The Valley of the Moon Jack London

bottling mineral water at the springs lower down the valley. It

  was fortunate that he was the owner, for about all the rest of

  the surrounding land was owned by a Frenchman--an early settler.

  He would not part with a foot of it. He was a peasant, with all

  the peasant's love of the soil, which, in him, had become an

  obsession, a disease. He was a land-miser. With no business

  capacity, old and opinionated, he was land poor, and it was an

  open question which would arrive first, his death or bankruptcy.

  As for Madrono Ranch, Naismith owned it and had set the price at

  fifty dollars an acre. That would be one thousand dollars, for

  there were twenty acres. As a farming investment, using

  old-fashioned methods, it was not worth it. As a business

  investment, yes; for the virtues of the valley were on the eve of

  being discovered by the outside world, and no better location for

  a summer home could be found. As a happiness investment in joy of

  beauty and climate, it was worth a thousand times the price

  asked. And he knew Naismith would allow time on most of the

  amount. Edmund's suggestion was that they take a two years'

  lease, with option to buy, the rent to apply to the purchase if

  they took it up. Naismith had done that once with a Swiss, who

  had paid a monthly rental of ten dollars. But the man's wife had

  died, and he had gone away.

  Edmund soon divined Billy's renunciation, though not the nature

  of it; and several questions brought it forth--the old pioneer

  dream of land spaciousness; of cattle on a hundred hills; one

  hundred and sixty acres of land the smallest thinkable division.

  "But you don't need all that land, dear lad," Edmund said softly.

  "I see you understand intensive farming. Have you thought about

  intensive horse-raising?"

  Billy's jaw dropped at the smashing newness of the idea. He

  considered it, but could see no similarity in the two processes.

  Unbelief leaped into his eyes.

  "You gotta show me!" he cried.

  The elder man smiled gently.

  "Let us see. In the first place, you don't need those twenty

  acres except for beauty. There are five acres in the meadow. You

  don't need more than two of them to make your living at selling

  vegetables. In fact, you and your wife, working from daylight to

  dark, cannot properly farm those two acres. Remains three acres.

  You have plenty of water for it from the springs. Don't be

  satisfied with one crop a year, like the rest of the

  old-fashioned farmers in this valley. Farm it like your vegetable

  plot, intensively, all the year, in crops that make horse-feed,

  irrigating, fertilizing, rotating your crops. Those three acres

  will feed as many horses as heaven knows how huge an area of

  unseeded, uncared for, wasted pasture would feed. Think it over.

  I'll lend you books on the subject. I don't know how large your

  crops will be, nor do I know how much a horse eats; that's your

  business. But I am certain, with a hired man to take your place

  helping your wife on her two acres of vegetables, that by the

  time you own the horses your three acres will feed, you will have

  all you can attend to. Then it will be time to get more land, for

  more horses, for more riches, if that way happiness lie."

  Billy understood. In his enthusiasm he dashed out:

  "You're some farmer."

  Edmund smiled and glanced toward his wife.

  "Give him your opinion of that, Annette."

  Her blue eyes twinkled as she complied.

  "Why, the dear, he never farms. He has never farmed. But he

  knows." She waved her hand about the booklined walls. "He is a

  student of good. He studies all good things done by good men

  under the sun. His pleasure is in books and wood-working."

  "Don't forget Dulcie," Edmund gently protested.

  "Yes, and Dulcie." Annette laughed. "Dulcie is our cow. It is a

  great question with Jack Hastings whether Edmund dotes more on

  Dulcie, or Dulcie dotes more on Edmund. When he goes to San

  Francisco Dulcie is miserable. So is Edmund, until he hastens

  back. Oh, Dulcie has given me no few jealous pangs. But I have to

  confess he understands her as no one else does."

  "That is the one practical subject I know by experience," Edmund

  confirmed. "I am an authority on Jersey cows. Call upon me any

  time for counsel."

  He stood up and went toward his book-shelves; and they saw how

  magnificently large a man he was. He paused a book in his hand,

  to answer a question from Saxon. No; there were no mosquitoes,

  although, one summer when the south wind blew for ten days--an

  unprecedented thing--a few mosquitoes had been carried up from

  San Pablo Bay. As for fog, it was the making of the valley. And

  where they were situated, sheltered behind Sonoma Mountain, the

  fogs were almost invariably high fogs. Sweeping in from the ocean

  forty miles away, they were deflected by Sonoma Mountain and

  shunted high into the air. Another thing, Trillium Covert and

  Madrono Ranch were happily situated in a narrow thermal belt, so

  that in the frosty mornings of winter the temperature was always

  several degrees higher than in the rest of the valley. In fact,

  frost was very rare in the thermal belt, as was proved by the

  successful cultivation of certain orange and lemon trees.

  Edmund continued reading titles and selecting books until he had

  drawn out quite a number. He opened the top one, Bolton Hall's

  "Three Acres and Liberty," and read to them of a man who walked

  six hundred and fifty miles a year in cultivating, by

  old-fashioned methods, twenty acres, from which he harvested

  three thousand bushels of poor potatoes; and of another man, a

  "new" farmer, who cultivated only five acres, walked two hundred

  miles, and produced three thousand bushels of potatoes, early and

  choice, which he sold at many times the price received by the

  first man.

  Saxon receded the books from Edmund, and, as she heaped them in

  Billy's arms, read the titles. They were: Wickson's "California

  Fruits," Wickson's "California Vegetables," Brooks'

  "Fertilizers," Watson's "Farm Poultry," King's "Irrigation and

  Drainage," Kropotkin's "Fields, Factories and Workshops," and

  Farmer's Bulletin No. 22 on "The Feeding of Farm Animals."

  "Come for more any time you want them," Edmund invited. "I have

  hundreds of volumes on farming, and all the Agricultural

  Bulletins. . . . And you must come and get acquainted with Dulcie

  your first spare time," he called after them out the door.

  CHAPTER XIX

  Mrs. Mortimer arrived with seed catalogs and farm books, to find

  Saxon immersed in the farm books borrowed from Edmund. Saxon

  showed her around, and she was delighted with everything,

  including the terms of the lease and its option to buy.

  "And now," she said. "What is to be done? Sit down, both of you.

  This is a council of war, and I am the one person in the world to

  tell you what to do. I ought to be. Anybody who has reorganized

  and recatalogued a great city library should be able to start you
/>
  young people on in short order. Now, where shall we begin?"

  She paused for breath of consideration.

  "First, Madrono Ranch is a bargain. I know soil, I know beauty, I

  know climate. Madrono Ranch is a gold mine. There is a fortune in

  that meadow. Tilth--I'll tell you about that later. First, here's

  the land. Second, what are you going to do with it? Make a

  living? Yes. Vegetables? Of course. What are you going to do with

  them after you have grown them? Sell. Where?--Now listen. You

  must do as I did. Cut out the middle man. Sell directly to the

  consumer. Drum up your own market. Do you know what I saw from

  the car windows coming up the valley, only several miles from

  here? Hotels, springs, summer resorts, winter

  resorts--population, mouths, market. How is that market supplied?

  I looked in vain for truck gardens.--Billy, harness up your

  horses and be ready directly after dinner to take Saxon and me

  driving. Never mind everything else. Let things stand. What's the

  use of starting for a place of which you haven't the address.

  We'll look for the address this afternoon. Then we'll know where

  we are--at."--The last syllable a smiling concession to Billy.

  But Saxon did not accompany them. There was too much to be done

  in cleaning the long-abandoned house and in preparing an

  arrangement for Mrs. Mortimer to sleep. And it was long after

  supper time when Mrs. Mortimer and Billy returned.

  "You lucky, lucky children," she began immediately. "This valley

  is just waking up. Here's your market. There isn't a competitor

  in the valley. I thought those resorts looked new--Caliente,

  Boyes Hot Springs, El Verano, and all along the line. Then there

  are three little hotels in Glen Ellen, right next door. Oh, I've

  talked with all the owners and managers."

  "She's a wooz," Billy admired. "She'd brace up to God on a

  business proposition. You oughta seen her."

  Mrs. Mortimer acknowledged the compliment and dashed on.

  "And where do all the vegetables come from? Wagons drive down

  twelve to fifteen miles from Santa Rosa, and up from Sonoma.

  Those are the nearest truck farms, and when they fail, as they

  often do, I am told, to supply the increasing needs, the managers

  have to express vegetables all the way from San Francisco. I've

  introduced Billy. They've agreed to patronize home industry.

  Besides, it is better for them. You'll deliver just as good

  vegetables just as cheap; you will make it a point to deliver

  better, fresher vegetables; and don't forget that delivery for

  you will be cheaper by virtue of the shorter haul.

  "No day-old egg stunt here. No jams nor jellies. But you've got

  lots of space up on the bench here on which you can't grow

  vegetables. To-morrow morning I'll help you lay out the chicken

  runs and houses. Besides, there is the matter of capons for the

  San Francisco market. You'll start small. It will be a side line

  at first. I'll tell you all about that, too, and send you the

  literature. You must use your head. Let others do the work. You

  must understand that thoroughly. The wages of superintendence are

  always larger than the wages of the laborers. You must keep

  books. You must know where you stand. You must know what pays and

  what doesn't and what pays best. Your books will tell that. I'll

  show you all in good time."

  "An' think of it--all that on two acres!" Billy murmured.

  Mrs. Mortimer looked at him sharply.

  "Two acres your granny," she said with asperity. "Five acres. And

  then you won't be able to supply your market. And you, my boy, as

  soon as the first rains come will have your hands full and your

  horses weary draining that meadow. We'll work those plans out

  to-morrow Also, there is the matter of berries on the bench

  here--and trellised table grapes, the choicest. They bring the

  fancy prices. There will be blackberries--Burbank's, he lives at

  Santa Rosa--Loganberries, Mammoth berries. But don't fool with

  strawberries. That's a whole occupation in itself. They're not

  vines, you know. I've examined the orchard. It's a good

  foundation. We'll settle the pruning and grafts later."

  "But Billy wanted three acres of the meadow," Saxon explained at

  the first chance.

  "What for?"

  "To grow hay and other kinds of food for the horses he's going to

  raise."

  "Buy it out of a portion of the profits from those three acres,"

  Mrs. Mortimer decided on the instant.

  Billy swallowed, and again achieved renunciation.

  "All right," he said, with a brave show of cheerfulness. "Let her

  go. Us for the greens."

  During the several days of Mrs. Mortimer's visit, Billy let the

  two women settle things for themselves. Oakland had entered upon

  a boom, and from the West Oakland stables had come an urgent

  letter for more horses. So Billy was out, early and late,

  scouring the surrounding country for young work animals. In this

  way, at the start, he learned his valley thoroughly. There was

  also a clearing out at the West Oakland stables of mares whose

  feet had been knocked out on the hard city pave meets, and he was

  offered first choice at bargain prices. They were good animals.

  He knew what they were because he knew them of old time. The soft

  earth of the country, with a preliminary rest in pasture with

  their shoes pulled off, would put them in shape. They would never

  do again on hard-paved streets, but there were years of farm work

  in them. And then there was the breeding. But he could not

  undertake to buy them. He fought out the battle in secret and

  said nothing to Saxon.

  At night, he would sit in the kitchen and smoke, listening to all

  that the two women had done and planned in the day. The right

  kind of horses was hard to buy, and, as he put it, it was like

  pulling a tooth to get a farmer to part with one, despite the

  fact that he had been authorized to increase the buying sum by as

  much as fifty dollars. Despite the coming of the automobile, the

  price of heavy draught animals continued to rise. From as early

  as Billy could remember, the price of the big work horses had

  increased steadily. After the great earthquake, the price had

  jumped; yet it had never gone back.

  "Billy, you make more money as a horse-buyer than a common

  laborer, don't you?" Mrs. Mortimer asked. "Very well, then. You

  won't have to drain the meadow, or plow it, or anything. You keep

  right on buying horses. Work with your head. But out of what you

  make you will please pay the wages of one laborer for Saxon's

  vegetables. It will be a good investment, with quick returns."

  "Sure," he agreed. "That's all anybody hires any body for--to

  make money outa 'm. But how Saxon an' one man are goin' to work

  them five acres, when Mr. Hale says two of us couldn't do what's

  needed on two acres, is beyond me."

  "Saxon isn't going to work," Mrs. Mortimer retorted.

  "Did you see me working at San Jose? Saxon is going to use her

  head. It's about time you woke up to that. A
dollar and a half a

  day is what is earned by persons who don't use their heads. And

  she isn't going to be satisfied with a dollar and a half a day.

  Now listen. I had a long talk with Mr. Hale this afternoon. He

  says there are practically no efficient laborers to be hired in

  the valley."

  "I know that," Billy interjected. "All the good men go to the

  cities. It's only the leavin's that's left. The good ones that

  stay behind ain't workin' for wages."

  "Which is perfectly true, every word. Now listen, children. I

  knew about it, and I spoke to Mr. Hale. He is prepared to make

  the arrangements for you. He knows all about it himself, and is

  in touch with the Warden. In short, you will parole two

  good-conduct prisoners from San Quentin; and they will be

  gardeners. There are plenty of Chinese and Italians there, and

  they are the best truck-farmers. You kill two birds with one

  stone. You serve the poor convicts, and you serve yourselves."

  Saxon hesitated, shocked; while Billy gravely considered the

  question.

  "You know John," Mrs. Mortimer went on, "Mr. Hale's man about the

  place? How do you like him?"

  "Oh, I was wishing only to-day that we could find somebody like

  him," Saxon said eagerly. "He's such a dear, faithful soul. Mrs.

  Hale told me a lot of fine things about him."

  "There's one thing she didn't tell you," smiled Mrs. Mortimer.

  "John is a paroled convict. Twenty-eight years ago, in hot blood,

  he killed a man in a quarrel over sixty-five cents. He's been out

  of prison with the Hales three years now. You remember Louis, the

  old Frenchman, on my place? He's another. So that's settled. When

  your two come--of course you will pay them fair wages--and we'll

  make sure they're the same nationality, either Chinese or

  Italians--well, when they come, John, with their help, and under

  Mr. Hale's guidance, will knock together a small cabin for them

  to live in. We'll select the spot. Even so, when your farm is in

  full swing you'll have to have more outside help. So keep your

  eyes open, Billy, while you're gallivanting over the valley."

  The next night Billy failed to return, and at nine o'clock a Glen

  Ellen boy on horseback delivered a telegram. Billy had sent it

  from Lake County. He was after horses for Oakland.

  Not until the third night did he arrive home, tired to

  exhaustion, but with an ill concealed air of pride.

  "Now what have you been doing these three days?" Mrs. Mortimer

  demanded.

  "Usin' my head," he boasted quietly. "Killin' two birds with one

  stone; an', take it from me, I killed a whole flock. Huh! I got

  word of it at Lawndale, an' I wanta tell you Hazel an' Hattie was

  some tired when I stabled 'm at Calistoga an' pulled out on the

  stage over St. Helena. I was Johnny-on-the-spot, an' I nailed

  'm--eight whoppers--the whole outfit of a mountain teamster.

  Young animals, sound as a-dollar, and the lightest of 'em over

  fifteen hundred. I shipped 'm last night from Calistoga. An',

  well, that ain't all.

  "Before that, first day, at Lawndale, I seen the fellow with the

  teamin' contract for the pavin'-stone quarry. Sell horses! He

  wanted to buy 'em. He wanted to buy 'em bad. He'd even rent 'em,

  he said."

  "And you sent him the eight you bought!" Saxon broke in.

  "Guess again. I bought them eight with Oakland money, an' they

  was shipped to Oakland. But I got the Lawndale contractor on long

  distance, and he agreed to pay me half a dollar a day rent for

  every work horse up to half a dozen. Then I telegraphed the Boss,

  tellin' him to ship me six sore-footed mares, Bud Strothers to

  make the choice, an' to charge to my commission. Bud knows what I

  'm after. Soon as they come, off go their shoes. Two weeks in

  pasture, an' then they go to Lawndale. They can do the work. It's

  a down-hill haul to the railroad on a dirt road. Half a dollar