Gone are all those ancient people, Perished now for many ages. Many oaks have grown and withered, Many buckeyes bloomed and faded, Many tribes have fought and conquered, Lived for many generations, Then were driven out by others. Still the mortar holes will linger As our monuments forever." Fainter grew the voice, still fainter, Sinking almost to a whisper, With a hesitating quaver, As the picture came before her Of her disappearing people. Then I rose and piled more branches Of the redwood on the campfire, And the flames and sparks leaped upward, Lighting up the mournful forest, Driving back the eerie shadows. Long she bowed her head in silence, Then resumed her rhythmic speaking. In the village lived a maiden, Fairest of all comely maidens Ever born among the Tamals; Fair of face and pure of spirit, Kind in thought and quick in service To the young and old and helpless; Ever eager for her duty, Ever singing at her labor. When she sat beneath the buckeyes Grinding acorns in the mortar, Humming birds came sipping honey From the heavy scented blossoms; Wild birds came and sang their sweetest Music as they perched above her; And the Fairies came to greet her Dressed as Butterflies, and fluttered Round her head and whispered secrets-- Secrets not revealed to others. Little wonder that the Chieftain, Young and brave and wise in counsel, Loved the maid and wished to take her As his wife to rule his people. But she answered him with sadness, For she loved the youth, 'Beloved, This is not the time for lovers, But for warriors to make ready, For a danger comes upon us. God has sent a warning message By the Fairies, and they whispered To me as I ground the acorns In the mortar 'neath the buckeyes. Rally all your braves around you, Seize your strong bows, fill your quivers With the long flint-pointed arrows; Guard the ridges to the eastward Ere the foe shall fall upon us.' To the eastward where Diablo Rears its peak above the fog banks Drifting landward from the ocean, Lived a warlike tribe of people. Fierce they were, and grim and cruel, Worshiping the Fire Demon Who is crouching in the mountain. From their heights they saw the waters Of the Bay of San Francisco Lying crystal-clear and purple. Then no Sacramento River Poured its flood of silt into it, For a range of hills continued, All unbroken, from Diablo To the distant smoking mountain Which is now called Saint Helena.