The Brown Family in California 



By JASON BROWN 



CHAPTER FOURTEEN 



THE ODD DISCOVERY IN THE ROCKY FIELD 



JOMETIMES it would happen that, busied on my California farm, 

 several weeks would elapse in which I would not see my helpful 

 and interesting friend, William Simpson, of the Estudillo Rancho. 

 On such occasions, it was Simpson's almost invariable custom 

 to "re-convene," as he said, the conversation where it had last 

 been left off. 



Now, before our hearthfire or upon the veranda of a mellow evening, 

 our conversations are not between two dialoguers, but everybody joins in. 

 Our children take as active an interest in matters discussed for our better- 

 ment as do we ourselves. In fact, this is one of the reasons that you will 

 find country children as a rule on a closer relationship with their parents 

 than the city child. We in the country make companions of our children. 



But back to this particular evening and this particular conversation. 



"Jason, you're getting a reputation as an extraordinary farmer," said 

 Simpson, "and as I was saying, the root house you have built on the hill 

 shows you to be somewhat of an artisan." 



"That's the word," cried my wife, giving me a sly dig. "Jason's an 

 artisan, but not an architect." 



•'^Well, papa deserves a reputation," chimed in Robert. "Just think 

 how ne's been writing up his coming to California. Why, a man up near 

 Red Bluff wrote papa that there wasn't any Jason Brown. He knew all the 

 Brown family, he said, and there was none of them by that name." 



"But did you hear about the fellow down near San Jacinto?" asked 

 Walter. "His name is Jason Brown, too. He wrote papa that the stories 

 he's been writing about his experiences in California were a malicious out- 

 rage. 'I've never been in New England,' he said, 'and you've no business 

 to use my name.* " 



"Well, well," said Simpson, "the world is sure full of lobsters. If your 

 story has helped any one to realize the opportunities in diversified farming 

 it has surely been worth while." 



"Yes," said Ethel, "they'll get papa so tangled up he won't know 

 which Jason Brown he is, and then of course he'll be just like the hero of 

 one of Henry James' novels." 



You know, Ethel prides herself on reading Henry James. With circulat- 

 ing libraries, the young country girls of to-day read more substantial litera- 

 ture than the average city girl. 



"Well," said Simpson, "we've wandered a long way from the subject, 

 but the root house which Jason built on the hillside is still there, and I move 

 we all go up and have a look at it." 



So we all went up to my new vegetable cellar on the hillside just beyond 

 the two acres in potatoes. It was a stolid little structure about 8 feet high 

 at the gable, 14 feet wide and 20 feet long, but it backed into the hillside, 

 so that all its length was not visible. I had built it along the lines of an old 

 New England spring house, and a little spring gushed from the very back of 

 my root house, and running beneath the wooden floor of the house, it kept 

 it cool the year round. 



"Pretty neat affair, Jason," said Simpson, glancing with admiration 

 at the root house, "but where did you get all that rock?" 



"Why, that came from the rocky field near to your back pasture," I 

 answered. 



"Why, that's odd," said Simpson. "I never noticed any granite there." 



"Granite?" said Mrs. Simpson, with a rising inflection. 



