Nevertheless, in autumn, when the harvest is over, one may see the dilapidated little figure of Saint Francis borne about the pueblo on the eve of the "Feast of the Dead;" and one may see here and there candles burning, or such poor substitutes for them as the Indians can get; and here and there also old rosaries and a few brass crucifixes revealed. Before they fell, one heard, as the night wore on, the ancient church bells hammered; and half forgotten, wholly unintelligible phrases of church Latin chanted. But all this is not in memory of a "saint's day," as would seem, or as one would be told were he injudiciously to inquire. It is the feast and drama of the beloved dead of all days past. And whilst the dead of long, very long ago, must first be summoned by means of their ancient relics which best they knew--the tribal medicines and fetiches, and the songs to them belonging--yet the "old ones of the míssa times knew also these things of the míssa; and so, that they be lured near and come not as strangers, but find means of recognition and movement (manifestation) to us, and happily receive our offerings of food to the fire, they must (in place of the summoning songs and drums and rattles) hear the church bells and chants of the Spaniards and see the things which they, perforce, held to most familiarly and with least fear and secrecy in times of festival while yet they lived in daylight." I need not add that this fully accounts for the contradictory behavior of the Indians in reference to the old church, the burial ground, and other things pertaining to it. The church could not be rebuilt. It had been dead so long that, rehabilitated, it would be no longer familiar to the "fathers" who in spirit had witnessed its decay. Nor could it be taken suddenly away. It had stood so long that, missing it, they would be sad, or might perhaps even abandon it.