Part 9 (1/2)

Far and wide the people came: Some from the healthful Aptos Creek Hastened to bring their helpless sick; Even the fishers of rude Soquel Suddenly found they were far from well; The brawny dwellers of San Lorenzo Said, in fact, they had never been so; And all were ailing,--strange to say,-- From Pescadero to Monterey.

Over the mountain they poured in, With leathern bottles and bags of skin; Through the canyons a motley throng Trotted, hobbled, and limped along.

The Fathers gazed at the moving scene With pious joy and with souls serene; And then--a result perhaps foreseen-- They laid out the Mission of San Joaquin.

Not in the eyes of faith alone The good effects of the water shone; But skins grew rosy, eyes waxed clear, Of rough vaquero and muleteer; Angular forms were rounded out, Limbs grew supple and waists grew stout; And as for the girls,--for miles about They had no equal! To this day, From Pescadero to Monterey, You'll still find eyes in which are seen The liquid graces of San Joaquin.

There is a limit to human bliss, And the Mission of San Joaquin had this; None went abroad to roam or stay But they fell sick in the queerest way,-- A singular maladie du pays, With gastric symptoms: so they spent Their days in a sensuous content, Caring little for things unseen Beyond their bowers of living green, Beyond the mountains that lay between The world and the Mission of San Joaquin.

Winter pa.s.sed, and the summer came The trunks of madrono, all aflame, Here and there through the underwood Like pillars of fire starkly stood.

All of the breezy solitude Was filled with the spicing of pine and bay And resinous odors mixed and blended; And dim and ghostlike, far away, The smoke of the burning woods ascended.

Then of a sudden the mountains swam, The rivers piled their floods in a dam, The ridge above Los Gatos Creek Arched its spine in a feline fas.h.i.+on; The forests waltzed till they grew sick, And Nature shook in a speechless pa.s.sion; And, swallowed up in the earthquake's spleen, The wonderful Spring of San Joaquin Vanished, and never more was seen!

Two days pa.s.sed: the Mission folk Out of their rosy dream awoke; Some of them looked a trifle white, But that, no doubt, was from earthquake fright.

Three days: there was sore distress, Headache, nausea, giddiness.

Four days: faintings, tenderness Of the mouth and fauces; and in less Than one week--here the story closes; We won't continue the prognosis-- Enough that now no trace is seen Of Spring or Mission of San Joaquin.

MORAL

You see the point? Don't be too quick To break bad habits: better stick, Like the Mission folk, to your a.r.s.eNIC.

THE ANGELUS

(HEARD AT THE MISSION DOLORES, 1868)

Bells of the Past, whose long-forgotten music Still fills the wide expanse, Tingeing the sober twilight of the Present With color of romance!

I hear your call, and see the sun descending On rock and wave and sand, As down the coast the Mission voices, blending, Girdle the heathen land.

Within the circle of your incantation No blight nor mildew falls; Nor fierce unrest, nor l.u.s.t, nor low ambition Pa.s.ses those airy walls.

Borne on the swell of your long waves receding, I touch the farther Past; I see the dying glow of Spanish glory, The sunset dream and last!

Before me rise the dome-shaped Mission towers, The white Presidio; The swart commander in his leathern jerkin, The priest in stole of snow.

Once more I see Portala's cross uplifting Above the setting sun; And past the headland, northward, slowly drifting, The freighted galleon.

O solemn bells! whose consecrated ma.s.ses Recall the faith of old; O tinkling bells! that lulled with twilight music The spiritual fold!

Your voices break and falter in the darkness,-- Break, falter, and are still; And veiled and mystic, like the Host descending, The sun sinks from the hill!

CONCEPCION DE ARGUELLO

(PRESIDIO DE SAN FRANCISCO, 1800)

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