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 cañon lifted,

        The gray hawk breathless hung;

      Or on the hill a wingèd 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 cañon (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!"

      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, Señor, old! just so old as the Mission.

      You see that pear-tree? How old you think, Señor?

      Fifteen year? Twenty? Ah, Señor, 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?

      When the American come to the Mission,

      Many arrive at the house of Francisca:

      One,—he was fine man,—he buy the cattle

            Of José Castro.

      So! he came much, and Francisca she saw him:

      And it was Love,—and a very dry season;

      And the pears bake on the tree,—and the rain come,

            But not Francisca;

      Not for one year; and one night I have walk much

      Under the olive-tree, when comes Francisca:

      Comes to me here, with her child, this Francisca,—

            Under the olive-tree.

      Sir, it was sad; … but I speak not the English;

      So! … she stay here, and she wait for her husband

      He come no more, and she sleep on the hillside;

            There stands Pachita.

      Ah! there's the Angelus. Will you not enter?

      Or shall you walk in the garden with Pancha?

      Go, little rogue—stt—attend to the stranger.

            Adios, Señor.

      So, he's been telling that yarn about mother!

      Bless you, he tells it to every stranger:

      Folks about yer say the old man's my father;

            What's your opinion?

      "Well, you see, the fact is, Colonel, I don't know as I can come:

      For the farm is not half planted, and there's work to do at home;

      And my leg is getting troublesome,—it laid me up last