* * * * *

EQUINOCTIAL.

    The Sun of Life has crossed the line: 
      The summer-shine of lengthened light
    Faded and failed,—­till, where I stand,
      ’Tis equal Day and equal Night.

    One after one, as dwindling hours,
      Youth’s glowing hopes have dropped away,
    And soon may barely leave the gleam
      That coldly scores a winter’s day.

    I am not young, I am not old;
      The flush of morn, the sunset calm,
    Paling, and deepening, each to each,
      Meet midway with a solemn charm.

    One side I see the summer fields
      Not yet disrobed of all their green;
    While westerly, along the hills,
      Flame the first tints of frosty sheen.

    Ah, middle-point, where cloud and storm
      Make battle-ground of this my life! 
    Where, even-matched, the Night and Day
      Wage round me their September strife!

    I bow me to the threatening gale: 
      I know, when that is overpast,
    Among the peaceful harvest-days,
      An Indian-summer comes at last!

* * * * *

THE LEGEND OF MONTE DEL DIABLO.

The cautious reader will detect a lack of authenticity in the following pages, I am not a cautious reader myself, yet I confess with some concern to the absence of much documentary evidence in support of the singular incident I am about to relate.  Disjointed memoranda, the proceedings of ayuntamientos and early departmental juntas, with other records of a primitive and superstitious people, have been my inadequate authorities.  It is but just to state, however, that, though this particular story lacks corroboration, in ransacking the Spanish archives of Upper California I have met with many more surprising and incredible stories, attested and supported to a degree that would have placed this legend beyond a cavil or doubt.  I have, also, never lost faith in the legend myself, and in so doing have profited much from the examples of divers grant-claimants, who have often jostled me in their more practical researches, and who have my sincere sympathy at the skepticism of a modern hard-headed and practical world.

For many years after Father Junipero Serro first rang his bell in the wilderness of Upper California, the spirit which animated that adventurous priest did not wane.  The conversion of the heathen went on rapidly in the establishment of Missions throughout the land.  So sedulously did the good Fathers set about their work, that around their isolated chapels there presently arose adobe huts, whose mud-plastered and savage tenants partook regularly of the provisions, and occasionally of the Sacrament, of their pious hosts.  Nay, so great was their process, that one zealous Padre is reported to have administered the Lord’s Supper one Sabbath morning to “over three hundred heathen Salvages.”  It was not to be wondered that the Enemy of Souls, being greatly incensed thereat, and alarmed at his decreasing popularity, should have grievously tempted and embarrassed these Holy Fathers, as we shall presently see.