CHAPTER II—­FIRST IMPRESSIONS OF SILVERADO

We were to leave by six precisely; that was solemnly pledged on both sides; and a messenger came to us the last thing at night, to remind us of the hour.  But it was eight before we got clear of Calistoga:  Kelmar, Mrs. Kelmar, a friend of theirs whom we named Abramina, her little daughter, my wife, myself, and, stowed away behind us, a cluster of ship’s coffee-kettles.  These last were highly ornamental in the sheen of their bright tin, but I could invent no reason for their presence.  Our carriageful reckoned up, as near as we could get at it, some three hundred years to the six of us.  Four of the six, besides, were Hebrews.  But I never, in all my life, was conscious of so strong an atmosphere of holiday.  No word was spoken but of pleasure; and even when we drove in silence, nods and smiles went round the party like refreshments.

The sun shone out of a cloudless sky.  Close at the zenith rode the belated moon, still clearly visible, and, along one margin, even bright.  The wind blew a gale from the north; the trees roared; the corn and the deep grass in the valley fled in whitening surges; the dust towered into the air along the road and dispersed like the smoke of battle.  It was clear in our teeth from the first, and for all the windings of the road it managed to keep clear in our teeth until the end.

For some two miles we rattled through the valley, skirting the eastern foothills; then we struck off to the right, through haugh-land, and presently, crossing a dry water-course, entered the Toll road, or, to be more local, entered on “the grade.”  The road mounts the near shoulder of Mount Saint Helena, bound northward into Lake County.  In one place it skirts along the edge of a narrow and deep canyon, filled with trees, and I was glad, indeed, not to be driven at this point by the dashing Foss.  Kelmar, with his unvarying smile, jogging to the motion of the trap, drove for all the world like a good, plain, country clergyman at home; and I profess I blessed him unawares for his timidity.

Vineyards and deep meadows, islanded and framed with thicket, gave place more and more as we ascended to woods of oak and madrona, dotted with enormous pines.  It was these pines, as they shot above the lower wood, that produced that pencilling of single trees I had so often remarked from the valley.  Thence, looking up and from however far, each fir stands separate against the sky no bigger than an eyelash; and all together lend a quaint, fringed aspect to the hills.  The oak is no baby; even the madrona, upon these spurs of Mount Saint Helena, comes to a fine bulk and ranks with forest trees—­but the pines look down upon the rest for underwood.  As Mount Saint Helena among her foothills, so these dark giants out-top their fellow-vegetables.  Alas! if they had left the redwoods, the pines, in turn, would have been dwarfed.  But the redwoods, fallen from their high estate, are serving as family bedsteads, or yet more humbly as field fences, along all Napa Valley.