The platform of the station was lined up with Indians having various trinkets for sale, more or less authentic. The rich tint of the Indian complexion, especially among the younger women and children, exactly harmonized with the bright light and vivid surroundings of the desert beyond and the flowers near by. There was a graceful Indian Madonna there, with her chubby baby boy, that any artist might covet to paint. Our kodaks were unable to snap them off, for the moment the drop of the camera was on them the Indian mothers gathered their brood under their shawls and wraps, just as a hen would gather her chickens under her wings from a hawk. There is a widespread superstition among primitive people that some evil may be wrought to a person by working enchantment upon his or her likeness or image. This is fearfully brought out in Dante Gabriel Rossetti's poem, "Sister Helen." The poet discovers to us, in some ancient castle, Sister Helen and her little brother. The child speaks and the sister replies in this fashion: "Why do you melt your waxen man, Sister Helen? To-day is the third since you began." "The time was long, yet the time ran, Little brother." (_O Mother, Mary Mother,_ _Three days to-day, between Hell and Heaven!_) "But if you have done your work aright, Sister Helen, You'll let me play, for you said I might." "Be very still in your play to-night, Little brother." (_O Mother, Mary Mother,_ _Third night, to-night, between Hell and Heaven!_) "You said it must melt ere vesper bell, Sister Helen; If now it be molten, all is well." "Even so,--nay, peace! you cannot tell, Little brother." (_O Mother, Mary Mother,_ _O what is this, between Hell and Heaven!_) In this weird fashion the poem moves along. The whole story of the wronged Sister Helen and her false lover, upon whose waxen image she works her spell, is told us, until at last, the waxen image consumed, the child with his pure, innocent eyes sees the wraith of the dead man cross the threshold of the apartment where they are. The child exclaims: "See, see, the wax has dropped from its place, Sister Helen, And the flames are running up apace." "Yet here they burn but for a space, Little brother!" (_O Mother, Mary Mother,_ _Here for a space, between Hell and Heaven!_) "Ah! what white thing at the door has cross'd, Sister Helen? Ah! what is this that sighs in the frost?" "A soul that's lost as mine is lost, Little brother!" (_O Mother, Mary Mother,_ _Lost, lost, all lost, between Hell and Heaven!_) As we looked at the Indian women cuddling up their babes from the shot of the camera, we saw an evidence of those deep and widespread superstitions which make the whole world kin.