Juana



The overland mail-tram from San Francisco, on the way to New Orleans,
came to a stop for a minute or two at the little old town of San
Gabriel, ten miles east of Los Angeles. It was a hot July afternoon, in
the year 1890; the car windows were open, and the passengers were gazing
out listlessly at the few signs of animation about the station and town.
San Gabriel is a sleepy old place, with little to interest the ordinary
person. A traveler, passing through it, sees nothing to attract his
notice as the train pauses at the station, and he finds his gaze
wandering off to the north, where it meets the lofty San Gabriel
Mountains, a long line of blue-grey, shimmering in the heat of the
plains. There is much beautiful scenery around San Gabriel, and
wonderful ca–ons among these mountains. But there is one object of
interest in the town we must not forget to mention - the old mission
church, which the traveler on the train may see standing near the track,
a half-mile before coming to the station. It is a fine old structure,
planted firmly and solidly on the ground, and looking as though it might
stand another century, without showing more marks of age than it does
now after having closed its first one hundred years. This is an object
in which every passer-by, even the most indifferent, finds an interest.

The engine panted, the passengers gazed absently at the men exchanging
the bags of mail. All at once a sound of singing was heard in the
distance. It was a woman's voice, old and quavering, and the song was a
weird, almost unearthly, chant or dirge in a minor key. Slowly the
singer approached the station, and reaching it, mounted the steps of the
platform and seated herself on a bench, keeping on, without pause, her