It is just twenty minutes past five in the afternoon. My friend is sitting near, industriously studying Spanish. She is making up for lost time, although you would never think so by the way she stops every few minutes to call out to her husband-who is reading in the porchabout some new word. Lucy, the little Spanish half-breed, is lingering at the table, ostensibly sorting out a heap of baby's stockings, but in reality listening, with a gleam of amusement in her soft eyes, to the major correcting her mistress's mistakes.

A warm sun still shines over Agua Tibia, and whitens the lonely belfry of the ruined Mission of Pala. I am writing in a deep-seated window, out of which I look as out of a frame. I see afar the wide reaches of the Valleys of Pala and Pauma, a spur of broken and picturesque mountains almost dividing the two. Directly below, a stretch of wild sage and chaparral extends down to the scattering trees that mark the vagaries of the San Luis Rey River. Those trees are, indeed, so very far away that they are dwarfed to the merest shrubs in the distance.

How soon we adapt ourselves to the present! It has come to be with me the most natural thing in the world to live this free, easy, enjoyable life—almost wholly spent out of doors. I will not think of how short a time it is since I took it up; it would only too forcibly remind me of how soon I must lay it down. Day follows day, and there is not a cloud the width of your hand on the wide, blue sky. In the early morning, the pale mists are unrolled from the valleys, the warm breeze carries their lace-like film up the cañons, leaving it to float for a time on the far, blue hills. Then comes the glad summer day, wakening the birds and bees, the rustling grasses by the brook, the tender-blossomed wild-flowers, the myriad insect world. Across your path a quail scurries with her large family at her heels, a rabbit darts under a bush, a lizard crosses a brown rock, a working bee goes singing past, a large, painted butterfly steadies its wings, and slowly floats on the sweet morning air. The shimmer of light on rock, tree, vale, and hill, the glow of a gorgeous sunset, the orange-tinted rim of the far horizon, the purple peaks of distant mountains-these are our pictures every day.

Our house is nearly one hundred years old; it is more than a hundred feet in length. It is

a genuine adobe, full of rooms opening on both sides of the building-of nooks, corners, and passages. It is built on the top of a hill; the ascent is very steep, and it looks like a Spanish fort, perched up here for defense. It is the only dwelling in the landscape, and can be seen many miles away. It is another proof of the falsehood of a statement, made all over the land from Maine to Mexico, that you can never civilize an Indian. A proof, too, of the wit's assertion that if he could get twenty-four hours ahead with a lie, he defied Truth to overtake him. This was the residence of an Indian chief; the old orchard, the oleanders, the passion-flowers, even the fish-pond, all owe their existence to him. His civilization, and that of his tribe, was the result of the self-sacrificing, noble work of the early Spanish missionaries. This work, uprooted and uptorn, in its infancy almost, by the cupidity and greed of the Mexican government, shows what might be done for our Indians if we would change our costly system of extermination-advocated so strenuously by people who count themselves at once Christian and civilized-and try fairly some honest dealing, some effort at keeping treaties and faith with a race whose crime, in our eyes, has been that they were the legitimate possessors of a soil we coveted.

We have no neighbors. Our nearest are at Pala, five miles away. Except, indeed, an Indian rancheria, which may be three-fourths of the distance. I sit under the red-tiled porch, and paint wild-flowers in the mornings. An immense passion-vine has wreathed itself for many a year down and around the pillars, and all over the roof. Lucy, and Adele, the Indian girl, come and go about their work, often stopping to furtively peep over my shoulders to see how progress las floras. They are never tired of scouring the cañons in their leisure moments, for some new specimen. I am glad I brought my paint-box. They told me at San Diego that as this is a "dry year," the flowers were all dead long ago. At San Francisco, people said: "You are going to such a bare, barren part of the State that you will not find two trees in a county." There is one thing, however, that is true about San Francisco, and that is, that very few there know anything about their State. I find in this "bare, southern county" trees in every valley, and the valleys

and sat down on a bench to rest. The women and girls were sunning themselves, seated in groups, smoking and making cigarettes; the men were all away, hunting rabbits. These women interested me; they run riot in color. Their garments were as great a conglomeration as if you should let your palette fall face downward when it is freshly set. There is no picking out a distinctive tone; old and young put on the gayest and brightest hues they can get. It being Sunday, they were all in their finest clothes, from the gray-haired matron, with her sky-blue and red shawl wrapped about her head, like a Turkish turban, to the slender damsel, just passing from childhood, with her orange skirt, red bodice, and as many strings of beads about her neck as a society belle. They are not pretty, these Indian girls-their features are too strong, their skin too dark; but they have graceful, slim, elastic figures, like young Dianas in bronze. And they have eyes that have a soft, liquid, far-off look; dark, large, trusting, as you see sometimes when you look steadily into an animal's eyes. It was easy to see that my friend was known and liked by them. In a dozen little ways they showed their friendliness. There is a Freemasonry among women of all ages, climes, and races; they come very near to each other; and, from the wigwam to the palace, care very much more for each other's good will than men believe.

There was a monster vine that had twined itself around the lower branches of the fig-tree, making a perfect shade of cool rest. Little benches were placed here and there, under other trees, in the leafy places, a good deal like a German beer-garden-only there was no music and no lager, except, indeed, the music of the mocking-birds that carroled gaily in every tree. And instead of the fair hair, blue eyes, and rosy cheeks of the fraulein, little forms with dark faces and odd, grotesque costumes met you at every turn. The breeze stirred the large, lazy fig-leaves, and sighed to the sleepy river among the reeds. We were in no haste to go, and sat enjoying the strange, new life until the shadows were growing purple in the cañons and dusky on the roads.

They brought us our horses at last, surrounding us, and all proffering assistance at once. We went to say adios to the centenarian. Well, it was pitiful. There she lay, extended on the ground; her poor old gray head pillowed on a block of wood, and fast asleep.

All the evening that sight haunted me. I longed to take the tired soul, and put her, for once, on a soft bed; to let her feel, at last, the luxury of stretching her weary limbs in comfort. I told the major. He said that nothing

would be more cruel than to remove her from her present surroundings; that she had known no other pillow from infancy-except, perhaps, a stone-and that I ought to know that sleep did not always come sweetest and deepest to dainty couches.

This has been a gala day, and how thoroughly we have all enjoyed it! It is the Feast of St. John, and from the early morning we could see the Indians, riding in twos, or threes, or sometimes singly, on their way to Pala. You may be sure we were on the alert; for we knew we were all going, from the baby, staring wildly at the unwonted fuss, to un-poco-poco, as my friend calls Lucy. Doubtless we each had our special attraction. I knew mine very well. I was going to see a glimpse of the old California life, that drooped and went out after the missions fell, so that it is only at rare intervals and in out-of-the-way nooks that we catch a trace of it to-day. All days are beautiful here, and this was like the rest. The light flecked the brown road, lit up the eddies of the now shallow river, and danced merrily on the still trees; but we heeded neither tree, nor stream, nor glinting sunlight; we had eyes only for the strange groups of gaily dressed Indians who rode beside us, with their happy-faced wives, sisters, or daughters before or behind them. They all made their way to the church; we followed them into a large, rough building, evidently put together from the ruins of the mission, of which only the belfry remained.

A priest, who looked in keeping with the surroundings, celebrated mass. He was a Spaniard, but dark, even for a Spaniard. The congregation was chiefly Indian; the men were in groups on one side, close to the wall; on the other were the women, in costumes odd, varied, strange, and fantastic. Many wore the traditional rebosa of Mexico, draped about their heads and shoulders with that peculiar grace that their grandmothers must have caught from the pioneer daughters of the Spanish presidios. Here and there a representative of the gente de ragon wore a bonnet more or less approximating to a recent fashion-plate; but, as a rule, fashion for once, in a congregation largely composed of women, was disregarded. A young Indian girl knelt near me, arrayed, doubtless, in her own estimation, far finer than the lilies in the field. She wore a Dolly-Varden skirt, a yellow waist, a green shawl, which she coquettishly allowed to drop half away from her figure, a blue hat with bright-red ribbons, and a green veil fastened with an enormous brass buckle.

The choir was a study. It consisted of a first and second violin, a man who sadly and

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solemnly beat an ordinary-sized drum, and another who, in an equally melancholy manner, beat a smaller one; they were all Indians. There was also an immense fellow, fat, serene, complacent, who had his place at a stand on which was placed a missal saved from the wreck of the mission; from this he sung, with sonorous voice and much satisfaction, the responses. you could only have seen him when the Dominus vobiscum floated down from the altar, how he plumed and spread himself-advancing a step, like a successful prima donna nearing the foot-lights, and with the same self-assured air with which she calmly regards the dresscircle and boxes, he surveyed his surrounding neighbors, and, opening his mouth, rolled out in triumph, Et cum spiritu tuo!

The clerk was a long-legged, large-boned, hoary-headed old Indian, who jealously adhered to his privilege of serving mass, and will allow no boy to be taught to supersede him. He also made the collection, his manner of doing so being at once novel and effective. He allowed no one to escape; finding an Indian with his eyes steadily fixed on the floor, he would keep his post beside him until the eyes were raised. Then he would put the plate directly under the Indian's nose, and keep his post beside him until, usually, the most closefisted were shamed into charity. Truth compels me to say, however, that he sometimes failed. Occasionally there was one who looked blankly into distance, doggedly at the floor, or piously at the rafters, or anywhere but at the persevering collector. When we gave our offerings, they were so unusual, I suppose-though none of us put in more than four bits-that he stood for a long time straight before us, shaking the coin on the plate as if to test whether or not it was genuine, while he gravely and slowly eyed each of us in turn.

The sermon

was, of course, in Spanish. The padre preached in a strong, simple, earnest manner, so clearly that I understood every word. The major said that he spoke very distinctly on account of the Indians, to many of whom Spanish is still difficult.

After mass the fun commenced in earnest. From the piazza of the only "inn," and almost the only house in Pala, we watched the various Indian and Spanish games. A vine festooned the pillars, and ran the whole length of the piazza; at a distance from us sat a couple of native Californians, leaning idly back in their chairs, taking no part in the amusement, but quietly smoking cigars and looking on. One was a handsome, broad-shouldered, athletic young man, with flashing eyes under his wide sombrero, and the air of Fra Diavolo. The

Indian women and children were in groups, seated about the church; they were like dashes of bright color against the brown adobe walls and the gray landscape. Far off, the mountains rose, wild and rugged, chain after chain, until their blue peaks were lost against the pale-blue sky; while the ruined white belfry of the old mission towered, solitary, out of the plain, like a phantom of the past.

You that have read Bret Harte's beautiful poem of "Concepcion Arguello" will not wonder that the game that interested me most was the one of which he says:

They plucked for her the buried chicken from beneath their mustangs' feet."

About sixty horsemen formed themselves into two columns; a full-grown chicken, with a silver dollar tied to its leg, was buried up to its neck in the middle of the road. Fifteen horsemen entered the lists as competitors in this game of daring and difficult horsemanship. They galloped past in turn, leaning far down out of their saddles, trying to pluck out and carry off the prize. Again and again they rode full tilt at the unfortunate head, sweeping down with astonishing speed and agility—all to no purpose. The chicken, in its frantic efforts to free itself, dodged successfully all their passing grasps. Their riding was wonderful; the horse and the man were as one. Two of the riders were thrown under their horses' feet; and had they been of our race, they would not have escaped without broken bones, at least; but they were mounted and ready for the next run, which they took as coolly as any of the others. At last, partly by its own efforts and their pulling, the chicken got out of the hole and ran away. By all rules of any decent game, I think he earned his liberty. But what humanity does man know in what he calls "sport," whether he be savage or civilized? The terrified bird was followed by the whole screaming horde, umpires and all, yelling like demons. Among them I noticed two youths with blue eyes and fair hair, who, from their light skins and bad riding, I knew must be Americans or English. They soon caught and buried the chicken still more deeply. Then the troop formed into line again and set after him, making the far hills resound with their shouts. It was fully two hours before a dark-faced youth, with a red scarf tied around his head, secured the prize. Immediately, he darted off for a post half a mile distant, with the band racing, like so many John Gilpins, after him. It was his privilege, after passing this goal, to strike over the head with the chicken any person who came near him. No sooner, then, had he reached the post, than the chase