OCR Text |
Show 170 BY PATH AND TRAIL. and where a forest of plain wooden crosses records the sublime hope and faith of the vanishing Papago. Before entering the church, I called to pay my respects and tender the tribute of my admiration to the three sisters of the community of St. Joseph, who for years have de voted their lives to the mental and spiritual uplifting of the Indian children of the reservation. I found the class rooms clean, a plentiful supply of blackboards an/ i mural tablets, and the walls ornamented with sacred and other pictures. The children were almost as dark as negroes, their coal- black hair falling over their shoulders and their snake- like eyes piercing and searching me as if I were an enemy. What clothes they wore were clean, and I found them as intelligent and as far advanced in their elementary studies as the children of white parents. " Sister," I said, " how often do you have mass here?" " Twice a month, sir." " And in the meantime?" " In the meantime we are alone with the Blessed Sac rament. ' ' " Oh, the bishop then permits the Reservation ' in your oratory." " Yes, without the Blessed Sacrament we could not live here. We three are alone. We have no amusements, no society, and, outside of ourselves, no companionship. We do our own cooking, our own washing, our own scrubbing, and teach these eighty- five children six hours a day and give them an hour's religious instruction on Sunday. We also teach some of them music, and all of them singing." I shook hands with these heroic and estimable ladies, thanked them for their courtesies, and as I passed across the " patio" to enter the church, some lines from the |