In a Mission Patio. 



memory of the ruins. They occupied 

 the room next to mine — the one con- 

 taining some of the images which had 

 once graced the church — and when I 

 first heard them bustling about in there 

 in the dark I was inclined to fancy that 

 perhaps some of the saints had come to 

 life. I looked up at tlie rude old door 

 separating the refectory, where I sat, 

 from the relic-room and half expected 

 to see St. John, the beheaded, standing 

 there before me. But it proved to be 

 only a harmless pair of sedate old owls. 

 It was no doubt one of this same pair that 

 I encountered one fine moonlight night 

 as I walked in the graveyard. The crea- 

 ture started out of the shadow of an 

 adobe wall, uttering a wild shriek, and 

 flapped directly in front of me. I have 

 no doubt the wise old fellow laughed 

 to himself to think what a start he had 

 given that foolish mortal who had no 

 business to be in such places, anyway. 

 The mocking-bird was abundant 

 about Capistrano, but it was not in song 

 232 



