Part 58 (2/2)
”And Billy's grandfather and grandmother were ma.s.sacred 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 s.h.i.+ver,'--
”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.'
”I've never forgotten the drip of the seed-amethysts, though I don't remember your mother's name.”
”It was Daisy--” Saxon began.
”No; Dayelle,” Mrs. Mortimer corrected with quickening recollection.
”Oh, but n.o.body called her that.”
”But she signed it that way. What is the rest?”
”Daisy Wiley Brown.”
Mrs. Mortimer went to the bookshelves and quickly returned with a large, soberly-bound volume.
”It's 'The Story of the Files,'” she explained. ”Among other things, all the good fugitive verse was gathered here from the old newspaper files.”
Her eyes running down the index suddenly stopped. ”I was right. Dayelle Wiley Brown. There it is. Ten of her poems, too: 'The Viking's Quest'; 'Days of Gold'; 'Constancy'; 'The Caballero'; 'Graves at Little Meadow'--”
”We fought off the Indians there,” Saxon interrupted in her excitement.
”And mother, who was only a little girl, went out and got water for the wounded. And the Indians wouldn't shoot at her. Everybody said it was a miracle.” She sprang out of Billy's arms, reaching for the book and crying: ”Oh, let me see it! Let me see it! It's all new to me. I don't know these poems. Can I copy them? I'll learn them by heart. Just to think, my mother's!”
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