With Possum on the seat beside her, Saxon drove into the town of Roseburg. She drove at a walk. At the back of the wagon were tied two heavy young work-horses. Behind, half a dozen more marched free, and the rear was brought up by Billy, astride a ninth horse. All these he shipped from Roseburg to the West Oakland stables.
It was in the Umpqua Valley that they heard the parable of the white sparrow. The farmer who told it was elderly and flourishing. His farm was a model of orderliness and system.
Afterwards, Billy heard neighbors estimate his wealth at a quarter of a million.
"You've heard the story of the farmer and the white sparrow'" he asked Billy, at dinner.
"Never heard of a white sparrow even," Billy answered.
"I must say they're pretty rare," the farmer owned. "But here's the story: Once there was a farmer who wasn't making much of a success. Things just didn't seem to go right, till at last, one day, he heard about the wonderful white sparrow. It seems that the white sparrow comes out only just at daybreak with the first light of dawn, and that it brings all kinds of good luck to the farmer that is fortunate enough to catch it. Next morning our farmer was up at daybreak, and before, looking for it. And, do you know, he sought for it continually, for months and months, and never caught even a glimpse of it." Their host shook his head. "No; he never found it, but he found so many things about the farm needing attention, and which he attended to before breakfast, that before he knew it the farm was prospering, and it wasn't long before the mortgage was paid off and he was starting a bank account."
That afternoon, as they drove along, Billy was plunged in a deep reverie.
"Oh, I got the point all right," he said finally. "An' yet I ain't satisfied. Of course, they wasn't a white sparrow, but by getting up early an' attendin' to things he'd been slack about before--oh, I got it all right. An' yet, Saxon, if that's what a farmer's life means, I don't want to find no moon valley. Life ain't hard work. Daylight to dark, hard at it--might just as well be in the city. What's the difference? A1' the time you've got to yourself is for sleepin', an' when you're sleepin' you're not enjoyin' yourself. An' what's it matter where you sleep, you're deado. Might as well be dead an' done with it as work your head off that way. I'd sooner stick to the road, an' shoot a deer an' catch a trout once in a while, an' lie on my back in the shade, an' laugh with you an' have fun with you, an' . . . an' go swimmin'. An' I 'm a willin' worker, too. But they's all the difference in the world between a decent amount of work an' workin' your head off."
Saxon was in full accord. She looked back on her years of toil and contrasted them with the joyous life she had lived on the road.
"We don't want to be rich," she said. "Let them hunt their white sparrows in the Sacramento islands and the irrigation valleys.
When we get up early in the valley of the moon, it will be to hear the birds sing and sing with them. And if we work hard at times, it will be only so that we'll have more time to play. And when you go swimming I 'm going with you. And we'll play so hard that we'll be glad to work for relaxation."
"I 'm gettin' plumb dried out," Billy announced, mopping the sweat from his sunburned forehead. "What d'ye say we head for the coast?"
West they turned, dropping down wild mountain gorges from the height of land of the interior valleys. So fearful was the road, that, on one stretch of seven miles, they passed ten broken-down automobiles. Billy would not force the mares and promptly camped beside a brawling stream from which he whipped two trout at a time. Here, Saxon caught her first big trout. She had been accustomed to landing them up to nine and ten inches, and the screech of the reel when the big one was hooked caused her to cry out in startled surprise. Billy came up the riffle to her and gave counsel. Several minutes later, cheeks flushed and eyes dancing with excitement, Saxon dragged the big fellow carefully from the water's edge into the dry sand. Here it threw the hook out and flopped tremendously until she fell upon it and captured it in her hands.
"Sixteen inches," Billy said, as she held it up proudly for inspection. "--Hey!--what are you goin' to do?"
"Wash off the sand, of course," was her answer.
"Better put it in the basket," he advised, then closed his mouth and grimly watched.
She stooped by the side of the stream and dipped in the splendid fish. It flopped, there was a convulsive movement on her part, and it was gone.
"Oh!" Saxon cried in chagrin.
"Them that finds should hold," quoth Billy.
"I don't care," she replied. "It was a bigger one than you ever caught anyway."
"Oh, I 'm not denyin' you're a peach at fishin'," he drawled.
"You caught me, didn't you?"
"I don't know about that," she retorted. "Maybe it was like the man who was arrested for catching trout out of season. His defense was self defense."
Billy pondered, but did not see.
"The trout attacked him," she explained.
Billy grinned. Fifteen minutes later he said:
"You sure handed me a hot one."
The sky was overcast, and, as they drove along the bank of the Coquille River, the fog suddenly enveloped them.
"Whoof!" Billy exhaled joyfully. "Ain't it great! I can feel myself moppin' it up like a dry sponge. I never appreciated fog before."
Saxon held out her arms to receive it, making motions as if she were bathing in the gray mist.
"I never thought I'd grow tired of the sun," she said; "but we've had more than our share the last few weeks."
