CHAPTER III.
THE JOURNEY DOWN SOUTH. HOUSEKEEPING. CHINAMEN.
The journey from San Francisco to San Miguel, some six hundred miles, we took by steamer, and it was the most delightful episode of all our Californian experiences. It was the month of April, and with exquisite weather; the sea was like a pond, so calm and still; the sun was not too hot, and there were numberless interesting living things to watch as we moved along the summer sea. Several enormous whales went past, generally in couples, their great fat backs rising out of the water side by side, and passing our boat swiftly and with the greatest ease, when we would see them in a few moments, far in the distance, spurting up big fountains of spray. Not far off from the whales were generally flocks of the tiny whale birds, which seemed to use these monsters as their jackals, feeding greedily on the shoals of fish they drive before them, so greedily indeed, that many of them were too gorged and heavy to rise out of the water and our way, but, after a helpless attempt, would duck under only just in time. The flying fish were more alert, and would rise away out of the water, going many yards through the air before dropping again into the sea, and glittering with every rainbow colour in the sunshine.
The coast scenery is not beautiful; it is too bare and dry-looking, especially after passing Santa Barbara, but the glamour of the southern sun is over everything, and gives all a caressing smile, at any rate, from a distance. It was a delight to see these wonderful effects again, and we felt glad to be once more in the warm sunshine.
When we arrived at the bay of San Miguel late in the afternoon of the fourth day, it looked so radiantly beautiful in the soft glow of the setting sun, as if it might indeed be the gate into a real land of promise; a land flowing with milk and honey.
It is a splendid bay, and the position of the town is quite ideal, and though the most has not been made of its possibilities, many improvements are going on steadily. Given money and taste, it should be one of the most lovely places in the world.
We found comfortable rooms in a boarding-house, and settled down to rest awhile from searching and questioning. The boys went to school as in San Francisco. These free State schools are exceedingly good. The teachers are among the most charming ladies we have met, and the plan of using the same books, and the same system of teaching all over the State, saves much loss of time, since a child coming to a new school can at once be placed in exactly the same position where he left off, in his former school, some three hundred miles away.
But in spite of our determination to let ourselves drift for a time, we were very soon drawn into the same old probing and exploring, more especially as we were delighted with the climate of San Miguel. On the strength of this, and because our English hearts were hungering for some place more homelike than any boarding-house can ever be, we took a little house, hired the necessary furniture, and began our first experiences of Chinamen as general servants.
We had the most wonderful procession of Celestials through the little kitchen before we left that wee house. There was no room convenient for the Chinaman's bedroom, without giving him one close to our own, which was not to be thought of, so the arrangement was, that when supper was over, and the work done, he should retire to Chinatown, coming back in good time in the morning to get breakfast and do his other duties. He seemed quite pleased with this plan, and we got along swimmingly for a fortnight. Then he dropped the news casually to me that he was going to Los Angeles the next day. When I exclaimed at the shortness of the notice, he beamed all over, and said, "Me bling other boy, him allie lightie, him stay."
Before I had quite made up my mind what to do, I heard breathless jabbering in the kitchen, and on going in there, was introduced by Sing Lee to Quong Wong, our new cook. Both of them were very friendly and smiling. No. 1 was showing No. 2 where everything was kept, and giving him what sounded like most eloquent instructions about his duties, both of them being very grave and business-like over this. I did not seem to be needed, and so quietly went back to the sitting-room. Supper was prepared and cooked by the two together to an unending accompaniment of Chinese chatter.
This was the beginning of the procession. Some men stayed a week, others three weeks or a month, and each brought and carefully installed his successor, I taking no part whatever, except to learn a new Chinese name. We had tall fat fellows, tall lean ones, little dumpy ones and spare wiry ones; all of them clever and quick beyond anything I had ever seen or known. They keep themselves exquisitely neat, in their white linen coats and aprons, which seem always to remain spotless. Their hands are perfectly fascinating; such delicate tapering fingers, and such a masterly way of touching everything. One member of the profession, I remember, who had the most dainty taper fingers, was very fond of music, and, seeing that I was interested, sat down very simply at my Broadwood grand (the only piece of furniture which we had brought from Frisco) and played some hymns quite nicely. He used to sing, too, at his work—all day—in a curious high falsetto, of which he seemed very proud. He had learnt to play the piano at the mission schools, where many of them go, and are converted—so they say. But they find the free lessons in English, which are given there, so cheap and convenient, that their motives in being converted are rather mixed. When he left me, it was to go the very next day to San Francisco on most important business, so he said. That, of course, was only the usual way of giving notice, and did not prevent his greeting me smilingly whenever I chanced to meet him in the streets of San Miguel. He came to the rescue also, when, through some hitch, the chain of succession was broken, and I was left to struggle alone in my little kitchen, and he stayed with me till he could find another "boy." I began to be haunted by a story I had heard often repeated. A certain lady was much puzzled and distressed because she could never keep any Chinaman beyond a few days; they would arrive, smiling and seemingly much pleased with everything, but invariably on the third or fourth day they would insist upon leaving at once. At last, in despair, the poor mistress persuaded her Chinaman to explain the mystery to her, before he had carried himself and his bundle away.
He led her to a dark corner of the kitchen, and showed her some Chinese writing high up on the wall, which be interpreted, "too much talkee here." That was all. But it had been enough to upset all the comfort of the household.
Probably after that she took the hint and let her Chinaman do the work in his own way, with as few words or instructions from her as possible. They are so marvellously clever in taking up the work of a new place the very moment they arrive, exactly as though they had been always in this one house only, that it is no wonder they resent any interference; and the sooner one learns to leave them entirely to themselves, the sooner one reaches some kind of peace.
However, I found to my relief, that no secret sign had gone out against myself or the house; the difficulty was the long daily walk to Chinatown. With their small feet and uncomfortable shoes, they are all bad walkers, and each in turn had tired of the effort, and handed the place over to a friend. This explanation, kindly given me by Mr. Kee Mane, who kept the Chinese stores, lifted a weight from my mind, and I resigned myself to continuing my lessons in fresh Chinese names.
(To be continued.)
A WINTER NIGHT.
[A CAROL OF FOOTPRINTS.]
By NORA HOPPER.
'Twixt snow and snow in their poor apparel
The singers come with their lightsome carol,
On Christmas Day, on Christmas Day.
The singers come in a huddled crowd
Singing "Gloria" low and "Gloria" loud,
On Christmas Day in the morning.
Under the tread of so many feet
Snow turns mud in the lamplit street,
On Christmas Day, on Christmas Day.
Yet you may see while the dawn endure
Shining footsteps from door to door,
On Christmas Day in the morning.
Shining prints of a little child,
Feet in the mud set, undefiled,
On Christmas Day, on Christmas Day.
A little while do the footprints stay
Till the clear dawn deepens to rosy day,
To Christmas Day in the morning.
And those who have looked on the footprints bright,
They know, in the dusk 'twixt day and night,
(On Christmas Day, on Christmas Day,)
That Christ has passed with the passing feet
Of folk that praised Him in carols sweet
On Christmas Day in the morning.
[LESSONS FROM NATURE.]
By JEAN A. OWEN, Author of "Forest, Field and Fell," etc.