“ Kneel down,” replied the smiling friar; “ now, listen to my words, and say them after me:”
, Esperitu Santo!
Hardly another word was spoken by the priest.
Crossing his convert, the father gave him a saintly name, and sent him home a new man; a member of the Catholic Church, a subject of the King
Year after year the fathers ploughed and garnered in this virgin soil.
A street arose outside the fence, in which the converts dwelt: poor bucks in dug-outs roofed with logs; chiefs and seers in cabins of poles, roofed and clothed with mats.
They lived in peace.
No hostile bands came on them in the night; their hutches were no longer burnt in war. Even in their private feuds, no squaws were stolen, no papooses killed.
Their neighbours, the Tularenos, were converted like themselves, and owned a patron saint.
Snug in their huts, they learned to wash their skins, and put on shirt and shawl.
In time they picked up various arts, learning how to