When I was young, I went looking for gold in California. I never foundenough to make me rich, but I did discover a beautiful part of thecountry. It was called the Stanislaus. The Stanislaus was like heavenon earth. It had bright green hills and deep forests where soft windstouched the trees.
Other men also looking for gold had reached the Stanislaus hills ofCalifornia many years before I did. They had built a town in thevalley with sidewalks and stores, banks and schools. They had alsobuilt pretty little houses for their families. At first they found alot of gold in the Stanislaus hills. But their good luck did not last.
After a few years the gold disappeared. By the time I reached theStanislaus, all the people were gone to. Grass now grew in thestreets, and the little houses were covered by wild rose bushes. Onlythe sound of insects filled the air, as I walked through the emptytown that summer day so long ago.
Then I realized I was not alone after all. A man was smiling at me ashe stood in front of one of the little houses. This house was notcovered by wild rose bushes. A nice little garden in front of thehouse was full of blue and yellow flowers. White curtains hung fromthe windows and floated in the soft summer wind.
Still smiling, the man opened the door of his house and motioned tome. I went inside, and could not believe my eyes. I had been livingfor weeks in rough mining camps with other gold miners. We slept onthe hard ground, ate canned beans from cold metal plates and spent ourdays in the difficult search for gold. Here in this little house, myspirit seemed to come to life again. I saw a bright rug on theshinning wooden floor. Pictures hung all around the room and on littletables there were seashells, books and china vases full of flowers. Awoman had made this house into a home.
The pleasure I felt in my heart must have shown on my face. The manread my thoughts. "Yes. "he smiled: "It is all her work. Everything inthis room has felt the touch of her hand." One of the pictures on thewall was not hanging straight. He noticed it and went to fix it. Hestepped back several times to make sure the picture was reallystraight. Then he gave it a gentle touch with his hand.
"She always does that." he explained to me, "It is like the finishingpat a mother gives her child's hair after she has brushed it. I'veseen her fix all these things so often that I can do it just the wayshe does. I don't know why I do it, I just do it."As he talked I realized there was something in this room that hewanted me to discover. I looked around. When my eyes reached thecorner of the room near the fireplace. He broke into a happy laugh,and rubbed his hands together. "That's it!" he cried out: "You'vefound it. I know you would. It is her picture."I went to a little black shelf that held a small picture of the mostbeautiful woman I had ever seen. There was a sweetness and softness inthe woman's expression that I had never seen before. The man took thepicture from my hands and stared at it. "She was nineteen on her lastbirthday that was the day we were married. When you see her, oh, justwait until you meet her!" "Where is she now? " I asked. "Oh, she isaway." the man sighed putting the picture back on the little blackshelf. "She went to visit her parents. They live forty or fifty milesfrom here. She has been gone two weeks to date." "When will she beback?" I asked."Well, this is Wednesday. "He said slowly, "She will beback on Saturday, in the evening." I felt a sharp sense of regret.
"I'm sorry, because I will be gone by then," I said. "Gone? No, whyshould you go? Don't go. She will be so sorry. You see, she likes tohave people come and stay with us." "No, I really must leave. "I saidfirmly.He picked up her picture and held it before my eyes. "Here, "hesaid "Now you tell her to her face that you could have stayed to meether, and you would not."Something made me change my mind as I looked at the picture for asecond time. I decided to stay. The man told me his name was Henry.
That night Henry and I talked about many different things but mainlyabout her. The next day passed quietly. Thursday evening we had avisitor. He was a big gray hair miner named Tom. "I just came for afew minutes and ask when she is coming home. "He explained: "Is anynews?" "Oh, yes, "the man replied, "I got a letter. Would you like tohear it? " He took a yellow letter out of his shirt pocket and read itto us. It was full of loving messages to him and to other people,their close friends and neighbors. When the man finished reading it,he looked at his friend. "Oho, no, you're doing it again Tom! Youalways cry when I read a letter from her. I am going to tell her thistime." "No, you must not do that, Henry. " The gray hair miner said,"I am getting old and any little sorrow makes me cry. I really washoping she would be here tonight." The next day, Friday, another oldminer came to visit .He asked to hear the letter .The message in itmade him cry too." We all miss her so much." He said.
Saturday finally came .I found I was looking at my watch very often.
Henry noticed this. "You don't think something has happened to her, doyou?" he asked me. I smiled and said that I was sure she was justfine. But he did not seem satisfied .I was glad to see his two friendsTom and Joe coming down the road as the sun began to set. The oldminers were carrying guitars, They also brought flowers and a bottleof whiskey. They put the flowers in vases and began to play some fastand lovely songs on their guitars. Henry's friends kept giving himglasses of whiskey which they made him drink.When I reached for one ofthe two glasses left on the table, Tom stopped my arm. "Drop thatglass and take the other one." He whispered.He gave the remainingglass of whiskey to Henry just as the clock began to strike midnight.
Henry emptied the glass .His face grew whiter and whiter. "Boys, "Hesaid, " I am feeling sick, I want to lie down!" Henry was asleepalmost before the words were out of his mouth. In a moment his twofriends had picked him up and carried him into the bedroom. Theyclosed the door and came back. They seemed to be getting ready toleave. So I said: "Please don't go, gentlemen. She will not know me; Iam a stranger to her." They looked at each other. "His wife has beendead for nineteen years!" Tom said. "Dead?" I whispered. "Dead was . "He said "She went to see her parents about six months after she gotmarried, on the way back, on a Saturday evening in June, when she wasalmost here, Indians captured her .No one ever saw her again. Henrylost his mind .He thinks she is still alive.
When June comes, he thinks she has gone on her trip to see herparents. Then he begins to wait for her to come back. He gets out thatold letter and we come around to visit so he can read it to us. On theSaturday night she is supposed to come home .We come here to be withhim .We put a sleeping drug in his drink so he will sleep through thenight. Then he's all right for another year."Joe picked up his hat andhis guitar." We have done this every June for nineteen years." Hesaid, "The first year there were twenty-seven of us, Now just the twoof us are left."He opened the door of the pretty little house, and thetwo old men disappeared into the darkness of the Stanislaus.
You have just heard the story "The Californian's Tale”. It waswritten by Mark Twain and adapted for Special English by DonaldSanctus. Your storyteller was Shep O'Neal. For VOA Special English,this is Shirley Griffith . |