She was waked up by feeling herself violently swung from side to side, and opening her eyes, saw Jusy standing by her side, his face flushed with the heat, his eyes sparkling.
“O Rea!” he said. “We have had a splendid hunt! What do you think! Jim has shot twenty linnets in this one morning! and that Skipper, he’s eaten five of them! He’s as good as a regular hunting dog.”
“Where’s Uncle George?” asked Rea sleepily, rubbing her eyes. “I want Uncle George! I don’t want you to tell me anything about the cats’ eating the linnets. I hate them! They’re cruel!”
“’Tisn’t cruel either!” retorted Jusy. “They’ve got to be killed. All people that have orchards have to kill birds.”
“I won’t, when I have an orchard,” said Rea.
“Then you won’t have any orchard. That will be all,” said Jusy. “At least, you won’t have any fruit orchard. You’ll have just a tree orchard.”
“Well, a tree orchard is good enough for anybody,” replied Rea half crossly. She was not yet quite wide awake. “There is plenty of fruit in stores, to buy. We could buy our fruit.”
“Are you talking in your sleep, Rea?” cried Jusy, looking hard at her. “I do believe you are! What ails you? The men that have the fruit to sell, had to kill all the linnets and things, just the same way, or else they wouldn’t have had any fruit. Can’t you see?”
No, Rea could not see; and what was more, she did not want to see; and as the proverb says, “There are none so blind as those who won’t see.”
“Don’t talk any more about it, Jusy,” she said. “Do you think Uncle George would build a little house up the cañon for poor old Ysidro?”
“Who!” exclaimed Jusy.
“Oh, you cruel boy!” cried Rea. “You don’t think of anything but killing linnets, and such cruel things; I think you are real wicked. Don’t you know those poor old Indians we saw yesterday?—the ones that are going to be turned out of their house, down in San Gabriel by the church. I have been thinking about them ever since; and I dreamed last night that Uncle George built them a house. I’m going to ask him to.”
“I bet you anything he won’t, then,” said Jusy. “The horrid old beggars! He wouldn’t have such looking things round!”
Rea was wide awake now. She fixed her lovely blue eyes on Jusy’s face with a look which made him ashamed. “Jusy,” she said, “I can’t help it if you are older than I am; I must say, I think you are cruel. You like to kill linnets; and now you won’t be sorry for these poor old Indians, just because they are dirty and horrid-looking. You’d look just as bad yourself, if your skin was black, and you were a hundred years old, and hadn’t got a penny in the world. You are real hard-hearted, Jusy, I do think you are!” and the tears came into Rea’s eyes.
“What is all this?” said Uncle George, coming up the steps. “Not quarrelling, my little people!”
“Oh, no! no!” cried both the children eagerly.
“I never quarrel with Rea,” added Jusy proudly. “I hope I am old enough to know better than that.”
“I’m only two years the youngest,” said Rea, in a mortified tone. “I think I am old enough to be quarreled with; and I do think you’re cruel, Jusy.”
This made Uncle George smile. “Look out!” he said. “You will be in a quarrel yet, if you are not careful. What is it, Rea?”
While Rea was collecting her thoughts to reply, Jusy took the words out of her mouth.
“She thinks I am cruel, because I said I didn’t believe you would build a house for Indians up in your cañon.”
“It was not that!” cried Rea. “You are real mean, Jusy!”
And so I think, myself, he was. He had done just the thing which is so often done in this world—one of the unfairest and most provoking of things; he had told the truth in such a way as to give a wrong impression, which is not so very far different, in my opinion, from telling a lie.
“A home for Indians up in the cañon!” exclaimed Uncle George, drawing Rea to him, and seating her on his knee. “Did my little tender-hearted Rea want me to do that? It would take a very big house, girlie, for all the poor Indians around here;” and Uncle George looked lovingly at Rea, and kissed her hair, as she nestled her head into his neck. “Just like her mother,” he thought. “She would have turned every house into an asylum if she could.”
“Oh, not for all the Indians, Uncle George,” said Rea, encouraged by his kind smile—“I am not such a fool as Jusy thinks—only for those two old ones that are going to be turned out of their home they’ve always lived in. You know the ones I mean.”
“Ah, yes—old Ysidro and his wife. Well, Rea, I had already thought of that myself. So you were not so much ahead of me.”
“There!” exclaimed Rea triumphantly, turning to Jusy. “What do you say now?”
Jusy did not know exactly what to say, he was so astonished; and as he saw Jim and the cats coming up the road at that minute, he gladly took the opportunity to spring down from the veranda and run to meet them.
IV.
The story of old Ysidro was indeed a sad one; and I think, with Rea, that anyone must be hard-hearted, who did not pity him. He was a very old Indian; nobody knew how old; but he looked as if he must be a hundred at least. Ever since he could remember, he had lived in a little house in San Gabriel. The missionaries who first settled San Gabriel had given a small piece of land to his father, and on it his father had built this little house of rough bricks made of mud. Here Ysidro was born, and here he had always lived. His father and mother had been dead a long time. His brothers and sisters had all died or gone away to live in some other place.
When he was a young man, he had married a girl named Carmena. She was still living, almost as old as he; all their children had either died, or married and gone away, and the two old people lived alone together in the little mud house.
They were very poor; but they managed to earn just enough to keep from starving. There was a little land around the house—not more than an acre; but it was as much as the old man could cultivate. He raised a few vegetables, chiefly beans, and kept some hens.
Carmena had done fine washing for the San Gabriel people as long as her strength held out; but she had not been able for some years to do that. All she could do now was to embroider and make lace. She had to stay in bed most of the time, for she had the rheumatism in her legs and feet so she could but just hobble about; but there she sat day after day, propped up in her bed, sewing. It was lucky that the rheumatism had not gone into her hands, for the money she earned by making lace was the chief part of their living.
Sometimes Ysidro earned a little by days’ works in the fields or gardens; but he was so old, people did not want him if they could get anybody else, and nobody would pay him more than half wages.
When he could not get anything else to do, he made mats to sell. He made them out of the stems of a plant called yucca; but he had to go a long way to get these plants. It was slow, tedious work making the mats, and the storekeepers gave him only seventy-five cents apiece for them; so it was very little he could earn in that way.
Was not this a wretched life? Yet they seemed always cheerful, and they were as much attached to this poor little mud hovel as any of you can be to your own beautiful homes.
Would you think anyone could have the heart to turn those two poor old people out of their home? It would not seem as if a human being could be found who would do such a thing. But there was. He was a lawyer; I could tell you his true name, but I will not. He had a great deal to do with all sorts of records and law papers, about land and titles and all such things.
There has always been trouble about the ownership of land in California, because first it belonged to Spain, and then it belonged to Mexico; and then we fought with Mexico, and Mexico gave it to us. So you can easily see that where lands are passed along in that way, through so many hands, it might often be hard to tell to whom they justly belonged.
Of course this poor old Ysidro did not know anyth
ing about papers. He could not read or write. The missionaries gave the land to his father more than a hundred years ago, and his father gave it to him, and that was all Ysidro knew about it.
Well, this lawyer was rummaging among papers and titles and maps of estates in San Gabriel, and he found out that there was this little bit of land near the church, which had been overlooked by everybody, and to which nobody had any written title. He went over and looked at it, and found Ysidro’s house on it; and Ysidro told him he had always lived there; but the lawyer did not care for that.
Land is worth a great deal of money now in San Gabriel. This little place of Ysidro’s was worth a good many hundred dollars; and this lawyer was determined to have it. So he went to work in ways I cannot explain to you, for I do not understand them myself; and you could not understand them even if I could write them out exactly: but it was all done according to law; and the lawyer got it decided by the courts and the judges in San Francisco that this bit of land was his.
When this was all done, he had not quite boldness enough to come forward himself, and turn the poor old Indians out. Even he had some sense of shame; so he slyly sold the land to a man who did not know anything about the Indians being there.
You see how cunning this was of him! When it came to the Indians being turned out, and the land taken by the new owner, this lawyer’s name would not need to come out in the matter at all. But it did come out; so that a few people knew what a mean, cruel thing he had done. Just for the sake of the price of an acre of land, to turn two aged helpless people out of house and home to starve! Do you think those dollars will ever do that man any good as long as he lives? No, not if they had been a million.
Well, Mr. Connor was one of the persons who had found out about this; and he had at first thought he would help Ysidro fight, in the courts, to keep his place; but he found there would be no use in that. The lawyer had been cunning enough to make sure he was safe, before he went on to steal the old Indian’s farm. The law was on his side. Ysidro did not really own the land, according to law, though he had lived on it all his life, and it had been given to his father by the missionaries, almost a hundred years ago.
Does it not seem strange that the law could do such a thing as that? When the boys who read this story grow up to be men, I hope they will do away with these bad laws, and make better ones.
The way Rea had found out about old Ysidro was this: when Jim went to the post-office for the mail, in the mornings, he used generally to take Anita and Rea in the wagon with him, and leave them at Anita’s mother’s while he drove on to the post-office, which was a mile farther.
Rea liked this very much. Anita’s mother had a big blue and green parrot, that could talk in both Spanish and English; and Rea was never tired of listening to her. She always carried her sugar; and she used to cock her head on one side, and call out, “Señorita! Señorita! Polly likes sugar! Sugar! Sugar!” as soon as she saw Rea coming in at the door. It was the only parrot Rea had ever seen, and it seemed to her the most wonderful creature in the world.
Ysidro’s house was next to Anita’s mother’s; and Rea often saw the old man at work in his garden, or sitting on his door-step knitting lace, with needles as fine as pins.
One day Anita took her into the house to see Carmena, who was sitting in bed at work on her embroidery. When Carmena heard that Rea was Mr. Connor’s niece, she insisted upon giving her a beautiful piece of lace which she had made. Anita did not wish to take it, but old Carmena said—
“You must take it. Mr. Connor has given us much money, and there was never anything I could do for him. Now if his little señorita will take this, it will be a pleasure.”
So Rea carried the lace home, and showed it to her Uncle George, and he said she might keep it; and it was only a few weeks after this that when Anita and Rea went down to San Gabriel, one day, they found the old couple in great distress, the news having come that they were going to be turned out of their house.
And it was the night after this visit that Rea dreamed about the poor old creatures all night, and the very next morning that she asked her Uncle George if he would not build them a house in his cañon.
After lunch, Mr. Connor said to Rea—
“I am going to drive this afternoon, Rea. Would you like to come with me?”
His eyes twinkled as he said it, and Rea cried out—
“Oh! Oh! It is to see Ysidro and Carmena, I am sure!”
“Yes,” said her uncle; “I am going down to tell them you are going to build them a house.”
“Uncle George, will you really, truly, do it?” said Rea. “I think you are the kindest man in all the world!” and she ran for her hat, and was down on the veranda waiting, long before the horses were ready.
They found old Ysidro sitting on the ground, leaning against the wall of his house. He had his face covered up with both hands, his elbows leaning on his knees.
“Oh, look at him! He is crying, Uncle George,” said Rea.
“No, dear,” replied Mr. Connor. “He is not crying. Indian men very rarely cry. He is feeling all the worse that he will not let himself cry, but shuts the tears all back.”
“Yes, that is lots worse,” said Rea.
“How do you know, pet?” laughingly said her uncle. “Did you ever try it?”
“I’ve tried to try it,” said Rea, “and it felt so much worse, I couldn’t.”
It was not easy at first to make old Ysidro understand what Mr. Connor meant. He could not believe that anybody would give him a house and home for nothing. He thought Mr. Connor wanted to get him to come and work; and, being an honest old fellow, he was afraid Mr. Connor did not know how little strength he had; so he said—
“Señor Connor, I am very old; I am sick too. I am not worth hiring to work.”
“Bless you!” said Mr. Connor. “I don’t want you to work any more than you do now. I am only offering you a place to live in. If you are strong enough to do a day’s work, now and then, I shall pay you for it, just as I would pay anybody else.”
Ysidro gazed earnestly in Mr. Connor’s face, while he said this; he gazed as if he were trying to read his very thoughts. Then he looked up to the sky, and he said—
“Señor, Ysidro has no words. He cannot speak. Will you come into the house and tell Carmena? She will not believe if I tell it.”
So Mr. Connor and Rea went into the house, and there sat Carmena in bed, trying to sew; but the tears were running out of her eyes. When she saw Mr. Connor and Rea coming in at the door, she threw up her hands and burst out into loud crying.
“O señor! Señor!” she said. “They drive us out of our house. Can you help us? Can you speak for us to the wicked man?”
Ysidro went up to the bed and took hold of her hand, and, pointing with his other hand to Mr. Connor, said—
“He comes from God—the señor. He will help us!”
“Can we stay?” cried Carmena.
Here Rea began to cry.
“Don’t cry, Rea,” said Mr. Connor. “That will make her feel worse.”
Rea gulped down her sobs, enough to say—
“But she doesn’t want to come into the cañon! All she wants is to stay here! She won’t be glad of the new house.”
“Yes, she will, by and by,” whispered Mr. Connor. “Stop crying, that’s my good Rea.”
But Rea could not. She stood close to the bed, looking into old Carmena’s distressed face; and the tears would come, spite of all her efforts.
When Carmena finally understood that not even Mr. Connor, with all his good will and all his money, could save them from leaving their home, she cried again as hard as at first; and Ysidro felt ashamed of her, for he was afraid Mr. Connor would think her ungrateful. But Mr. Connor understood it very well.
“I have lived only two years in my house,” he said to Rea, “and I would not change it for one twice as good that anybody could offer me. Think how anyone must feel about a house he has lived in all his life.”
“But
it is a horrible little house, Uncle George,” said Rea—“the dirtiest hovel I ever saw. It is worse than they are in Italy.”
“I do not believe that makes much difference, dear,” said Uncle George. “It is their home, all the same, as if it were large and nice. It is that one loves.”
Just as Mr. Connor and Rea came out of the house, who should come riding by, but the very man that had caused all this unhappiness—the lawyer who had taken Ysidro’s land! He was with the man to whom he had sold it. They were riding up and down in the valley, looking over all their possessions, and planning what big vineyards and orchards they would plant and how much money they would make.
When this man saw Mr. Connor, he turned as red as a turkey-cock’s throat. He knew very well what Mr. Connor thought of him; but he bowed very low.
Mr. Connor returned his bow, but with such a stern and scornful look on his face, that Rea exclaimed—
“What is the matter, Uncle George? What makes you look so?”
“That man is a bad man, dear,” he replied; “and has the kind of badness I most despise.” But he did not tell her that he was the man who was responsible for the Indians being driven out of their home. He thought it better for Rea not to know it.
“Are there different sorts of badness—some badnesses worse than others?” asked Rea.
“I don’t know whether one kind is really any worse than another,” said Mr. Connor. “But there are some kinds which seem to me twice as bad as others; and meanness and cruelty to helpless creatures seem to me the very worst of all.”
“To me too!” said Rea. “Like turning out poor Ysidro.”
“Yes,” said Mr. Connor. “That is just one of the sort I mean.”
Just before they reached the beginning of the lands of Connorloa, they crossed the grounds of a Mr. Finch, who had a pretty house and large orange orchards. Mr. Finch had one son, Harry, about Jusy’s age, and the two boys were great cronies.
As Mr. Connor turned the horses’ heads into these grounds, he saw Jusy and Harry under the trees in the distance.
The Second Cat Megapack: Frisky Feline Tales, Old and New Page 20