"Not in entire forgetfulness and not in utter darkness, but trailing clouds of glory, do we come from God, who is our home; Heaven lies above us in our infancy"-Woodsworth

Many years ago, as far back as 1858, there was great excitement along the Pacific Coast consequent upon the discovery of gold on the bars of the Fraser River, in British Columbia. Miners and business men from California, Oregon and Washington Territory made their way in thousands to the new gold fields, and the tents of a multitude of gold-seekers lined the banks of that wild stream, while towns and villages sprang up as if by magic. Every available craft was engaged to bear the miners to the Promised Land, and for many weeks steamships, sailing vessels, and even tiny fishing smacks, left San Francisco with full lists of passengers and as much freight as could be crammed into their holds. The country washed by the Fraser River was then known as New Caledonia. It is now called British Columbia, and forms one of the richest and most important provinces of the Dominion of Canada.

In the year mentioned I was a vigorous youth, full of hope and enthusiasm, and left San Francisco for the new gold mines. I built a shack on the flat or townsite at Yale and opened a general store, to which I added the agency of Ballou's express. I remained at Yale continuously until the month of May, 1859, when I had occasion to visit the capital, Victoria, on Vancouver Island. While on my way back on a stern-wheel steamer one of the strangest experiences in my life began.

On the first day out I made the acquaintance of a young American who called himself Thomas Eaton, and during a close acquaintanceship, which lasted for two years, I found him a thoroughly good chap and perfectly reliable on all occasions. There were several other young fellows on board who were going to try their luck at the new mines, and as all were about of an age we soon became very friendly and communicative as to our plans and prospects. One of these young men was of rather stout build and medium height. He had a refined look, spoke in a slow and guarded manner, and wore his dark hair cut short. The weather was warm, but the evenings were chilly and a top-coat was essential for comfort. This particular young man did not seem to be the possessor of a top-coat. He wore a long linen duster, and was accustomed to stand on the deck with his hands in his pockets as if to keep them warm.

"Why don't you put on an overcoat?" I asked him. "You'll catch cold."

"Oh," he shivered back, "I haven't any. I left home in a hurry and forgot to buy one at Victoria," and his teeth chattered until I thought they would shake out of their sockets.

"Why, don't you get a blanket out of your stateroom and put it over your shoulders?" I asked.

"To tell you the truth," he replied, "I haven't a room or a berth, either."

"But you can get one easily enough," I cried.

"Here, Seymour," I called to the purser, "here's a young man who wants a berth. There's a spare one in my room. There are places for three, and only Eaton and I are in the room."

"All right," said the purser. "The lower berth, is it? Two dollars and a half, please."

"No, no," quickly responded the young fellow. "I couldn't think of inconveniencing you, sir. Two are enough in a room. I'll sit up till we get to Yale tomorrow night. I'm used to sitting up," he continued, "and don't mind it a bit."

The purser, busy man that he was, strode off with an impatient shrug of his shoulders.

"Well, at any rate," said I, "you shall have a covering," so, proceeding to the room, I drew a blanket from the lower bunk and handed it to the young fellow, who accepted it gratefully and put it about him. Then we stood near the smoke stack to enjoy the heat, and exchanged confidences. He told me that his name was Harry Collins; that his father and mother lived at San Francisco, and that he was on his way to join a brother, George Collins, who owned a rich claim somewhere on the Fraser River. Did I know his brother? No; I had never met a man of that name, but among the many thousands engaged in gold hunting at the time he might easily be there and I not know him. About ten o'clock I turned in, leaving Harry Collins standing close as he could to the stack and with the blanket still about him.

In the morning I told Eaton about the young fellow and after breakfast we found him still standing near where I had left him during the night. No, he hadn't slept a wink, and indeed his face gave evidence of great fatigue. He looked really ill. Had he breakfasted yet? No, he didn't care for anything to eat. Would a cup of tea or coffee be appreciated?

"No thank you; I am not thirsty," he said, but in spite of his refusal I thought I had noticed a wistful look steal across his face. Drawing Eaton aside I told him I was afraid that what ailed the young man were pride and poverty. He had no money and was too proud to disclose his plight.

"Let's make him eat," cried Eaton. So togther we went to the steward and arranged to have a substantial meal set in the saloon after all the others had left it. Then one of the waiters was sent to Mr. Collins with a message that he was wanted below. All unsuspecting, the young man follwed the waiter and the steward told him his breakfast was getting cold.

"But I didn't order breakfast," he exclaimed starting back.

"Cap'en's orders," returned the steward.

"But-but-I have no money to pay for it," he whispered in the steward's ear.

"You don't have to pay no money for it," replied the steward, who had been duly tipped. "Its all right. This is the Cap'en's birthday, and it's his treat."

Still doubting and protesting Collins was gently pushed by the steward into a seat, and the waiter asked: "Tea or coffee, sir?"

"Tea, please," he responded; then, turning to the steward, he said to him with a suspicious air, "Was no one charged for meals this morning?-Was everyone treated the same as I am being treated?"

"Yes," said the wicked steward. "Everybody and you're the only man that objected. And I'll tell you more; if you don't eat that grub the cap'en will be real mad. He won't take a insult from no one. Did you ever see him mad? No? Well, you don't want to. If I were to tell him you refused to eat at his expense on his birthday the ship wouldn't hold you both. Why, if you and him was a-standin' at a bar and he asked you to join him and you didn't the chances is that he'd shoot the top of your head off. So you'd better pitch in an' eat before he happens along."

A look of terror came into poor Collin's face. He surrendered and fell to, and the way the eatables and drinkables disappeared down his throat was a sight for epicures. Had Lucullus been at that table he would have laid down his knife and fork and acknowledged himself beaten at his favorite pastime. Half an hour later I peeped into the little saloon and there sat the young gentleman still at the table, with his head on his arms, fast asleep in the midst of the wreck of his breakfast. The goodhearted steward explained that he had dropped off quite suddenly, and that he hated to disturb him, as he seemed to need to rest so badly. When the time came to spread the cloth for the mid-day meal he was gently awakened, and, aplolgizing for having turned the saloon into a bedroom, he went on deck, where he found Eaton and me awaiting, with appetites like those of young wolves, the first tinkle of the dinner bell. The pioneers ate dinner at the unconventional hour of twelve M. It was only after the dawn of civilization that British Columbians began dining at seven.

We reached Yale before dark and landed at once. I am sorry to say that I forgot all about Collins. Eaton went to an hotel, and I went to my own quarters back of the express office. My assistant at that time was Arthur Vann. He was expecting to hear any day of the death of his moter, with whom he had parted on bad terms, and said that when she died he would inherit a moderate fortune.

The next morning, while writing at my desk, I heard a footstep, and on looking up saw my fellow passenger of the day before. He looked wan and ill, and black half circles under his eyes gave evidence of great weariness, if not of want of sleep.

"Are there any letters for Harry Collins?" he asked, timidly.

"None," replied Vann.

"Any for George Collins?"

The same answer was returned, and he was walking slowly away when I arose and asked him where he was staying in town?

"Nowhere," he replied. "Nowhere!" I exclaimed. "Do you mean to say-where did you stay last night?"

"I didn't stay anywhere. I just walked back and forth between here and the Indian village."

"Good gracious, man," I cried, "why did you not knock me up? I'd have given you a place to sleep. Have you had anything to eat to-day?"

"No, sir," he replied faintly. "And yesterday I had nothing but breakfast."

"Good God!" cried old Vann, as he seized him by the hand and fairly dragged him into the back room. "Starving in the midst of plenty, are ye? Not much , as long as my name's Vann, you won't, Here, set down, set down, boy; set down! We can't give you table-cloths or napkins or finger-bowls, and we can't feed you on mutton chops or beefsteak, or fried oysters or sweetbreads, but by the living jingo we can make you grow fat on pork and beans and slapjacks-yes, and, by Jove! here's a can of roast turkey--what's left of it. Set right down, boy, and make yourself at home!"

The young fellow protested feebly; but it was of no use; Vann pushed him into a seat at the table and set before him the things he had enumerated in the verbal menu, and we soon had the satisfaction of seeing our guest eating heartily. Between mouthfuls he would murmur his thanks, while tears stole silently down his cheeks. As he ate I recalled my own plight at San Francisco three years before, where I walked the streets hungry and friendless for many hours until I met a classmate who loaned me sufficient to buy a meal, and I felt thankful that I was enabled in a sense to repay that act of kindness by befriending this stranger.

The repast finshed, Vann announced that he had fixed up a bed for the young fellow on a bale of blankets in the store, behind a screen of empty boxes, where he might sleep soundly till next day, and presently the grateful man stole off to bed, lying down with his clothes on. He slept all day, only awakening when Vann served him with a cup of tea and some buttered toast, and when I looked out before retiring our guest was again wrapped in a heavy slumber. In the morning he was still in bed and asleep, but while Vann was busily engaged in preparing our breakfast he rose and tried to steal off unobserved. Vann, however, was on the lookout for him, and made him wait for breakfast. After the meal Collins insisted on helping to wash the dishes--a task that I always abhorred--and he proved himself well versed in the art of keeping a kitchen and its utensils clean. Vann soon began calling him Harry and making harmless jests which he enjoyed keenly.

Now, there was resident in Yale at that time a woman who was known a Johanna Maguire. She was a turbulent, noisy, spiteful character, and when intoxicated, as she often was, she was looked upon as dangerous. She was said to be well connected in Dublin, and was accustomed to call at the express office for her letters each week on the arrival of a letter bag form below. On this particular morning the Maguire woman entered the office just as hung Collins was passing out.

"Who it he?" she asked me.

"Oh, a friend of the boss," explaied Vann.

"Who is he?" she asked me.

"A friend of mine," I replied in an indifferent tone.

"A friend, is it?" she said, mockingly. "Wot's his name?"

"Oh, never mind," said I, testily; "he's a good fellow, and that's enough for you to know."

"Good, is he? Good for what? Good For nothin'. Look out for him. I stared him square in the eye, and divil a bit would he look at me! There's somethin' wrong with him, I tell ye."

I saw that the woman was in one of her worst moods, and I knew that unless I conquered her then she would never again treat me with respect. So I prepared for a tussle.

"Johanna," I said, "Listen to me. You never come here that you have not something to say that you ought not to say about someone. Sometimes I come under the harrow of your tongue. At others it is a woman whose only misfortune is that she has to breathe the same air you do. And now it's this friendless boy. You must stop the flow of your evil tongue or cease coming here at all." The woman turned red and then white with rage.

"Hould your own tongue or it'll be the wuss for ye. Things has come to a pretty pass when a brat the likes of you dares talk to a woman that's ould enought to be--to be--"

"His mother?" I cut in. I could not help it; the temptation was great.

I thought she would have brained me with a heavy weight that lay on the counter. She made a spring forward, but restrained herself with difficulty, and with white, quivering lips demanded to be told what I would do to her if she did not behave herself.

"Would I throw her into the strate?"

"No," I said, "but I'll write to Mr. Ballou and tell him to send no more of your letters by express. They will then come on a week later by mail, if they get her at all. You are not fit to come in contact with the decent men and women who come here." To my surprise she turned her face towards the door and walked slowly out. Ten minutes later she came back, and extending her hand, said: "I want yez to fergive me; I'll be good as gowld after this. Sure, I meant no har-r-rm to the bye or to ye, but I have the divil's own timper, and that added to the drop of rum I took down the strate just upset me intirely."

So we shook hands. The woman never afterwards misbehaved herself while in my establishment, and I was not a little proud of my victory. The next day I got work for Collins on a claim that I was interested in on Yale Bar. He continued to sleep in the outer office; and every moring he would light the fir, and get everything in readiness for Vann's cooking, besides helping to "rid up," as he called it. In the evening, after supper, after helping to "rid up," he retired to his rude couch. He neither smoked nor played cards. He did not drink or swear, and Vann, who did all four with the usual trimmings, suddenly dropped them, and when anything went wrong --for instance, when a cup or saucer fell on the floor and was smashed-- instead of sending an oath after it, he took to whistling a favorite tune. One day Vann told me that on rising rather earlier than usual he had found Harry on his knees beside the bale of blankets, evidently praying.

"Now," said the old man. "He didn't know that I seen him, so I just sneaked away in my stocking feet. I go my pile on a man who prays by himself, and don't let anyone but God see or hear him. It's them Farosees that stands on street corners and blathers in your ears that don't count for much. Their prayers ain't worth shucks, and the Bible says so, leastwise it used to say so when I went to Sunday School, and I ain't heerd that's it been changed any, have you?"

Harry was never out of temper, and was always willing to do his share of the house-work; but he had a sad, pensive way about him which it quite baffled all my efforts to penetrate. Vann sized him up as in love, and I resloved that when that big brother of his came down the trail I would ask him what was the matter with the boy.

One day, about a week after we had taken the young man in, Vann came to me with an open letter in his hand. "My mother's dead," he said. "She's gone at last, and I'm rich. I resign my position at once, for I must go down the river to-morrow. I'll tell you what to do: put young Collins into my place. He's just the man for you."

I went at once down to the claim. There I saw Collins standing on top of a long range of sluice boxes, armed with a sluic fork, engaged in clearing the riffles of large stones and sticks which, the riffles were charged.

On the way I met the forman. He was in a white rage because I sent a "counter-jumper," a mere whipper-snapper, down to do a miner's work. He had tried him at the shovel and pick, and he was too weak to handle them, and so he had put him at the lightest job on the sluices. "He won't take off his coat like the other boys, and all the men are thratening to strike because they have to do harder work for the same pay that he's getting. There he stands, with his long suter flapping in the wind, like a pillow-case on a clothesline," concluded the foreman with a look of disgust on his face.

"Never mind, Bill," said I, "you won't be troubled with him any more. I have a better job for him."

"I pity the job," said Bill.

I passed down to where Collins was at work and told him of Vann's fortune and his won promotion. He was relased at once, and accompanied me back to the office, where he was duly installed. Vann left the next day, and Collins proved to be an excellent cook, as neat as any housewife, and a fairly good bookeeper. But I could never induce him to slepp in the bed that had been vacated by Vann until he had removed it into the outer office. He said the back room was too small for town people, and that the air was better in the larger room.

Of every miner who came into the office form above the canyon Collins made anxious inquires about his brother. Did they know him by name, or had they met anyone who answered to the description which he gave them? The answers were always in the negative, but he never despaired and every failure seemed only to incite him to renewed inquires.

The months of July and August, 1859, were unusually dry and the weather was sultry. Every evening, after Collins had "rid up" the kitchen, he would sit on a box in front of the store and listen to the wonderful tales of gold finds as they were narrated by miners and prospectors. He would never utter a word, but would listen, with his big blue eyes wide open, as if the tales astonished and entraced him. One night, I remember, the full moon shone brightly upon the group that had gathered near the door, and the rays seemed to rest like a halo of silver about the boy's head and face. His profile was delicate and expressive, and as I gazed I felt strongly and unaccountably drawn to-wards him. A strange emotion stirred my heart and a wave of tenderness such as I had never before experienced swept through every fibre of my being. What ails me? I asked myself. As if in answer to my mental question, the boy turned his head and looked in my direction. When he was that I was observing him he dropped his eyes and, rising quickly, gazed long and anxiously in the direction of the canyon and at the sullen river which roared loudly on its way to the ocean. Then he sighed deeply, brethed a gentle "good-night," and retired to his bed in the corner.

Long after the company had departed I sat and mused, and the subject of my thought was young Collins. I could not understand my feelings. Why should I be attracted towards him more than to any other young man? Why was I always happy when he was near and depressed when he was absent? Why did I lie awake at night trying to work out some plan to send word to his brother? Why did the sound of his voice or his footstep send the hot young blood bounding through my veins? What was he to me that every sense should thrill, and my heart beat wildly at his approach? Were the mysterious forces of Nature making themselves heard and felt? Presently I heard the door behind me softly open, and turning my head I saw a figure steal out into the moonlight. It was the boy, fully dressed. He held in one hand a small parcel. He did not see me as I sat on the bench, but passed noiselessly by towards the swift-rolling river. I tried to call to him, but terror had locked my tongue. I tried to rise and fly to him, but I was as if rooted to the spot. I could only look and wring my hands as I saw Herry reach the water's edge and plunge with out a moment's pause into the seething torrent. He was swept away in an instant. For a moment he remained on the surface, and then disappeared in the foam. Next I became conscious that someone was speaking to me, and a rough voice said: "Don't you know any better than to go to sleep in the moonlight. It's a wonder your face is not drawn out of shape. You'd petter go to your room and bathe your head in cold water."

I looked up and was standing by my side a neighbor. He waid he had found me asleep, and took the liberty of awakening me. I thanked him and went inside. As I passed into my own room I hear Harry softly breathing, and then I knew that he was safe, and I had only dreamed that a tragedy had taken place.

I could not explain why, but from that night a dark shadow seemed to have risen between the boy and me, and I felt that I no longer possessed his confidence or he mine.

I am not sure as to the precise date or the month when the circumstance I am about to relate took palce. I was, however, either in the latter part of August or the early part of September, 1859, nearly four months after I had first met Collins on the steamer, that he came to me one afternoon and complained of feeling very sick, almost as if he would die. I told him to go into my room and lie down in my bulk, which he did. In the bustle and hurry of receiving and dispatching a letter and treasure express I forgot all about the boy and his troubles until two or three hours later, when recalling his illness, I asked the Maguire woman, who had entered the offce for a letter and who had lately taken to patronizing the boy, to see how he was getting on. She was inside for about five minutes, and then, coming out on tiptoe as softly as a cat in pursuit of a mouse, she asked me, in a whisper, to go at once for Dr. Fifer, the leading surgeon at the time, adding, "the bye's very sick. He's all of a shiver. I think he's got the cholery morbus."

I summoned Fifer, and was about to enter the room when Johanna barred my entrance, and requested me for "the good Lord's sake to shtay out. The bye must be kept quiet."

I rebelled at this treatment, and was preparing for another verbal conflict with the woman when the doctor come to her assistance and added his entreaty to hers. So I remained out, but determined to have and explaination later on. As I was fuming and fretting over the impopriety of keeping a man from entering his own room the doctor come out with a puzzled look on his face.

"Really," he commenced, "this is a most remarkable case. It beats everything. In all my experience I never saw anything like it. How long have you known Collins?" I told him about four months.

"Humph! Really this is extraordinary--most extraordinary." What he would have said further will never be recorded, for at that moment the shrill voice of Johanna Maguire was heard.

"Docther, come quick! come quick!"

The doctor rushed inside, and in five or six minutes came out again. He put his hand on my shoulder and looking me full in the face said, "It's my duty to tell you that Harry Collins is no more!"

"Mercy!" I cried, shrinking back, "Not dead? not dead?"

"Well, no, not dead; but you'll never see him again."

"If he is not dead," I said greatly agitated, "tell me what has happened or why I shall never see him again. You should not keep me in suspense."

"Well," said the doctor, laughing heartily, "he is not dead. He's very much alive. That is to say, he is doubly alive. Harry Collins is gone, but in his place there is a comely young woman who calls herself Harriet Collins, the wife of one George Collins, who is now above the canyon hunting for gold. She had just been delivered of a handsome girl baby that weighs al least seven pounds. That is all there is about it except that if any of your lady friends have any women's dresses or babies' clothes that they want to give away, the late Harry Collins and present Mrs. George Collins will be mighty glad to get them. With the exeption of your blankets and your underwear, which Mrs. Maguire has appropriated for the purpose, she had nothing to wrap the baby in."

"Didn't I tell you," said Johanna the next day, "to watch the bye. I knowed there was something wrong about him, and I was roight. But I have looked out for yer charakther and mine, too. Before I'd do a hand's tourn I made her show me the marriage line, and here they are. She wants you to see them."

The "lines" were a certificate of the marriage by the Rev. Dr. Scott, of San Francisco, of George Collins and Harriet Hurst, less than a year before.

The ladies of Yale very liberally have Mrs. Collins dresses and undergarments from their own wardrobes for herself and her baby. There was only one sewing machine in the town, and it was soon at work, altering and making graments for the mother and the little stranger. On the third day I was admitted to the presence of the young mother and her first-born. She asked my forgiveness for the deception she had practised, and pleaded that it was a desire to be near her husband, and also the cruel treatment of a stepmother, that had induced her to seek him without money or friends and in male attire.

Tommy Eaton and I set our wits to work to find the husband but were unsuccessful until one day, some four weeks after the arrival of the little girl, a tall, travel-stained young man entered the express office and asked if there was a letter for George Collins. Eaton, who assisted me in place of the late Harry Collins, told him there was none for him.

"Are there any packages--I expect a valuable one from San Francisco?" he said.

"No, there are no packages of any kind for George Collins," was the reply. "But here's the agent, ask him," as I stepped into the office.

"Any Package for George Collins?" "Is that your name?"

"Yes," he said; and I am bound to say that he answered the late boy's description of his bother.

"Well, if you are the right George Collins, there are two most valuable packages awaiting you here, but you will have to be identified before you can get them," I said.

"I know no one in Yale," he replied.

"Then," said I, "Come with me into the back room and see if they belong to you?"

As we walked towards the room the door was flung back and an apparition, clad in white, with outstretched hands and eyes wide open and staring, stood suddenly framed in the opening.

"George! George!" the apparition wildly cried. "Oh! I knew your voice. I would know it among a million. My dear, dear husband, God has answered my prayers and brought you back to me safe and sound. I am so tired, so tired," and she tottered and would have fallen had not the houng man sprung forward and folded her in his great arms, and pressed her sweet head against his heart, while tears of joy and thankfulness chased each other down his face.

As they retired within the room I closed the door and was turning away when I heard a noise as of someone sobbing. I turned, and there stood Tommy Eaton with his handkerchief to his eyes, crying as if his heart would break.

"You big chump," I began. "You ought to be ashamed of yourself. What business--?" I never finshed the sentence. I couldn't; and it has not been finished to this day.

The great news spread rapidly. The town, which had begun to recover from the excitement consequent upon the arrival of the baby, was again thrown into a state of extreme agitation by the arrival of the father and husband. Collins proved to be a young man of some means, and in a little while he went about discharging certain liabilities that had been icurred by his wife. Mrs. Maguire declined any remuneration. In about a month it was announced that the pair with the baby would leave in a day or two for California. Before departing Mr. and Mrs. Collins-George carrying the baby-went around and said good-bye to those who had befriended them. When they knocked at Johanna Maguire's door she came outside.

"Sure," said She, "I'll not ask ye in; but I give ye me blessing, and a piece of gowld for the baby." She pressed a nugget into the mother's hand, and contunued, " I want to ask one favor of ye. Let me kiss the baby's hand - sure I'm not good enough to kiss its lips." She raised the hand to her mouth and covered it with kisses. Then she lifted the hem of the mother's garment to her lips and was about to kiss it, when Mrs. Collins, tearing the garment from her grasp, threw her arms about the poor, lost one, and kissed her not once but a dozen times, saying that she was her own kindest and best friend, who had gone with her throught the dark valley and shadow of death and wooed her back to life with motherly care and attention, and invoking Heaven's choicest blessings on her head. In the midst of a torrent of tears the woman tore herself away, and rushing into her house, slammed the door violently and was not seen again for several days.

Some weeks after Mr. and Mrs. Collins had gone away, engraved cards for the christening and San Francisco of a mite to by named Cladonia H Collins were received by nearly everyone in Yale. Mine was accompanied by an explnatory note that the "H" stood for my surname, and that I was to be the godfather. Johanna's invitation was accompanied by a pretty gold watch and a loving letter from her late patient.

Nine years sped away before I was enabled to visit San Francisco, and diligent enquires failed to discover any trace of the Collins family. They had moved away from the city, and I have never since heard of of from them. Somewhere on the face of this globe there should be a mature female who rejoices in the name of Caledonia H. Collins. If these lines should meet her eye I would be glad to learn her whereabouts, for I would travel many miles to meet the woman who under such extrordinary circumstances became my god-daughter.

THE END

Last updated 31 August 1998. This digital collection was produced under contract to the SchoolNet Digital Collections Program, Industry Canada. Produced by Schoolnet Digital Collections Team.