Though all his swarthy worshippers are gone, San Joaquin, Cal. THE WONDERFUL SPRING OF SAN JOAQUIN. OF all the fountains that poets sing, Crystal, thermal, or mineral spring; That ever were tasted, felt, or seen, There were none like the Spring of San Joaquin. Anno Domini Eighteen-Seven, Father Dominguez (now in heaven, — Obiit Eighteen twenty-seven) Found the spring, and found it, too, The Padre thought the omen good, On the honest faith of a true believer, His cheeks, though wasted, lank, and bare, Filled like a withered russet-pear In the vacuum of a glass receiver, And the snows that seventy winters bring Melted away in that magic spring. Such, at least, was the wondrous news Of who were worthiest to use The magic spring; but the prior claim Fell to the aged, sick, and lame. Far and wide the people came : Over the mountain they poured in With pious joy and with souls serene; Not in the eyes of Faith alone The good effects of the waters shone; Limbs grew supple, and waists grew stout; You'll still find eyes in which are seen There is a limit to human bliss, And the Mission of San Joaquin had this: With gastric symptoms: so they spent Beyond their bowers of living green, - Beyond the mountains that lay between Winter passed, and the summer came: Like pillars of fire starkly stood. All of the breezy solitude Was filled with the spicing of pine and bay The smoke of the burning woods ascended. Arched its spine in a feline fashion; And Nature shook in a speechless passion; And, swallowed up in the earthquake's spleen, The wonderful Spring of San Joaquin Vanished, and nevermore was seen! Two days passed: the Mission folk But that, no doubt, was from earthquake fright. : Of the mouth and fauces; and in less Bret Harte. Santa Cruz, the Island, Cal. TO A SEA-BIRD. NAUNTERING hither on listless wings, Little thou heedest the surf that sings, Little thou hast, old friend, that's new; Storms and wrecks are old things to thee; Sick am I of these changes too; Little to care for, little to rue, I on the shore, and thou on the sea. All of thy wanderings, far and near, Bring thee at last to shore and me; All of my journeyings end them here, This our tether must be our cheer, I on the shore, and thou on the sea. Lazily rocking on ocean's breast, Something in common, old friend, have we; Thou on the shingle seek'st thy nest, I to the waters look for rest, - I on the shore, and thou on the sea. Bret Harte. |