Sam Rice's Romance [pp. 372-381]

SA,M4 RICE'S ROf,4ANCE.
One glance at his long, yellow tusks and
bristling back was enough. There was
a sudden snap of the whip, and the dust
spun from the wheels as two horses shot
down the road on a bright October morning. The little dell, with its thermal
springs, its colony of invalids, Hooker,
the incorrigible, and the "bear" in the
corral, disappeared with a gentle benediction.
One may traverse a thousand miles of
the Coast Range, and not find another
mountain road which reveals, at every
turn, so many striking views as the one
of twenty miles from Harbine's to Calistoga. The road, for a considerable distance, follows the windings of a noisy
and riotous little rivulet, which, heading
on the easterly side of St. Helena, runs
obstinately due north for several miles.
The fringe of oaks and mnadroios were
wonderfully fresh, as they stood half in
sunlight and half in shadow, still dripping, here and there, with the moisture
which had been condensed during the
night. A delegation of robins had come
down from higher latitudes, and were
taking an early and cheery breakfast
from the scarlet berries of the mnadrolo.
It needed but the flaming maple and fall
ing chestnuts, with some prospect of
"shellbarks," to round into perfect fullness these autumnal glories. But no
one living east of the Hudson could raise
such a wild and unearthly yell as broke
from the Judgt every time a cotton -tail
rabbit darted across the road. The obstreperous woodpecker was awed into
silence, and the more industrious ones
dropped in amazement the acorns which
they were tapping into the trunks of the
trees, and flitted silently away.
"That," said the Judge, "is not half as
loud as I heard Hooker yell six months
ago."
"Then he was demented?"
"Yes; he was as mad as a March
hare, and in a strait-jacket at that."
"That clears up one or two mysteries.
But you might have made the revelation
before."
"When are you going to start that
hilarious old institution, which you and
Hooker called a sanitarium?"
-Just then, the summit of the mountain road had been gained, and the long
perspective of the Napa Valley opened at
the base of St. Helena, and melted away
toward the south into the soft, dreamy
atmosphere of an autumnal noonday.
SAM RICE'S ROMANCE.
HE coach of Wells, Fargo & Co.
stood before the door of Pineywoods Station, and Sam Rice, the driver,
was drawing on his lemon-colored gloves
with an air, for Sam was the pink of
stage-drivers, from his high, white hat
to his faultless French boots. Sad will
it be when his profession shall have been
altogether superseded; and the coachand - six, with its gracious and graceful
"whip," shall have been supplanted, on
all the principal lines of travel, by the
iron-horse with its grimy "driver" and
train of thundering carriages.
The passengers had taken their seatsthe one lady on the box-and Sam Rice
stood, chronometer held daintily between
thumb and finger, waiting for the secondhand to come round the quarter of a minute, while the grooms slipped the last
strap of the harness into its buckle. At
the expiration of the quarter of a minute,
as Sam stuck an unlighted cigar between
his lips and took hold of the box to pull
himself up to his seat, the good-natured
landlady of Piney-woods Station called
out, with some officiousness:
"Mr. Rice, don't you want a match?"
[APRIL,
372