Or we went up the river to "swing the rocker" for old Ali Quong. He
always pretended to drive us away, bellowing fiercely as soon as he
caught sight of us, "Whassa malla you? Alle time you come see Ali Quong!
Ketchem too-oo much tlouble for po-or old Chinaman" - the whole time
with his wrinkled, brown face wreathed in smiles.
There we stayed the long summer afternoon, swinging the rocker while
Quong shoveled in the pebbly dirt, watching him take the black sand,
which held the gold, off the canvas with his little spade-like scoop,
and panning it for him in the heavy iron pan, fascinated to see what we
should find. Usually only a few small nuggets in a group of colors
(flake gold), but once we found a good sized nugget which Quong
gallantly gave me for a "Chinese New Year" gift. At dusk he sent us
home, each with a bar of brown barley sugar - smelling to the blue of
opium - which he fished out of one of his numerous jumpers with his
long-fingered, sensitive hands.
They are dead, long ago - Ah Quong, old Sing, Shotgun-Chinaman - and
gone to the blessed region of the Five Immortals, I know, but every true
Californian will understand the regard the pioneer families had for
these faithful Chinese servitors who took as much loving pride in the
aristocratic and unblemished names of their "familees" as the white
persons who bore them.
Pages:
30
31
32
33
34
35
36
37
38
39
40
41
42
43
44
45
46
47
48
49
50
51
52
53
54