But ours was a Californian
summer, and an earthquake was a far likelier accident than a shower
of rain.
Trustful in this fine weather, we kept the house for kitchen and
bedroom, and used the platform as our summer parlour. The sense of
privacy, as I have said already, was complete. We could look over
the clump on miles of forest and rough hilltop; our eyes commanded
some of Napa Valley, where the train ran, and the little country
townships sat so close together along the line of the rail. But
here there was no man to intrude. None but the Hansons were our
visitors. Even they came but at long intervals, or twice daily, at
a stated hour, with milk. So our days, as they were never
interrupted, drew out to the greater length; hour melted insensibly
into hour; the household duties, though they were many, and some of
them laborious, dwindled into mere islets of business in a sea of
sunny day-time; and it appears to me, looking back, as though the
far greater part of our life at Silverado had been passed, propped
upon an elbow, or seated on a plank, listening to the silence that
there is among the hills.
My work, it is true, was over early in the morning. I rose before
any one else, lit the stove, put on the water to boil, and strolled
forth upon the platform to wait till it was ready. Silverado would
then be still in shadow, the sun shining on the mountain higher up.
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