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THE PEARL LAGOON

THE COMING OF THE SCHOONER

We lived on the coast of California, on the Spanish grant my grandfather had purchased from the mission which still stands, deserted and crumbling, in the Santa Brigida Valley. Our house, built long before the Civil War, overlooked the lower end of the valley, from a knoll above the salt marshes at the river-mouth. The house was built in the form of a hollow square, surrounding a paved court. The walls were of adobe,--sun-dried bricks of clay, mixed with a little straw,--four feet thick, and pierced by small grated windows, designed for loopholes more than for the admittance of light and air. The beams and rafters were of roughhewn pine, carried down from the mountains by the Santa Brigida Indians, a tribe long since extinct, and the same patient workers had moulded and baked the old red tiles of the roof.

My father and my uncle Harry Selden had been brought up to the half-Spanish life of old California. For ten miles along the coast and six miles inland the land was theirs, and in those days three thousand head of cattle, bearing my grandfather's brand, grazed on the mesas and filed down in long lines to drink. When the brothers were young, the grizzly still lingered in the hills, the tracks of deer and mountain lion were everywhere, the quail trotted in thousands along the river-bottom, and in the winter months the plains along the seacoast were clamorous with flocks of wild geese, feeding on the rich grass. But times were changing, and little by little, civilization was creeping in. A church and a schoolhouse were built in the township north of us; taxes were raised; and finally a party of surveyors appeared, running a line for the new railway. My grandfather abhorred the idea of a railway passing through his land; he made a bitter fight and would not give in till his own lawyer showed him that if he refused to accept what was offered for the right of way, the law would force him to do so for the public good. He died a short time after the trains began to run.

The brothers were young men at that time, and as their mother had been dead for many years, their friends supposed that they would carry on the ranch in a sort of family partnership. But Uncle Harry, in his love of a wild and independent life, was my grandfather over again. He announced that he had had enough of civilization, persuaded my father to buy out his share of the Santa Brigida, and bade his brother and his friends good-bye. I remember, when I was very small, how eagerly we looked forward to the letters my father used to read aloud to us: accounts of African gold-mining; of wanderings in Central America and Mexico; of great cattle-ranches--estancias, Uncle Harry called them--in the Argentine; of voyages along the barren Chilean coast: of storms and shipwrecks among distant archipelagoes. In the end he settled as a trader, a buyer of copra and pearl-shell, in the South Seas.

As for my father, he was content to marry and to stay at home, but he clung to his cattle stubbornly, refusing to farm or to sell an acre of his land and growing poorer with each year that passed. He often said that we would never starve and that our land was constantly increasing in value, but at such times my mother used to rise from her chair with a sigh and walk out alone among her roses in the court. She was a patient woman and she loved my father dearly, but I knew that the sale of only a few acres among all our thousands would have provided her with many things she craved. What with dry years and low prices, our taxes ate up nearly all the profits from the cattle. We could never afford a motor-car or the occasional trips to San Francisco of which our neighbors' children gave me glowing accounts, yet outside of such luxuries, I must own that we had little need of ready money. Our own fat steers provided us and our men with beef; my mother was superintendent of a garden which furnished more vegetables than we could eat; and in the fall and winter game was still plentiful enough to be a real resource.

Our circumstances had made me a rather serious boy, fond of solitude and given to endless day-dreams--dreams of returning from vague gold-mines or speculations in land with a fortune, to be invested in the ranch and to provide my mother with travel, and rest, and pretty clothes. On my rides to school along a five-mile stretch of coast, where the pearly fog billowed about the hills and the Pacific broke lazily beyond the dunes, I lived in a world of pure fancy, from which the sight of San Isidro, with its single dusty street, its stores, and hideous frame schoolhouse, recalled me daily with an unpleasant start. All through the week I lived only for the coming Saturday, when I would be free to shoot, or fish in the surf, or ride out with our men to track down some band of half-wild steers, hidden in the thick oak scrub of the foothills.

It was on a Saturday that my uncle came. I was fifteen that winter, and ten years had gone by since he had visited us last, but I had not forgotten his lean powerful figure, or the black eyes lighting up a face tanned to an unfading brown, or the stories he had told a wondering youngster of five, sitting on his knee by the fireplace.

The month was February, as I remember it, for the wild mustard was tall and green on the hills and scattered cock-quail were perched on the fence-posts, filling the air with the long sweet whistle of their mating-time. We were early risers, all of us, and at dawn, as I was eating the breakfast my mother had prepared, she asked me if I would take my gun and try for some wild duck on the marshes. There would be guests from San Isidro to-morrow, and a few brace of duck would be a treat for people from the town. I assented joyfully, for such a request meant that ammunition would be furnished from my father's store, and I loved nothing more than the long lazy hours in a blind, where one could watch the strings of wild fowl trailing across the sky.

I had good sport that morning, hidden close to a shallow pool behind the dunes. As I waded across the marsh, carrying my gun and half-a-dozen wooden decoys, a cloud of teal rose quacking from the grass and headed seaward on beating wings. The redhead were beginning to fly northward from their wintering grounds on the lonely Mexican lagoons; small flocks of them, led by drakes with heads glinting like burnished copper in the sunlight, rose from the creeks ahead of me and sped away, low over the sand hills. At the place that I had chosen for my shooting, I unwound the anchor-lines of the decoys, tossed them far out into the pool, and built myself a rough shelter of pickle-weed, strung on stakes pounded into the mud. I found an old piece of board for a seat, loaded my gun, laid out a box of cartridges within easy reach, and settled myself luxuriously to wait.

Next moment I glanced upward and crouched down lower than before, cocking my old-fashioned hammer-gun. High in the air above the marsh, a flock of sprig was descending in great spiral curves, the wind humming musically through the rigid flight-feathers of their wings. Lower and lower they swung, while my pulse raced as I peeped over the edge of the blind. I could see the snowy breasts of the drakes, the feathers of their long forked tails, and their heads turning this way and that as they scanned the marsh warily for signs of danger. They had seen the decoys, and as they swept past me, still out of range, I called to them, imitating the feeble quack of the hen bird. Then, while I held my breath, they turned again, low over the pool, and came sailing straight at me--necks up and feet dropping to settle among the decoys. My hands were trembling a little, but I took careful aim at the old white-breasted leader, pulled the trigger, and saw him crumple and strike the water with a mighty splash. Wild with alarm, another drake came towering above my head, and leaning backward till I nearly fell off my seat, I let drive with the left barrel and watched him fold his wings and come down plunging to the grass.

I can recall that warm winter morning as if it were yesterday: the steady thunder of the breakers, the perfume of the salt marsh, the wisps of cloud drifting across a soft blue sky. Flock after flock of wild fowl came speeding in from the sea, circled the marsh, set their wings to alight, bounded upward, scattering, at the reports of my gun, and headed back for the ocean--fast-vanishing dots above the dunes. Once a wedge of geese passed at a great height overhead, flying northward with slow steady wing-beats, thrilling me with the hoarse music of their voices. My life seemed cramped and narrow as I gazed at these free rovers of the sky, travelers beyond the far rim of the horizon north and south.

The warm sun and the drowsy chirping and buzzing of insects in the grass brought on a nap that caught me unaware. It must have been mid-day when I awoke with a little start, to sit up and rub my eyes, wondering for an instant where I was. Unloading my gun, I waded out after the decoys and strung my dead birds on a thong of leather. Then, yielding to a habit of those days, I climbed to the top of a sand hill, for a look at the beach. Next moment I nearly shouted aloud in the excitement of what I saw.

Close inshore, not far beyond the outer line of breaking seas, a two-masted schooner was rounding into the wind. She was painted white and her sails shivered crisply in the light air. One needed small knowledge of ships to appreciate the beauty of the little vessel: the high sharp bows, the graceful sweep of sheer, the slender masts, the taut lines of shroud and stay. The sight of a ship was rare along our stretch of coast. At long intervals we saw a trail of smoke far out to sea,--the steamer trading between San Francisco and the west coast of Mexico,--but this was the first time within my memory that a vessel of any kind had passed so close to shore. And she was not merely passing, for I saw now that her crew was sliding a long double-ended boat over the rail. Three men sprang into the whaleboat: a pair of oarsmen who seated themselves and began to pull toward shore, and a man in blue, who stood in the stern, holding a steering-sweep with one hand and waving good-bye to a gigais brother, he was beardless; while a golden crown surmounted by a red cone shaped hat was perched above his rust coloured hair.

As Bright-Wits advanced to the throne, Garrofat cried out with derision, "Comes the Prince of Boasters to receive his reward? My slaves are impatient to stretch their whips across your shoulders."

"My business is neither with slaves nor whips," answered the prince with scorn. "I come to announce that I have solved the riddle of the rug." Then salaaming deeply, he presented to Garrofat a small roll of parchment. "On this," he said, "you will find a plan of the rug, so that should it by any mischance come apart again it may be readily repaired."

Two slaves now entered bearing the rug; and when they had spread it upon the floor, it was found to be perfectly put together.

Doola was the first to recover from the general surprise, and stepping quickly to his brother's side he whispered in his ear. Now the counsel must have been pleasing; for Garrofat chuckled and thus addressed the prince. "Let me congratulate you," he said with a grin, "but before I can consider you as a suitor for the hand of Azalia, I must have further proof that you are as wise as you pretend. Else, would I be false to my duty as her guardian.

"Now just before your entrance we were considering a question of grave importance to the welfare of the kingdom. You will observe that there hangs on the wall beside you what appear to be four charts, but which are really the parts of one chart. Know then that this kingdom consists of eight provinces; ruled over by the eight emirs you see here assembled. Now these eight emirs are so jealous of each other that fierce battles occur whenever two of them chance to meet upon the road. Only our presence now restrains them. Anxious to put an end to these disgraceful brawls within the kingdom, the great Rajah Onalba had drawn yonder plan of the eight provinces. On it as you see he laid down roads running north and south, and east and west. Other roads cross these in every direction, so that any one of the eight emirs might leave his castle and travel by any route across the kingdom without passing the castle of another emir on the way. Now by some misfortune the chart was cut into four pieces before the roads were built, and we have never been able to arrange them in their original position. There on the wall are the four pieces. The lines represent the roads, and the eight spots the castles of the emirs. This matter must be adjusted at once, and as you are a suitor for the hand of Azalia I expect you to prove your claim to wisdom by solving the puzzle of the chart."

When Garrofat had concluded, Bright-Wits, in obedience to the counsel of Ablano, expressed his willingness to attempt the solution of this new riddle. Whipping from the gates to be the penalty of failure.

At a signal from the vizier, the audience was now dismissed; Bright-Wits bearing away to his apartments the pieces of the torn chart.

BRIGHT-WITS LEARNS THAT HIS MARRIAGE WITH AZALIA DEPENDS ON THREE FOUNTAINS AND THREE GATES IN THE PALACE GROUNDS

The week passed much as the first; Bright-Wits and Ablano spending the time roaming over the palace grounds accompanied by the Princess Azalia. Garrofat sometimes made one of their little party; while Doola would occasionally thrust his long nose and ugly face into the circle.

On the seventh day Bright-Wits presented himself at the Audience Chamber in response to the summons of Garrofat, who greeted him with mocking inquiries as to the success of his map making.

Saluting him gravely Bright-Wits made reply, "Here you will find the map in proper shape. Scant must be the brains in Parrabang when so simple a task remained so long unaccomplished."

Thereupon Bright-Wits interrupted him angrily, "Cease, I pray you, these speeches, and answer at once my demand for the reward I have now earned."

"Calm thyself, dear Bright-Wits," began Garrofat, "I am sorry to remind you that as your task is yet unfinished there is no reward due you. Your success, however, warrants me in demanding further proof of your boasted ability. I would not have Azalia wed to one who was but a lucky fool." Then, unheeding the prince's rage, he continued, "Now among other things perplexing the kingdom is the completion of the palace gardens. If you will but accompany me to the top of the palace I can better explain."

Thither they went, and from this high point Bright-Wits could see a great walled garden in which were set three fountains, one of gold, one of silver, and one of bronze. Three gates of the same metals were placed in the farther wall.

With a wave of his hand, Garrofat began, "This great garden was built by order of Onalba the Rajah, but through carelessness of the workmen the gates were put in the wrong places. Hence the difficulty.

"Now the water for the golden fountain must be brought by a pipe running from the golden gate; that for the silver fountain from the silver gate, and to the bronze fountain from the bronze gate. At no point must these pipes cross each other or go outside the walls. Know then, that as Azalia's wedding must be celebrated in that garden, it is very important to you that it be completed."

When Garrofat ceased, Bright-Wits was about to give way to his wrath, but a look from Azalia checked him, and he said, "So be it. I accept this new task."

"And the old penalty," chuckled Doola.

Now although Bright-Wits made no secret of his contempt for Garrofat and Doola, his love for the Princess Azalia daily increased. In a shaded part of the palace grounds there stood a pretty little pavilion, and here, in company with Ablano, Bright-Wits and Azalia spent many happy hours.

Garrofat received the parchment, and after a glance at it, passed it to Doola with a wink. "Verily," said he, "thou art indeed a bright youth. Now be not impatient, I pray you," he added hastily, on seeing the face of the prince grow dark. "Think not that I have any desire to cheat you of the reward you have won, or almost won, I should say; for I have a further little test for you."

It was with difficulty that Bright-Wits controlled his rage; while Garrofat continued in oily tones, "You have no doubt heard, among other things, that the Great Rajah Onalba was very fond of playing at games of skill. Now it is only just that you should prove your title to be his successor by performing some of them. On the wall beside you hang five shields, each smaller than the other. Through the centre of each there is a hole. You will see that they are numbered from one to five. Behind you stand three spindles. Now you must first place all the shields on one of the spindles, the largest, number five, on the bottom, and the smallest, number one, on the top. Next you must transfer all five shields to the second spindle, moving but one shield at a time, and placing it either on a vacant spindle or on top of a larger shield. You may use all three spindles in the task, which I assure you will test your bright wits to the full."

Calming himself with an effort, the prince asked, "Do you mean that I am to do this task here and now?"

"Oh, no," grinned Garrofat, "you may take the shields and spindles to your apartment, where you can work it out at your leisure."

"Only don't work on it at night, my dear Prince," put in Doola, with a leer. "The clattering of the shields would keep us all awake."

"Some day, with the help of Allah, I will put you into a sleep that nothing will ever disturb," cried Bright-Wits as he strode wrathfully from the hall.

THE PRINCE SOLVES THE GAME OF ONALBA, AND DIVIDES THE LAND OF ZOLTAN, THE AGA, TO THE DISMAY OF GARROFAT

Now followed another week of happiness spent with the princess and Ablano. When the seventh day arrived at last, Bright-Wits presented himself in the Great Hall accompanied by slaves bearing the shields and spindles.

Now Garrofat observed the prince's confident air with displeasure. Concealing his feelings, however, he chirped, "Well, Prince, have your wits proven as bright as of yore? Or do you but come to return the shields and to ask forgiveness for your rash boasting?"

"Cease such drivel," cried Bright-Wits, interrupting him, "I have come to announce the completion of a task so simple that it should not have puzzled a child."

"Ah, what a fine thing it is to be clever," exclaimed Doola, with a look of mock admiration. But a glance from Bright-Wits caused him to shrink back in alarm.

Now Bright-Wits ordered the slaves to set the spindles and shields before him; and with a smile to Azalia, he proceeded to repeat his task before their astonished eyes.

When the last move was made, Garrofat gasped with amazement. None had ever accomplished that feat save the Rajah Onalba himself. A hurried consultation with Doola, however, restored his courage, and, rising, he said, "Praise be to Allah, but thou art a youth of wondrous wisdom, and I would be false to my trust as the Regent of this kingdom if I failed to submit to you a question which has for the space of a whole year puzzled the wisest wits in the realm." Then bidding Bright-Wits to follow, he led the way to a balcony from which the surrounding country could be overlooked.

"There," said Garrofat, pointing in the direction of a large orchard, "is a plot of land which Zoltan, the Aga, willed to his four sons. As you can see, twelve trees grow upon it, and the whole is surrounded by a deep ditch. Now, according to the will of Zoltan, that plot of land is to be divided equally into four parts, each to be of the same size and shape, and each to contain three of the twelve trees; the trees to be located in the same position in each piece."

Now Bright-Wits had been warned by Ablano against the folly of losing his temper when fresh tasks were imposed upon him. "It suits my purpose," Ablano had said, "that we test their villainy to the bottom." Remembering this warning, Bright-Wits replied with a smile, "Let the sons of Zoltan cease from quarrelling. I will divide the land between them according to the will of their father."

"Do this," said Doola, with a bow and smirk, "and I could die from admiration of your cleverness."

Whereon, Bright-Wits, casting on him a look of scorn, made answer, "On the occasion of your death the only one present to merit admiration will be the public executioner who will officiate." So saying, he turned and descended to the palace accompanied by Azalia and the Holy Brahman, Ablano.

When, seven days later, Bright-Wits appeared before Garrofat, he found him in an ugly mood. Nor did the cheerful air of the prince as he entered his presence tend to help matters. Fortunate was it for Bright-Wits that he was under the protection of Ablano, the Brahman, otherwise his instant execution might have been ordered. But to anger or offend a Brahman was considered the unpardonable sin; so Bright-Wits was spared to continue his adventures.

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