We checked our pace,--the red road sharply rounding; We heard the troubled flow Of the dark olive depths of pines, resounding A thousand feet below. Above the tumult of the canon lifted, The gray hawk breathless hung; Or on the hill a winged shadow drifted Where furze and thorn-bush clung; Or where half-way the mountain side was furrowed With many a seam and scar; Or some abandoned tunnel dimly burrowed,-- A mole-hill seen so far. We looked in silence down across the distant Unfathomable reach: A silence broken by the guide's consistent And realistic speech. "Walker of Murphy's blew a hole through Peters For telling him he lied; Then up and dusted out of South Hornitos Across the long Divide. "We ran him out of Strong's, and up through Eden, And 'cross the ford below; And up this canon (Peters' brother leadin'), And me and Clark and Joe. "He fou't us game: somehow, I disremember Jest how the thing kem round; Some say 'twas wadding, some a scattered ember From fires on the ground. "But in one minute all the hill below him Was just one sheet of flame; Guardin' the crest, Sam Clark and I called to him. And,--well, the dog was game! "He made no sign: the fires of hell were round him, The pit of hell below. We sat and waited, but never found him; And then we turned to go. "And then--you see that rock that's grown so bristly With chaparral and tan-- Suthin' crep' out: it might hev been a grizzly, It might hev been a man; "Suthin' that howled, and gnashed its teeth, and shouted In smoke and dust and flame; Suthin' that sprang into the depths about it, Grizzly or man,--but game! "That's all. Well, yes, it does look rather risky, And kinder makes one queer And dizzy looking down. A drop of whiskey Ain't a bad thing right here!" In the Mission Garden. (1865.) Father Felipe. I speak not the English well, but Pachita She speak for me; is it not so, my Pancha? Eh, little rogue? Come, salute me the stranger Americano. Sir, in my country we say, "Where the heart is, There live the speech." Ah! you not understand? So! Pardon an old man,--what you call "ol fogy,"-- Padre Felipe! Old, Senor, old! just so old as the Mission. You see that pear-tree? How old you think, Senor? Fifteen year? Twenty? Ah, Senor, just _Fifty_ Gone since I plant him! You like the wine? It is some at the Mission, Made from the grape of the year Eighteen Hundred; All the same time when the earthquake he come to San Juan Bautista. But Pancha is twelve, and she is the rose-tree; And I am the olive, and this is the garden: And Pancha we say; but her name is Francisca, Same like her mother. Eh, you knew _her_? No? Ah! it is a story; But I speak not, like Pachita, the English: So? If I try, you will sit here beside me, And shall not laugh, eh?