A few houses lay scattered about in the dim moonlight, and I with my chief man rode ahead.  “Ave Maria!” called out Catalino, knocking at the door of a hut.  “God give you a good night,” he continued, but there was no response.  After having in this way tried several huts, we at last succeeded in getting an answer, and learned where Crescencio Ruiz lived, to whom the priest in Pueblo Nuevo had given me a letter of introduction, and who was a kind of secretary to the Indians.  We now directed our steps toward his house, aroused him from his slumbers, and after some parleying brought him to the door.  He was a small-statured, kindly-looking man, a half-caste, who displayed a friendly manner and showed me where I could camp near his house.  As he was very talkative, it was late in the night before I could retire.

The name of the village is San Francisco de Lajas, the word laja (flat stone) referring to stones which abound in the neighbourhood.  The Indian name, “Eityam,” has the same meaning.  The next day many Indians came fearlessly and curiously up to see me.  They wore the ordinary dress of the working-class of Mexico, except that their flat straw hats were trimmed with black and red woollen ribbons and some flowers.  The women had flowers and leaves in their hair, which they wore in Mexican fashion, in two braids.  Some of the men had their hair put up in one braid and fastened at the end with a narrow hair-ribbon, but most of them had it cut short.  I was surprised to see many baldheaded men, some not over thirty years old.  Surely it must be more healthy for the hair to be worn long.

Fortunately for me the Indians had just come into the pueblo for a week to repair the old adobe church, in which work Don Crescencio greatly assisted them.  This man, nine years ago, was sent to the place as a teacher by the Mexican authorities in Durango.  On his arrival he was met at the old curato by 140 children, none of whom had ever seen a Mexican before, and, of course, they did not understand a word of Spanish.  They soon went back to their homes, and five days afterward the preceptor was left without a pupil.  He induced the parents to make the children return, and 48 came back.  Out of these, five remained with him for six months.  At the close of that period they were able to read and to write their names.  Of late years, however, teaching has been given up altogether.  The fact is that the Indians do not want schools, “because,” as an intelligent Huichol afterward told me, “our sons lose their native tongue and their ancient beliefs.  When they go to school, they do not want to worship the Sun and the Water any more.”  The white teacher’s aim should be to incite the desire for instruction rather than to force his pupils to listen to his teachings; not to destroy the Indian’s mental world, but to clear it and raise it into the sphere of civilisation.