The Lure of San Francisco | Page 4

between the summits of Twin Peaks, and tumbling
down the hill-side, made its way east, emptying into the Laguna."
"I don't see a laguna!" Again the skeptic surveyed the field of roofs.
"Put down your glasses and close your eyes," I commanded. "When
you open them the houses from here to the bay will have disappeared

and the ground will be covered with a carpet of velvety green, dappled
here and there by groves of 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 Señora 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