The progressive farmer. [volume] (Winston, N.C.) 1886-1904, 1889-02-12
THE BURIED RIVER,
Of California.
WRITTEN FOR THE RES FARMER, By
Joaquin Miller
Copyright by the Author

FARLA

Inc SIlLIoFIuS, DflSut eyes VI IhO SAAA
flashed about the Dom under the black
brows that almost ran in luxuriant arches
together and instantly she asked:
Where is your easel?s'
The mans face flushed a little and she
continued:
"You see 1 know what an easel is and
what a palette is, and all that. There
are Italian painters in San Francisco, and
Portuguese painters, too. The Portu-
guese painters are the best; then the
italian painters come next; after that
the French. The Americans come last"
He now was more embarrassed even
than before. Here was a girl In the
heart of the California redwoods who IN
fessed to little or no familiarity with
schools or books, but she was capable of
going straight to the heart of things with
q precision that was astonishing. And
what seemed singular, too, from the first
at all. In the books of California life
and character which he had read persist
emily since embarking in this one enter
prise of his life he had encountered little
else but ~coarseness, slang and coast dla-
lect. There the dialect had a singular
flavor of Dickens often indeed sounding
muCQ as IL IL QAQ HAlkcu I1kUb 01OLk SLUG
of MI. Pickwick and lowered around his
eloquent lips all its days without n par
ticle of the flavor of California life or man
ners in it, but for all that he had accepted
it, along with the rest of the world, and
so now could not help being a bit amazed.
"You see we Portuguese are not all
fishermen, and crag-climbers and gather
ers of sea birds eggs on the Islands; ;"
continued the girl as in ar absent-minded
sort of way her right hand fell down and
tore off the yellow head of a tall Califor-
MIA poppy that had grown up through the
earthern floor and was tiptoeing up to
try and peep out at the door.
"No, Miss, / know that. Portugal has
a history. Portugal sailed ships far this
way long before Columbus. Portugal
brought your favorite fruit of California,
the orange, from China even before
America was heard of. And to this day
an orange in Italy is not called an orange.
1t is called rena Portugalo."
The lowering black eyes looked not so
stormy now. The man had in a few
earnest words regained nearly all his lost
ground.
"Well, the way 1 came to know about
painting was this: father has a friend who
is a painter. This painter was doing some
fresco work for Saint Ignatius, the church
in San Francisco. He wanted to paint
my hair, so father let Sanello go with me
and sit and be painted.
land who is Sanello?"
"Sanello mea,' answered the girl.
" You understand z"
81 understand you perfectly: and
Senello is your sister
eyes, we called her Sanello when she
came and it has peer Sanello ever since;
although she is almost a grown girl now;
and-and she has a over" This last half
sentence was uttered in a soft voiced,
naive sort Of a way as the eyes fell to the
floor; and the petals of the California
poppy fell in a little yellow shower at
her feet.
"And your name is -"
"Farla."
"Farla ?"
"You don't like it?"
"Don't.like i'll 1 like it much. 1t is
new, and it is pretty as the lady who
bears it; and that is saylng-saying-
well, more than l dare to say now"
The dark brows grew a bit darker at
this. The man had lost ground by his
~gallantry.
"They called me Farla because when /
was born father was gathering eggs from
those Islands you see away out yonder
through the golden gate. No, 1 know
that is not the long Spanish name of the
Islands, but it is the short name that they
go by now. Farla, Farla, Silvia"
"Sanello Silvia has a lover and Farla
Silvia surely deserves a Dozen"
The girls foot went backward and
rested quite outside the door sill. A
hand tore a thistle top till there was blood
on the fingers; but she did not know or
care that she was fighting a battle with
the tall armed weed that had grown up
rank from the blood that had been shed
there and was trying to barricade the
door. But the man read by the strange,
fierce light that leaped out from under the
darkening brows that he had lost all the
ground he had regained completely.
"You are not an artist. You are some
thing else. If you had come here on our
land to paint you would have come pre-
pared"
MAY / paint you? Come ~
He sprang to the dingy. sooty fireplace
and caught up a piece of charcoal from
the dead embers. The case was desperate.
Two thumb tacks from his vest pocket
and the map on the table was on the wall
reversed and the work begun before she
could demonstrate or even turn away.
The lines, the strong and magnificent
splendor of hair, the full, mobile mouth,
all In a dozen dexterous strokes and the
girl stood still. Curiosity, if nothing bet
ter, held her now. She was at least part
woman.
Strong and stormy, rugged as the sub
lime and savage upheaved isles o fland that
she took her name from, changeful as the
tides of the ocean she loved, she was all
submission now.
Mr.. John Gray let me tell you some
thing" She drew up her right hand and
without knowing it began to chafe and
nurse the fingers that the thistle had torn,
lifting the wounds now and then TO her