The Lure of San Francisco | Page 6

stories about the good old padres."
Seeing the interest in our faces, the dark eyes brightened and he patted
the thick adobe wall affectionately. "This church was only a small part
of the Mission in those days. The buildings formed an inner quadrangle
and two sides of an outer one, all a beehive of industry. There were the

work rooms of the Indians, where blankets and cloth were woven; great
vats for trying out tallow and curing hides, and also huge storehouses
for grain and other foodstuffs, all built and cared for by the Indians."
"Quite a change from their lazy roving life," suggested the Easterner.
"Still the padres were not hard taskmasters," insisted the stranger. "The
work lasted only from four to six hours a day and the evenings were
devoted to games and dancing. All were required to attend religious
services, however, and at the sound of the Angelus, they gathered
within these walls. There was no sleeping through long prayers in those
days," he added with an amused smile, "for a swarthy disciple paced
the aisles and with a long pointed stick aroused the nodding ones, or
quieted the too hilarious spirits of the small boys."
"A good example for some of our modern churches," remarked my
companion, as we followed our guide to the altar at the end of the
chapel. The light streaming through the mullioned window fell full
upon the carved figure of a tonsured monk clad in a loose robe girdled
with a cord. "It is our father, St. Francis," explained the old man. "It
was in accordance with his direct wish that this Mission was founded."
"Yes?" questioned the skeptic.
"When Father Junípero Serra received orders from Galvez for the
establishment of the missions in Alta California, and found that there
was none for St. Francis, he ex-claimed: 'And is the founder of our
order, St. Francis, to have no mission?' Thereupon the Visitador replied:
'If St. Francis desires a mission, let him show us his port,' and the Saint
did!" the old face with its fringe of soft white hair was transformed
with religious enthusiasm. "He blinded the eyes of Portolá and his men
so that they did not recognize Monterey and led them on to his own
undiscovered bay. And in spite of the fact that the Mission has been
stripped of its lands, we know that it is still under the special protection
of St. Francis, for it was not ten years ago that the second miracle was
performed."
"The second miracle!" we wonderingly repeated.
"Yes, it was at the time of the fire of 1906. The heart of San Francisco
was a raging furnace. The fireproof buildings melted under the
tremendous heat and collapsed as if they had been constructed of lead;
the devouring flames swept over the Potrero; they fell upon the brick
building next door and crept close to the walls of this old adobe, when

suddenly, as if in the presence of a sacred relic, the fire crouched and
died at its very doors."
We passed the altar and the old man crossed himself, while in our
hearts we, too, gave thanks for the preservation of this monument of the
past.
"You must not go until you have seen the cemetery," said our guide as
we moved toward the entrance, and throwing open a door to the right
he admitted us to the neglected graveyard. Here and there a rude cross
marked the resting place of an early Indian convert and an almost
obliterated inscription on a broken headstone revealed the name of a
Spanish grandee. Shattered columns, loosened by the hand of time and
overthrown in recent years, lay upon the ground, while great willow
and pepper trees spread out protecting arms, as if to shield the silent
company from the inroads of modern enterprise. We picked our way
along vine-latticed paths, past graves over which myrtle and roses
wandered in untrimmed beauty, to where a white shaft marked the
resting place of Don Luis Argüello, comandante of the San Francisco
Presidio for twenty-three years and the first Mexican governor of
California.
"How splendidly strong he looms out of the past," I said. "His keen
insight into the needs of this western outpost and his determined efforts
for the best interests of California will forever place him in the front
rank of its rulers. I wonder if his young wife, Rafaela, is buried here
also?" I drew aside the tangled vines from the near-by headstones. "She
was always a little dearer to me than his second wife, the proud Dona
Maria Ortega, perhaps because Rafaela belonged pre-eminently to San
Francisco. Her father, Ensign Sal, was acting comandante of the
Presidio when Vancouver visited the Coast, and Rafaela and Luis
Argüello grew up together in the little