In a Mission Patio. 



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 they but have had ears 

 beneath the sod. I look at the head- 

 stones on the graves and fancy those 

 simple Indian men and maidens of a 

 century ago, those cavaliers, vaqueros 

 or soldiers from Mexico or Spain, walk- 

 ing beneath the shady corridors, per- 

 chance whispering the old, old story to 

 some dark-eyed senorita as the padre 

 turned his back upon them, and that 

 sweet strain of the song-sparrow filling 

 in the moments of silence to lighten the 

 heartbeats and lessen the suspense of 

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