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 onwardtoward the north, bear their rich gifts of longed-for rain to the brownmeadows, filling the heavens from east to west with graceful lines andswelling bosoms, save, just at the horizon where the sun descendedpaints a broad, lurid streak of crimson, glowing amid the deepeningshadows, a coal in dead, gray ashes. Darker grows the streak, as a stain of blood, while the clouds about itnow assume a purple tinge with gloomier shadings; suddenly in the centreof the lurid field starts out as if that moment born to Earth, withclear, silver light, the Evening Star. The colour slowly fades till allis dead and ashy, and the silver star drops down below the purpledhills, leaving for a moment a soft, trembling twilight; the dense cloudsthen rolling in between, blot out the last sign of departed day andnight is come. It was Christmas Eve. The winter was late, and rain had fallen duringthe last few weeks only, so that the fields were just assuming the freshpea-green colour of their new life, and the long, dead grass stillstanding above the recent growth gave that odd smokey appearance to thehills and mesas, so familiar to all us Californians also in our olivegroves. The night, however, was dark and nothing of hills, or mesas, orgray fields, could be seen as the hurrying bands of clouds joinedtogether in one great company, overspreading the whole sky and clothingall 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, tearingnoisely among the rocks and over its old courses, giving friendlygreetings of recognition to the old water-marks and dashing a playfulwave now and then about the worn roots of the enormous laurel tree whosebranches reached high above and far around. Beneath the tree's protecting limbs, a little cabin, of roughestworkmanship, found shelter from the wind, or shade from the intense heatof summer; the house was built almost entirely of logs, excepting theupper part where boards had been used and through which were cut thethree windows which served to light the single room it contained. This Christmas Eve, only the dark form of the cabin was to be seen withthe tall adobe chimney built up the outside; the smoke blew, beaten hereand there, about the roof till it finally disappeared, a cloud ofghosts, among the swaying branches of the laurel tree. By day in the sunshine, no pleasanter spot could be found than thelittle cabin and broad fields of Crescimir the Illyrian, no lovelierview of the rich Napa Valley could be had than from the hill whereCrescimir's cattle grazed and no happier home could have been found inall the Californias than his, had he not been so alone, without a friendand far from his native country. On the very day which opens this story, one might have stood upon thebridge and watched the lazy flowing of the river on whose dull greensurface all the spans and bars were shadowed, and on the buttress seenthe sunshine in ever changing, trembling glints of gold. Dead thistleswere on the bank rustling in the breeze and the long tules by thewater-side, some broken, others upright, waved gracefully, moved by bothwind and current. To the left hand on both sides of the arroyo whichhere joined the river, one could have seen Crescimir's fields and thevegetable garden with its whitey-green cabbages, the rich brown heaps ofmanure and straw, and the beds of beets all crimson and green, then theborders of oaks and the far, blue hills, while myriads of littlegray-winged moths hovered over the masses of tangled blackberry vinesand giant dock. To the southward rose, far away, the peak of gloriousTamalpais, a dark blue dash without a shadow. There were the black, ploughed fields, steaming in the sunshine, larks springing up from theglittering leaves, and noisy squirrels in the bay tree laying away theirstores of nuts and maize in its hundred hollows. Leaning upon the railand watching the river, rippled in the centre but calm and glassy nearthe banks, one could have seen the silver fish springing from the waterfor the insects playing about the surface, and could have breathed therich perfume of growing onions and the sweet, fresh, green life. On the hillside Crescimir had planted grape vines, but they were youngyet and bore no fruit, still, had they borne the heaviest of clustersthere was no one to eat them then for there were but few settlers in thevalley and Crescimir had no neighbours, but the Rancho Tulucay, nearerthan the little village three miles distant. Thus Crescimir the Illyrian lived alone improving his lands and sellingvegetables to the Yankee traders who came up the river in their littleschooners; he was always busy ploughing and dressing the gardens orclearing away the chaparral. Two years had been spent here since he had left his fatherland, amid thewild scenes of the Julian Alps. It was on a Christmas Eve that he hadbidden his old friends good bye and at each return of the day he thoughtmore sadly of his lonely life, sighing for the old mountain villagewhere he had so often made merry with his comrades. There was one bright spot in Crescimir's daily routine and he prizedthat above all the day, for it showed to him that there was one personwho did think of him, though who he could never learn. For a year ormore he had found each day at his cabin door a bunch of garden flowersand in their place he daily left a bunch of his sweetest onions or somerare vegetable, which were always taken away. The rain began to fall, after Crescimir, having made the horse andcattle right for the night, started to his cabin. The barn was on thesummit of the knoll, at the foot of which, by the arroyo, he had builthis little house of one room. Crescimir felt his way along through the vegetable garden, carrying themilk pail in one hand and holding the lantern out before him with theother; the light glistened upon the tall stalks of last year's maize andgleamed back from the glossy, pungent leaves of the bay tree, from thetin pail and his wet boots, all reflected in the little pools fastcollecting in the path. As he neared the cabin the rain fell as itseldom does, save in the tropics, and Crescimir entering the cabinclosed the door with a noise, warning the storm not to encroach on thelittle bit of the world which was his own. Inside the cabin there was a blazing wood-fire on the open hearth and alighted 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, whichconsisted simply of bread and milk which Crescimir was ready for as soonas he had washed his hands at the pump in the little "lean-to, " andexchanged his long boots for a pair of easy slippers. Over the fireplace hung a bunch of crimson toyone berries and a branchof hemlock, which Crescimir had hung there to mark the holiday. He didnot sit down at once to his meal, but stood, leaning against thechimney piece, meditatively picking off bits of the hemlock andthrowing them into the fire where they crackled with a merry noise andblazed up, scenting the room with their fragrance of the forest. As he threw the bits into the fire he sang that melody which theIllyrian children sing when bearing home their Christmas trees, foundalways in the deep forests; it was a song dear to him and the wordsbrought up memories of all his happy home life and he grew sad as hethought 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 overand I fear he has forgotten where I live out in Alta California andwill never bring me anything again. " Just as the song was finished, a sound was heard at the door butCrescimir 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 dooropened and by the aid of the firelight, for the draught extinguished thecandle, he saw a pretty, little, golden haired child in a short, whitefrock which reached to the knees; the child wore neither hat, shoes, norstockings and, what seemed most remarkable, was dry despite the heavyrain. The little creature as quietly closed the door as he had openedit, and smiling, walked up to the hearth, spreading out before it histiny, 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 noticedthis, and also wondering at the mysterious advent of the child, whichcoming so closely upon his song, caused him almost to think that he mustbe dreaming. "Art thou the Christchild?" he said finally, to the little figure whichstood with its back toward him gazing up at the branch of hemlock abovethe fireplace. The child turned around and looking merrily at Crescimir, broke into afit of boisterous laughter, but did not answer. "Thou art not a very polite little boy, to break into a house this wayand 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 facepucker up for a cry, "wait till we are better acquainted and then we cantalk it all over. " The child smiled again and made a sign indicating that he wanted thehemlock branch above his head. Crescimir took it down for him and assoon as the little creature received it, he began hopping about theroom, holding the branch aloft and humming the melody which Crescimirhad just been singing. "Truly, thou art a strange little elf, but I know how to tell if thouart mortal. Wilt thou have thy supper?" and he held out a spoonful ofthe bread and milk to the dancing figure. The child immediately stoppedhis whirling, and running to Crescimir, eagerly ate the food, and thenclimbing into his lap, sat there quietly, with expectant face as ifanticipating a share in the rest of the supper. So Crescimir took onespoonful and the Christchild the next, until the bowl was empty. "I am glad that thou art come, little one, " said Crescimir, as he heldthe 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 Icould know who thou art and whether thy parents are anxiously searchingfor thee this stormy night. Canst thou not speak?" The child shook his golden head solemnly and began throwing bits of thehemlock into the flames, watching the blaze they made as if he couldread in it. Crescimir had spoken in German and the little waif understood him, butit seemed that he was unable to answer except in a cooing soundexpressive of his sensations; however, he could sing most sweetly, notarticulating, but singing as a bird and making beautiful melody. Thesong which Crescimir had been singing when he entered, seemed to pleasehis ear greatly and he warbled it over again in his strangely sweettones. Crescimir sung the song a number of times to him and also manyothers, some of which with their merry music, breathing fresh from thehigh Alps, caused his little hand to keep time with the hemlock branchas he joined in the songs with his curious notes. "Thou art a little elf!" exclaimed Crescimir as he kissed the rosyface. "Thou bringest back all the old days and makest me feel as merryas I used in far off Illyria. Bless thee little Christchild. " The mysterious guest laughed gaily pulling Crescimir's hair and drawinghis smooth fingers over the dark, weather beaten face of the man. Thenhe played horse, riding on Crescimir's knee using the branch for a whip, while Crescimir sang little verses which came to his mind, verses whichset to rolicking music he had sung in his old home on feast days atdances 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 therain on the roof did not mar their merry making in the least, and theylaughed 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 hastfound shelter and lucky for me that the evening which promised to be sodull 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 hisromping, 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 ofwhite, foamy water pouring in from each side, and the floor was covered. Crescimir quickly placed the Christchild on the table and started toopen the door, but before he reached it, the house trembled as if in anearthquake 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 downwith its terrible force. The water poured in little jets through thecracks in the walls and rushing into the fireplace put out the flamesand left the room in total darkness. The water rose rapidly and by the time that Crescimir had grasped theform of his little guest and opening one of the windows had drawnhimself with his charge upon the roof, the flood had reached the uppersashes. The cabin swayed to and fro and every moment seemed about to be carriedfrom its foundations. The Christchild made no sound of fear andCrescimir could not see his face, yet he held the long hemlock branchtightly in his little hand. The roof was firmly built of logs and planks so in case the house fellit could be used as a raft and Crescimir exerting all his strengthpulled 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 themiddle of the roof held on firmly. Suddenly the roof was lifted and whirled down the swollen arroyo intothe broad river. Floating logs struck against it, and as they torealong under the bridge they struck against the buttress with terrificforce. Onward they were whirled; they could see the lights in the housesof the village and could hear the voices of men and women along thebluffs or in the trees where they had sought shelter. The rain ceased falling, but the wind did not go down, rolling the wavesover their raft. Once they lodged for a moment against a great oak whereCrescimir strove in vain to make fast. The tide was too powerful and allwent with it whirling blindly onward. [Illustration: Scroll] [Illustration: Scroll] III. The waters fell almost as rapidly as they had risen, and by sunrise onChristmas Day, the river had returned between its banks, though stillflowing fast and frothy. Mists lay in strata along the hills showing the green grass between inlong, even stripes. Up from the high mesas sprang the larks ready togreet the day, or perching for a moment on some sturdy manzanita theyspread their broad tails, with two white feathers, balancing andchirping cheerily. A little valley through which an arroyo flowed, scantily bordered by lowgrowing willows, formed the scene; on one side was a stubble-field withmany cattle grazing on the new grass; there were a few dark oaks andthen on the first risings, yellow patches of vineyards with red, ploughed ground dotted with manzanitas. The high hills which formed thebackground were rough and black. In the hollow at the foot of the mesa was a newly formed pond on whichfloated branches of trees, bits of wood and some broken pieces ofhousehold furniture; about the grass was strewn the same sort of driftand the grass itself was torn and bent and there were yellow-white bitsof foam upon it. At one side wedged between two encina trees lay theroof of a house, on the edge of which a little child was sitting besidethe body of a man, who lying with one arm hung listlessly over the sideseemed asleep or dead. The pond was fast lowering, leaving its burden ofdebris scattered about. This was the scene which met the searching eyes of Jovita of TulucayRancho as, mounted on her horse, she came around the knoll which hid thehouse and buildings of the rancho from the meadow. Jovita quickly alighted, took up the child in her arms, and seeing thathe was unhurt but simply dazed at his situation, placed him upon herhorse and gave her attention to the man who lay there, to allappearances dead. "Unfortunate man, " she said aloud, unable to repress her tears, "hiswife has probably been lost and he has saved their child. " She took his hand in hers and felt that his pulse was yet beating; abruise on the temple seemed to be the only wound and was caused by theblow which had stunned him. As Jovita chafed his hands and smoothed his forehead, he opened hiseyes, 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 tosing 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 lastnight I lost my way, " he said, sitting up. "I remember now thatsomething struck me when the raft stopped. I thank God that theChristchild was not lost, dear little fellow. " "Christchild?" exclaimed Jovita, looking at him in surprise, "Have yougiven your boy that name?" "I do not know, Señorita, who the child is, but he came to my door lastnight, Christmas Eve, and brought me some of the merriest hours I havehad since I left old Illyria, and had not the flood carried awayeverything, I would have marked yesterday as one of the happiest in mylife. 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. Icalled him Christchild as I knew no better name. Are you not theSeñorita of El Tulucay? I know that horse which you have and have oftenseen 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 calledCrescimir the Illyrian, and I have been often to your cabin and satbeneath the great laurel while you were in the fields or at your work. Ihave often left flowers there at your door just for the pleasure ofimagining the surprise when you should find them, and I always took thevegetables I found there, for I knew that they were for me. However, Inever saw your face before this morning. You see I am little like ourCalifornians, but my mother is from the States and believes in morefreedom; she could not be better or kinder though she were a realCalifornian. 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 neededalong the river, for the flood was sudden and unlooked for. " Crescimir was not hurt and was able to walk slowly to the house. Jovitawalked by his side, leading her horse, while the Christchild sat quietlyin the saddle, nodding his head and winking like any sleepy child ofthis mortal world. Both Crescimir and Jovita were silent during the walk, but their eyesoften met, and Jovita would blush as she thought of her strange freakwith the flowers and finding that the receiver was by no means the oldman she had imagined him to be. Crescimir was happy to think that he had not left his giftsunappreciated and only regretted that he had not put whole pumpkinsthere instead of onions. "So you have no idea to whom the child belongs?" asked Jovita, as theyneared the house. "He is strangely dressed and the frock is of anunfamiliar texture; he does not seem cold either, although he is solightly clad. We must try to find his parents who, doubtless, are nowanxiously searching for him or believing him drowned in last night'sawful flood. " The strange little creature seemed now entirely to lose his sleepinessand broke into a merry laugh, sliding down from the saddle he caperedmadly around the two astonished spectators like a little elf blown aboutby the wind, his golden hair floating around him and the pink, littlefeet scarcely seeming to touch the grass. "There has been a number of campers passing through the valley to settlenorth on the Caymus ranchos, this little sprite must be one of theirchildren 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 hiscapering and wild antics. "Stop, stop, " exclaimed Crescimir in his native tongue, "stop and listento 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, withtears in his eyes on account of Crescimir's rebuke. As they reached theveranda Crescimir caught the little elf up in his arms and kissed hisrosy lips; the moment the child's feet touched the ground when Crescimirput him down, he put his hand over his mouth as if to keep the kiss warmand running to Jovita, she lifted him in her arms, as he signed her todo, when suddenly withdrawing his hand, he kissed her, looking backsignificantly and laughing. Both Jovita and Crescimir knew what the child had intended to expressand both blushed consciously, yet could but marvel at the acuteness ofthe little creature who so soon was able to read their hearts, evenbefore they had perfectly known them themselves. The mother of Jovita now came to the door and inviting them into theliving room, the events of the past night were related and all that wasknown of the little waif. Crescimir spent the day by the river searching for what might have beenleft on the banks by the flood. He learned that his raft had beencarried out of the stream through a break in the bank, and much of thewreckage of his own house with it. Returning to the hacienda hediscovered in a clump of bushes, over which the water had run when atits highest mark, the bodies of a man and woman entangled in the canvascover of a camp wagon. It was evident to Crescimir from their dress thatthey were German emigrants. With the help of some of the rancheros the bodies were carried to thehouse. "They may be the parents of the little one, " said Jovita's mother. "Wewill bring him here and see if he recognizes them; it seems cruel but itis the only way. " They brought the Christchild to the room where the bodies lay. When thelittle fellow saw them, he clung to Crescimir and uttering a moaningsound, yet seeming half like a laugh, he hid his eyes and would not lookagain. "Are these thy parents little one?" asked Crescimir tenderly; theChristchild shook his head negatively and broke into hysterical sobs. Though the Christchild had denied that these were the bodies of hisparents, both Jovita, her mother and Crescimir felt certain that theywere. Crescimir remained that night at the Tulucay hacienda and early nextmorning the bodies were taken to the village and given burial inconsecrated ground, as the cross which the woman wore and a medal ofsilver which the man carried showed them to be of the true church. After the burial Crescimir returned to the rancheria. "I will be thyfather now, little Christchild, " said he as they stood at the well withJovita, who had been filling the little olla for her mother's nightdrink. 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 haveexpressed. 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 andthe house rebuilt on the summit of the knoll, far away from any dangerof another flood. It was a pretty cottage now, in the new, American style with atrellis-porch over which passion vines spread in the profusion of firstgrowth. The flower garden and the long lines and square beds of thevegetable garden looked fresh and bright down by the arroyo. The house had been completed by the middle of January and Crescimir bycareful and steady work had brought back his fields to their formerstate. The Christchild still lived with him, always as merry as the daywas long. He was, as on the night of his arrival, still dressed in hislittle, white frock or shirt of strange texture, and he would wearnothing else, not even shoes. Jovita's mother had, however, once made for him a suit, but when shetried to have him put it on, he objected so strenuously that the projecthad to be abandoned, for not even Crescimir's will, which usually wasall that was needed on such occasions, had not in this case any power atall; so he ran quite wild about the gardens, the same pretty, little elfas ever. He was extremely fond of the water and paddled in the arroyo all daylong, so that even the little frock was for the greater timesuperfluous, and there was never any difficulty in having it for theold woman who came once a week from the village to do the washing. Sheoften 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 longexperience in her particular line of business. Crescimir's visits to Tulucay were frequent now and the littleChristchild always went with him, his greatest delight seeming to be tosee Crescimir and Jovita together. The day for the wedding was set to be the day before Christmas, for itseemed 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 greengrass and new flowers. Never had there been such a prosperous year for the Napa Valley, and thefields were fast blossoming with little white cottages, while goldenvineyards were growing higher up the hillsides driving the chaparralback from its old inheritance as the Gringos did the natives. The townhad increased to nearly twice its former size, so Crescimir's gardenswere much sought, and he no longer was compelled to labour from sunrisetill sunset to keep the weeds away, for now he was able to hire thehardest work done and enjoy the fruits of his first years' toil. The month of December came and the leaves on the poplar trees in thevillage were turning golden, just lingering long enough to minglelovingly for a while with the new-born green of winter, and then behidden by the growth of broad leaved plants as soon as they had fallenbrown upon the earth, producing that endless harmony of Californiannature, a life everlasting. There were a few orange coloured poppies nodding in the mesas but violetstar-flowers scattered over the lower meadows were powerful enough, byreason of their numbers, to conquer the colour of the grass, while thefields near the river were yellow with juicy cowslips. Now the blue dome of St. Helena was not so often visible, for the cloudshovered about it filled with wealth giving rain. Ploughing and planting had begun and in some places the grain hadalready started; blackbirds in hosts were perched on all the fences, watching the sowers and chattering saucily to each other as they snappedtheir bead-like eyes in anticipation of the feast so profusely spreadingfor 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 produceto a market, the marshes were red with short-growing sorrel, and thedark green of the tules along the edges fringed the silver indentationsof the water in harmonious contrast. All this did Jovita and Crescimir see from the veranda of Tulucay aswith the Christchild by them they talked of the strange discovery andfirst sudden birth of their love, of how Jovita had first left theflowers at his door and how he had longed so much to know the one, theonly one who had cheered his loneliness, and how he had loved the donoreven before he had known that it was she. Then they would talk of the terrible flood which had brought themtogether, and how each knew the other's love the moment their eyes hadmet, and of the mysterious little child who had been the medium oftheir first lovers' kiss. They had become quite accustomed to the little elf's strange ways, andhe no longer seemed to them to be the half supernatural creature he hadat first appeared. Jovita's mother had at last discovered, she was sure, that the mysterious frock was nothing more nor less remarkable than akind of goat hair woven carefully and fine. So thus was the little elfin Christchild resolved by the power offamiliarity into the orphan of some German emigrants who had lost theirlives in the great flood; nevertheless, strangers never passed himwithout 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 Christmasand walked over the fields to the new house on the knoll by the laureltree, 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 seemeduncontrollable and he skipped over the meadow scarcely seeming to treadupon the ground. There was a bright fire in the cottage when they reached it; the firewas in an open fireplace similar to that which had been in the oldcabin. As they entered, the Christchild, running up to the hearth, pointed tothe chimney piece, and then turning to Crescimir with a look which couldnot be misunderstood, began in his odd notes to sing. Crescimir then first noticed that there was no hemlock branch above thehearth, so taking one from the other side of the room where they hung infestoons, he fastened it with a bunch of toyone berries over thechimney piece. The sun was set and in the crimson glow with which the heavens werepainted, just above the low, black hills, shone bright and silvery theEvening Star. Crescimir, with Jovita leaning on his shoulder, stood at the west windowlooking out over the misty valley where the real seemed ghostlike in thegray 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 oftenblended that we can never say which is tangible and which is air. " "Look Jovita, look!" and Crescimir seizing her hand pointed out towardthe garden. They stood there gazing from the window, as if spellbound, until thecrimson light faded from the sky and the clear star descended below thehills. A bit of mist or fog, or what you will hovered about the garden and thengradually 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 wasmade, but, of course, unsuccessfully; yet Crescimir and Jovita saidnothing. Thus, in time, people forgot about the tiny elf and now there are fewwho 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 chimneypiece of its open hearted hearth may be seen a dark, glossy branch ofhemlock with a bunch of toyone. Before the fire sit Crescimir and Jovita singing the little Christmascarrol of the Illyrian children. Sometimes they think that they hear asweet, soft voice joining in harmony with their own, but yet they arenot sure but that it may perhaps be only the music of their own happyhearts, and smiling at Jovita, who holds the little Crescimir in herarms, Crescimir the Illyrian points to the branch above the hearth whilethe little one opens his eyes in wonderment. "Was he not, Jovita mia, like the affection which is seen by all theworld between lovers before marriage? And then the world wonders whereit has gone when the priest has pronounced the two as one. But wemarried lovers will never tell, for we are content to know that ourChristchild has sunken deep into our hearts where his song inaudible toothers 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 ofletters, which threw light upon the romance of her life, and on thereason perhaps of her refusing many offers which were known to have beenmade her by honoured Californians of the last generation. The lettersare curious and interesting to me, and were written to my uncle by hischum, and enclosed many sketches. The letters are in Spanish, but for your better understanding I havetranslated them with all their strange expressions as best I can. At first I thought that I would destroy them, but as most of my friendswho read them now, have long known my aunt Benicia, I feel sure thatthey will be, even in these practical days, interested and touched bythe revelation they so suggest of a life-long love which filled theheart 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 farahead when I shall have done with the University, not that I shall be atall unhappy to leave and return to my dear California, but the twelve orsixteen 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 theHochberg, while almost every day finds me at some time on the NicholausBerg enjoying its ever lovely views of the green Maine valley, whichhowever is now taking on its first autumnal tints. Today I come from the stone quarry, which lies on the road to theHochberg, where I have been chatting with the workmen and making a fewsketches to send home to Benicia; the day has been one of thepleasantest I have known, just one of those mild autumn days we love somuch in Santa Clara when her hills are clothed in their warmest coloursand the big leaves are first falling from the fig trees. Ah, I did wishto be back again to walk with you along the dry Francisquito and gatherthe first golden poppies for Benicia's black hair. Yes, of course, Ishould be contented with these world-known beauties which I have aboutme, nevertheless, it is a pleasure to recall those happy days now that Iam here alone on the continent of Europe. The warmth of our Californiansun must have entered our very hearts, for nowhere in all the world butthere are found no strangers. The grapes are not all picked as yet, and the vineyards are livelyindeed with gaily dressed peasant girls, cutting and tying up the vinesfor the winter. There is a great difference between Catholic andLutheran Germany in this one regard of dress; in all the Protestantdistricts the prevailing colour is a dull blue, while in Catholic partsthe dress seems to have no end of colour and brilliant adornment; for anartist the latter is more pleasing, but for such a thoughtful moralistas yourself, I know the peasant girls in blue frocks would bepreferable. There are very few students in the city now and scarcely a traveller isto be seen, except now and then a stray one may be noticed wanderingabout the old cathedral or counting the restored statues on the riverbridge. I always feel a longing to speak to these late birds of passagefor they look so forlorn without their mates, that they make me think ofmy own sad plight so far away from you all; when the lectures begin Ihope 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 bitof the day more than you could believe. It is beautiful just at dusk toenter the church in the Market Place, which is near my hotel, and therein the gloom, lighted only by the tapers at the shrines and where someof the worshipers are kneeling, each with a small wax light to illuminethe Prayer Books, to bow with them and receive the blessing from thepriest and to be touched by the Holy Water; then the Ave Maria, how Ilove to hear it chanted with such heartfelt praise by the old andtrembling men and women, who throw their whole spirit into the melody. The melody, I know, could not bear cold criticism, but when I kneelthere beneath the great, gray vault and see their breath ascending inthe cold air, bearing like incense their prayers to Heaven, and hear thesubdued strains of the organ, I feel that it is not the music of thisworld, and my heart is moved and I join in the grand hymn, mingling mysoft Latin words with their glorious German. The priest has passed down the aisle and sprinkled the Holy Water overus with the aspergil, the boys bearing the censers, preceding him havepassed 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 glowinto all the darkness, it is the Sacred Heart of Jesus, ever burningamid the gloom of sin. As my eyes become accustomed to the dim light, Ican discern a female figure robed in gray, standing before the shrine ofthe Virgin, I cannot see the face though I often try, but whenever shebecomes aware of my presence, she leaves the cathedral by the littledoor to the right which opens into the small court. This occurs everynight, and though I have often tried to meet her by going out by theother 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 wascrossing the bridge one of the first Californian women I have seen fora long time; I know that she was Californian or Mexican for there wasmore life in the eye than we see in the quiet, expressionless beautiesof the rest of the world. I do not know why I must ever have this facein my mind since I met the fair one on the bridge; she looked at medirectly in the eyes, and I feel sure that I have met her sometimebefore. 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 couldthink where in the world I have seen her. I am going to search the hotelbooks to-morrow for I will not rest until I find out her name. It wasalmost dark, however, when we met, and she was going toward the oppositeside of the Maine where there are no foreign hotels. I surmise, and suppose, and guess, but all to no purpose, while that onelook seems to be planted indelibly upon my mind. I would give anythingto 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 ouracquaintance who tallies with my description; about my height, blackhair, a white, unusually white face, finely marked eyebrows and thedrooping lids, which when raised, disclose large, brilliant, yetlanguid, blue eyes, --I cannot give the picture to suit me, but you notethe strange paleness and the eyes, and you must remember if you haveever 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 justto think and think and imagine things to interest me through the drearytime. What strange fantasies I have brought up in my life! You knowsome of them, and it is quite true as you wrote in your last thattranslation from Hawthorne, "His caprices had their origin in a mindthat lacked the support of an engrossing purpose and feelings thatpreyed upon themselves for lack of other food. " I try to interest myself in the things about me, but I am a dreamer. Iwonder often what my life will come to in the end, of what use I shallbe. No, it is not good that I should be alone; now, however, since Ihave seen the unknown beauty, I will not have to search my mind forsubjects to keep it occupied, for Señorita California is quite a soliddamsel and far from ethereal, and not at all ghostly, only that lookabout the eyes when the lids are drooping, and the complexion. Don't forget my usual token to Benicia and give her the sketches, butof course no word of the girl; women never understand such thingsproperly. 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 feelbetter contented with so much Californian weather to help me. Yesterday I did not think so much of the bridge beauty but today herstrange features have come to me with double vividness, and it was toescape from this that I took the walk so very early this morning. Ibrought my sketch-book with me and expected to pass the whole day on thehill and in the woods just beyond. The little, old woman who sweeps away the dry leaves from the steps soruthlessly, smiled more than usual when I gave her the customary twopfennigs. I can never understand how the poor creature wages such aheartless war against these dying leaves of Autumn; it seems that sheshould have a sisterly feeling for them, knowing that she is herself sonear to her own December. The Stations of the Cross are arranged in little shrines on the manyterraces which adorn the castle side of the hill; it is a prettythought, 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 thepeasantry, praying aloud, and here and there many a time I have seenthem ascending the toilsome road on their knees. What a grand view one has from the summit; the wide Valley of the Mainenot yet brown, but smiling as it always does in its green beauty, farinto December. The lumber rafts are floating lazily down, as it were ina dream, little thinking that in a few more hours they will have reachedtheir journey's end, there to be broken. They are like myself somewhat, who am just as lazily, uselessly and alone wandering through life to theending sooner or later; it is hard to go against the stream and theriver 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 Ienclose for Benicia, and then turned my attention to the Chapel withwhich I am always delighted; the frescoes in the dome are good and Inever tire of sitting and looking up at them while I listen to the dullchanting of the Capuzin monks behind the iron grating to the right. I have often had conversation with these monks whom I meet walking inthe garden, and find them pleasant and entertaining, and far from beingthe 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 betteracquainted than with the others, came to me and asked me to walk withhim; he is not a German, but is from Spain, so you see I find use for mymother tongue where I little expected to need it. Brother Andreas speaksGerman of course, as he has been here some twenty years, and tells me heis quite contented with his life, never having a desire for sunnySpain, saying that all the home he has is beyond this world; I wish thatI might feel as contented as the old Capuzin. But you are curious to know why I am here at this time, and I willhasten to tell you what the strange cause is. We walked about the Chapel and through parts of the garden where I hadnever been before, Brother Andreas relating to me the history of thecity and the little Chapel. By this time we had wandered to the front ofthe building, and Brother Andreas raising his arm pointed to the face ofthe church over the door and repeated, "Refugium Peccatorum, ConsolatrixAfflictorum, Sancta Maria, Ora Pro Nobis. " I did not look up at first, my attention at the time being directed to acompany of peasants in the neighbouring vineyard, but at the words"Sancta Maria, " I raised my eyes to the face of the church, and, oh myGod, what did I see! "Ora pro nobis, " broke unintentionally from my lips, I clungconvulsively to the arm of the good, old priest, my eyes were rivetedupon the niche above the door, for there looking down on me, her eyesstrangely drooping, her hands folded across her breast, stood the womanwhom 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 somewhatdifferent, 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 ourSaviour. No, the more I see those eyes, which I at first so much admired, themore I hate their look, but also strange to say, the more I amfascinated. In a few moments I had recovered my usual composure enough to assureBrother Andreas that the cause of my strange behaviour was a suddenillness to which I was often subject, when tired, but the good man shookhis head sadly and said, "No, my child, you have seen somethingsupernatural, which has disturbed you; it is well that I am here. " Withthat, he immediately made the Sign of the Cross and drew me into thechapel where he made some use of the Holy Water which I did notunderstand, nor did I care, for the sudden fright which had stopped myheart in its beating, now that all was over, sent the blood rushingthrough my veins with frightful rapidity making my head ache so terriblythat I thought that I must die. It was dark, the next I knew, the room was strange to me; A Crucifixhung 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, itcould not be real. After awhile I moved, and the monk rose and came to me, showing, in theflickering light, the fatherly features of Brother Andreas. "My child, " he said, taking my hand in his, "I am happy that you are ofour flock, for I can help you; I know your thoughts; it is well to thinknow when all is still. I will not urge you, but Christ is ever seekingfor your soul; come to the true light of the Church where he may findyou. " I made confession and received absolution, and he, making the Sign ofthe Cross, went from the room. Presently I heard the monotonous chant of the monks in the Chapel andknew it was midnight. I have written this to you hurriedly on paper Ihave in my portfolio. The chanting is over and Brother Andreas' step isaudible 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 meduring the past week but sleep, and am hardly strong enough now to carrythe pen over the paper as I write to you. The statue over the door stands there as it ever has, but it is too faraway for me to see the awful eyes, so I can say nothing about them. Butnow my dear friend I have something more wonderful than ever to tellyou. Every night when the moon shines, this image of the Virgin comes downfrom her niche and wanders about the church; I have seen her four orfive 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 nightair she was gone, and the same gray, stone image stood silent and deadin the niche. What can I think of all this? I could not believe if any one should tellme of these things, but what I see with my own eyes I certainly cannotdoubt. The Brother Andreas is very good to me, and my box has been brought fromthe hotel to the cloister, so my room is as cheerful as possible withall your pictures around me. How I wish that you were here, or I could hear from you, but never, mydear boy will that time come, I fear; I have given up the idea of everhaving so great a pleasure in this world. I cannot write more now as Iam 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 wasstranger than ever, and for the first time I heard its voice, and oh, itsounded too sweetly to me as I sat by the window and looked out over thecity as the moon rose above the hills to the east. The Brothers were chanting at the time, and their deep base came in everand ever so beautifully between the stanzas which the Virgin sung, andas she sung, she came down from her station slowly, as if there weresteps in the air and she could tread upon them. The words were as weirdas 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 leanedover and sung in a high, unearthly, wild voice, while her dark hairwaved 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 thesame 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 Icould hear, like the higher notes of an organ, voices rising from theriver and mingling in heavenly harmony; I could not at first catch thewords, but the sweet, divinely sweet strains came nearer and nearer, andthen with the same inexpressible gentleness, softly as if wafted fromthe angelic chorus came the rich, low notes from the forest, like thehumming of bees, the sighing of hemlocks, or that sweet, strange soundwe ever hear in the ocean shell. The voices came nearer and I could hearthe 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-imagewhirled about the court, laughing and nodding on every side, while themusic grew each moment louder and wilder, when suddenly all was still, and the image pausing in the middle of the court began with many oddgestures 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; thestatue was in its niche again, the Maria Virgo Sancta. I staggered backfrom the window and was received almost breathless from excitement inthe arms of Brother Andreas who entered the room just then. "My child, you should not sit by an open window; I fear that you havedone yourself an injury already. " He laid me down on the bed and when Iawoke he was gone, and now I am writing off this scrap of a letter foryou my dear friend. How I long to see you, and oh, why can I not haveyou here! Would to God that I had not met the woman on the bridge. Myfriend, my José, I dare not tell you what I fear; those eyes were uponme, those fatal eyes. No, no I will not keep it from you, I will tellyou all and leave you the terrible duty of telling Benicia. My dear boy, I am growing colder each moment; my hand trembles as Iwrite this, my last letter; I pray that I may have strength to finishit. The river was not so long as I expected, and now my poor raft isbreaking. Nor would I live, for now I know who has power over me, I knownow whose were those drooping eyelids; it is better not to live, for Ihave 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, andmay God grant that through it I come to the eternal spring. All that Iwant is to see Benicia and you once more, but that cannot be. Now alast, long farewell to Benicia; I can write no more, I am too cold. Theraft 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 lovedone. [Illustration: Scroll]