JEFF BRIGGS'S LOVE STORY


By Bret Harte




JEFF BRIGGS'S LOVE STORY.


I.


It was raining and blowing at Eldridge's Crossing. From the stately
pine-trees on the hill-tops, which were dignifiedly protesting through
their rigid spines upward, to the hysterical willows in the hollow, that
had whipped themselves into a maudlin fury, there was a general tumult.
When the wind lulled, the rain kept up the distraction, firing long
volleys across the road, letting loose miniature cataracts from the
hill-sides to brawl in the ditches, and beating down the heavy heads
of wild oats on the levels; when the rain ceased for a moment the wind
charged over the already defeated field, ruffled the gullies, scattered
the spray from the roadside pines, and added insult to injury. But both
wind and rain concentrated their energies in a malevolent attempt to
utterly disperse and scatter the "Half-way House," which seemed to
have wholly lost its way, and strayed into the open, where, dazed and
bewildered, unprepared and unprotected, it was exposed to the taunting
fury of the blast. A loose, shambling, disjointed, hastily built
structure--representing the worst features of Pioneer renaissance--it