ly an easy motor ride from your hotel?" If Santa Fe, as it is, were
known to the big general public, 200,000 tourists a year would find
delight within its purlieus; and while I like the places untrodden by
travelers, still--being an outsider, myself,--I should like the
outsiders to know the same delight Santa Fe has given me.

To finish with the things of the mundane, you strike in to Santa Fe from
a desolate little junction called Lamy, where the railroad has built a
picturesque little doll's house of a hotel after the fashion of an old
Spanish mansion. To reach the Jemez Forests where the ruins of the Cave
Dwellers exist, you can drive or motor (to certain sections only) or
ride. As the distance is forty miles plus, you will find it safer and
more comfortable to drive. If you take a driver and a team, and keep
both over two days, it will cost you from $10 to $14 for the round trip.
If you go in on a burro, you can buy the burro outright for $5 or $10.
(Don't mind if your feet do drag on the ground. It will save being
pitched.) If you go out with the American School of Archaeology (Address
Santa Fe for particulars) your transportation will cost you still less,
perhaps not $2. Once out, in the canyons of the Cave Dwellers, you can
either camp out with your own tenting and food; or put up at Judge
Abbott's hospitable ranch house; or quarter yourself free of charge in
one of the thousands of cliff caves and cook your own food; or sleep in
the caves and pay for your meals at the ranch. At most, your living
expenses will not exceed $2 a day. If you do your own cooking, they need
not be $1 a day.

One of the stock excuses for Americans not seeing their own country is
that the cost is so extortionate. Does this sound extortionate?

* * * * *

I drove out by livery because I was not sure how else to find the way.
We left Santa Fe at six A. M., the clouds still tingeing the sand-hills.
I have heard Eastern art critics say that artists of the Southwest laid
on their colors too strongly contrasted, too glaring, too much brick red
and yellow ocher and purple. I wish such critics had driven out with me
that morning from Santa Fe. Gregoire Pedilla, the Mexican driver, grew
quite concerned at my silence and ran off a string of good-natured
nonsense to entertain me; and all the while, I wanted nothing but quiet
to revel in the intoxication of shifting color. Twenty miles more or
less, we rattled over