I lay lazily on the slanting prow of the punt, the sun burnt down on my back, and I wondered whether one would be content to live all one’s days in a boat drifting along somnolently in the sun. Dick more active, with an improvised paddle, thought he was making the boat go. Narrow canoes slipped past us, full to the brim with scarlet carnations. Our guide proved to be efficient and friendly. He took us to a restaurant on an island, where we had an unedible luncheon, which we shared with about eight famished dogs. Our table was under an arbor on a bridge at the junction of three streams. Nearby we landed, and were shown an electric plant which never interests me, and a garden that was enchanting but more Dutch than ever. Trees were clipped into bird shapes, and some climbing monkeys. The place was dense with strange sad looking Indians, who were digging out a canal. We lingered on the lakes until nearly four o’clock, and then our guide, devoted to the end, insisted we should visit the village church. The doors were wide open, but from the brilliant sun outside ones eyes had to accustom themselves to the dimness within. There were a few Indian women kneeling on the wooden floor, and some sort of chant was going on. One woman was intoning in a shrill flat metallic voice. The crudest painted figures of the Christ dressed in white muslin “shorts” edged with lace; face and body covered with blood; hair black and matted: legs emaciated and contorted, stared out at us from every corner. Dick suddenly exclaimed in a terrified whisper “I _must_ go--I’ve got to go--” and made for the sunlight at full speed with resonant steps. I followed him, and out in the court yard was a rickety Crucifix with human legbones tied crossways on it. Louise commented, and Dick quick to overhear, asked: “Are they real bones...? What is a Crucifix? What is it for...? Why...? Tell me about Christ, please tell me, tell me about Christ,” and as we waited on a seat in the Public Garden, for the tramway, Dick insisted upon hearing the whole story of Christ. He says his prayers to God, and the two have no connection in his mind. And now I realize what Dick’s first and earliest impression of Christ will be, it is indelible,... SUNDAY, JULY 10, 1921.--_Mexico City._ I have at last found a friend. She is an English woman, married to a Mexican. I met her in England, but never realized she lived in Mexico. Great was my surprise and pleasure, when she made a sign of life to me. Through her I have come in touch with the English and American Colony. They are very nice to me, and anxious to help me to see all there is to see. My Anglo-Mexican friends had a picnic lunch for me today, at their place in Tocubaya just outside the City. It is called “The Molino” and is the oldest mill in America, North or South. They hold the titles of the estate from the first Viceroy.