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The Old Spanish Trail 
 
 BY 
 
 EVELYN BROGAN 
 
 SAN ANTONIO 
 
 KUNZMAN TfajEgJo. PRINTER 
 
 19 20 
 
A 
 
 
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 Copyright 1920 by Evelyn Brogan. 
 All rights reserved. 
 
 - o 1320 
 
 ©CI.A572359 
 
MY 
 
 TO 
 
 Mother 
 
The binding of this book is a reproduc- 
 tion of the bindings on the old records 
 of the Spanish Missions scattered along 
 The Old Spanish Trail from Florida to 
 California, THE AUTHOR. 
 
THE OLD SPANISH TRAIL. 
 
 F 
 
 ROM Florida to California, in days long past, 
 A Trail was made thru forests and over prairies vast; 
 Across mighty rivers whose waters flowed southward to the sea; 
 Over mountains, high and rocky; thru silences — like Eternity. 
 From ocean to ocean it reaches, spanning a continent, 
 A Trail of romance and history, of devotion and sentiment. 
 Four Hundred Years of History! The old relics along the way 
 Fascinate the marveling traveler with the heroism of a bygone day. 
 Along this highway, primeval, dotted here and there, 
 From Florida to California the Spanish Missions share 
 
 In the great work of civilization, which came forth as the Trail 
 
 passed on, 
 Quickly subdueing the darkness, when the light of Christianity 
 
 dawned. 
 
 Along this highway traveled adventurers, explorers, priests, 
 
 While wild beasts and wilder Indians the hardships and dangers 
 
 increased. 
 Ponce de Leon, in Florida, sought the fabled Fountain of Youth, 
 The first European of the mainland of the United States by proof. 
 At Tampa Bay landed De Soto in fifteen thirty-nine; 
 Plunging into the wilderness, cut a trail thru thicket and vine. 
 Three years they searched for treasure that did not abound, 
 Penetrating far to the westward of the mighty river he found. 
 
In fifteen sixty-five Menendez founded St. Augustine, 
 
 The oldest landmark in our country, four centuries it has seen. 
 
 Out from here the Franciscan Fathers among the Indians worked, 
 
 Building missions in the forests, where their savage converts lurked. 
 
 Deep in the woods is a mission of oyster-shell cement, 
 
 Far up the Altamaha River in Georgia they went; 
 
 Near the Council Mounds of the Indians, a dangerous place to be, 
 
 These intrepid Franciscan Fathers from no danger would flee. 
 
 Across the Suwanee River, famed in story and song, 
 
 Amid orange groves and blossoms, bees humming all day long; 
 
 Thru De Funiak Springs and Quincy with its tobacco plantations, 
 
 To Pensacola, a strategic point, with its modern naval stations. 
 
 By the mysterious springs of Wakulla and into Tallahassee, 
 
 Named for an Indian chieftian, who in days ago roamed free. 
 
 From St. Augustine to Tampa, thence to Jacksonville, 
 
 West to Tallahassee and Mobile, The Spanish Trail wanders at will. 
 
 From the Rio Grande to Mobile came de Narves in fifteen twenty-two, 
 
 Now the seaport of Alabama, on the Delta it rises to view 
 
 The broad expanse of The Mobile, Raft, Spanish, Tensaw, 
 
 And Apalachee Rivers, spreading out like a gigantic claw; 
 
 To the north, large swamps of cypress and gum oppose tlie way; 
 
 To the south, the Gulf of Mexico and Mobile Bay. 
 
 On the eastern shore at Fairhope, beautiful summer homes abound; 
 
 On the western shore Coden and Bayou de Batre are found. 
 
, 
 
The City Hall is remodeled from an old Spanish Market quaint; 
 The Cathedral of the Immaculate Conception is Gothic without taint, 
 Remininscent of French occupation, which in seventeen twenty-one 
 Spread its influence over the city, like the rays of the setting sun. 
 Beautiful colonial residences line the wide, shady streets; 
 Rambling about thru the city, scenes of other days one meets. 
 Once the home of Father Ryan, the beloved poet-priest; 
 His songs still live in memory, though his golden voice has ceased. 
 
 Now thru French-Spanish country, skirting the Gulf for miles; 
 
 The lapping waters bathe the trail, the cool breeze offers its wiles. 
 
 To Biloxi with its fish canneries; to Bay St. Louis quaint 
 
 With its old-world reminiscences, named for France's saint. 
 
 Thru the Satsuma orange belt and the paper shell pecan, 
 
 Thru Alabama and Mississippi, to Louisiana on. 
 
 To the land of Evangeline, Longfellow's immortal poem; 
 
 Among gnarled and moss-draped cypresses the lights and shadows 
 
 Into the Crescent City: The Cabildo attracts your sight; 
 
 Here the transfers of Louisiana were made without a fight. 
 
 And in the old Cabildo Lafayette was entertained, 
 
 When, as a guest of the city, in New Orleans he remained. 
 
 Around the Place d'Armes, now called Jackson Square, 
 
 The Old St. Louis Cathedral and the Court buildings share, 
 
 With fine Pontalba rows flanking the two other sides 
 
 Of the square where General Jackson, the hero of New Orleans, rides. 
 
i 
 
Extending thru the city is Canal Street, long and wide; 
 
 On its upper stretch sky scrapers line each side. 
 
 On St. Charles and Prytania are beautiful gardens and homes, 
 
 The fragrance of sweet olive and magnolia in the air roams. 
 
 In the old French Quarter of the city, the Hispano-Moresque style 
 
 Shows traces of Spanish conquerors, who held it for awhile. 
 
 On Esplanade Avenue, with its tropical plants and flowers, 
 
 Is the Arch-Episcopal Palace, Creole homes and garden bowers. 
 
 Among stately plantations and mansions, westward the Trail winds, 
 Here the two largest game preserves in the world one finds. 
 Thru an ancient civilization, with agricultural industry around, 
 Into Lake Charles, where the charm of the Old South is found. 
 Orange, on the Sabine River, a shipbuilding center grows; 
 This turbulent thread of water, as in centuries past, still flows 
 Between Louisiana and Texas, marking the boundary of Spanish 
 
 claims. 
 Over the Sabine in Louisiana, is the beginning of French names. 
 
 To Beaumont, an oil port, Houston's rival below; 
 
 Houston, commercial metropolis, guarding the Gulf of Mexico. 
 
 Across Texas — an empire — in dreams from Spanish times, 
 
 To San Antonio, the opening to Mexico and southern climes. 
 
 The greatest military center in the United States today; 
 
 Central to Pacific and Gulf movements, or a Mexican gateway. 
 
 Historic and romantic, commercially great. 
 
 A side trip to Galveston; its harbor to New York a mate. 
 
San Antonio, the City of Missions, settled by De Leon; 
 
 Here The Alamo — Thermopylae of Texas — world-wide is known. 
 
 And San Jose, a mission, built by the King of Spain, 
 
 A classic of architecture, two hundred years has lain. 
 
 Sixty years were they building this marvel of the New World; 
 
 In its arches, domes and towers wondrous beauties are unfurled. 
 
 Fine carvings on door and window by Huicar, artist for the King, 
 
 Sent to do the sculpturing. Their praises to God still sing. 
 
 On The Old Spanish Trail thru Texas many brave ones have gone; 
 Friars, soldiers, emigrants, westward have passed thereon. 
 
 From water-hole to water-hole wearily the slow plodding ox-teams 
 
 went, 
 Or freighters heavily ladened with goods from Mexico sent. 
 And ever, ever lurking beside the lonely trail 
 
 Were reptiles, beasts and Indians. In treachery the wagon-trains 
 
 they hail. 
 A white flag uplifted, "Amigo — friend" they call. 
 
 Woe to those who listen, it means a massacre for all. 
 
 On many such scenes at a water-hole the curtain of darkness falls, 
 
 While lurking in the distance a coyote to its mate calls. 
 
 White bones glistening in the sunlight; wagons in crumbling decay, 
 
 Mutely tell their story to others who pass that way. 
 
 Aside the road are fields of flowers — purple, gold and blue — 
 
 Verbenas, daisies, bluebonnets, covered with morning dew. 
 
 Their fragrance fills the air about; white mists drape the hills at 
 
 dawn; 
 Thru canyons deep the rivers flow, ever, ever on. 
 
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From San Antonio to Ft. Stockton, on west to El Paso, 
 Stands the Key of Texas on the borders of Mexico. 
 
 Across from El Paso at Juarez mission bells, which three centuries ago 
 
 Were brought from Spain to the New World to teach Indian converts 
 
 to know 
 The time for prayers and vespers, the Holy Sacrifice of the Mass, 
 Still greet the passing travelers who in its old doorways pass. 
 The carvings at Our Lady of Guadalupe, at Juarez in Mexico, 
 The five-foot walls of adobe — all entrall you so. 
 
 Silently you wonder at the patience of those men 
 
 Who left all their hearts held dearest to win pagan souls from sin. 
 
 That gave to those barefoot friars the courage to do and dare 
 
 Hardships, famine, wild beasts, to bring Christianity everywhere 
 
 Among ferocious Indian tribes; brave forests, mountains, plains, 
 
 'Twas an age of religious heroism, when not costs were counted — 
 
 but gains. 
 
 Ysleta, on the Rio Grande, was below Santa Fe, 
 
 The seat of the Franciscan Missions, that over Texas and New 
 
 Mexico held sway. 
 After Indian raids, Ysleta was moved near El Paso; 
 Twelve miles to the east they built it, safe from savage foe. 
 Still a landmark is Ysleta on The Old Spanish Trail which goes 
 Thru the little medevial city, around which the river flows. 
 
 Then followed thru the decades the settlements in New Mexico; 
 Take a side trip to Santa Fe nestling in the foothills low. 
 Clustered about the Plaza are adobes of other days, 
 Looming faint in the half-light of the sunset's colorful rays. 
 
 6 
 
In the old Governor's Palace, the museum of New Mexico 
 
 Offers interesting relics of Indian, Spanish and Pueblo. 
 
 Here General Lew Wallace wrote his famous book, Ben Hur, 
 
 Taking his description from scenes which nightly occur. 
 
 On the low, flat roofs of the houses, after the sun goes down, 
 
 The soft notes of guitar and violin are heard in Mexican town; 
 
 Mingling with singing voices or happy children at play, 
 
 In the cool sweet breeze from the mountains, which comes at the 
 
 close of day. 
 
 From El Paso west to Tombstone; relic of lawless days now passed; 
 
 Of those famous "bad men," cow-punchers and Indian scouts, the 
 
 last. 
 Into Tuscon with its missions, San Xavier del Bac 
 
 And San Jose de Tumacacori, a picturesque ruin black. 
 
 Westward thru the Rockies the Trail passes the Pueblos old, 
 
 Sought by Coronado, the seven fabled cities of gold. 
 
 Tucson northwest to Phoenix, among canyons and valleys you go; 
 
 Visit Roosevelt Dam; see the waters of irrigation flow, 
 
 Transforming the American Desert into a Garden of Paradise; 
 
 Where were sage brush and cactus now are fruits, vegetables, rice. 
 
 See the ruins of Aztec Houses, the Hieroglyphic Rocks, 
 
 Cactus National Park, the Indian Mounds, the marvelous bird flocks. 
 
 Take a side trip to the Grand Canyon, one of the wonders of the 
 
 world, 
 Thru the ages the forces of Nature have carved and hurled 
 Asunder the mighty Rockies, forming a chasm gigantic, 
 
 Midway on the American continent, between the Pacific and the 
 
 Atlantic. 
 
A huge architectural labyrinth, endlessly varied in design, 
 
 Painted in every color, are rock series down to primitive times. 
 
 The Bright Angel Trail descends to the Colorado River below; 
 
 To The Indian Gardens and the Hopi House visitors are sure to go, 
 
 Or sit on the veranda of El Tovar, and watch the varied light, 
 
 Ever changing, ever beautiful — rose-purple — pink — yellow — fading 
 
 into night. 
 
 Thru Yuma, the gateway to Arizona, in its fascinating place, 
 West to historic San Diego, now a Pacific naval base. 
 Here Father Junipero Serra planted the first wooden cross, 
 Built San Diego Mission, now a ruin covered with moss. 
 Gathered the Indians about him, taught them to be men, 
 Gave his life and talents to save them from sin. 
 
 The Mission Fathers soon commenced the cultivation of the ground; 
 
 Here the first palms, grapes and olives in California were to be 
 
 found. 
 Here they established, likewise, the first system of irrigation; 
 
 The original dam still standing, has been an incentive to coloniza- 
 tion. 
 Travelers wander amid the ruins of old adobes quaint; 
 
 Ring the old bells of the mission, each named for a Spanish saint. 
 
 Sit in the old enclosure of Ramona's marriage place, 
 
 Or in the depths of the Wishing Well, their future seek to face. 
 
 From San Diego to Sonomo a chain of mission extends; 
 The breath of God surrounds you; romance and history blends. 
 In El Camino Real — the Royal or King's Highway — 
 The Trail of the King of Heaven, on it His Footsteps lay. 
 

Nestling in all the valleys, forty miles apart, 
 
 The old missions of California are sanctuaries for the lovers of art. 
 Los Angeles, the City of the Angels, with its little mission church, 
 San Gabriel offers its treasures to those who for relics search. 
 
 Along the Trail in California, from San Diego to Sonomo, 
 
 The broad expanse of the Pacific with its unceasing ebb and flow 
 
 Fascinates the travelers as they slowly pass along, 
 
 And ever the mighty ocean sends forth a continuous song. 
 
 In California, Texas, Florida or the lands between, 
 
 The Missions are sacred relics of a mighty Power unseen. 
 
 Do you ever stop and consider — You of Today — 
 
 The stupendous undertaking of those Padres of Yesterday? 
 
 With artistic conception and refinement that would grace any 
 
 civilized land, 
 They built in the mighty wilderness monuments which thru time 
 
 still stand. 
 Cement and stone construction, seemingly impossible, were met 
 And accomplished by Indians on which lately the darkness of 
 
 savagery had set. 
 
 What a journey it has been! From orange groves to orange groves, 
 By orchards, plantations, ranches, sheep and cattle droves. 
 Thru the Arizona wonderland, over the Continential Divide, 
 Copper mining, mountain marvels, touching hands with Mexico, you 
 
 ride. 
 Thru romantic Louisiana and the Old South of other days, 
 Over bayous, thru swamps and forests, sunrise and sunset haze. 
 
 Oh! brown-robed Franciscan Fathers, Oh! Conquistadores; 
 Down the lapsing years of history your spirit protectingly soars — 
 Over the Trail of Yesterday, where seekers for pleasure or health, 
 From the sunrise to the sunset, follow in your footsteps to wealth. 
 

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