[Illustration:  A degenerate.]

It is on his way to this Mission that the traveler passes the reputed residence of Ramona.  There is, it is true, another structure near San Diego which, also, claims this distinction; but the ranch on the route from Los Angeles to Santa Barbara perfectly corresponds to “H.H.’s” descriptions of her heroine’s home, with its adjoining brook and willows, and hills surmounted by the cross.  The house is almost hidden by the trees with which a Mexican ordinarily surrounds his dwelling, and is, as usual, only one story high, with a projecting roof, forming a porch along the entire front.  As we learn in “Ramona,” much of the family life in those old days—­sewing, visiting, and siesta-taking—­went on in the open air, under the shade of the porticos which were wide and low.  Here it was that Alessandro brought Felipe back to health, watching and nursing him as he slept outdoors on his rawhide bed; and we may see the arbor where the lovers met, the willows where they were surprised by Senora Moreno, and the hills on which the pious lady caused wooden crosses to be reared, that passers-by might know that some good Catholics were still left in California.

[Illustration:  The cross on the hill.]

[Illustration:  Santa Barbara mission.]

The Mission of Santa Barbara is of solid brick and stone, with walls six feet in thickness.  Its cloisters look sufficiently massive to defy an earthquake, and are paved with enormous bricks each twelve inches square.  The huge red tiles of the roof, also, tell of a workmanship which, although rude, was honest and enduring.  The interior, however, is of little interest, for the poor relics which the Fathers keep are even less attractive than those displayed at the Mission of San Gabriel; yet there are shown at least two enormous missals which are no less than four feet long by two feet wide, and beautifully inscribed on parchment.

[Illustration:  Santa Barbara mission from the Farm.]

[Illustration:  Where the fathers walked.]

“What is the Mission’s income?” I asked the gentle monk who acted as my guide.

“Alas!” he answered, “we have very little.  You know our lands are gone.  We have barely twenty-five acres now.  Moreover, we are outside the village; and, as there is another church, most Catholics go there.  We receive, indeed, occasional offerings from travelers; but we are very poor.”

“Who cultivates your twenty-five acres?” I inquired.

“According to our ability, we are all busy,” was the answer, “some till the garden; others train young men for the priesthood; one of our number is a carpenter; and another,” he added, evidently laughing at his own expense, “knows just enough about machinery to make a bad break worse.”

“And the Indians?” I said.