We checked our pace,—the red road sharply rounding; We heard the troubled flow Of the dark olive depths of pines, resounding A thousand feet below. Above the tumult of the cañon lifted, The gray hawk breathless hung; Or on the hill a wingèd shadow drifted Where furze and thorn-bush clung; Or where half-way the mountain side was furrowed With many a seam and scar; Or some abandoned tunnel dimly burrowed,— A mole-hill seen so far. We looked in silence down across the distant Unfathomable reach: A silence broken by the guide's consistent And realistic speech. "Walker of Murphy's blew a hole through Peters For telling him he lied; Then up and dusted out of South Hornitos Across the long Divide. "We ran him out of Strong's, and up through Eden, And 'cross the ford below; And up this cañon (Peters' brother leadin'), And me and Clark and Joe. "He fou't us game: somehow, I disremember Jest how the thing kem round; Some say 'twas wadding, some a scattered ember From fires on the ground. "But in one minute all the hill below him Was just one sheet of flame; Guardin' the crest, Sam Clark and I called to him. And,—well, the dog was game! "He made no sign: the fires of hell were round him, The pit of hell below. We sat and waited, but never found him; And then we turned to go. "And then—you see that rock that's grown so bristly With chaparral and tan— Suthin' crep' out: it might hev been a grizzly, It might hev been a man; "Suthin' that howled, and gnashed its teeth, and shouted In smoke and dust and flame; Suthin' that sprang into the depths about it, Grizzly or man,—but game! "That's all. Well, yes, it does look rather risky, And kinder makes one queer And dizzy looking down. A drop of whiskey Ain't a bad thing right here!"

In the Mission Garden (1865.)

Father Felipe

I speak not the English well, but Pachita She speak for me; is it not so, my Pancha? Eh, little rogue? Come, salute me the stranger Americano. Sir, in my country we say, "Where the heart is, There live the speech." Ah! you not understand? So! Pardon an old man,—what you call "ol fogy,"— Padre Felipe! Old, Señor, old! just so old as the Mission. You see that pear-tree? How old you think, Señor? Fifteen year? Twenty? Ah, Señor, just Fifty Gone since I plant him! You like the wine? It is some at the Mission, Made from the grape of the year Eighteen Hundred; All the same time when the earthquake he come to San Juan Bautista. But Pancha is twelve, and she is the rose-tree; And I am the olive, and this is the garden: And Pancha we say; but her name is Francisca, Same like her mother. Eh, you knew her? No? Ah! it is a story; But I speak not, like Pachita, the English: So? If I try, you will sit here beside me, And shall not laugh, eh? When the American come to the Mission, Many arrive at the house of Francisca: One,—he was fine man,—he buy the cattle Of José Castro. So! he came much, and Francisca she saw him: And it was Love,—and a very dry season; And the pears bake on the tree,—and the rain come, But not Francisca; Not for one year; and one night I have walk much Under the olive-tree, when comes Francisca: Comes to me here, with her child, this Francisca,— Under the olive-tree. Sir, it was sad; … but I speak not the English; So! … she stay here, and she wait for her husband He come no more, and she sleep on the hillside; There stands Pachita. Ah! there's the Angelus. Will you not enter? Or shall you walk in the garden with Pancha? Go, little rogue—stt—attend to the stranger. Adios, Señor.

Pachita (briskly)

So, he's been telling that yarn about mother! Bless you, he tells it to every stranger: Folks about yer say the old man's my father; What's your opinion?

The Old Major Explains (Re-Union Army of the Potomac, 12th May, 1871.)

"Well, you see, the fact is, Colonel, I don't know as I can come: For the farm is not half planted, and there's work to do at home; And my leg is getting troublesome,—it laid me up last fall, And the doctors, they have cut and hacked, and never found the ball. "And then, for an old man like me, it's not exactly right, This kind o' playing soldier with no enemy in sight. 'The Union,'—that was well enough way up to '66; But this 'Re-Union,'—maybe now it's mixed with politics? "No? Well, you understand it best; but then, you see, my lad, I'm deacon now, and some might think that the example's bad. And week from next is Conference.... You said the 12th of May? Why, that's the day we broke their line at Spottsylvan-i-a! "Hot work; eh, Colonel, wasn't it? Ye mind that narrow front: They called it the 'Death-Angle!' Well, well, my lad, we won't Fight that old battle over now: I only meant to say I really can't engage to come upon the 12th of May. "How's Thompson? What! will he be there? Well, now, I want to know! The first man in the rebel works! they called him 'Swearing Joe:' A wild young fellow, sir, I fear the rascal was; but then— Well, short of heaven, there wa'n't a place he dursn't lead his men. "And Dick, you say, is coming too. And Billy? ah! it's true We buried him at Gettysburg: I mind the spot; do you? A little field below the hill,—it must be green this May; Perhaps that's why the fields about bring him to me to-day. "Well, well, excuse me, Colonel! but there are some things that drop The tail-board out one's feelings; and the only way's to stop. So they want to see the old man; ah, the rascals! do they, eh? Well, I've business down in Boston about the 12th of May."

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