four weeks passed on the way, they arrived, one evening late in October,
at Mission San Buenaventura, just as the bells of the mission church
were pealing out their evening burden.

What a charming place Mission San Buenaventura was in those days!
Situated on the coast, it stood not a half-mile from the water, which it
faced, while behind, and close to it, was a line of hills running off
into the distance until they disappeared on the horizon. At the time of
year our pilgrims first saw it, there was little remaining of the
verdant freshness of spring and early summer. But if Nature refuses to
permit southern California to wear her mantle of green later than May or
June, she has bestowed on her a wealth of warm yellow, red and brown,
which, to some, is even more pleasing. The bare ground takes on a
vividness of glowing color that is almost incredible, while the hills in
the distance run through another gamut of color - from yellow through
all the shades of orange to an almost pure pink, with pale blue shadows,
changing at sunset to intensest purple. Color is rife in California.

The mission consisted of a large white adobe church, a long line of
buildings adjoining in which lived the padre and the Mexicans, and a
number of little houses and cabins, some of adobe, but the greater
number of straw and rushes, which sheltered the Indians. These little
huts were scattered around irregularly on all sides; and to them the
inmates were wending their way from their daily toil in the fields and
among the horses and cattle, and from all the occupations of a pastoral
life. Nothing more beautiful could well be imagined than the picture the
mission made in the rosy light of sunset - crowds of savages, children
of nature gathered together to receive the rich blessings bestowed on
them by the fathers, deriving their authority from the Church whose
symbol, the great white building, towering above all else of man's work,