the Delaware."

Again, in writing the poem entitled _Ticonderoga_, it was the name
that first drew his attention, and

"It sang in his sleeping ears,
It hummed in his waking head;
The name--Ticonderoga."

Some story that we told him about a man who named his numerous family
of daughters after the States--Indiana, Nebraska, California,
etc.--took his fancy and suggested the name of Arizona Breckinridge to
him.

Out of the mist arise memories of walks along the beach--the long
beach of clean white sand that stretches unbroken for many miles
around the great sweeping curve of Monterey Bay, where we "watched the
tiny sandy-pipers, and the huge Pacific seas." Sometimes we walked
there at night, when the blood-red harvest-moon sprang suddenly like a
great ball of fire above the rim of horizon on the opposite side of
the circling bay, sending a glittering track across the water to our
very feet. To walk with Stevenson on such a night, and watch "the
waves come in slowly, vast and green, curve their translucent necks
and burst with a surprising uproar"--to walk with him on such a night
and listen to his inimitable talk is the sort of memory that cannot
fade. On other nights when the waters of the bay were all alight with
the glow of phosphorescence, we walked on the old wooden pier and
marvelled at the billows of fire sent rolling in beneath us by the
splashing porpoises.

Perhaps nothing about the place interested him more deeply than the
old mission of San Carlos Borromeo, once the home of the illustrious
Junipero Serra, and now the last resting-place of his earthly remains.
Within its ruined walls mass was celebrated once a year in honour of
its patron, Saint Charles Borromeo, and after the religious service
was over the people joined in a joyous _merienda_[15] under the trees,
during which vast quantities of _tamales_, _enchiladas_,[16] and other
distinctive Spanish-American viands were generously distributed to
friend and stranger, Catholic and Protestant. Mr. Stevenson attended
one of these celebrations, and was greatly moved by the sight of the
pitiful remnant of aged Indians, sole survivors of Father Serra's once
numerous flock, as they lifted their quavering voices in the mass. He
expressed much surprise at the clarity of their pronunciation of the
Latin, and in his essay on _The Old Pacific Capital_, he says: "There
you may hear God served with perhaps more touching circumstances than
in any