called
Crescimir the Illyrian, and I have been often to your cabin and sat
beneath the great laurel while you were in the fields or at your work. I
have often left flowers there at your door just for the pleasure of
imagining the surprise when you should find them, and I always took the
vegetables I found there, for I knew that they were for me. However, I
never saw your face before this morning. You see I am little like our
Californians, but my mother is from the States and believes in more
freedom; she could not be better or kinder though she were a real
Californian. If you are able we had better go up to the hacienda now,
and after breakfast we will look about to see if assistance is needed
along the river, for the flood was sudden and unlooked for."

Crescimir was not hurt and was able to walk slowly to the house. Jovita
walked by his side, leading her horse, while the Christchild sat quietly
in the saddle, nodding his head and winking like any sleepy child of
this mortal world.

Both Crescimir and Jovita were silent during the walk, but their eyes
often met, and Jovita would blush as she thought of her strange freak
with the flowers and finding that the receiver was by no means the old
man she had imagined him to be.

Crescimir was happy to think that he had not left his gifts
unappreciated and only regretted that he had not put whole pumpkins
there instead of onions.

"So you have no idea to whom the child belongs?" asked Jovita, as they
neared the house. "He is strangely dressed and the frock is of an
unfamiliar texture; he does not seem cold either, although he is so
lightly clad. We must try to find his parents who, doubtless, are now
anxiously searching for him or believing him drowned in last night's
awful flood."

The strange little creature seemed now entirely to lose his sleepiness
and broke into a merry laugh, sliding down from the saddle he capered
madly around the two astonished spectators like a little elf blown about
by the wind, his golden hair floating around him and the pink, little
feet scarcely seeming to touch the grass.

"There has been a number of campers passing through the valley to settle
north on the Caymus ranchos, this little sprite must be one of their
children who has strayed away," said Jovita.

"Come little one, let us go into the house and have our breakfast."

The Christchild did not seem to understand her, for he continued his
capering and wild antics.

"Stop, stop," exclaimed Crescimir in his native tongue, "stop and listen
to what the beautiful Señorita says to thee. Come now into the house."

He ceased his play immediately and went before them up to the door, with
tears in his eyes on account of Crescimir's rebuke. As they reached the
veranda Crescimir caught the little elf up in his arms and kissed his
rosy lips; the moment the child's feet touched the ground when Crescimir
put him down, he put his hand over his mouth as if to keep the kiss warm
and running to Jovita, she lifted him in her arms, as he signed her to
do, when suddenly withdrawing his hand, he kissed her, looking back
significantly and laughing.

Both Jovita and Crescimir knew what the child had intended to express
and both blushed consciously, yet could but marvel at the acuteness of
the little creature who so soon was able to read their hearts, even
before they had perfectly known them themselves.

The mother of Jovita now came to the door and inviting them into the
living room, the events of the past night were related and all that was
known of the little waif.

Crescimir spent the day by the river searching for what might have been
left on the banks by the flood. He learned that his raft had been
carried out of the stream through a break in the bank, and much of the
wreckage of his own house with it. Returning to the hacienda he
discovered in a clump of bushes, over which the water had run when at
its highest mark, the bodies of a man and woman entangled in the canvas
cover of a camp wagon. It was evident to Crescimir from their dress that
they were German emigrants.

With the help of some of the rancheros the bodies were carried to the
house.

"They may be the parents of the little one," said Jovita's mother. "We
will bring him here and see if he recognizes them; it seems cruel but it
is the only way."

They brought the Christchild to the room where the bodies lay. When the
little fellow saw them, he clung to Crescimir and uttering a moaning
sound, yet seeming half like a laugh, he hid his eyes and would not look
again.

"Are these thy parents little one?" asked Crescimir tenderly; the
Christchild shook his head negatively and broke into hysterical sobs.

Though the Christchild had denied that these were the bodies of his
parents, both Jovita, her mother and Crescimir felt certain that they
were.

Crescimir remained that night at the Tulucay hacienda and early next
morning the bodies were taken to the village and given burial in
consecrated ground, as the cross which the woman wore and a medal of
silver which the man carried showed them to be of the true church.

After the burial Crescimir returned to the rancheria. "I will be thy
father now, little Christchild," said he as they stood at the well with
Jovita, who had been filling the little olla for her mother's night
drink.

The child looked up with a pleased smile and then turning to Jovita,
asked with his bright eyes a question which words could not better have
expressed.

Jovita replied softly as she looked down at the strange, wistful face,
and felt the touch of Crescimir's hand on her own, "And I thy mother."

[Illustration: Scroll]

[Illustration: Scroll]




IV.


By the beginning of summer Crescimir's place had all been restored and
the house rebuilt on the summit of the knoll, far away from any danger
of another flood.

It was a pretty cottage now, in the new, American style with a
trellis-porch over which passion vines spread in the profusion of first
growth. The flower garden and the long lines and square beds of the
vegetable garden looked fresh and bright down by the arroyo.

The house had been completed by the middle of January and Crescimir by
careful and steady work had brought back his fields to their former
state. The Christchild still lived with him, always as merry as the day
was long. He was, as on the night of his arrival, still dressed in his
little, white frock or shirt of strange texture, and he would wear
nothing else, not even shoes.

Jovita's mother had, however, once made for him a suit, but when she
tried to have him put it on, he objected so strenuously that the project
had to be abandoned, for not even Crescimir's will, which usually was
all that was needed on such occasions, had not in this case any power at
all; so he ran quite wild about the gardens, the same pretty, little elf
as ever.

He was extremely fond of the water and paddled in the arroyo all day
long, so that even the little frock was for the greater time
superfluous, and there was never any difficulty in having it for the
old woman who came once a week from the village to do the washing. She
often said that when she touched it, it gave her "goose flesh," the
"feel" was so queer. She had never seen anything like it in all her long
experience in her particular line of business.

Crescimir's visits to Tulucay were frequent now and the little
Christchild always went with him, his greatest delight seeming to be to
see Crescimir and Jovita together.

The day for the wedding was set to be the day before Christmas, for it
seemed well that as that season had first made them known to each other,
it should see them made man and wife.

The rainless summer and autumn passed and winter came with its green
grass and new flowers.

Never had there been such a prosperous year for the Napa Valley, and the
fields were fast blossoming with little white cottages, while golden
vineyards were growing higher up the hillsides driving the chaparral
back from its old inheritance as the Gringos did the natives. The town
had increased to nearly twice its former size, so Crescimir's gardens
were much sought, and he no longer was compelled to labour from sunrise
till sunset to keep the weeds away, for now he was able to hire the
hardest work done and enjoy the fruits of his first years' toil.

The month of December came and the leaves on the poplar trees in the
village were turning golden, just lingering long enough to mingle
lovingly for a while with the new-born green of winter, and then be
hidden by the growth of broad leaved plants as soon as they had fallen
brown upon the earth, producing that endless harmony of Californian
nature, a life everlasting.

There were a few orange coloured poppies nodding in the mesas but violet
star-flowers scattered over the lower meadows were powerful enough, by
reason of their numbers, to conquer the colour of the grass, while the
fields near the river were yellow with juicy cowslips.

Now the blue dome of St. Helena was not so often visible, for the clouds
hovered about it filled with wealth giving rain.

Ploughing and planting had begun and in some places the grain had
already started; blackbirds in hosts were perched on all the fences,
watching the sowers and chattering saucily to each other as they snapped
their bead-like eyes in anticipation of the feast so profusely spreading
for them.

Over the low lands where the bay stretched its many arms in and out,
offering to the ranchos its assistance to carry their abundant produce
to a market, the marshes were red with short-growing sorrel, and the
dark green of the tules along the edges fringed the silver indentations
of the water in harmonious contrast.

All this did Jovita and Crescimir see from the veranda of Tulucay as
with the Christchild by them they talked of the strange discovery and
first sudden birth of their love, of how Jovita had first left the
flowers at his door and how he had longed so much to know the one, the
only one who had cheered his loneliness, and how he had loved the donor
even before he had known that it was she.

Then they would talk of the terrible flood which had brought them
together, and how each knew the other's love the moment their eyes had
met, and of the mysterious little child who had been the medium of
their first lovers' kiss.

They had become quite accustomed to the little elf's strange ways, and
he no longer seemed to them to be the half supernatural creature he had
at first appeared. Jovita's mother had at last discovered, she was sure,
that the mysterious frock was nothing more nor less remarkable than a
kind of goat hair woven carefully and fine.

So thus was the little elfin Christchild resolved by the power of
familiarity into the orphan of some German emigrants who had lost their
lives in the great flood; nevertheless, strangers never passed him
without giving a second glance and never heard him sing in his sweet,
odd tones, without wondering.

Crescimir and Jovita were married at Tulucay on the day before Christmas
and walked over the fields to the new house on the knoll by the laurel
tree, the Christchild going with them.

He had decorated his head and frock with blossoms of early mariposas
(calochortus) in honour of the occasion, and his joy seemed
uncontrollable and he skipped over the meadow scarcely seeming to tread
upon the ground.

There was a bright fire in the cottage when they reached it; the fire
was in an open fireplace similar to that which had been in the old
cabin.

As they entered, the Christchild, running up to the hearth, pointed to
the chimney piece, and then turning to Crescimir with a look which could
not be misunderstood, began in his odd notes to sing.

Crescimir then first noticed that there was no hemlock branch above the
hearth, so taking one from the other side of the room where they hung in
festoons, he fastened it with a bunch of toyone berries over the
chimney piece.

The sun was set and in the crimson glow with which the heavens were
painted, just above the low, black hills, shone bright and silvery the
Evening Star.

Crescimir, with Jovita leaning on his shoulder, stood at the west window
looking out over the misty valley where the real seemed ghostlike in the
gray evening haze, and even those things with which they were familiar,
seemed in the fading light to take to themselves unknown forms.

"Strange world!" said Jovita, meditatively, "Real and Unreal so often
blended that we can never say which is tangible and which is air."

"Look Jovita, look!" and Crescimir seizing her hand pointed out toward
the garden.

They stood there gazing from the window, as if spellbound, until the
crimson light faded from the sky and the clear star descended below the
hills.

A bit of mist or fog, or what you will hovered about the garden and then
gradually rising it became dissolved and was gone.

"Gone!" whispered Jovita, as the darkness shut out the valley from view.
"Good little Christchild; but his memory shall ever be with us,"
answered Crescimir, as they sat side by side before the open fireplace.

                  *       *       *       *       *

Everybody wondered where the little Christchild had gone, and search was
made, but, of course, unsuccessfully; yet Crescimir and Jovita said
nothing.

Thus, in time, people forgot about the tiny elf and now there are few
who have even heard of Crescimir's guest.

The pretty cottage may to-day be seen on the knoll near the wonderful,
wide-spreading laurel tree and every Christmas Eve upon the chimney
piece of its open hearted hearth may be seen a dark, glossy branch of
hemlock with a bunch of toyone.

Before the fire sit Crescimir and Jovita singing the little Christmas
carrol of the Illyrian children. Sometimes they think that they hear a
sweet, soft voice joining in harmony with their own, but yet they are
not sure but that it may perhaps be only the music of their own happy
hearts, and smiling at Jovita, who holds the little Crescimir in her
arms, Crescimir the Illyrian points to the branch above the hearth while
the little one opens his eyes in wonderment.

"Was he not, Jovita mia, like the affection which is seen by all the
world between lovers before marriage? And then the world wonders where
it has gone when the priest has pronounced the two as one. But we
married lovers will never tell, for we are content to know that our
Christchild has sunken deep into our hearts where his song inaudible to
others is heard by us forever and ever."

[Illustration: Scroll]

[Illustration: Scroll]




Benicia's Letters.


After my aunt Benicia's death I found in her little desk a bundle of
letters, which threw light upon the romance of her life, and on the
reason perhaps of her refusing many offers which were known to have been
made her by honoured Californians of the last generation. The letters
are curious and interesting to me, and were written to my uncle by his
chum, and enclosed many sketches.

The letters are in Spanish, but for your better understanding I have
translated them with all their strange expressions as best I can.

At first I thought that I would destroy them, but as most of my friends
who read them now, have long known my aunt Benicia, I feel sure that
they will be, even in these practical days, interested and touched by
the revelation they so suggest of a life-long love which filled the
heart of the good, little woman, who is at last at rest.


                                         GRÜNEN MARKT.

                                WÜRZBURG, 20th October, 18--.

DEAR JOSÉ:

How dull life here is, I cannot bear to look forward to the time so far
ahead when I shall have done with the University, not that I shall be at
all unhappy to leave and return to my dear California, but the twelve or
sixteen months between now and then, make me shudder to think of.

My time is quite free now and I make many pleasure walks to Zell and the
Hochberg, while almost every day finds me at some time on the Nicholaus
Berg enjoying its ever lovely views of the green Maine valley, which
however is now taking on its first autumnal tints.

Today I come from the stone quarry, which lies on the road to the
Hochberg, where I have been chatting with the workmen and making a few
sketches to send home to Benicia; the day has been one of the
pleasantest I have known, just one of those mild autumn days we love so
much in Santa Clara when her hills are clothed in their warmest colours
and the big leaves are first falling from the fig trees. Ah, I did wish
to be back again to walk with you along the dry Francisquito and gather
the first golden poppies for Benicia's black hair. Yes, of course, I
should be contented with these world-known beauties which I have about
me, nevertheless, it is a pleasure to recall those happy days now that I
am here alone on the continent of Europe. The warmth of our Californian
sun must have entered our very hearts, for nowhere in all the world but
there are found no strangers.

The grapes are not all picked as yet, and the vineyards are lively
indeed with gaily dressed peasant girls, cutting and tying up the vines
for the winter. There is a great difference between Catholic and
Lutheran Germany in this one regard of dress; in all the Protestant
districts the prevailing colour is a dull blue, while in Catholic parts
the dress seems to have no end of colour and brilliant adornment; for an
artist the latter is more pleasing, but for such a thoughtful moralist
as yourself, I know the peasant girls in blue frocks would be
preferable.

There are very few students in the city now and scarcely a traveller is
to be seen, except now and then a stray one may be noticed wandering
about the old cathedral or counting the restored statues on the river
bridge. I always feel a longing to speak to these late birds of passage
for they look so forlorn without their mates, that they make me think of
my own sad plight so far away from you all; when the lectures begin I
hope that I will be more satisfied than I am now.

Every day I go to Vespers at one of the churches, and I enjoy this bit
of the day more than you could believe. It is beautiful just at dusk to
enter the church in the Market Place, which is near my hotel, and there
in the gloom, lighted only by the tapers at the shrines and where some
of the worshipers are kneeling, each with a small wax light to illumine
the Prayer Books, to bow with them and receive the blessing from the
priest and to be touched by the Holy Water; then the Ave Maria, how I
love to hear it chanted with such heartfelt praise by the old and
trembling men and women, who throw their whole spirit into the melody.
The melody, I know, could not bear cold criticism, but when I kneel
there beneath the great, gray vault and see their breath ascending in
the cold air, bearing like incense their prayers to Heaven, and hear the
subdued strains of the organ, I feel that it is not the music of this
world, and my heart is moved and I join in the grand hymn, mingling my
soft Latin words with their glorious German.

The priest has passed down the aisle and sprinkled the Holy Water over
us with the aspergil, the boys bearing the censers, preceding him have
passed from sight with him behind the dark curtain at the Chancel door;
there is a shuffling noise of the departing worshipers and I am alone.

Far away, before the golden Altar hangs a taper which throws a red glow
into all the darkness, it is the Sacred Heart of Jesus, ever burning
amid the gloom of sin. As my eyes become accustomed to the dim light, I
can discern a female figure robed in gray, standing before the shrine of
the Virgin, I cannot see the face though I often try, but whenever she
becomes aware of my presence, she leaves the cathedral by the little
door to the right which opens into the small court. This occurs every
night, and though I have often tried to meet her by going out by the
other door and around the front, I have as yet, not succeeded.

But enough of that now; today as I returned from my walk, I saw as I was
crossing the bridge one of the first Californian women I have seen for
a long time; I know that she was Californian or Mexican for there was
more life in the eye than we see in the quiet, expressionless beauties
of the rest of the world. I do not know why I must ever have this face
in my mind since I met the fair one on the bridge; she looked at me
directly in the eyes, and I feel sure that I have met her sometime
before. I know the face; there is a strange drooping about the eyelids,
which to me adds a charm to the whole appearance. I do wish I could
think where in the world I have seen her. I am going to search the hotel
books to-morrow for I will not rest until I find out her name. It was
almost dark, however, when we met, and she was going toward the opposite
side of the Maine where there are no foreign hotels.

I surmise, and suppose, and guess, but all to no purpose, while that one
look seems to be planted indelibly upon my mind. I would give anything
to see her again; I can think of nothing now, for the strange,
inexpressible fascination of those eyelids has me entirely captive.
Where have we met? Try and think, my dear boy, of some one of our
acquaintance who tallies with my description; about my height, black
hair, a white, unusually white face, finely marked eyebrows and the
drooping lids, which when raised, disclose large, brilliant, yet
languid, blue eyes,--I cannot give the picture to suit me, but you note
the strange paleness and the eyes, and you must remember if you have
ever met her.

I often go to the little opera house, where the music is of the best,
yet I cannot enjoy myself, for, as ever I am alone; all I can do is just
to think and think and imagine things to interest me through the dreary
time. What strange fantasies I have brought up in my life! You know
some of them, and it is quite true as you wrote in your last that
translation from Hawthorne, "His caprices had their origin in a mind
that lacked the support of an engrossing purpose and feelings that
preyed upon themselves for lack of other food."

I try to interest myself in the things about me, but I am a dreamer. I
wonder often what my life will come to in the end, of what use I shall
be. No, it is not good that I should be alone; now, however, since I
have seen the unknown beauty, I will not have to search my mind for
subjects to keep it occupied, for Señorita California is quite a solid
damsel and far from ethereal, and not at all ghostly, only that look
about the eyes when the lids are drooping, and the complexion.

Don't forget my usual token to Benicia and give her the sketches, but
of course no word of the girl; women never understand such things
properly.

                             B. L. M.

                                      JOAQUIN.


                  *       *       *       *       *


                                      ON THE NICHOLAUS BERG,

                                               22nd October 18--.

DEAR JOSÉ:

This morning early, I took my walk as usual to the Chapel on the hill;
the day was as fine as the last three have been and I began to feel
better contented with so much Californian weather to help me.

Yesterday I did not think so much of the bridge beauty but today her
strange features have come to me with double vividness, and it was to
escape from this that I took the walk so very early this morning. I
brought my sketch-book with me and expected to pass the whole day on the
hill and in the woods just beyond.

The little, old woman who sweeps away the dry leaves from the steps so
ruthlessly, smiled more than usual when I gave her the customary two
pfennigs. I can never understand how the poor creature wages such a
heartless war against these dying leaves of Autumn; it seems that she
should have a sisterly feeling for them, knowing that she is herself so
near to her own December.

The Stations of the Cross are arranged in little shrines on the many
terraces which adorn the castle side of the hill; it is a pretty
thought, bordering the path to the chapel with these stone pictures,
most of them representing Christ's long, weary journey up Mount Calvary.
There are always to be found before these shrines, people, mostly the
peasantry, praying aloud, and here and there many a time I have seen
them ascending the toilsome road on their knees.

What a grand view one has from the summit; the wide Valley of the Maine
not yet brown, but smiling as it always does in its green beauty, far
into December. The lumber rafts are floating lazily down, as it were in
a dream, little thinking that in a few more hours they will have reached
their journey's end, there to be broken. They are like myself somewhat,
who am just as lazily, uselessly and alone wandering through life to the
ending sooner or later; it is hard to go against the stream and the
river is long and lovely, so I will float on just a little farther.

I made a sketch of Würzburg with its many spires and domes, which I
enclose for Benicia, and then turned my attention to the Chapel with
which I am always delighted; the frescoes in the dome are good and I
never tire of sitting and looking up at them while I listen to the dull
chanting of the Capuzin monks behind the iron grating to the right.

I have often had conversation with these monks whom I meet walking in
the garden, and find them pleasant and entertaining, and far from being
the gloomy mortals some people think them to be.


                  *       *       *       *       *


                                      NICHOLAUS BERG.

                                                   Night.

DEAR JOSÉ:

Before I had finished my letter, Brother Andreas, with whom I am better
acquainted than with the others, came to me and asked me to walk with
him; he is not a German, but is from Spain, so you see I find use for my
mother tongue where I little expected to need it. Brother Andreas speaks
German of course, as he has been here some twenty years, and tells me he
is quite contented with his life, never having a desire for sunny
Spain, saying that all the home he has is beyond this world; I wish that
I might feel as contented as the old Capuzin.

But you are curious to know why I am here at this time, and I will
hasten to tell you what the strange cause is.

We walked about the Chapel and through parts of the garden where I had
never been before, Brother Andreas relating to me the history of the
city and the little Chapel. By this time we had wandered to the front of
the building, and Brother Andreas raising his arm pointed to the face of
the church over the door and repeated, "Refugium Peccatorum, Consolatrix
Afflictorum, Sancta Maria, Ora Pro Nobis."

I did not look up at first, my attention at the time being directed to a
company of peasants in the neighbouring vineyard, but at the words
"Sancta Maria," I raised my eyes to the face of the church, and, oh my
God, what did I see!

"Ora pro nobis," broke unintentionally from my lips, I clung
convulsively to the arm of the good, old priest, my eyes were riveted
upon the niche above the door, for there looking down on me, her eyes
strangely drooping, her hands folded across her breast, stood the woman
whom day before yesterday I met on the bridge; I say stood the woman,
but it was only a statue carved in gray stone, an image of the Virgin,
such as we see every day in the churches; this, however, was somewhat
different, as it held no infant Christ in its arms, and then the face,
that was not the face which should be given to Mary, the Mother of our
Saviour.

No, the more I see those eyes, which I at first so much admired, the
more I hate their look, but also strange to say, the more I am
fascinated.

In a few moments I had recovered my usual composure enough to assure
Brother Andreas that the cause of my strange behaviour was a sudden
illness to which I was often subject, when tired, but the good man shook
his head sadly and said, "No, my child, you have seen something
supernatural, which has disturbed you; it is well that I am here." With
that, he immediately made the Sign of the Cross and drew me into the
chapel where he made some use of the Holy Water which I did not
understand, nor did I care, for the sudden fright which had stopped my
heart in its beating, now that all was over, sent the blood rushing
through my veins with frightful rapidity making my head ache so terribly
that I thought that I must die.

It was dark, the next I knew, the room was strange to me; A Crucifix
hung on the wall, before which a single, dim oil lamp was burning,
before this was a monk at prayer;--it seemed like a dream to me, it
could not be real.

After awhile I moved, and the monk rose and came to me, showing, in the
flickering light, the fatherly features of Brother Andreas.

"My child," he said, taking my hand in his, "I am happy that you are of
our flock, for I can help you; I know your thoughts; it is well to think
now when all is still. I will not urge you, but Christ is ever seeking
for your soul; come to the true light of the Church where he may find
you."

I made confession and received absolution, and he, making the Sign of
the Cross, went from the room.

Presently I heard the monotonous chant of the monks in the Chapel and
knew it was midnight. I have written this to you hurriedly on paper I
have in my portfolio. The chanting is over and Brother Andreas' step is
audible in the echoing corridor. Good Night.


                           Besa la mano,

                                      JOAQUIN.


                  *       *       *       *       *


                                      NICHOLAUS BERG.

                                           30th October, 18--.

DEAR JOSÉ:

I am still at the cloister, though I have done nothing it seems to me
during the past week but sleep, and am hardly strong enough now to carry
the pen over the paper as I write to you.

The statue over the door stands there as it ever has, but it is too far
away for me to see the awful eyes, so I can say nothing about them. But
now my dear friend I have something more wonderful than ever to tell
you.

Every night when the moon shines, this image of the Virgin comes down
from her niche and wanders about the church; I have seen her four or
five times, and she has often come under my window in these lone walks,
and once I spoke to her, but the moment my voice sounded on the night
air she was gone, and the same gray, stone image stood silent and dead
in the niche.

What can I think of all this? I could not believe if any one should tell
me of these things, but what I see with my own eyes I certainly cannot
doubt.

The Brother Andreas is very good to me, and my box has been brought from
the hotel to the cloister, so my room is as cheerful as possible with
all your pictures around me.

How I wish that you were here, or I could hear from you, but never, my
dear boy will that time come, I fear; I have given up the idea of ever
having so great a pleasure in this world. I cannot write more now as I
am too weak. Good night and greet Benicia for me.


                  *       *       *       *       *


                                            31st October

It is very late, but I must write now or never. To-night the image was
stranger than ever, and for the first time I heard its voice, and oh, it
sounded too sweetly to me as I sat by the window and looked out over the
city as the moon rose above the hills to the east.

The Brothers were chanting at the time, and their deep base came in ever
and ever so beautifully between the stanzas which the Virgin sung, and
as she sung, she came down from her station slowly, as if there were
steps in the air and she could tread upon them. The words were as weird
as the scene.


     "The silver moon is slowly, slowly rising
       The night is clear and all the clouds are fled,
     Their midnight prayer the weary monks are chanting;
       Now I may leave my cold and stony bed."


Then the monks chanted in their low, measured tones,


     "Sancta Maria, ora pro nobis!
       Mater Christi, ora, ora!"
     "Cursed be my lot, but useless is repining,
       Here must I stay till dreary day is gone,
     Living only in the pale moon's shining;
       To-night my hated penance though is done.
     Gaily, gaily, gaily I'll live
       Though I be but a spirit of air;
     Every pleasure the world can give
       Shall be mine while the moon shines fair.

     The Devil in Hell has promised me
       That if I gain him a soul
     I shall be forever from that time free,
       So long as the Rhine shall run to the sea
     And the Maine shall Rhineward roll."


And from the heights above the echo came,--"Roll--roll."

Then running lightly to the wall, which is on the river side, she leaned
over and sung in a high, unearthly, wild voice, while her dark hair
waved in the night wind,


     "Beautiful river rushing on,
     Touched with light by the silver moon,
     Grant me now this simple boon.
     Let thy merry spirits come,
     And elfin dancers with beating drum,
     Here with me for the wild night long,
     To dance and whirl with eldrich song
     Till the moon shall faint and her light be gone."


Then running merrily to the other side nearer my window, she sung in the
same wild key, as she turned her face to the forest,


     "Spirits of the black larch-wood
     Come to-night to dance and sing,
     Come and all thy flowers bring,
     Come and gaily join our ring,
     Come upon thy fleetest wing,
     Come, oh come, ere the moon be fading."


The low chanting of the Monks ceased, and as I opened my window wider I
could hear, like the higher notes of an organ, voices rising from the
river and mingling in heavenly harmony; I could not at first catch the
words, but the sweet, divinely sweet strains came nearer and nearer, and
then with the same inexpressible gentleness, softly as if wafted from
the angelic chorus came the rich, low notes from the forest, like the
humming of bees, the sighing of hemlocks, or that sweet, strange sound
we ever hear in the ocean shell. The voices came nearer and I could hear
the wild, free words long before the singers were in the court.


     "We are coming from the forest,
     All laden with flowers,
     With bright, crimson flowers
     All sparkling with dew."


Then from the river rose the song:


     "We come from the water
     With bright, polished pebbles,
     With white, glittering pebbles,
     Our love-gift to you."


The singing now was in the very garden, but I could not see the singers,
though I knew that they were there, for the strange creature-image
whirled about the court, laughing and nodding on every side, while the
music grew each moment louder and wilder, when suddenly all was still,
and the image pausing in the middle of the court began with many odd
gestures this weird song:


     "What am I? Who am I? Where did I come from?
       What, who and where--well, no human knows;
     Ye though my loved ones know what to answer,
       My pale face ye follow wherever it goes.
     My home's in the forest, my home's in the city,
       Wherever the terror of loneliness lies,
     And woe be to him who when out in the moonlight
       Catches the glance of my soul-piercing eyes.
               By day I am stone
               By night I have breath,
     And those whom I meet, know the sister of Death."


"Curse you!" I shrieked, leaning from the window, and all was gone; the
statue was in its niche again, the Maria Virgo Sancta. I staggered back
from the window and was received almost breathless from excitement in
the arms of Brother Andreas who entered the room just then.

"My child, you should not sit by an open window; I fear that you have
done yourself an injury already." He laid me down on the bed and when I
awoke he was gone, and now I am writing off this scrap of a letter for
you my dear friend. How I long to see you, and oh, why can I not have
you here! Would to God that I had not met the woman on the bridge. My
friend, my José, I dare not tell you what I fear; those eyes were upon
me, those fatal eyes. No, no I will not keep it from you, I will tell
you all and leave you the terrible duty of telling Benicia.

My dear boy, I am growing colder each moment; my hand trembles as I
write this, my last letter; I pray that I may have strength to finish
it. The river was not so long as I expected, and now my poor raft is
breaking. Nor would I live, for now I know who has power over me, I know
now whose were those drooping eyelids; it is better not to live, for I
have not strength to conquer them.

It is autumn, the last leaves are falling, the cold winter is coming,
but I shall not be here to dread its cold. My winter is on me now, and
may God grant that through it I come to the eternal spring. All that I
want is to see Benicia and you once more, but that cannot be. Now a
last, long farewell to Benicia; I can write no more, I am too cold. The
raft is broken; the journey was not long.

God bless you, good bye; I am going to lie down now. Give the ruby ring,
which I wear, to dear Benicia as a memory of me; and tell Beni--


                  *       *       *       *       *


Here was the ending of the letter in the unfinished name of his loved
one.

[Illustration: Scroll]