No one has a keener appreciation than I of the artistic value of the Hopi pueblos—those old streets of worn rock where the bearded Spanish walked; the curious archways and the irregular little balconies from which children peer over at one; the thought of phantom Mission bells from the peach orchards. But I was not stupid enough to overlook that these same streets contained offal, that the houses were not ventilated, and that there were various unseemly stenches in the air. A tourist must leave his olfactory organs at home. And I knew, being in charge, that all the labor of industrious and conscientious field-matrons was not enough to keep those quaint streets and courtyards clean. I remember another visitor at another Snake Dance, a man sitting on the parapet of a Hopi kiva, looking down through the ladder entrance. I saw that a number of dancers were below there, preparing costumes. They had an array of skins and masks and feathers, with many cans of bright paints. “I suppose you know a good bit about that too?” I asked. “Well, I recognize some of the signs, common to Indian people.” “Shall we go down? You can give them a hand,” I suggested. “I should like to, very much; but—won’t they object?” “Perhaps I can arrange that,” and I started down the ladder. Several of the Indians glanced up, but, observing it was only Moungwi, said nothing. “Here!” I called to them. “Here is a real friend of yours. You may not know him, but he understands many tribes, and their ways, and their signs. Put him to work. He can help with those costumes.” One looked up from a robe he was painting, and thrust forward a brush and paints, as if to say: “Welcome, brother; fall to!” The white visitor showed a rare facility. The Indians noticed it. “You know him?” asked one, pointing to a design. “Yes,” he said, naming it.