Nelly's Silver Mine Part 28

"I don't think so, Billy," said Nelly. "I think it's real true.

Don't you know, Rob, how awfully you and I felt when we thought we'd found that mine up in the Pa.s.s, and it turned out nothing but mica?

We felt just as if we'd lost something."

"I didn't," said Rob; "I just felt mad; and it makes me feel mad now to think of it: how we lugged those heavy old stones all that way. I wish I'd saved some for my museum though. All the boys here have museums, a man told me, and perhaps I won't find any of that kind of stone here."

After dinner, they all drove down into the valley to look at their new home. The road wound down in a zigzag way among a great many low hills. Sometimes for quite a distance among these hills, you cannot see the valley at all; and then all of a sudden you look right out into it. As they went lower, they saw more and more of it, until at last they reached it and came out on the level ground, where they could look up and down the whole length of the valley. Long Billy was driving them: when they reached the spot where the whole valley lay in full view, he stopped the horses and, turning round to Mrs.

March, said:--

"Well, mum, did I tell the truth or not?"

"No, Billy, you did not," replied Mrs. March, very gravely.

Billy looked surprised, and was just about to speak when Mrs. March continued:--

"You did not tell half how beautiful it is."

"Ah!" said Billy. "Well, that kind o' lie I don't mind bein' charged with."

"Oh, papa! let me get out!" cried Nelly. "I want to walk in this gra.s.s. Is this our gra.s.s?"

The road was winding along between two fields of high gra.s.s, which waved in the wind. As it waved, Nelly saw bright red and blue flowers among it; some tall, and some low down close to the ground as if they were hiding.

"Yes, this is where our land begins," said her father; "this is our own gra.s.s: but I don't want you to run in it; we must mow it next week."

"Oh, let us, papa; just a little bit--close to the fence. You can spare a little bit of hay," pleaded Nelly; "we'll step light."

"Do let them, Robert," said Mrs. March. "I should like to do it myself."

"Very well: keep close to the fence, then," said Mr. March, and reined up the horses. Rob and Nelly jumped out, and had clambered over the fence in a second, and waded into the gra.s.s. It was nearly up to their shoulders, and they looked very pretty moving about in it, picking the flowers. As Mrs. March was watching them, she suddenly saw a brown bird with yellow breast fly out of the gra.s.s, and perch on one of the fence-posts.

"Oh, don't stir, children! don't stir!" she cried: "see that bird!"

Rob and Nelly stood perfectly still. And what do you think that bird did?--opened his mouth and sang the most exquisite song you ever heard. The canary bird's song is not half so sweet. The bird was not ten steps away from the carriage or from the children: there he sat, looking first at one and then at the other, like a tame bird.

In a few seconds he sang again: then he spread his wings and flew a little way into the field, and alighted on a tall, slender gra.s.s stalk, and there he sat, swinging to and fro on the gra.s.s, and sang again; then he flew away. n.o.body drew a long breath till he had gone.

"That's a lark," said Billy; "this country's full on 'em; they're the tamest birds for a wild bird I ever see. They'll sing to ye right under your feet."

"Well, he's a glorious chorister," said Mr. March.

"If he's a chorister, I'd like to go where he keeps his choir," said Rob. "I mean to catch one, and have him to sing in my museum."

"Oh, no, Rob," said Nelly; "don't!"

"They won't never sing in cages," said Billy. "I've seen it tried many a time. They jest walk, walk, walk up and down, up and down in the cage the hull time, and beat their wings. They can't stand bein'

shut up, for all they're so tame actin' while they're free."

The children climbed back into the wagon now, with their hands full of flowers; and Billy whipped up the horses.

"Git up, Pumpkinseed! git up, Fox!" he said: "there's a crib o' corn ahead for you."

Very soon the new home came in sight. It looked, when they first saw it, as if it were half buried in green gra.s.s; but, as they came nearer, they saw that the enclosure in which the house and barns stood was entirely bare of gra.s.s. This gave it a naked and barren look which was not pleasing, and disappointed Mrs. March very much.

However, she said nothing; only thought to herself "I'll have green gra.s.s up to that very doorstep, before another year's out."

The house was very much like the one they had lived in, in the Ute Pa.s.s, except that it was larger; there were three log-cabin barns, two of which were very large; and a queer-shaped log-house, bigger at the top than at the bottom, standing up quite a distance from the ground, on posts. This was for wheat. Then there were two dog-houses, and a great place built round with palings, to keep hens in; and one or two large open sheds where wagons and carts stood.

Billy looked round on all these buildings with great pride.

"I declare," said he, "there ain't such a ranch's this in all the valley. What a dumb fool that Wilson was to go 'n' leave it. He's put all he's worth, except this farm, into a mine up in Central; 'n'

now he'll go 'n' put the money for this in too, and's like's not he'll never see a dollar on't again's long's he lives'. This minin'

jest crazes folks."

"Did ye ever see a puttier farm'n this, mum?" he asked, turning to Mrs. March.

Mrs. March could not say that she had not. To her eye, accustomed to Ma.s.sachusetts green yards, shaded by elms and maples, this little group of rough houses and sheds, standing up quite a distance from the ground, on posts, few tufts of coa.r.s.e gra.s.s, and weeds growing around it, was very unsightly. But she did not want to say this; so she said:--

"It is much the nicest place I have seen in Colorado, Billy; and this valley is perfectly beautiful. But where is the creek?"

"Right there, mum, just a few rods beyond that fence to the west,--where you see that line of bushes."

"I don't see any water," said Nelly.

"No, you can't till yer come right on it," said Billy; "'tain't very wide here, 'n' it jest slips along in the bushes 's if it was trying to hide itself."

"Papa," whispered Nelly, "doesn't Billy say queer things about things, just as if every thing was alive, and had feelings as we do?

I like it."

Mr. March smiled, and took Nelly's hand in his.

"Girlie," he said, "Billy's a little of a poet, in his rough way."

"He doesn't make verses: does he?" asked Nelly, reverentially. To make verses had always been the height of Nelly's ambition, as many a little roll of scribbled paper in her desk would show. But there was one great trouble with Nelly's verses thus far: she never could find any words that rhymed; and now to hear Billy called a poet seemed very strange to her.

"I never should have thought he could make verses," she continued.

"Oh! making verses is the smallest part of being a poet, Nellie,"

said Mr. March. "You can't understand that yet; but you will some day."

Then they all went into the house, and looked at room after room, thinking what they would do with each. The rooms were sunny and bright, but were so dirty that Mrs. March groaned.

"Oh, how shall we ever get this place clean?"

"I'll tell you," said Billy. "If ye don't mind the expense o'

stayin' at the hotel a week, an' if ye'll buy me a little paint, I'll have this hull place so ye won't know it, in a week's time.

There's nothin' I can't turn my hand to; an' I'd like to fix things up here for you, first rate. I saw up 't the other place about how you like things."

Billy had a quick eye for everything that was pretty. He had never seen any house in Colorado which was so cosey and pretty as the Marches' house in the Ute Pa.s.s; and he was thinking now in his heart how he would like to make this new one as pretty as that.

"Mebbe you couldn't trust me," he said, seeing that Mrs. March hesitated.

"Oh, yes, I could, Billy," she replied; "I have no doubt you could put it all in beautiful order. I was thinking whether we ought to stay"--she was going to say, "stay a whole week at the hotel"--but, just at that minute, there came piercing shrieks in Rob's voice: