Anywhere else, you took your life in your right hand when you came within a yard and a half to peer over.For at any moment the dump might begin to slide and carry you down and bury you below its ruins.Indeed, the neighbourhood of an old mine is a place beset with dangers.For as still as Silverado was, at any moment the report of rotten wood might tell us that the platform had fallen into the shaft; the dump might begin to pour into the road below; or a wedge slip in the great upright seam, and hundreds of tons of mountain bury the scene of our encampment.
I have already compared the dump to a rampart, built certainly by some rude people, and for prehistoric wars.It was likewise a frontier.All below was green and woodland, the tall pines soaring one above another, each with a firm outline and full spread of bough.All above was arid, rocky, and bald.The great spout of broken mineral, that had dammed the canyon up, was a creature of man's handiwork, its material dug out with a pick and powder, and spread by the service of the tracks.But nature herself, in that upper district, seemed to have had an eye to nothing besides mining; and even the natural hill-side was all sliding gravel and precarious boulder.Close at the margin of the well leaves would decay to skeletons and mummies, which at length some stronger gust would carry clear of the canyon and scatter in the subjacent woods.Even moisture and decaying vegetable matter could not, with all nature's alchemy, concoct enough soil to nourish a few poor grasses.It is the same, they say, in the neighbourhood of all silver mines; the nature of that precious rock being stubborn with quartz and poisonous with cinnabar.Both were plenty in our Silverado.
The stones sparkled white in the sunshine with quartz; they were all stained red with cinnabar.Here, doubtless, came the Indians of yore to paint their faces for the war-path;and cinnabar, if I remember rightly, was one of the few articles of Indian commerce.Now, Sam had it in his undisturbed possession, to pound down and slake, and paint his rude designs with.But to me it had always a fine flavour of poetry, compounded out of Indian story and Hawthornden's allusion:
"Desire, alas! I desire a Zeuxis new, From Indies borrowing gold, from Eastern skies Most bright cinoper..."Yet this is but half the picture; our Silverado platform has another side to it.Though there was no soil, and scarce a blade of grass, yet out of these tumbled gravel-heaps and broken boulders, a flower garden bloomed as at home in a conservatory.Calcanthus crept, like a hardy weed, all over our rough parlour, choking the railway, and pushing forth its rusty, aromatic cones from between two blocks of shattered mineral.Azaleas made a big snow-bed just above the well.
The shoulder of the hill waved white with Mediterranean heath.In the crannies of the ledge and about the spurs of the tall pine, a red flowering stone-plant hung in clusters.
Even the low, thorny chaparral was thick with pea-like blossom.Close at the foot of our path nutmegs prospered, delightful to the sight and smell.At sunrise, and again late at night, the scent of the sweet bay trees filled the canyon, and the down-blowing night wind must have borne it hundreds of feet into the outer air.
All this vegetation, to be sure, was stunted.The madrona was here no bigger than the manzanita; the bay was but a stripling shrub; the very pines, with four or five exceptions in all our upper canyon, were not so tall as myself, or but a little taller, and the most of them came lower than my waist.
For a prosperous forest tree, we must look below, where the glen was crowded with green spires.But for flowers and ravishing perfume, we had none to envy: our heap of road-metal was thick with bloom, like a hawthorn in the front of June; our red, baking angle in the mountain, a laboratory of poignant scents.It was an endless wonder to my mind, as Idreamed about the platform, following the progress of the shadows, where the madrona with its leaves, the azalea and calcanthus with their blossoms, could find moisture to support such thick, wet, waxy growths, or the bay tree collect the ingredients of its perfume.But there they all grew together, healthy, happy, and happy-making, as though rooted in a fathom of black soil.
Nor was it only vegetable life that prospered.We had, indeed, few birds, and none that had much of a voice or anything worthy to be called a song.My morning comrade had a thin chirp, unmusical and monotonous, but friendly and pleasant to hear.He had but one rival: a fellow with an ostentatious cry of near an octave descending, not one note of which properly followed another.This is the only bird Iever knew with a wrong ear; but there was something enthralling about his performance.You listened and listened, thinking each time he must surely get it right; but no, it was always wrong, and always wrong the same way.Yet he seemed proud of his song, delivered it with execution and a manner of his own, and was charming to his mate.A very incorrect, incessant human whistler had thus a chance of knowing how his own music pleased the world.Two great birds - eagles, we thought - dwelt at the top of the canyon, among the crags that were printed on the sky.Now and again, but very rarely, they wheeled high over our heads in silence, or with a distant, dying scream; and then, with a fresh impulse, winged fleetly forward, dipped over a hilltop, and were gone.
They seemed solemn and ancient things, sailing the blue air:
perhaps co-oeval with the mountain where they haunted, perhaps emigrants from Rome, where the glad legions may have shouted to behold them on the morn of battle.
