It's a long road and sunny, and the fairest in the world--
There are peaks that rise above it in their sunny mantles curled,
And it leads from the mountains through a hedge of chaparral,
Down to the waters where the sea gulls call.
It's a long road and sunny, it's a long road and old.
And the brown padres made it for the flocks of the fold;
They made it for the sandals of the sinner-folk that trod
From the fields in the open to the shelter-house of God.

* * * * *

We will take the road together through the morning's golden glow,
And will dream of those who trod it in the mellowed long ago.

JOHN S. MCGROARTY,
in _Just California._



JUNE 16.


Mrs. Bryton surveyed the coarse furnishings of the adobe with disgust
as she was led to the one room where she could secure sleeping
accommodation. It contained three beds with as many different colored
spreads, queer little pillows, and drawn-work on one towel hanging on
a nail. The floor had once been tiled with square mission bricks; but
many were broken, some were gone, and the empty spaces were so many
traps for unwary feet.