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"Saints forbid, Señorita!" said Paula, who had no love for the mysterious, and who was more Mexic than Porno, "there are demons and devils there!" "Yes, I doubt not, Paula," said Tharon grimly. "They say Courtrey knows th' Cañons, an' when he's there, it's peopled, an' no mistake! "But it must be beautiful beautiful!
The sun had turned to the west in its majestic course and Tharon, the noon work over, drew up the spindle-legged stool and sat down to play to herself and Anita. The old woman, half Mexic, half Indian, drowsed in a low chair by the eastern window, her toil-hard hands clasped in her lap, a black reboso over her head, though the day was warm as summer.
Of this beautiful thing Tharon had stood in awe from babyhood. A half fearful reverence bowed her before it on those rare times when Anita, throwing back to her Mexic ancestors, worshipped with vague rites at its feet. Always its waxen hands bore offerings, silent tribute from the girl's still nature. Sometimes these were the prairie flowers, little wild things, sweet and fragile.
And in these rocks for us did frame A temple where to sound His name. Oh! let our voice His praise exalt, Till it arrive at heaven's vault, Which then, perhaps rebounding, may Echo beyond the Mexic bay. "So sang they in the English boat, A holy and a cheerful note; And all the way, to guide their chime, With falling oars they kept the time."
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