llars; for a patient who has been cured
or helped is expected to send a little model, in precious metal, of
the part of him that needed mending. At intervals these offerings are
melted up for the altar service and decorations, and few churches in
America have such resplendent candlesticks, chalices, draperies and
vestments. The altar is of silver plates, and the gold cross upon
it weighs thirteen pounds. Pilgrims to Hormigueros go from all parts
of the West Indies. They are lodged, free of charge, in an old house
behind the church, each cripple or invalid receiving a bed and chair,
but no food. The pilgrims must supply their own sustenance. On entering
the church, in procession, they are sprinkled with water from the
Jordan, and then kneel before the cross, where the cures are worked.

The Mermaids

In dime museums and county fairs one may still find among the
"attractions" a mermaid, dried and stuffed, consisting of the upper
half of a monkey artlessly joined to the lower half or two-thirds of
a codfish, the monkey's head usually adorned with a handful of oakum
or horse-hair. When this kind of thing was first exhibited by the
lamented P. T. Barnum, it is just possible that some bumpkin really
believed it to be a mermaid, but the invention has become so common
of late that it is found in the curio-shops of every town, and as
an eye-catching device is often put into show-cases by some merchant
who deals in anything rather than mermaids. Trite and ridiculous as
this patchwork appears, it symbolizes a belief of full three thousand
years. Men have always been prone to fill with imaginations what they
have never sounded with their senses, and it is to this tendency we
owe poetry and the arts. The sea was a mystery, and is so still. It
was easy to people its twilight depths with forms of grace and beauty
and power, for surely the denizens taken from it were strange enough
to warrant strange beliefs.

And so the old faith in men and women who lived beneath the water
was passed down from generation to generation, and from race to race,
changing but little from age to age. Ulysses stopped the ears of his
crew with wax that they should not hear the sirens luring them toward
the rocks as his ship sailed by, and knowing the magic of their song
had himself bound to the mast, so, hearing the ravishing music, he
might not escape if he would. In a later day we hear of the Lorelei
singing on her rock, striking chords on her