There was another neighbour of ours at Silverado, small but very active, a destructive fellow.This was a black, ugly fly - a bore, the Hansons called him - who lived by hundreds in the boarding of our house.He entered by a round hole, more neatly pierced than a man could do it with a gimlet, and he seems to have spent his life in cutting out the interior of the plank, but whether as a dwelling or a store-house, Icould never find.When I used to lie in bed in the morning for a rest - we had no easy-chairs in Silverado - I would hear, hour after hour, the sharp cutting sound of his labours, and from time to time a dainty shower of sawdust would fall upon the blankets.There lives no more industrious creature than a bore.
And now that I have named to the reader all our animals and insects without exception - only I find I have forgotten the flies - he will be able to appreciate the singular privacy and silence of our days.It was not only man who was excluded: animals, the song of birds, the lowing of cattle, the bleating of sheep, clouds even, and the variations of the weather, were here also wanting; and as, day after day, the sky was one dome of blue, and the pines below us stood motionless in the still air, so the hours themselves were marked out from each other only by the series of our own affairs, and the sun's great period as he ranged westward through the heavens.The two birds cackled a while in the early morning; all day the water tinkled in the shaft, the bores ground sawdust in the planking of our crazy palace -infinitesimal sounds; and it was only with the return of night that any change would fall on our surroundings, or the four crickets begin to flute together in the dark.
Indeed, it would be hard to exaggerate the pleasure that we took in the approach of evening.Our day was not very long, but it was very tiring.To trip along unsteady planks or wade among shifting stones, to go to and fro for water, to clamber down the glen to the Toll House after meat and letters, to cook, to make fires and beds, were all exhausting to the body.Life out of doors, besides, under the fierce eye of day, draws largely on the animal spirits.There are certain hours in the afternoon when a man, unless he is in strong health or enjoys a vacant mind, would rather creep into a cool corner of a house and sit upon the chairs of civilization.About that time, the sharp stones, the planks, the upturned boxes of Silverado, began to grow irksome to my body; I set out on that hopeless, never-ending quest for a more comfortable posture; I would be fevered and weary of the staring sun; and just then he would begin courteously to withdraw his countenance, the shadows lengthened, the aromatic airs awoke, and an indescribable but happy change announced the coming of the night.
The hours of evening, when we were once curtained in the friendly dark, sped lightly.Even as with the crickets, night brought to us a certain spirit of rejoicing.It was good to taste the air; good to mark the dawning of the stars, as they increased their glittering company; good, too, to gather stones, and send them crashing down the chute, a wave of light.It seemed, in some way, the reward and the fulfilment of the day.So it is when men dwell in the open air; it is one of the simple pleasures that we lose by living cribbed and covered in a house, that, though the coming of the day is still the most inspiriting, yet day's departure, also, and the return of night refresh, renew, and quiet us;and in the pastures of the dusk we stand, like cattle, exulting in the absence of the load.
Our nights wore never cold, and they were always still, but for one remarkable exception.Regularly, about nine o'clock, a warm wind sprang up, and blew for ten minutes, or maybe a quarter of an hour, right down the canyon, fanning it well out, airing it as a mother airs the night nursery before the children sleep.As far as I could judge, in the clear darkness of the night, this wind was purely local: perhaps dependant on the configuration of the glen.At least, it was very welcome to the hot and weary squatters; and if we were not abed already, the springing up of this lilliputian valley-wind would often be our signal to retire.
I was the last to go to bed, as I was still the first to rise.Many a night I have strolled about the platform, taking a bath of darkness before I slept.The rest would be in bed, and even from the forge I could hear them talking together from bunk to bunk.A single candle in the neck of a pint bottle was their only illumination; and yet the old cracked house seemed literally bursting with the light.It shone keen as a knife through all the vertical chinks; it struck upward through the broken shingles; and through the eastern door and window, it fell in a great splash upon the thicket and the overhanging rock.You would have said a conflagration, or at the least a roaring forge; and behold, it was but a candle.Or perhaps it was yet more strange to see the procession moving bedwards round the corner of the house, and up the plank that brought us to the bedroom door;under the immense spread of the starry heavens, down in a crevice of the giant mountain these few human shapes, with their unshielded taper, made so disproportionate a figure in the eye and mind.But the more he is alone with nature, the greater man and his doings bulk in the consideration of his fellow-men.Miles and miles away upon the opposite hill-tops, if there were any hunter belated or any traveller who had lost his way, he must have stood, and watched and wondered, from the time the candle issued from the door of the assayer's office till it had mounted the plank and disappeared again into the miners' dormitory.
End
