reading of it will not only lend a living interest to these places, but yield a world of information as to the mind and customs of the Pueblo Indians. Visitors have the School of American Archaeology at Santa Fe to thank for the painstaking work of excavation extending over years, that uncovered many of these ancient dwelling places of their centuries of accumulated debris. To return to Española. Ten miles to the eastward in the valley of the Santa Cruz river is the quaint little church of Santuario, a sort of New Mexican Lourdes, famous these many years for its miraculous cures. A trip thither makes a noteworthy day’s outing. It may be done by automobile over a road of many tribulations, but a horse and buggy are more satisfactory and far more in keeping with the primitive country. My own visit was achieved on foot, eased by a lift of a couple of miles from a kindly Mexican on horseback, who set me up behind him, _en ancas_, as they call it. It was mid-August—a season which in northern New Mexico is as sunshiny and showery as a sublimated Eastern April. The intense blue of the sky was blotted here and there with piled-up cloud masses, which broke at times in streamers of rain upon the purple ranges of the Sangre de Cristo ahead of me—and after that, descending shafts of light. As soon as I had crossed the Rio Grande and Española was behind me, I was in pure Mexico. The Santa Cruz Valley is an agricultural region, but it is the agriculture of centuries ago that is in vogue there. Wheat, for instance, is trodden out by horses, sheep or goats, on outdoor threshing floors of beaten earth, winnowed by tossing shovelfuls into the air, washed of its grit and dirt in the nearest _acéquia_, then spread out in the sun to dry, and finally ground in primitive little log mills whose rumbling stones are turned by tiny water wheels. Little New Mexican Davids, bare of foot and dreamy-eyed, loiter along behind their nibbling flocks in the stubble of the shorn fields or the wild herbage of the river bottom. Peaches and melons, onions and corn, lie drying on the roofs, and strips of meat hang “jerking” from stretched lines in the _plazitas_ of the houses. The cross is still a dominant feature in this land of yesterday. Now it glitters on the belfry of the family chapel among the trees of some ranch; now it is outlined against the sky on the crest of a hill, a _calvario_ of the Penitentes;[16] now it crowns a heap of stones by the wayside, where a funeral has stopped to rest.