taught by the Spanish fathers, is still to be seen upon the mission buildings themselves, in spite of the fact that this same report records the Indian's "want of culture, his little talent, and great sloth." The second mission, San José de Aguayo, is architecturally the most interesting of the four. It was begun in 1720, so was the earliest in date, but was not completed until eleven years later. Its façade is the most ornate piece of Spanish baroque that I know of in our country-a genuine surprise with its richly ornamented cornices and keystones, its winged cherubim, and its panels whose sculptured niches are peopled by cassocked saints. Unhappily, the roof has fallen, and the nave and transepts stand open to the four winds of heaven, but there remains a chapel, once perhaps the baptistry, that is still used for services. Its place in the south wall is plainly marked by an elaborate window whose picturesque design conforms to the

ornamentation of the west portal and whose tarnished panes are still protected by the remains of a delicate iron reja.

It is entered by a doorway that, owing to its sheltered position under a low stone arch, has remained quite intact, stonework, panelled doors, and heavy wrought-iron fittings. The chapel itself has distinct architectural interest, vaulted as it is with flattened domes and low arches, and retaining its Hispanic character unmarred by modern furniture, for the broken-down pews of its little congregation, the simple altar and its furnishings, the cloth of appliqué (made by Mexican women some fifty years ago) that does duty as a reredos, are all in keeping with its original character. It contains, too, a few remnants of the church ornaments that once belonged to the main edifice: a mutilated crucifix, a section of the circular stair that led, I suppose, to the tower, some candlesticks and other tarnished relics. Adjoining the church to the east

are extensive corridors of brick arches covered with stucco that probably formed part of the refectory and living quarters, while to the west extends a long stone granary.

The third and fourth missions, San Juan Capistrano and San Francisco de la Espada, are much simpler in character than the first two, each having stepped belfries attached to churches of primitive design. Each shows extensive remains of its old mission quadrangle and the last the ruins of its baluarte, or bastion for defense.

Near the last-named rise arches of the aqueduct that supplied the missions with water and fed that intricate scheme of irrigating ditches that, until the day of artesian wells, formed so necessary an adjunct to the city's life.

You may return to town by way of the ostrich farm and the fair grounds, where Theodore Roosevelt assembled his Rough Riders and trained them for the war with Spain, almost in the shadow of the old Franciscan churches.

The rough riders of to-day are trained out on the hills at Fort Sam Houston, named for the hero who avenged the Alamo, took Santa Anna prisoner at San Jacinto, and assured the independence of the Texas republic.

This fort, locally called "army post," is one of the most important presidios in

our country. It has three vast paradegrounds surrounded by comfortable-looking officers' quarters, and long lines of red-roofed barracks for all branches of the service infantry, cavalry, and artillery-while a powerful wireless plant and aeroplane sheds bring the equipment well up to modern requirements. There are comparatively few men to occupy these barracks just now, as most of them are out on patrol duty along the Mexican border. Headquarters staffs and regimental bands are still there, however, and help to bring social life and gayety to the city that sorely misses its larger soldier life, of which it has been deprived for two years now.

The band plays once or twice a week in front of the commanding general's headquarters upon a broad, grassy slope dominated by a conspicuous clock-tower. I found these concerts most enjoyable on a balmy summer night, for the townsfolk turn out in crowds, some in motors that they park in a great circle, others by the street-cars, sitting or stretching themselves full length upon the grass. The women are crisp and fresh in spotless white, the men more rough and ready, while the fireflies flicker and twinkle from group to group like stray nebulæ dropped from the myriad stars that shine overhead, in this clear atmosphere, with a brilliancy beyond belief.

D

ICK was twenty-four years old when he came into the smokingroom of the Victoria Hotel, in London, after midnight one July night-he was dressed as a Thames boatman.

He had been rowing up and down the river since sundown, looking for color. He had evidently peopled every dark corner with a pirate, and every floating ob

ject had meant something to him. He had adventure written all over him. It was the first time I had ever seen him, and I had never heard of him. I can't now recall another figure in that smoke-filled room. I don't remember who introduced us-over twenty-seven years have passed since that night. But I can see Dick now dressed in a rough brown suit, a soft hat,

with a handkerchief about his neck, a splendid, healthy, cleanminded, gifted boy at play. And so he always remained.

His going out of this world seemed like a boy interrupted in a game he loved. And how well and fairly he played it! Surely no one deserved success more than Dick. And it is a consolation to know he had more than fifty years of just what he wanted. He had health, a great talent, and personal charm. There never was a more loyal or unselfish friend. There wasn't an atom of envy in him. He had unbounded mental and physical courage, and with it all he was sensitive and sometimes shy. He often tried to conceal these last two qualities, but never succeeded in doing so from those of us who were privileged really to know and love him.

His life was filled with just the sort of adventure he liked the best. No one ever saw more wars in so many different places or got more out of them. And it took the largest war in all history to wear out that stout heart. We shall miss him.

Copyright by Life Publishing Company.

Richard Harding Davis.

N common with many others who have been with Richard Harding Davis as correspondents, I find it difficult to realize that he has covered his last story and that he will not be seen again with the men who follow the war game, rushing to distant places upon which the spotlight of news interest suddenly centres.

It seems a sort of bitter irony that he who had covered so many big events of world importance in the past twenty years should be abruptly torn away in the midst of the greatest event of them all, while the story is still unfinished and its outcome undetermined. If there is a compensating thought, it lies in the reflection that he had a life of almost unparalleled fulness, crowded to the brim, up to the last moment, with those experiences and achievements which he particularly aspired to have. He left while the tide was at its flood, and while he still

held supreme his place as the best reporter in his country. He escaped the bitterness of seeing the ebb set in, when the youth to which he clung had slipped away, and when he would have to sit impatient in the audience, while younger men were in the thick of great, worldstirring dramas on the stage.

This would have been a real tragedy in "Dick" Davis's case, for, while his body would have aged, it is doubtful if his spirit ever would have lost its youthful freshness or boyish enthusiasm.

It was my privilege to see a good deal of Davis in the last two years.

He arrived in Vera Cruz among the first of the sixty or seventy correspondents who flocked to that news centre when the situation was so full of sensational possibilities. It was a time when the American newspaper-reading public was eager for thrills, and the ingenuity and