ourneyed to our home at El Tovar sixty miles away to appeal
to White Mountain for aid.

The valley is fertile, and all sorts of fruits and vegetables thrive. In
fact the natives live on what they raise in their haphazard way. They
have a rude system of irrigation which carries water to every little
garden. One other thing grows in abundance there--dogs! Such a flock of
surly, mangy mongrels one would have to travel far to find. I don't know
what they live on, for I never saw one of them being fed.

"Big sing tonight," said one of the squaws squatting by our campfire.

"What is a sing, Dottie?"

"Much sing and dance. Medicine man drive away bad spirit from blind
man."

Of course we were present at the "sing," although I would never have
called it that. An old half-blind Indian afflicted with granulated
eyelids was the victim. The night was chilly, but he was clothed only in
a look of resignation. The medicine man had a shot-filled gourd, a bunch
of dried herbs, and an unlimited capacity for howling. First of all the
patient was given a "sweat bath." He was put into a little teepee made
of willows closely covered with burlap. Hot rocks were introduced and a
pan of water thrown on them. More rocks and more water went inside until
the poor Indian could stand it no longer. He came forth choking and
gasping with the perspiration running from him. Buckets of cold water
were then dashed over him and the medicine man got busy beating him over
the head with the bunch of herbs, keeping up an unearthly screeching.
This would last until morning, they said, but my interest flagged just
about the time the priest found his second wind, and I retired.

Five beautiful waterfalls are scattered down the valley, and I was most
anxious to visit these. For some reason Wattahomigie hung back and we
had trouble in persuading him to take us there. He reluctantly
accompanied us when he saw we intended to go either with him or without.
His attitude was explained when we were well along the trail; some freak
of formation has made great sounding boxes of the Canyon, and these
gather the noises of the water and the wind and return them again in
shrieks of demoniacal laughter, barking of dogs, and sounds of talking
and singing. It is startling to say the least, and no amount of
explaining would convince Wattahomigie that it is not the revel hall of
departed Indian spirits. The sun is lost there at midday, and darkness
settles down soon after.