In the Footprints of the Padres

n peaks. I never knew just why it was called happy; I never saw any wildly-happy inhabitants singing or dancing for joy on its sometimes rather indefinite street corners. If there is happiness in

of Rincon Point-and, perchance, have looked in vain for happiness. Yet who or what

ground-plan. Market Street flew off at a tangent and set all the south portion of the town at an angle that is rather a relief than anything else that I know of. Who wants to

er of Sutter Street, where it hove to. You know the "prairie schooner" was the old-time emigrant wagon that was forever crossing the plains in Forty-nine and the early Fifties. It

re turned loose, and soon a camp-fire was lighted and the entire emigrant family gathered about it to partake of the evening meal. On this lot now stands the Lick House and the Masonic Hall-undreamed of in those days. No one seemed in the least surprised to find in the v

two transportations, has come to a final halt near the Catholic cemetery under the shadow of Lone Mountain. It must be ever dear to me, for within its modest rectory I met the first Catholic clergyman I ever became acquainted with; and within it I grew familiar with the offices of the Church; though I was instructed by the Rev. Father Accolti, S.J., at old St. Ignatius', on Market Street; and by him baptized a

architecture. As a youth, I sat in the family pew in the First Presbyterian Church, situated on Stockton Street, near Broadway. Well I remember my father, with others of the congreg

ed and forty interments. It was on the slope of Telegraph Hill. The place was neglected; a street had been cut through it, and on the banks of this

d and five hundred bodies had been buried. It was half-way between Happy Valley and the Mission Dolores. The sand there was tossed in hillocks like the waves of a sandy sea.

surface, or searched in vain for the one we had seen the week before; it had been mercifully reburied by the winds. There were rude headboards, painted in fading colors; and beneath them lay the dead of all nations, soon to be nameless. By and by they were all carried hence; and

y German garden, the pride and property of Mr. Christian Russ. It was a little bit of the Fatherland, transported as if by magic and set down among the hillocks toward the Mission Dolores. Well I remember being taken there at intervals, to find little tables in artificial bowers, where sat whole families as sedate, or merry, and as mu

the pavilion that was a wonder-world of never-failing attractiveness; and how on a certain occasion I watched with breathless anxiety and dumb amazement a man, who seemed to have discarded every garment common to the race, wheel a wheelbarrow with a gro

ardens

an al fresco theatre such as one sees in the Champs-Elysées; indeed, the place had quite a Frenchy atmosphere, and was not at

se there were birds and beasts, and cages populous with monkeys; and there was an emeu-the weird bird that can not fly,

seen at the wi

ng and ru

rd, with the

all the Aust

ve

this Austr

l, the place was charming in its way, and as rurally true as anything could be expected to be on that peninsula in its native wilderness. The Willows and Russ' Garden had their day, and it was a jolly day. They were good for

amous in its day! It was Lieutenant G.H. Derby, better known in letters as John Phoenix, and Squibob-names delightfully associated with the early history of California,-it w

those large glass bottles in the window, filled with red and blue liquors-once supposed by this author, when young and innocent, to be medicines of th

ce gone to his reward. Of the Oriental Hotel scarcely a tradition remains. The Tehama House-what there is left of it-has been spirited to the north si

were covered with substantial buildings. When that bark was buoyant it had weathered Cape Horn with a small army of argonauts. They had gone their way to dusty death; she had buried her nose on the water-front and had been smothered to death in the mire. Docks, streets, grew up around her; a building had snuffed her out of sight and mind. The old building gave place to a new one; the bark