A Napa Christchild; and Benicias Letters | Page 2

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