s to pay, literally--one of his ears for the ear of corn he has
eaten. Very few Hopi burros retain their original couple of ears.

The agents say that the time and strength consumed by the Indians in
going to and from their fields, and in carrying water up to the village,
could better be spent cultivating the crops. Therefore, many attempts
have been made to move the Hopis from their lofty homes on the crags to
Government houses on the level below. But they steadfastly refuse to be
moved.

Stand at the mesa edge and look out across the enchanting scene. To the
far south the snow-crowned San Francisco peaks rear their lofty heights.
To the north and east the sandy desert stretches away in heart-breaking
desolation, relieved only by the tiny green patches of peach trees and
corn fields. The blazing sun beats down appallingly. A purple haze
quivers over the world. But evening comes, and as the sun drops out of
sight a pink glow spreads over the eastern sky, giving a soft radiance
to the landscape below. Soon this desert glow fades, and shadows creep
nearer and nearer, until one seems to be gazing into the sooty depths of
a midnight sea. Turn again toward the village. Firelight darts upward
and dies to a glow; soft voices murmur through the twilight; a carefree
burst of laughter comes from a group of returned school children.

It suddenly dawns on one that this is the home of these people, their
home as it was their fathers' and their fathers' home before them. They
are contented and happy. Why leave their sun-kissed, wind-swept heights,
seven thousand feet high, for the scorching desert below?

The village was seething at the first hint of dawn on the day of the
actual snake dance. Crowding the dizzy mesa edges were masses of Indians
and whites drawn there for the ceremony. Somewhere, far below, through
the desert dawn, a score of young men were running the grilling race to
reach the village. The first to arrive would secure the sacred token
bestowed by the Head Priest. This would insure fruitful crops from his
planting next year and, perhaps more important, the most popular girl in
the village would probably choose him for a husband. We stood near our
squash-blossom girl, and the progress of the race was written on her
face. I knew her choice was among the runners, and when the first one to
arrive darted, panting, up to the priest and grasped the token, I knew
who was her choice!

The white visitors spent the forenoon