Brown of Calaveras Page #4

"Brown of Calaveras" is a short story by Bret Harte, set during the California Gold Rush. It centers on the character of Brown, a resourceful and good-natured man who faces a series of challenges in the rough and often unpredictable mining town of Calaveras. The narrative explores themes of camaraderie, resilience, and the complexities of human relationships in a frontier society. Harte’s vivid portrayal of the characters and their interactions offers a glimpse into the American West, capturing both its harsh realities and its moments of humor and humanity.

• Short story

								


"Light?"

Jack had twisted the letter into a spiral, lit it, and held it for his
companion. He continued to hold it until it was consumed, and dropped
the fragment--a fiery star--from the open window. He watched it as it
fell, and then returned to his friend.

"Old man," he said, placing his hands upon Brown's shoulders, "in ten
minutes I'll be on the road, and gone like that spark. We won't see each
other agin; but, before I go, take a fool's advice: sell out all you've
got, take your wife with you, and quit the country. It ain't no place
for you, nor her. Tell her she must go; make her go, if she won't.
Don't whine because you can't be a saint, and she ain't an angel. Be a
man--and treat her like a woman. Don't be a damn fool. Good-by."

He tore himself from Brown's grasp, and leaped down the stairs like
a deer. At the stable door he collared the half-sleeping hostler and
backed him against the wall. "Saddle my horse in two minutes, or I'll--"
The ellipsis was frightfully suggestive.

"The missis said you was to have the buggy," stammered the man.

"Damn the buggy!"

The horse was saddled as fast as the nervous hands of the astounded
hostler could manipulate buckle and strap.

"Is anything up, Mr. Hamlin?" said the man, who, like all his class,
admired the elan of his fiery patron, and was really concerned in his
welfare.

"Stand aside!"

The man fell back. With an oath, a bound, and clatter, Jack was into the
road. In another moment, to the man's half-awakened eyes, he was but a
moving cloud of dust in the distance, toward which a star just loosed
from its brethren was trailing a stream of fire.

But early that morning the dwellers by the Wingdam turnpike, miles away,
heard a voice, pure as a skylark's, singing afield. They who were asleep
turned over on their rude couches to dream of youth and love and olden
days. Hard-faced men and anxious gold-seekers, already at work, ceased
their labors and leaned upon their picks, to listen to a romantic
vagabond ambling away against the rosy sunrise.
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