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

by Alice B. Haven

But he did not wonder much, when he came in sight of it; in his world, he certainly had never seen any thing that could compare with that first glimpse of Sonoma valley. It was as different from any thing he had seen in California, as if he had been in another country. The desolate plains of Sacramento, the barren ranges of the hills in the mining country, make the rich valleys all the more beautiful by contrast.

It was an hour before sundown, when the sloop came to, at the Embarcadero, or landing, on a little creek, emptying into the bay, after winding through the fertile valley lands. A real wagon, and two spirited horses were waiting them, in charge of Maloney, the head man, whose universal knowledge, and blunders and brogue, Hadley had been amusing Sam with that afternoon. His employer took “the reins into his own hands,” as he had said, and now he could not drive too fast for Sam’s good pleasure, or his own impatience. The ranch was a perfect passion with him. Sam believed he was right when he said he should not care any more for a wife if he had one. The horses, Bill and Dick, knew very well who was driving them, and flew along a road as level as an English turn-pike; bordered by fields instead of fences, prairie-like meadows of wild oats, and countless flowers, so thick, and with such brilliant colors that the whole valley seemed like a bright carpet unrolled before them. Clumps of oaks, and red-wood trees stood like islands in this sea of verdure, with a bright emerald foliage of early spring, and waved and rustled their branches from the hills on each side. There was not a bare or barren spot for miles, and fording the creek now grown narrower, but not less clear and musical, they came suddenly on the new house, standing in the very midst of this luxuriance.

There were fences and out-houses, oxen lowing, and hens cackling, the deep growl of the watch-dog, and the snapping of two most ill-natured looking terriers, to make up the picture. The house itself was really a house, and not a log cabin, or shanty, as Sam had supposed. The frame had been shipped from the States, and sent up by Hadley, to replace the shanty of the first settler, when he came into possession of the ranch. It was two stories high, with real windows and doors, and painted white. Sam had not expected to find any thing so comfortable on the premises; and was astonished, much to Hadley’s gratification, when he caught the first glimpse of it through the trees.

Its furniture was not very elegant or abundant, and the largest room was filled with a varied collection of farming and carpenters’ tools, boards, seeds, chests and boxes of all kinds,—a general lumber room. In the absence of a barn, which was to be built as soon as the ranchero could afford it, or time would permit, the fowls had been let out of the very large chicken house, and the long legs of a Shanghai were walking comfortably over the kitchen table, while three more surveyed the new arrivals curiously from the door-step. There was a bedroom on the ground-floor, with a four-post bedstead, minus mattress, sheets or pillows,—sacking, and a pair of blue blankets supplied their places. Overhead were two unfurnished rooms, occupied by Maloney, and his brother work-fellows, in harvest time; their blankets doing duty on the floor.

The housekeeping, to which Sam was speedily introduced, was quite as miscellaneous.—Some obliging neighbor had sent over a gallon of buttermilk, and the bread was as light and well baked as Mrs. Gilman’s. The fried, fresh beef, and boiled beans, were eaten with silver forks, a trace of Hadley’s early propensities, and the only set that had so far entered the valley; and he washed the dishes himself, by the light of spermaceti candles inserted into empty claret bottles. Perhaps Abby would not have been satisfied with the general use the towels were put to, and might have thought they would have lasted longer if they had been hemmed. But Abby was not there, and her brother saw nothing to grumble at.

Matters looked a little straighter about the house, however, after his ministrations commenced. He shared in his mother’s love of order and neatness, and many of her practical lessons to Abby and Hannah came back to him. He found that when the chairs were set up, and the chickens dislodged, the stove cleaned, and the floor swept, “the decks were considerably clearer to work in.” Instead of thinking his employment degrading or unbecoming, he took the greatest pride and pleasure in it, since it was his work, and kept in mind one of Mrs. Gilman’s favorite maxims, “Whatever is worth doing is worth doing well.”

He obeyed a still higher precept, “Whatsoever thy hand findeth to do, do with all thy might;” and thus it was, that “faithful in a few things,” he fitted himself to “be ruler over many” when the time should come.

Life on the ranch was never dull or monotonous. Housekeeping was a very small part of what he did. There were the fowls to feed and water, the eggs to look after, and the young brood to watch. Hadley’s fowls received as much attention as any part of the family. They were a China breed, rare and costly, and he was as fond of them as of the ranch, or the house, or Sam; for when Sam came to be known in the valley, he was as great a favorite as he had been on ship-board. People came miles to see the fowls. Hadley knew them all apart, and had named most of them, curious entries being made in the farm journal, kept daily, of the eggs and families of “Pert,” “Topknot,” “Old Maid,” “Sauce Box,” “Dinah,” and many other occupants of the chicken house. There was an excuse for a vegetable garden laid out when Sam came, but no one had found time to attend to it. By June it was as flourishing as garden could be, with rows of lettuce and early peas, and such beets and melons, in prospect, as would have astonished the farmers at Merrill’s Corner. Hay-making, from the tall, wild oats, was the farm work for the first few weeks, and Sam was as much help as any of the extra hands. Hadley mowed with the men all day, drinking molasses and water from the same big pitcher, and beating them by half an acre, when he became a little accustomed to the swing of the scythe. He was very much respected all through the valley, his pride taking the form of a sturdy independence, and his liberal, generous disposition finding its proper place in the hospitalities of a new country.

When the day’s work was done, Sam was his chosen companion, while he smoked his cigar—another trace of old habits—on a tour of inspection to the stable, the garden, or the chicken-house, or galloped over to Sonoma for letters, or small stores. He had never passed a week in the country before he came to California, except at a watering-place, and listened to Sam’s practical suggestions with a great deal of respect.