and never combed.
A little paint was all the unguent they desired.
A squaw tattooed her chin, her neck, her breast; a buck put on his face a dab of paint.
They fed on grubs and worms, on roots and berries, living from hand to mouth, not caring for the morrow's meal.
All things were held by them in common, like the grass and water in a sheep-run, but the sweetest morsels and the warmest skins were taken by the seers and chiefs.
They saved no roots, they dug no wells.
Old legends told them of a time when their fathers lived in towns, and they had still a village system, with a show of ancient rule and right.
They chose a chief and made him pope and king.
This chief had a first choice of squaws; and took as many as his hutch would hold.
Catching them when he liked, he flung them from him when he liked.
An Indian female had no rights.
Poor souls, they knew no better in those pagan days, before San Carlos
sent his message to their tribe!
saw a band of friars come over the ridge from Monterey
, and plant a cross in ground belonging to his tribe.
A cross appeared to be the White
man's totem; for beside a great cross borne aloft, each father wore