were leaving them in ignorance we were teaching them--"

He stooped to get a full look at my eyes. "I never knew a Spaniard to
have eyes the color of violets. Look up your family tree, my dear
enthusiast, and I think you will find that you are we."

"I'm not," I declared indignantly. "I'm a Californian. I was born here
and even if I haven't Spanish blood in my veins, I have the spirit of
the old padres."

"But the spirit has not left a lasting impression. Indeed civilization
whether dealt out with friendly hands or thrust upon the natives at the
point of the bayonet seems to have been equally poisonous on both sides
of the continent."

"True, philosopher, but would you call the work of these padres
impressionless, when it has permeated all California? The open-hearted
hospitality of the Spaniards is a canonical law throughout the West, and
their exuberant spirit of festivity still remains, impelling us to
celebrate every possible event, present and commemorative."

We had reached Dolores Street, a broad parked avenue where automobiles
rushed by one another, shrieking a warning to the pedestrian. Suddenly I
found myself alone. My companion had darted across the crowded street to
a little oasis of grass where a mission bell hung suspended on an iron
standard.

"It marks 'El Camino Real,'" he reported as he rejoined me.

"The King's Highway," I translated. "It must have been wonderful at this