"All's not Gold that Glitters;" or, The Young Californian

by Alice B. Haven

They went away again when all was arranged for the simple burial; for even the kind-hearted young man who had been with him most, felt it was best to leave the boy alone. The moonlight came in through the opening of the tent, and made every thing dimly visible, as he sat on the ground, by that stiff, motionless form. He put his hands over his face, and tried to think. His father was dead. He had heard them say so. His mother’s husband,—Abby’s father—Hannah’s father! They could not see him again. They were thinking about his coming home, and they would look for him, but it was no use. He felt it would kill his mother, when she came to know about it, and it seemed as if he could hear Abby’s passionate crying, and sobs, when she heard the dreadful news. She had always been her father’s favorite, without any jealousy from the others, since the first moment that her soft baby arms were wound around his neck.

He wished that it was him, instead of his father, who had gone, since one of them must die; it would not have made half so much difference at home. Then he lifted up his head from between his knees, and looked at his father’s face again,—only to sink down and rock his body slowly, as he thought on, and on.

If his father had died at home, how different it would have been. The whole neighborhood would have known Mr. Gilman had a fever. The doctor and the minister, and his mother, would have been by, and he might have known them, and talked about Heaven, and some one would have prayed.

Then Sam thought, what was living, after all, and what use was it to come into the world so full of trouble? Perhaps the thought was a prayer, for the answer came in the recollection of many things that he had read and studied in his Bible. His mother had explained to them again and again, how Our Father in Heaven permits us to have trials and troubles as long as we live, so that we shall not forget there is a better and a higher life. And there every one is told so plainly what is right and what is wrong; those who do right being happy, even in sickness or poverty. It was only natural in Sam to think for an instant, how much better it would have been for them all if his father had been as good and contented as their mother was, but that feeling was lost in the bitter one, that it was all over now, life was ended, nothing could be changed.

“Oh, mother, mother, mother,” the boy groaned, and he longed, as if his heart was breaking, to lay his head on her knee, and look up for comfort to her face, as he had often done in his childish troubles. “Dear, dear mother!” and the tears came at last, raining through his fingers, and taking away that dull stupor of pain from his heart. He was exhausted with his long and anxious watch, and a strange heaviness came over him, which he struggled against in vain. He did not mean to sleep, but he must have done so, for he roused himself up and looked around with a sobbing start. He had not forgotten that his father was lying dead beside him, that he was keeping watch for the last time—but he thought he had heard a stealthy footstep outside the tent, and that the shadow of a man fell across the entrance. But no one came, and there was no sound but the fretting of the river, as the moon sank behind the hills, and left him in darkness and solitude.

There was not time for grieving over the dead, or for more than the simplest burial rites, in that rude mountain life.

The men came again, at earliest light, and found the boy sitting where they had left him, his long hair falling over his face, bowed down upon his knee. Sam understood why they had come, and rose to follow them, though no one spoke a word to him, as they wrapped Mr. Gilman in the blanket on which he laid, and carried him away. His was not the only grave they had prepared at midnight, for other low mounds of earth marked a little slope, half way up the bluff. And here they laid him, with kindly, not loving, hands,—he was a stranger to them all, and but one solitary mourner stood near. There was no audible prayer, though no one can tell what thoughts or wishes passed through their minds, as the men stood silently for a moment, with uncovered heads, when their task was finished. It was but a moment, and then their voices, and their footsteps sounded down the hill, as quick and as careless, as if death could not reach them.

Sam thought they had all gone, but some one came and laid a hand on his shoulder. It was the Major, who said cheerfully—

“Come, come, my boy, don’t give up; you’ve got a long life before you yet.”

“A hard one,” Sam said, turning away his face even from those friendly eyes, and leaning his head against a tree. No wonder his voice sounded hopeless, for he was yet a boy, and thousands of miles from any one who knew him or cared for him, in the first great trouble of his life.