red 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 Palou 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 spirit has not left a lasting impression. Indeed civilization
whether dealt out with friendly hands or thrust upon the natives at the
point of the bayonet seems to have been equally poisonous on both sides
of the continent."

"True, philosopher, but would you call the work of these padres
impressionless, when it has permeated all California? The open-hearted
hospitality of the Spaniards is a canonical law throughout the West, and
their exuberant spirit of festivity still remains, impelling us to
celebrate every possible event, present and commemorative."

We had reached Dolores Street, a broad parked avenue where automobiles
rushed by one another, shrieking a warning to the pedestrian. Suddenly I
found myself alone. My companion had darted across the crowded street to
a little oasis of grass where a mission bell hung suspended on an iron
standard.

"It marks 'El Camino Real,'" he reported as he rejoined me.

"The King's Highway," I translated. "It must have been wonderful at this
season of the year, for as the padres traveled nort