IN A MISSION PATIO 



of the splendor of its prime, although the ruin is full of poetry 

 as well as pathos. In this ruin I spent the month of January a 

 year ago, and it occurred to me many times that here, where 

 the hand of time had so rudely shaken all the landmarks of 

 man, there is at least one feature of the scene which is sub- 

 stantially the same to-day as upon that eventful morning when 

 Father Serra first said the mass here. I refer to the birds. It 

 was therefore with peculiar interest that I watched my little 

 feathered friends in the spot of sacred memories, and often I 

 found myself wondering if Father Ammurio or Father 

 Mugartegui ever found time with all their prayers and masses, 

 their busy concerns of practical life and innumerable duties in 

 converting and directing the Indians, to look outside at the 

 beautiful world of nature. They planted vineyards and olive 

 orchards, why may they not have noticed some of the birds 

 in their strange surroundings and wondered about them? 

 However this may be, the birds still frequent the mission patio 

 as in the olden days, and if you will transport yourself in im- 

 agination with me to the ruin, I will endeavor to show you 

 some of the beautiful things which the pious fathers might have 

 seen in their dooryard had they been so disposed. 



During that month of January I found thirty-two birds in 

 the vicinity of the mission, a very considerable number of them 

 frequenting the shrubbery of the ruins, while others dwelt hard 

 by in the olive orchard or grain fields. It was hardly the season 

 for song, yet the meadow-larks tuned their pipes in the pasture- 

 land across the way from the mission, the linnet sat upon the 

 tiles and caroled his animated strain, and the song-sparrow 

 perched amid the shrubbery of the neglected graves and sang 

 such pure notes as would have given solace to the dead could 



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