j^ WILD FLOWERS OF THE PACIFIC COAST. 



sexton tells us is a painting of the Last Supper, the Madonna 

 and the Christ, Saint Frances and Saint James. The walls, he 

 tells us, are four feet thick, and they look fifty. A weak, closed- 

 in feeling comes over you, and you think of the lovely fresh air 

 outside, and when you reach it, give a prayer of thanksgiving 

 that you are allowed to breathe it again. 



" Do you want to see the graveyard, miss ?" 



" Yes, if it is not under cover and the sunshine is allowed 

 to come in," I answered. 



" Plenty of sunshine there," and he leads the way. 



As we pass through the gate the old man bows his head- 

 so do I. We are in the presence of the dust of those that have 

 slept here over a hundred years. We read the inscriptions and 

 find them in six different languages I should say see them in 

 six the hieroglyphics on the Indian headstones we could not 

 decipher, but are assured they are the names of great chieftains. 



On a board headstone, the lettering nearly washed out by 

 the years of rain upon it, we see under the name the letters "V. 

 C.," and ask what it means. 



"Oh, that stands for Vigilance Committee; you will see that 

 on some of the marble stones. Would I go further?" 



' No, I had seen enough, if he would allow me to pick 

 some of the burr clover growing near." 



Why, yes; take these growing near the slab of James Sul- 

 livan, the world-renowned 'Yankee Sullivan.' You see there is 

 a'V. C.' on it." 



I took them, and so you see them in my sketch. 



