A Napa Christchild; and Benicias Letters | Page 8

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.