New Orleans Republican. [volume] (New Orleans, La) 1867-1878, 1874-07-19
BABY SYLVESTER.
BY BRET HARTE.

II was at little mining camp in the Cali
fornia Sierras that he first dawned upon In
In all his grotesque sweetness.
had arrived early in the morning, bu
not in time to intercept the friend who wal
the object of INV visit. He had gone ''pros
pecting"-so they told me on the river
and would not probably return until lat,
in the afternoon. They could not say wha
direction he had taken; they could not sug
gest that would be likely to find him if
followed. But it was the general opinion
that ! had better wait.
looked around me. was standing upon
the bank Of the river, and apparently the
only other human beings in the world were
my interlOcutOrs, who were even then JUS,
disappearing from my horizon down the
steep bank toward the rivers dry bed.
approached the edge OF the bank.
Where could wait
%, anywhere; down with them on the
river bar, where they were working, if
liked! Or could make myself at home in
ANY OF those cabins that found lying round
loose. Or, perhaps it would be cooler and
.pleasanter for me in my friends cabin on
'he hill. Did l see those three large sugar.
pines And, little TO the right, a canvass
root and chimney over the bushes Well,
that was my friend's,-that was Dick Syl-
westerns cabin. l could stake my horse in
that little hollow, and just hang round
L
III the sbanty; I could amuse myself with
them. Or could play with the baby.
DO what
But they had already gone. / leaned
over the bank and called after their vanish
ing figures
'.What did you say could do ~
The answer toated slowly up on the hot,
sluggish air:
"Pla-a-y with the baby"
The lazy echoes took it up and tossed it
1ahsuidly from hill to hill, until Bald Noun
tain opposite made some incoherent remark
about the baby, and then all was still.
must have been mistaken. My friend
was not man Of family; there was not a
woman within forty miles OF the river camp;
he never WAS SO passiODately devoted to
children as to import luxury so expensive.
i must have been mistaken.
turned my horses head toward the hill.
Az we slowly climbed the narrow trail, the
little settlement might have been some ex-
aumed POnpeiian suburb, so deserted and
silent were its habitatiOns. The open doors
plainly disclosed each rudely finished inte-
rior-the rough pine table, with the scant
@uuipage of the morning meal still standing;
the wooden bunk. with its tumbled and
disbeyeled blankets. A golden lizard-the
very genius of desolate stillness-had
stopbet breathless upon the threshold of
one cabin; a squirrel peeped impudently
into the window Ot another; WOokpecker,
with the general flavor Of undertaking
which distinguishes that bird, withheld his
sepulchral BANNER from the coffin lid OF
the roof or which he was professionally
engaged MS we passed. For moment l
halt regretted that | had not accepted the
invitation TO the river bed; but, the next
moment, a breeze swept up the long, dark
canon, and the waiting files of the pines
beyond bent toward me in salutation.
think nv horse understood as well as my
sejf that it was the cabins that made The
solitude human, and therefore unbearable,
for he auickened his pace, and with gentle
trot brought me to the edge OF the wood
and the three pines that stood like videttes
before the Sylvester outpost.
Unsaddling my horse in the little hollow,
unslung the long riata from the saddle
bow, and, lettering him to young sapling,
turned toward the cabin. had gone only .
few steps when heard Q quick trot behind
me, and poor Pomposo, with every hbre
tineling with fear, was ct my heels: l
looked hurriedly around. The breeze had
died away, and only an occasional breath
frOm the deep cheeted woods, more IKE
long sigh than any lsrticulate sound or the