Catoctin clarion., 1917-12-06


u T.. an atmosphere of majes.
tic antiquity. Association with Roman,
BritOn, Pict, Scot, Dane, Celt and Nor
man has clothed it with personality,
glorifying what would otherwise be
mere geographical locality, and the
spirits of humans of all later times are
drawn to it as the dividing point be.
tween paganism and Christianity to
the English-speaking world.
But if we Of today were to walk
upon the historic highway in the far
West, called Ell Canine Real, we could
not dream ourselves back into the day
when the brOwnrobed Franciscans
went forth and back upon it, treading
the tender grass of winter or raising
the golden dust clouds of summer, be.
cause that way Is hard-paved today,
and the pilgrims dream would be sad
ly broken by the lodging of the auto.
mobiles which have claimed the way
as q personal possession, writes Neeta
Marquis in the Los Angeles Times.
But to the automobilist who has a
mind for the past as well as an eye for
the present, there is wealth of charm
to be found ON the road marked by
the mile-post bells, particularly In
travelling from Los Angeles to San
Diego, at the roads very beginning.
1t was cool and deliciously foggy
when we left Los Angeles, soon after
eight o'clock, and one of the first sur
prises, when we reached the real coun-
try, was to find the air sweet with
the fragrance of orange blossoms and
roses. l had fancied the orange trees
not yet in flower, and the roses very
largely gone for while, but acres Of
both were there to cOnfound me. Dahl.
las almost as big as cabbages
nodded their gorgeous crimson and
magenta heads from country door.
yards, and In a bowerlike river bed
we saw q company Of tourists out OF
their machines gathering green castor
beans perhaps under the impression
that they were horse chestnuts.
In the open stretches, the blue dis.
tance of fog were artistically set off
by golden hedges of wild mustard and
sunfOwers. At intervals all along the
road the rose racks set up by IN en-
terprising public spirit were IN full
of bloom, mostly with the warm-scent-
ed Ragged Robins" of velvety GRIM
son. We even met a country girl driv.
ing, who, having the prettiest of pink
faces and being dressed in pink, look
ed like a Duchesse rose herself.
To San Juan capistrano.
We crossed the great San Joaquin
ranch through miles Of small, golden
bean stalks, which shaded into dis
tances of amber against the blue-veiled
hills. 1t looked as if it had taken as
many Mexicans as are enlisted with
Villa to rake those stacks into such
geometrically spaced order.
In the hill country beyond, the rich
brown of tarweed, whose sweet pun
gency filled the air with healing, whole
some balm, covered all the landscape,
and exquisitely subtle colors were
brought out under the cloud-mottled
sky. Ever and again the black-green
of eucalyptus clumps made picture
like effects against the tawny fields.
Faith, this was long road, and less
varied, when the padres trod it In the
olden time!
1t was down a canyon dotted with
great sycamores that we finally came
upon the artist-haunted ruins of Mis-
sion San Juan Capistrano.
This spot is crassly modern. COM
pared with really ancient things, yet
1t has It's own atmosphere of relative
antiquity. never have gazed on the
pyramids or the Sphinx. st. Peters
at Rome, Notre Dame and st. Mar
tins at Canterbury are, so far, only
names and pictures to me. Even Ply
mouth Rock is very remote in personal
association as we'll as distance. But
my latent reverence for the finger
marks of time and the monuments to
human ideals came up at sight of these
singularly quaint and beautiful re-
mains of a period rich In romance
and devout dreams on this golden
western slope.
Beauties Of the Ruins.
Pomegranate trees and dusty red
geraniums grew in front Of the ruined
walls rising against the pale blue Of
a monday sky. Where the whitewash
was gone, the ruins were d rich golden
v