The Lure of San Francisco | Page 4

oak trees and relieved by patches of bright poppies."
"And fields of yellow mustard," he supplemented.
"No, your imagination is too vivid. The padres brought the mustard seed later. A little south of the present mission," I continued, "you will see a group of willows bending to drink the crystal waters of the Arroyo de los Dolores, so named because Anza and his followers discovered it on the day of our Mother of Sorrows, and to the east is the shining laguna."
"It's clear as a San Francisco fog," he laughed. "I'd like to take a look at the old building! Is there a car line?"
"Let's follow in the footsteps of the padres," I begged. "They used often to climb this hill and it isn't very far."
He looked dubiously down the rugged side and mentally measured the distance from the base to the low tiled roof.
"All right," he said at last, "if you'll let me take a ten minutes nap before we start." He stretched himself at full length on the soft grass and pulled his hat low over his eyes.
I was glad to be quiet for a time and let my imagination have full sweep. I seemed to see, toiling up the peninsula, a little band of foot-sore travelers, the leathern-clad soldiers on the alert for hostile Indians, the brown-robed friars encouraging the women and children, and the sturdy colonists bringing up the rear with their flocks and herds. At last the little company come to a sparkling rivulet and stoop to drink eagerly of the cool water. The commander examines his chart and nods to the tonsured priest who falls on his knees and raises his voice in thanksgiving. Stretching out his arms in blessing to his flock, he exclaims: "Rest now, my children. Our journey is at an end. Here on the Arroyo de Nuestra Se?ora de los Dolores, we will establish the mission to our Father San Francisco de Asis."
"If we want to see the old building before lunch time, we shall have to be moving," said a sleepy voice at my elbow.
"Come on, then, I'll be your pathfinder," and we raced down the hill-side until the paved streets reminded us that city manners were expected.
We followed the former course of the Arroyo de los Dolores down Eighteenth to Church street, then turned north. Two, blocks further on I laid a detaining hand on my companion's arm.
"Hold, skeptic," I whispered, "thou art on holy ground."
He looked up at the two-story dwelling house before us, let his eyes wander down the row of modest residences and linger on the pavements where a tattered newsboy was shying stones at a stray cat; then his glance came back to my face with a smile. "My belief in your veracity is unlimited. I uncover." He stood for an instant with bared head. "Just when did this sanctification take place, was it before the fire or--"
"It was on October 9th, 1776," I tried to speak impressively, "the year the Colonies made their Declaration of Independence. The procession began over there at the Presidio," I pointed to the north. "A brown-robed friar carrying an image of St. Francis led the little company of men, women and children over the shifting sand-dunes to this very spot where a rude church had been erected. Its sides were of mud plastered over a palisade wall of willow poles and its ceiling a leaky roof of tule rushes but it was the beginning of a great undertaking and Father Paloú elevated the cross and blessed the site and all knelt to render thanks to the Lord for His goodness."
"But I thought you said the church still existed." His eyes again sought the row of dwelling houses.
"This was only for temporary use and later was pulled down. Six years after the fathers arrived, a larger and more substantial church was built one block farther east. But before you see that you must get into the spirit of the past by imagining a square of four blocks lying between Fifteenth and Seventeenth streets and Church and Guerrero, swept clean of these modern structures and filled with mission buildings. At the time when you New Englanders were pushing the Indians farther and farther into the wilderness, killing and capturing them, we Californians were drawing them to our missions with gifts and friendship. While you were leaving them in ignorance we were teaching them--"
He stooped to get a full look at my eyes. "I never knew a Spaniard to have eyes the color of violets. Look up your family tree, my dear enthusiast, and I think you will find that you are we."
"I'm not," I declared indignantly. "I'm a Californian. I was born here and even if I haven't Spanish blood in my veins, I have the spirit of the old padres."
"But the