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| OF all the fountains that poets sing,— | |
| Crystal, thermal, or mineral spring; | |
| Ponce de Leon’s Fount of Youth; | |
| Wells with bottoms of doubtful truth; | |
| In short, of all the springs of Time | 5 |
| That ever were flowing in fact or rhyme, | |
| 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,— | 10 |
| Obiit Eighteen twenty-seven) | |
| Found the spring, and found it, too, | |
| By his mule’s miraculous cast of a shoe; | |
| For his beast—a descendant of Balaam’s ass— | |
| Stopped on the instant, and would not pass. | 15 |
| |
| The Padre thought the omen good, | |
| And bent his lips to the trickling flood; | |
| Then,—as the chronicles declare, | |
| On the honest faith of a true believer,— | |
| His cheeks, though wasted, lank, and bare, | 20 |
| 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 | 25 |
| The Padre brought into Santa Cruz. | |
| The Church, of course, had its own views | |
| Of who were worthiest to use | |
| The magic spring; but the prior claim | |
| Fell to the aged, sick, and lame. | 30 |
| Far and wide the people came: | |
| Some from the healthful Aptos creek | |
| Hastened to bring their helpless sick; | |
| Even the fishers of rude Soquel | |
| Suddenly found they were far from well; | 35 |
| The brawny dwellers of San Lorenzo | |
| Said, in fact, they had never been so: | |
| And all were ailing,—strange to say,— | |
| From Pescadero to Monterey. | |
| |
| Over the mountain they poured in | 40 |
| With leathern bottles, and bags of skin; | |
| Through the cañons a motley throng | |
| Trotted, hobbled, and limped along. | |
| The fathers gazed at the moving scene | |
| With pious joy and with souls serene; | 45 |
| And then—a result perhaps foreseen— | |
| They laid out the Mission of San Joaquin. | |
| |
| Not in the eyes of Faith alone | |
| The good effects of the waters shone; | |
| But skins grew rosy, eyes waxed clear, | 50 |
| Of rough vacquero and muleteer; | |
| Angular forms were rounded out, | |
| Limbs grew supple, and waists grew stout; | |
| And as for the girls,—for miles about | |
| They had no equal! To this day, | 55 |
| From Pescadero to Monterey, | |
| You ’ll still find eyes in which are seen | |
| The liquid graces of San Joaquin. | |
| |
| There is a limit to human bliss, | |
| And the Mission of San Joaquin had this: | 60 |
| None went abroad to roam or stay, | |
| But they fell sick in the queerest way,— | |
| A singular maladie du pays, | |
| With gastric symptoms: so they spent | |
| Their days in a sensuous content; | 65 |
| Caring little for things unseen | |
| Beyond their bowers of living green,— | |
| Beyond the mountains that lay between | |
| The world and the Mission of San Joaquin. | |
| |
| Winter passed, and the summer came: | 70 |
| The trunks of madroño all aflame, | |
| Here and there through the underwood | |
| Like pillars of fire starkly stood. | |
| All of the breezy solitude | |
| Was filled with the spicing of pine and bay | 75 |
| And resinous odors mixed and blended, | |
| And dim and ghost-like far away | |
| The smoke of the burning woods ascended. | |
| Then of a sudden the mountains swam, | |
| The rivers piled their floods in a dam, | 80 |
| The ridge above Los Gatos creek | |
| Arched its spine in a feline fashion; | |
| The forests waltzed till they grew sick, | |
| And Nature shook in a speechless passion; | |
| And, swallowed up in the earthquake’s spleen, | 85 |
| The wonderful Spring of San Joaquin | |
| Vanished, and nevermore was seen! | |
| |
| Two days passed: the Mission folk | |
| Out of their rosy dream awoke. | |
| Some of them looked a trifle white; | 90 |
| But that, no doubt, was from earthquake fright. | |
| Three days: there was sore distress, | |
| Headache, nausea, giddiness. | |
| Four days: faintings, tenderness | |
| Of the mouth and fauces; and in less | 95 |
| Than one week,—here the story closes; | |
| We won’t continue the prognosis,— | |
| Enough that now no trace is seen | |
| Of Spring or Mission of San Joaquin. | |
| |
MORAL You see the point? Don’t be too quick | 100 |
| To break bad habits: better stick, | |
| Like the Mission folk, to your arsenic. | |
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