The Valley of the Moon Jack London

by Jack London

be digested at her leisure. Billy, too, was interested, but he

  left the talking to Saxon, himself rarely asking a question. At

  the rear of the bungalow, where everything was as clean and

  orderly as the front, they were shown through the chicken yard.

  Here, in different runs, were kept several hundred small and

  snow-white hens.

  "White Leghorns," said Mrs. Mortimer. "You have no idea what they

  netted me this year. I never keep a hen a moment past the prime

  of her laying period--"

  "Just what I was tellin' you, Saxon, about horses," Billy broke

  in.

  "And by the simplest method of hatching them at the right time,

  which not one farmer in ten thousand ever dreams of doing, I have

  them laying in the winter when most hens stop laying and when

  eggs are highest. Another thing: I have my special customers.

  They pay me ten cents a dozen more than the market price, because

  my specialty is one-day eggs."

  Here she chanced to glance at Billy, and guessed that he was

  still wrestling with his problem.

  "Same old thing?" she queried.

  He nodded. "Same old thing. If every farmer delivered day-old

  eggs, there wouldn't be no ten cents higher 'n the top price.

  They'd be no better off than they was before."

  "But the eggs would be one-day eggs, all the eggs would be

  one-day eggs, you mustn't forget that," Mrs. Mortimer pointed

  out.

  "But that don't butter no toast for my wife an' me," he objected.

  "An' that's what I've been tryin' to get the hang of, an' now I

  got it. You talk about theory an' fact. Ten cents higher than top

  price is a theory to Saxon an' me. The fact is, we ain't got no

  eggs, no chickens, an' no land for the chickens to run an' lay

  eggs on."

  Their hostess nodded sympathetically.

  "An' there's something else about this outfit of yourn that I

  don't get the hang of," he pursued. "I can't just put my finger

  on it, but it's there all right."

  They were shown over the cattery, the piggery, the milkers, and

  the kennelry, as Mrs. Mortimer called her live stock departments.

  None was large. All were moneymakers, she assured them, and

  rattled off her profits glibly. She took their breaths away by

  the prices given and received for pedigreed Persians, pedigreed

  Ohio Improved Chesters, pedigreed Scotch collies, and pedigreed

  Jerseys. For the milk of the last she also had a special private

  market, receiving five cents more a quart than was fetched by the

  best dairy milk. Billy was quick to point out the difference

  between the look of her orchard and the look of the orchard they

  had inspected the previous afternoon, and Mrs. Mortimer showed

  him scores of other differences, many of which he was compelled

  to accept on faith.

  Then she told them of another industry, her home-made jams and

  jellies, always contracted for in advance, and at prices

  dizzyingly beyond the regular market. They sat in comfortable

  rattan chairs on the veranda, while she told the story of how she

  had drummed up the jam and jelly trade, dealing only with the one

  best restaurant and one best club in San Jose. To the proprietor

  and the steward she had gone with her samples, in long

  discussions beaten down their opposition, overcome their

  reluctance, and persuaded the proprietor, in particular, to make

  a "special" of her wares, to boom them quietly with his patrons,

  and, above all, to charge stiffly for dishes and courses in which

  they appeared.

  Throughout the recital Billy's eyes were moody with

  dissatisfaction. Mrs. Mortimer saw, and waited.

  "And now, begin at the beginning," Saxon begged.

  But Mrs. Mortimer refused unless they agreed to stop for supper.

  Saxon frowned Billy's reluctance away, and accepted for both of

  them.

  "Well, then," Mrs. Mortimer took up her tale, "in the beginning I

  was a greenhorn, city born and bred. All I knew of the country

  was that it was a place to go to for vacations, and I always went

  to springs and mountain and seaside resorts. I had lived among

  books almost all my life. I was head librarian of the Doncaster

  Library for years. Then I married Mr. Mortimer. He was a book

  man, a professor in San Miguel University. He had a long

  sickness, and when he died there was nothing left. Even his life

  insurance was eaten into before I could be free of creditors. As

  for myself, I was worn out, on the verge of nervous prostration,

  fit for nothing. I had five thousand dollars left, however, and,

  without going into the details, I decided to go farming. I found

  this place, in a delightful climate, close to San Jose--the end

  of the electric line is only a quarter of a mile on--and I bought

  it. I paid two thousand cash, and gave a mortgage for two

  thousand. It cost two hundred an acre, you see."

  "Twenty acres!" Saxon cried.

  "Wasn't that pretty small?" Billy ventured.

  "Too large, oceans too large. I leased ten acres of it the first

  thing. And it's still leased after all this time. Even the ten

  I'd retained was much too large for a long, long time. It's only

  now that I'm beginning to feel a tiny mite crowded."

  "And ten acres has supported you an' two hired men?" Billy

  demanded, amazed.

  Mrs. Mortimer clapped her hands delightedly.

  "Listen. I had been a librarian. I knew my way among books. First

  of all I'd read everything written on the subject, and subscribed

  to some of the best farm magazines and papers. And you ask if my

  ten acres have supported me and two hired men. Let me tell you. I

  have four hired men. The ten acres certainly must support them,

  as it supports Hannah--she's a Swedish widow who runs the house

  and who is a perfect Trojan during the jam and jelly season--and

  Hannah's daughter, who goes to school and lends a hand, and my

  nephew whom I have taken to raise and educate. Also, the ten

  acres have come pretty close to paying for the whole twenty, as

  well as for this house, and all the outbuildings, and all the

  pedigreed stock."

  Saxon remembered what the young lineman had said about the

  Portuguese.

  "The ten acres didn't do a bit of it," she cried. "It was your

  head that did it all, and you know it."

  "And that's the point, my dear. It shows the right kind of person

  can succeed in the country. Remember, the soil is generous. But

  it must be treated generously, and that is something the old

  style American farmer can't get into his head. So it IS head that

  counts. Even when his starving acres have convinced him of the

  need for fertilizing, he can't see the difference between cheap

  fertilizer and good fertilizer."

  "And that's something I want to know about," Saxon exclaimed. "And

  I'll tell you all I know, but, first, you must be very tired. I

  noticed you were limping. Let me take you in--never mind your

  bundles; I'll send Chang for them."

  To Saxon, with her innate love of beauty and charm in all

  personal things, the interior of the bungalow w
as a revelation.

  Never before had she been inside a middle class home, and what

  she saw not only far exceeded anything she had imagined, but was

  vastly different from her imaginings. Mrs. Mortimer noted her

  sparkling glances which took in everything, and went out of her

  way to show Saxon around, doing it under the guise of gleeful

  boastings, stating the costs of the different materials,

  explaining how she had done things with her own hands, such as

  staining the doors, weathering the bookcases, and putting

  together the big Mission Morris chair. Billy stepped gingerly

  behind, and though it never entered his mind to ape to the manner

  born, he succeeded in escaping conspicuous awkwardness, even at

  the table where he and Saxon had the unique experience of being

  waited on in a private house by a servant.

  "If you'd only come along next year," Mrs. Mortimer mourned;

  "then I should have had the spare room I had planned--"

  "That's all right," Billy spoke up; "thank you just the same. But

  we'll catch the electric cars into San Jose an' get a room."

  Mrs. Mortimer was still disturbed at her inability to put them up

  for the night, and Saxon changed the conversation by pleading to

  be told more.

  "You remember, I told you I'd paid only two thousand down on the

  land," Mrs. Mortimer complied. "That left me three thousand to

  experiment with. Of course, all my friends and relatives

  prophesied failure. And, of course, I made my mistakes, plenty of

  them, but I was saved from still more by the thorough study I had

  made and continued to make." She indicated shelves of farm books

  and files of farm magazines that lined the walls. "And I

  continued to study. I was resolved to be up to date, and I sent

  for all the experiment station reports. I went almost entirely on

  the basis that whatever the old type farmer did was wrong, and,

  do you know, in doing that I was not so far wrong myself. It's

  almost unthinkable, the stupidity of the old-fashioned farmers.

  Oh, I consulted with them, talked things over with them,

  challenged their stereotyped ways, demanded demonstration of

  their dogmatic and prejudiced beliefs, and quite succeeded in

  convincing the last of them that I was a fool and doomed to come

  to grief."

  "But you didn't! You didn't!"

  Mrs. Mortimer smiled gratefully.

  "Sometimes, even now, I'm amazed that I didn't. But I came of a

  hard-headed stock which had been away from the soil long enough

  to gain a new perspective. When a thing satisfied my judgment, I

  did it forthwith and downright, no matter how extravagant it

  seemed. Take the old orchard. Worthless! Worse than worthless!

  Old Calkins nearly died of heart disease when he saw the

  devastation I had wreaked upon it. And look at it now. There was

  an old rattletrap ruin where the bungalow now stands. I put up

  with it, but I immediately pulled down the cow barn, the

  pigsties, the chicken houses, everything--made a clean sweep.

  They shook their heads and groaned when they saw such wanton

  waste by a widow struggling to make a living. But worse was to

  come. They were paralyzed when I told them the price of the three

  beautiful O.I.C.'s--pigs, you know, Chesters--which I bought,

  sixty dollars for the three, and only just weaned. Then I hustled

  the nondescript chickens to market, replacing them with the White

  Leghorns. The two scrub cows that came with the place I sold to

  the butcher for thirty dollars each, paying two hundred and fifty

  for two blue-blooded Jersey heifers . . . and coined money on the

  exchange, while Calkins and the rest went right on with their

  scrubs that couldn't give enough milk to pay for their board."

  Billy nodded approval.

  "Remember what I told you about horses," he reiterated to Saxon;

  and, assisted by his hostess, he gave a very creditable

  disquisition on horseflesh and its management from a business

  point of view.

  When he went out to smoke Mrs. Mortimer led Saxon into talking

  about herself and Billy, and betrayed not the slightest shock

  when she learned of his prizefighting and scab-slugging

  proclivities.

  "He's a splendid young man, and good," she assured Saxon. "His

  face shows that. And, best of all, he loves you and is proud of

  you. You can't imagine how I have enjoyed watching the way he

  looks at you, especially when you are talking. He respects your

  judgment. Why, he must, for here he is with you on this

  pilgrimage which is wholly your idea." Mrs. Mortimer sighed. "You

  are very fortunate, dear child, very fortunate. And you don't yet

  know what a man's brain is. Wait till he is quite fired with

  enthusiasm for your project. You will be astounded by the way he

  takes hold. You will have to exert yourself to keep up with him.

  In the meantime, you must lead. Remember, he is city bred. It

  will be a struggle to wean him from the only life he's known."

  "Oh, but he's disgusted with the city, too--" Saxon began.

  "But not as you are. Love is not the whole of man, as it is of

  woman. The city hurt you more than it hurt him. It was you who

  lost the dear little babe. His interest, his connection, was no

  more than casual and incidental compared with the depth and

  vividness of yours."

  Mrs. Mortimer turned her head to Billy, who was just entering.

  "Have you got the hang of what was bothering you?" she asked.

  "Pretty close to it," he answered, taking the indicated big

  Morris chair. "It's this--"

  "One moment," Mrs. Mortimer checked him. "That is a beautiful,

  big, strong chair, and so are you, at any rate big and strong,

  and your little wife is very weary--no, no; sit down, it's your

  strength she needs. Yes, I insist. Open your arms."

  And to him she led Saxon, and into his arms placed her. "Now,

  sir--and you look delicious, the pair of you--register your

  objections to my way of earning a living."

  "It ain't your way," Billy repudiated quickly. "Your way's all

  right. It's great. What I'm trying to get at is that your way

  don't fit us. We couldn't make a go of it your way. Why you had

  pull--well-to-do acquaintances, people that knew you'd been a

  librarian an' your husband a professor. An' you had. . . ." Here he

  floundered a moment, seeking definiteness for the idea he still

  vaguely grasped. "Well, you had a way we couldn't have. You were

  educated, an' . . . an'--I don't know, I guess you knew society

  ways an' business ways we couldn't know."

  "But, my dear boy, you could learn what was necessary," she

  contended.

  Billy shook his head.

  "No. You don't quite get me. Let's take it this way. Just suppose

  it's me, with jam an' jelly, a-wadin' into that swell restaurant

  like you did to talk with the top guy. Why, I'd be outa place the

  moment I stepped into his office. Worse'n that, I'd feel outa

  place. That'd make me have a chip on my shoulder an' lookin' for

  trouble, which is a poor way to do business. Then, too, I'd be

  thinkin' he was
thinkin' I was a whole lot of a husky to be

  peddlin' jam. What'd happen, I'd be chesty at the drop of the

  hat. I'd be thinkin' he was thinkin' I was standin' on my foot,

  an' I'd beat him to it in tellin' him he was standin' on HIS

  foot. Don't you see? It's because I was raised that way. It'd be

  take it or leave it with me, an' no jam sold."

  "What you say is true," Mrs. Mortimer took up brightly. "But

  there is your wife. Just look at her. She'd make an impression on

  any business man. He'd be only too willing to listen to her."

  Billy stiffened, a forbidding expression springing into his eyes.

  "What have I done now?" their hostess laughed.

  "I ain't got around yet to tradin' on my wife's looks," he

  rumbled gruffly.

  "Right you are. The only trouble is that you, both of you, are

  fifty years behind the times. You're old American. How you ever

  got here in the thick of modern conditions is a miracle. You're

  Rip Van Winkles. Who ever heard, in these degenerate times, of a

  young man and woman of the city putting their blankets on their

  backs and starting out in search of land? Why, it's the old

  Argonaut spirit. You're as like as peas in a pod to those who

  yoked their oxen and held west to the lands beyond the sunset.

  I'll wager your fathers and mothers, or grandfathers and

  grandmothers, were that very stock."

  Saxon's eyes were glistening, and Billy's were friendly once

  more. Both nodded their heads.

  "I'm of the old stock myself," Mrs. Mortimer went on proudly. "My

  grandmother was one of the survivors of the Donner Party. My

  grandfather, Jason Whitney, came around the Horn and took part in

  the raising of the Bear Flag at Sonoma. He was at Monterey when

  John Marshall discovered gold in Sutter's mill-race. One of the

  streets in San Francisco is named after him."

  "I know it," Billy put in. "Whitney Street. It's near Russian

  Hill. Saxon's mother walked across the Plains."

  "And Billy's grandfather and grandmother were massacred by the

  Indians," Saxon contributed. "His father was a little baby boy,

  and lived with the Indians, until captured by the whites. He

  didn't even know his name and was adopted by a Mr. Roberts."

  "Why, you two dear children, we're almost like relatives," Mrs.

  Mortimer beamed. "It's a breath of old times, alas! all forgotten

  in these fly-away days. I am especially interested, because I've

  catalogued and read everything covering those times. You--" she

  indicated Billy, "you are historical, or at least your father is.

  I remember about him. The whole thing is in Bancroft's History.

  It was the Modoc Indians. There were eighteen wagons. Your father

  was the only survivor, a mere baby at the time, with no knowledge

  of what happened. He was adopted by the leader of the whites."

  "That's right," said Billy. "It was the Modocs. His train must

  have ben bound for Oregon. It was all wiped out. I wonder if you

  know anything about Saxon's mother. She used to write poetry in

  the early days."

  "Was any of it printed?"

  "Yes," Saxon answered. "In the old San Jose papers."

  "And do you know any of it?"

  "Yes, there's one beginning:

  "'Sweet as the wind-lute's airy strains

  Your gentle muse has learned to sing,

  And California's boundless plains

  Prolong the soft notes echoing.'"

  "It sounds familiar," Mrs. Mortimer said, pondering.

  "And there was another I remember that began:

  "'I've stolen away from the crowd in the groves,

  Where the nude statues stand, and the leaves point and shiver,'--

  "And it run on like that. I don't understand it all. It was

  written to my father--"

  "A love poem!" Mrs. Mortimer broke in. "I remember it. Wait a

  minute. . . . Da-da-dah, da-da-dah, da-da-dah, da-da--STANDS--

  "'In the spray of a fountain, whose seed-amethysts

  Tremble lightly a moment on bosom and hands,

  Then drip in their basin from bosom and wrists.'