ts course. Only the lonely grave on the
hillside remains to mark the ancient Indian habitation here, and that,
today, is almost obliterated. As for the village beyond in the canyon,
that, too, is no more; hardly a vestige can now be found to tell us
that here, long ago, was a thriving Indian settlement. All is silent
and deserted. Truly, as the aged Indian prophetess foretold, has the
aborigine vanished from the land.

The Flight of Padre Peyri

One of the few settlements of the old mission Indians remaining in
California is Pala, a little village tucked away amidst some of the most
charming scenery to be found in the southern part of the state. It is
twenty miles east from Mission San Luis Rey, of which mission it was an
asistencia, or branch, and twenty-four miles from Oceanside, the nearest
point on the coast. The village stands in a valley which is completely
surrounded by mountains, high and low, far and near, uniting with it
in a succession of beautiful pictures around the entire horizon. To
the east, the mountains pile themselves up into huge masses, their tips
hidden frequently by clouds, and by the fogs of early morning; toward
the west, they fall away into low-lying hills, allowing the sea-breeze
of every warm afternoon to sweep the village over them, and through the
gap of the San Luis Rey River and Valley. At all times of the year the
color and light and shade in every part of the valley are most lovely,
delighting the artist's eye with a whole gamut of aerial perspective;
but it is in the spring that the hillsides and valley put on their
most gorgeous robes, from the lightest tints of yellow and green, down
through every hue and tone of red, blue and purple, soft and brilliant,
pricked out here and there with spots of intense, flaming yellow and
orange, or deepest crimson. Such color scenes are not common even in
California; but on account of its comparative inaccessibility, few
people visit Pala, and the village has been left much to itself in these
latter days of American life in the state. The Indians live the life
of the poorest class of Mexicans, dwell in adobe huts, and pursue an
agricultural occupation.

During the last week of May, 1895, I passed two days in this interesting
place, exploring the remains of the asistencia, and sketching the unique
bell-tower and near-by mission houses. I was an object of interest to
all who saw me, but was not favored with much company until the second
aft