here joined the river, one could have seen Crescimir's fields and the
vegetable garden with its whitey-green cabbages, the rich brown heaps of
manure and straw, and the beds of beets all crimson and green, then the
borders of oaks and the far, blue hills, while myriads of little
gray-winged moths hovered over the masses of tangled blackberry vines
and giant dock. To the southward rose, far away, the peak of glorious
Tamalpais, a dark blue dash without a shadow. There were the black,
ploughed fields, steaming in the sunshine, larks springing up from the
glittering leaves, and noisy squirrels in the bay tree laying away their
stores of nuts and maize in its hundred hollows. Leaning upon the rail
and watching the river, rippled in the centre but calm and glassy near
the banks, one could have seen the silver fish springing from the water
for the insects playing about the surface, and could have breathed the
rich perfume of growing onions and the sweet, fresh, green life.

On the hillside Crescimir had planted grape vines, but they were young
yet and bore no fruit, still, had they borne the heaviest of clusters
there was no one to eat them then for there were but few settlers in the
valley and Crescimir had no neighbours, but the Rancho Tulucay, nearer
than the little village three miles distant.

Thus Crescimir the Illyrian lived alone improving his lands and selling
vegetables to the Yankee traders who came up the river in their little
schooners; he was always busy ploughing and dressing the gardens or
clearing away the chaparral.

Two years had been spent here since he had left his fatherland, amid the
wild scenes of the Julian Alps. It was on a Christmas Eve that he had
bidden his old friends good bye and at each return of the day he thought
more sadly of his lonely life, sighing for the old mountain village