These
were the most prominent of the plants, brought from Mexico and Spain,
reminding him of his old home; and interspersed with these were a goodly
number of vegetables, for this garden was not wholly for pleasure, but
served as a source of supply for the Father's, table. Paths there were
none. Every spot of ground, where there was nothing growing, was hard
and smooth like a path, baked as it was by the sun after every rain. At
first the Father had tried to grow grass in some parts of his garden,
but soon gave it up on account of the constant attention it needed, and
disliking the tough wiry grass, native to the region, he trained his
plants to cover the ground, letting them spread and wander much at their
will. Here was his rest from the many and varied labors in a Nueva
California mission; and here he was to be found when at leisure, seeing
if his plants were given the proper attention by his gardener, studying
changes from time to time in their arrangement, or wandering about, now
here, now there, with eyes bent on the ground, meditating on his duties,
or gazing off to the distant horizon, and dreaming of his early life in
his boyhood home.
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