In summer time he dawdles in the woods; in winter time he hangs about the farms.
Being known to every settler, he is sure of bite and sup. His hands can bait a snare and throw a hatchet; yet the poor old fellow is so much a savage, he would rather beg than steal, and rather steal than work.
Aged, but not venerable, he loafs in front of whisky bars, and fawns on strangers for a drink; his thirst for ardent waters being the only appetite that seems to have outlived his six-score years and five.
You take the Indian
as he is — a wreck and waste of nature, even as this altar of San Carlos
is a wreck and waste of art. For twenty cents, laid out in whisky, you may hear the story of his life, and in that tale the romance of his tribe.
A youth when the first Spaniards came to Monterey
, Capitan Carlos
saw Fray Junipero Serra
land his company of friars, Don Jose Rivera
land his regiment of troops.
had already built a Mission house at San Diego
, and were creeping upward towards the Golden Gate
; but no Carmelo Indian had as yet beheld a White man's face.
The fathers raised a cross; the troops unfurled a flag.
A psalm was sung, a cannon fired; rites, as they said,