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[65] riffraff of a Spanish camp. From these vile sources, nearly all the present Hybrids of the country spring.

In time, these mixed breeds grew too strong for either priest or captain to control. From Los Angeles they have roamed into the plains of San Fernando; from Santa Cruz they have crept up the Pajaro and Salinas; from San Jose they have spread along both shores of San Francisco Bay. Not many of this mongrel crew can read and write. Not one in ten is born in wedlock, for the custom of their country fills the hut with squaws, whom the sons of White men disdain to marry. Gross and sickening superstitions cloud such brains as they possess. Aware that they are neither red nor white, and have no place among the Indian tribes, they loath their mother's kitll as fiercely as they hate their father's kin. The vices of two hostile breeds are mixed in them; the pride and cruelty of their Spanish sires, the laziness and licentiousness of their Indian dams.

The land, they say, is theirs. They are not strangers, like the foreign troops, nor savages, like the native tribes. In Mexican days, they fought the soldiers, robbed the friars, and helped themselves

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