And who can say that art is not more universal than riches, when an illiterate saloonkeeper recognizes the signature of a writer, but does not know the name of a wealthy railway president? The schoolhouse was a half mile from Sissons, and some of the pupils came a distance of five or six miles. The building was situated in a heavy growth of pine and fir trees, and through this mass of great columns could be seen the fourteen thousand feet of Shasta. Four sugar pines growing in a square had been chosen as a basis and cut down so that the stumps made a foundation. On this the schoolhouse was built of the newly cut trees, leaving a space below which at once became the favorite hiding place of truants. The pupils, of which there were thirteen, were of all ages, ranging from Ivy Sisson, five years old, to Dick White, a Hat Creek Indian of twenty-one. There were six Sullivans—girls in their teens, and Sammy, about eight. The first day’s examination proved that I had a class of varied accomplishments. Dick White could draw, paint, and play the violin well enough to be the musician at all the dances, but had no capacity for book learning and would not obey orders. In the midst of the examination he calmly walked out of the room and went home. The rest of the pupils were at various stages of “readin’, writin’, ’rithmetic,” until it came to Ivy. She piped up: “I know letters, read words, and can spell. I know my Primer to O. O—x (looking at the picture); that spells ‘cow.’” “No, no, Ivy,” I said. “Look again and tell me what o—x spells.” She pursed her lips, searched in the book, and then, with the most cherubic expression on her face, looked up at me and said: “Damned if I know.” These children of nature had never seen a bible, never went to church (in fact, there was not a place of worship within forty miles), and yet they came to school dressed in the latest fashions—gowns made of material and patterns that had come from New York. Sitting on the rough pine seats of this rustic, primitive school, these girls seemed like little princesses of some fairy tale—that is, until they spoke. I made up my mind that it was my duty to teach them—no creed—but a knowledge of the Bible. The announcement was made by me that those who chose to give up the Wednesday half holiday would be told stories and shown drawings of people who lived thousands and thousands of years ago. The first week they all stayed out of curiosity, and after that nothing on earth could have kept them away from such things as: “A long time ago a king of one tribe got into a fight with another tribe. On one king’s side was a boy named David.” Then the story of the challenge and pictures of each one. Continuing: “What do you suppose they had in the way of guns? David had a pouch tied around his waist, and a sling.” “What’s a sling?”