hawks?"

F there is a climate more favorable to a healthy growth of laziness

southern California, I have never found it a long-continued flood of sunshine as brilliant on New Year's day as on May day, and as brilliant on May day as on the Fourth of July. Especially is one inclined to enjoy one's self when each regular mail brings news of the discomfort of friends and the unbearableness of a series of blizzards. It feeds one's fancy to be more comfortable than one's neighbors.

We had spent four months in California. We had come with the earliest tourists and had basked in the sunshine nearly every day of the one hundred and twenty-four which had elapsed since our arrival. We had gathered our chairs into little groups on the piazza and studied the views in every possible direction. We had admired Mt. San Jacinto and criticised Mt. San Antonio quite to our own satisfaction. We had eaten hearty suppers and slept after dinner, until we were total wrecks, so far as ambition was concerned, when lo! our ideal world began slowly to vanish before our eyes; for what makes up a world if not the people? and the people were vanishing.

on a side veranda and held a consultation. It was very evident that we must return home. To stay longer would be like lingering in one's box when the play was over; but one thing was certain: we must have one final jaunt.

The gentlemen of our party fell readily into our plan, and, while we were still discussing as to where our jaunt should lead us, began disposing of us with as little concern as though we were part and parcel of their belongings and worthy of only as much consideration as their fishing-tackle and portmanteaus.

We objected to climbing. We had tried our muscles in that direction quite to our satisfaction in a climb up Mt. San Antonio that made our heads dizzy. The gentlemen would please make another choice. It took some little time to bring our already determined plan into a vortex of favorable opinion; not so long, however, for the men to really agree that the jaunt might be a pleasant one, and plan the morrow for its taking place.

There really seemed but one way for us to get to San Gabriel Mission, and this was the most agreeable way. Our horses, which had been hired for the season, had been returned. There was no railroad; our bicycles only remained.

But, thanks to California! the roads were smooth even if they were dusty, and the distance but thirty-three miles.

When we rose the next morning and began making preparations, there was hardly a glimpse of daylight. I do not know but that my good resolutions would not all have been thrust aside, and I have left California without seeing this venerable pile in Easter array, had not F persisted in waking me up. When we were once out in the cool, bracing air, wheeling our way from the great hotel and the village itself, how different were our sensations! The eastern sky seemed ablaze with a far distant light; the hills were bathed in the first glimmering dawn.

It was the hour that inspired Corot to paint those wonderful, misty, impossible landscapes that have made him famous. As we passed round a sudden hillside curve, I buttoned my jacket closer about my throat. There was nothing in the atmosphere now to warn one that before noonday we should be sweltering with heat. My fingers tingled a little as they grasped the metallic handles of my wheel. But instantly we were around the curve and sheltered from the wind, when we were quite comfortable.

We were on the hard adobé roads now, without even dust to impede our progress. S, the one marriageable lady of our company, boldly led the way, supported on either side by two of the men who had shadowed her footsteps since first we entered the State. I felt sorry for the one, for I knew he was as much out of his reckoning as a dog in church. Later, however, he fell back, when our party moved on, protected in the rear by F and me.

The sun was putting in an appearance now. The golden clouds had disappeared from the east, to rally in scattered platoons in every corner of the heavens. The hills were growing a brighter and livelier green; but, despite the brightness, I was decidedly uncomfortable. The stimulant afforded by my light breakfast of coffee and rolls had been expended in my effort to complete my toilet. Besides, I had not come to California for my health, and had always suffered friendly taunts concerning my appetite. At this direful complaint Fpulled out a couple of sandwiches, which he had managed to

store in an outside pocket, probably in view of this crisis, and we indulged, as two well-developed starving humans can, upon a couple of hotel sandwiches.

As the sun rose higher, we discovered we were traveling through a bed of bloom - not patches of flowers here and there, but the earth one perfect floral mat. The sweet little pink and blue babyeyes nestled close to the earth, as if fearing to lift up their heads among tall grasses and statelier flowers. Delicately tinted cream-cups, blue starflowers and lavender feather-balls mingled freely with gorgeous Chinese poppies and red warriors. We were in the "land of the lily; the gay, blooming flowers."

When the effects of our sandwiches had passed away, and I was feeling very much in sympathy with a sinking ship, we came in sight of a house. It was an "adobé," with a low roof and wide, open doors. A low, broad veranda extended along three sides of the building and was the most occupied portion of the house. N-interviewed the owner and ordered our breakfast. He had been chosen chief barterer and beggar on our first jaunt, and had since held his position to the perfect satisfaction of the whole party.

The house had a half-neglected air, possibly interesting. The windows were dingy and the doorstep was worn half in two. But forgive my even mentioning it; for had you seen the children, all ages, sexes and sizes, your only wonderment would have been that there were any windows left. I have seen children before. I have admired their smiling faces and washed their faces that I might admire them still more, but this swarm, this never-ceasing flow of young human animals that came from the rear end of that house and poured into the kitchen, was beyond my comprehension. I am happy to say they swarmed back again at the sight of strangers, else the frugal meal might have been shared amongst them, and I never rescued from famine, and this account never have been written.

Another stretch of cactus fields, another grassy plain thickly strewn with wild flowers, by a row of hills, and we were in sight of the Mission.

If the Mission was not equal to my expectations in some respects, it certainly surpassed them in others. It was in good condition, though having stood

one hundred and twenty years, and was in every way roomy and comfortable. If we could have worked changes by magic, we might have moved the string of chime bells from the rear of the church to the front, but, undoubtedly, we would only have exasperated the old friar.

As we neared the building, the group waiting outside the church doors eyed us curiously. Had they seen a phantom, or the crew of the Flying Dutchman suddenly betake themselves to wheels, their expressions would not have been more difficult to analyze. We were allowed to dismount unmolested, and placed our wheels in the shade of a neighboring sycamore. When we returned we found them securely fastened to the trunk of the tree by means of numerous strands of tow string. I have yet to learn whether this public-spirited citizen who performed this friendly office was more afraid of a runaway or an explosion.

Within the church all was in festal array. An archway, made of such flowers as we had been wheeling through all the morning, stood in front of the altar and reached from the floor midway to the ceiling. The altar, itself, was literally covered with bloom. The images, which I am sorry to say were few in number and poor in quality, were covered with roses and wild flowers. Even the pictures, which I confess looked shabby, in comparison with so imposing an edifice, trailed their decorations in the dust. The seats-they were hardly pews-were hard, stiff and uncomfortable, yet a rest from our wheels.

Grizzly señors, grave señoras and bright-eyed, round-faced señoritas began filling the church. Directly before me knelt a sweet-faced girl. Her cheeks were full with a touch of roundness, her lips were red and well curved, while her eyes were Spanish eyes. I fancied I had found Ramona, and looked about me for Alessandro. He appeared later, a true type of Indian. Again I was reminded of the pleasure one may enjoy by looking through other people's eyes, for who but Helen Hunt Jackson could find charm in an Indian?

I was still thinking of my newly found Ramona and wishing I could

pluck her from the dark-faced man and the group of children surrounding her, when the bells at the rear broke into an uproarious, musical chime. would have enjoyed their music far more if one had not been cracked. We did offer to draw lots as to who should cut the rope attached to this particular bell and thus spare our tortured nerves.

After an hour and a half spent more in looking about us than in listening, we were once more in the open air. The crowd was more motley now than before, while a noonday sun poured down upon our unoffending heads, treating saint and sinner in the same ruthless fashion.

We had barely succeeded in picking ourselves out of the crowd, and I had seen my Ramona perch herself on the high spring seat of a lumber wagon and drive away, when a shrill cry in the Spanish tongue attracted our attention. "Nice hot tamales! dear little tamales! very nice, very hot! Only try them, senors, senoras, and senoritas!" Then in the same coaxing voice by another salesman: "Tortillas! warm, light tortillas? Come, senors, here is a dinner for your sweethearts!"

We bought some tamales and found them to be all we desired. The meat used in their construction was real chicken, and not any of the many substitutes too often employed. The olives

and other condiments were also excellent. The tortillas too nearly resembled heavy, hot cakes to be inviting. It is needless to say we did not buy any.

After a substantial lunch of such viands as we found for sale about us, we turned our backs upon the gray old walls, the belfry and its many apartments, the worn plank steps, the path, the crowd, and were once more wheeling our homeward way; not, however, until we had heard a certain word fall from happy lips which convinced our already persuaded minds that even in California, young men do not persistently wait upon young ladies without a purpose. We only wish them much joy, and feel certain if some of the party forget our Easter at San Gabriel Mission, all will not.

JESS.

AB

BOUT a year ago, in looking over a daily paper, I came across the following sentence, "Dublin is the cyclist's Paradise, and Ireland his happy hunting ground," and, with the quickened interest of the true lover of the wheel, I perused a column of attractive statements which followed the above-quoted remark. The facile pen of the writer described the ways and whims of Irish cyclists, their enthusiasm and good fellowship, their quaint club-house buried in the beautiful mountains of Wicklow, their very club-name, "Ohne Hast" (take it easy!), and, as I read, a thought grew big within my brain, a dream hovered on my mind's horizon, and spread in misty radiance over the heaven of my soul. I stood, like Moore's Peri, at the gate of paradise, but not, like her, disconsolaterather daring, planning, working to get

through the barrier, which was twofold wide, and long, and deep, and strong. A managing editor's will, and the yeasty, briny Atlantic Ocean!

Then, as the winter months passed by, spring came with promise; slowly the way opened, the path cleared, as ways and paths do when one has will and courage, till the thought was matured, and the dream took on reality, to the extent of a granted vacation and an ocean steamship passage, lying tangible and palely blue, in paper, on my writing-table. Along with these two precious needfuls were presented various gratuities in the line of advice and discouragement. "You'll never ride that distance." "From Dublin to Killarneyoh, train it; that will do just as well, and won't use you up!" "You'll be shot from behind a hedge in that wild country." "Irish roads are something awful, and think of the mountains to climb, and THE BOGS!"

I did think of them-oh! how often! and the more I thought the more I fretted to set out. As to the roads, I cheerfully re-read the newspaper article, and in fancy followed the "Ohne Hasts" on their runs, being strengthened by the therein contained assertion that old folks with gray hair were among the most brisk and energetic of the number, who took their pleasure for pleasure's sake alone. The idea of being shot at was beneath acceptance, as was also the base suggestion of learning the true inwardness of Ireland, her beauties and her faults, in the stuffy and commonplace precincts of a railway carriage. Many were the solemn conclaves I held in secret with those who had "gone before," not in a ghostly and spiritual sense, but sturdily pedaling with their own good legs, and observing with very keen and knowing eyes. A poet, a student and a merchant aided me with varied experience, and one delightful word, "Go!" As to a suitable outfit, I could get no pointers from such as these, and finally concluded that the trim navy serge which had borne the burden of the winter and spring wheel

ing was good enough to be engulfed in a bog, or riddled from behind a hedge. Light shoes and cloth gaiters, chamois gauntlets and blue cloth cap went into the compact bundle at the bottom of the trunk, and with many a bright anticipation, one more trusting female set out to do what pleased her best, in spite of the calm disapproval of all and sundry.

"From Dublin to Killarney" rang a sweet refrain to the rattle of the train, the throb of the steamer, and from Dublin to Killarney was the ride finally selected. The mountains of Donegal, rough and impassable as they looked while we steamed past them on the way to Derry, seemed to smile at me in grim welcome, the soft land breezes sighed

"come," the hill torrents laughed and beckoned with their watery fingers never was I drawn to any land in such sweet way as this! Was it the bicycle, or am I Irish after all?

As we feasted our eyes on the loveliness of Lock Foyle, and heard from a brilliant Irish girl words of comment and loving recognition of every beauty spot as we passed it, and received indisputable proof that the Irish roads were anything but bad, the line of rosecolor began to glow over the fair June sunset, it spread to the dream that kept my fancy, it glowed through the realization, and the afterglow shines yet. If my will had needed bracing, pugnacious and staunch old Derry would have done the job-strength, dogged endurance, con