Nothing quainter or more picturesque can be imagined than this, to European ideas, queerest of methods of locomotion. The bullock gallops clumsily enough, but seems to fancy himself immensely in his rather novel character of horse. If, perchance, you meet a dozen or so of these singular equestrians, you are likely to retain a pleasant recollection of their picturesqueness to your dying day.[15] But let us hasten, or else we shall lose our Guajiro and Guajira in the crowd in the _fiesta_, and that would be a sad pity. Their first duty is to go to church, where we shall see them praying with pathetic sincerity before the illuminated shrine of Our Lady of the Cobre or of Guadalupe. No philosophical doubt haunts the consciences of these good folk. God and His Blessed Mother hear every word they say to Them, and, as they are on very friendly terms with the Powers that be, they place their affairs most frankly before Them, firmly believing that if they do their best to keep straight, according to their lights, their prayers will surely be heard, else why pray at all? They have a good deal to pray for. The Guajiro slily asks that he may be inspired to bet on the winning cock, and the Guajira has a yellow lottery ticket in her bosom, the number of which was selected at the instance of a notorious African witch. Now that was very wrong, and the Guajira's mind is not at all easy on the subject, for the new Cura, Padre Pablo has told her over and over again that Lolla, the witch, is a black limb of Satan, and that if things were as they ought to be, she would long ago have been burnt at the stake. But still, if Our Lady would but make that number win, there would be ten or twenty dollars to the good, and see what a lot of comforts that would enable her to get. And, besides that, is not the old Guajiro's grandmother, who is nearly a hundred, ill at home, and is she not always wanting medicine, and things that poor people cannot afford to buy, and, the children are really getting too old to go about without any clothing, especially Cassandrina, who is nearly seven years of age. But how is one to buy dresses, in these hard times, for growing wenches, even if they are one's own children, unless a little windfall drops into one's lap? Therefore, "O Most Pitiful Lady of the Cobre, ask your Son, whose image wears such a pretty frock of sky blue satin, with a golden fringe, to let old black Lolla's number win. _Por amor de Dios._"