And every note of every bell Sang Gabriel! Rang Gabriel! In the tower that is left the tale to tell Of Gabriel, the Archangel. Oil of the olive was thine; Flood of the wine-press flowing; Blood o' the Christ was the wine-- Blood o' the Lamb that was slain. Thy gifts were fat o' the kine Forever coming and going Far over the hills, the thousand hills-- Their lowing a soft refrain. What then wert thou, and what art now? Answer me, once again! And every note of every bell Sang Gabriel! Rang Gabriel! In the tower that is left the tale to tell Of Gabriel, the Archangel. Seed o' the corn was thine-- Body of Him thus broken And mingled with blood o' the vine-- The bread and the wine of life; Out of the good sunshine They were given to thee as a token-- The body of Him, and the blood of Him, When the gifts of God were rife. What then wert thou, and what art now, After the weary strife? And every note of every bell Sang Gabriel! Rang Gabriel! In the tower that is left the tale to tell Of Gabriel, the Archangel. Where are they now, O, bells? Where are the fruits o' the mission? Garnered, where no one dwells, Shepherd and flock are fled. O'er the Lord's vineyard swells The tide that with fell perdition Sounded their doom and fashioned their tomb And buried them with the dead. What then wert thou, and what art now?-- The answer is still unsaid. And every note of every bell Sang Gabriel! Rang Gabriel! In the tower that is left the tale to tell Of Gabriel, the Archangel. Where are they now, O tower! The locusts and wild honey? Where is the sacred dower That the bride of Christ was given? Gone to the wielders of power, The misers and minters of money; Gone for the greed that is their creed-- And these in the land have thriven. What then wer't thou, and what art now, And wherefore hast thou striven? And every note of every bell Sang Gabriel! Rang Gabriel! In the tower that is left the tale to tell Of Gabriel, the Archangel. CHARLES WARREN STODDARD. IN THE FOOTPRINTS OF THE PADRES [Illustration: View of Montgomery, Post and Market Streets, San Francisco, 1858] OLD DAYS IN EL DORADO I. "STRANGE COUNTRIES FOR TO SEE" Now, the very first book was called "Infancy"; and, having finished it, I closed it with a bang! I was just twelve. 'Tis thus the twelve-year-old is apt to close most books. Within those pages--perhaps some day to be opened to the kindly inquiring eye--lie the records of a quiet life, stirred at intervals by spasms of infantile intensity. There are more days than one in a life that can be written of, and when the clock strikes twelve the day is but half over.