PAPAGO PILGRIMAGE

SKETCHES BY THE AUTHOR

than faith. They ask for help or a favor-it has been granted, or they pray and hope that it may be granted. Maybe they have asked for the regaining of the health of their mother, or the return of sight for their little sister-or maybe just to help their father keep from drinking too much, so he will bring the pay-check home. Or to keep the son in the army safe during the war, so that he may return again to his home in the village. It is not important what has been asked, a small favor or a great help-the wish has been granted, so now they keep their promise. What did they promise? Well, anything-a sacrifice or hardship in honor of their saint-that they would walk on their knees the last few miles to the church-or that they would wear the brown robe of St. Francis, never taking it off, for maybe a week, or maybe a year, or until it wore out. Or perhaps they promised him money, a gold ring, or simply a ly a candle or a prayerthey will make good their promise sincerely.

Once they arrive in Magdelena they must go first to the church. Later they celebrate, eat, sing, dance, fight, and maybe get in jail. Makes no difference what happens, St. Francis is on their side. The spirit of fiesta is everywhere in Magdelena. Temporary booths and shelters clutter the plaza and surround the church. Loud, blaring music, mariachis playing and singing across the plaza all day and all night, men, women and children drinking. Everybody attends church-but more time is spent in drinking. The people are at their very best and very worst. Excited dogs wander in and out of the cantinas where the men are singing. Groups of Indian women, with bright shawls drawn over their heads, sit patiently waiting for their men, holding sleeping children.

Once in front of the church, the group that came together now become individuals. It's like birth and death-each one alone to face his patron saint. You-the Indian-are about to walk in and talk to St. Francis. But first you stop at a booth near the entrance there you dedicate a song to him, a popular Mexican song of the day-over the loudspeaker. It's by way of announcing that you-the Indian-are on your way in. Now you buy a candle -you stop-the noisy rattle of a Yaqui deer dancer attracts your attention. You watch-your mind is a blank-you throw a coin to him. You walk to the church door. The church is full of people-it is hot-your hand is sweatingyou feel self-conscious-you wish you had a drink. As you move inside there are people everywhere. There is a musty smell of dampness-candles and sweat from human bodies-you have experienced this before, but not quite so strong-you feel good inside-but sad. Everyone is quiet. You think-why, with so many people around do I feel so alone? You move a little, you see the priestsaints-candles. Now you feel a big weight in your heart as you stare at the altar. You think-the high mass-it will be truly out of this world-more beautiful than any you have ever seen. The priest's talk is like angels' talk-in a strange and mysterious language. Actually you hear music-angel music-voices lamenting. These thoughts move you-you wipe your sweaty hands on your Levis. You move a little closer-there is St. Francis! Flowers, beautiful flowers-and candles burning around him. People praying. Yes, he is lying down-just the way you expected to see him. Maybe he is resting-maybe he is just too tired because people like yourself have been asking favors. Then you remember the friendly joke about St. Francis-you have heard it many times-because he is Always lying down they call him “Sleepy Head” (El Flojo).

You are now close to him. There is an old woman with a rosary in her hand, others kneeling and praying, many just crowded around. They are all quiet-not to startle him-they are sad. You see lipstick all over himthey kiss him because they love him-they pray to him because they worship him. Some drop money and jewels in the collection box-it is a huge old bank safe. They give him the best they can afford. The atmosphere around St. Francis is soothing and gratifying-it makes it easy to talk to St. Francis. You take one more step, and you are face to face with your saint-you forget all about the people around you-it is you and the saint alone-you light your candle and touch him-tears fill your eyes-you are choked. You slowly kneel-you try to swallow, but all your emotions are tied in your throat. You lower your head, make the sign of the cross, clasp your hands tightly and say a prayer-you talk to him in Papago. St. Francis understands-you know he feels your presence. You slowly rise-kiss his robe-put your hands under his head and gently raise him. Almost everyone does this, it is said that a child can raise him-it proves your faith-yet the strongest man cannot lift him without faith. Again you make the sign of the cross, clasp your hands, and walk away with a bowed head. Your mind is filled with St. Francis. You will come back again next year-you feel good because you have talked personally with him. Your conscience is pure and clear-your manda of faith is complete. As you leave the church you give alms to the beggars that surround you. You turn and bid adios to St. Francis-patron saint to you-the Indian.

Story by EWALD A. STEIN R. Furrington Elwell

The extraordinary ability which is the hallmark of genius takes many forms. In the scientist it may be a problemsolving talent which seems to sense correct answers. In the doctor it may come to light as a manner which commands the complete confidence of patients. In the orator it may be the power to sway an audience with no apparent effort. In the work of the artist, R. Farrington Elwell, it is revealed as an ability to reproduce on paper, on canvas or in clay, scenes and objects in living likeness. At a time when the creative world seems cluttered with an overabundance of daubs, smears and tortured forms, it is a refreshing experience to present an artist who in the tradition of the old masters possesses the rare ability to produce beautiful works of art which accurately portray the original as seen by the eye. The ability to paint or sculpture in actual likeness appears to be a vanishing art, but not for R. Farrington Elwell. From the day in his youth when he attempted his first sketch, his has been a lifetime of devotion to the single purpose of recording in exquisite true-to-life form, each detail of the objects of his translations. "Bob," as he is known to his friends, is a man who burns with zeal for his work. A self-taught artist, he began drawing as a very young child. He formally began his career as an illustrator shortly after graduating from grade school at the age of fifteen. His parents-a contractor father who painted marine