Then Sus-quat-i-mi arose, and in heavy and somewhat pompous speech said: "Many years ago our white brother made my sun-picture at Peach Springs. He has eaten tunas, mescal, pinion nuts, and corn at my hawa. We have slept side by side under the same stars, and the same wind has played with his beard and my hair. I know him. He knows me. His words are straight. When he made my sun-picture he said it would do me no harm, and here I am, after several snows, and I am as well as ever. He shall make more sun-pictures of me to-morrow, and I will sing for him and dance the war-dance of my people." Big Water and the others followed and my aim was accomplished. Next morning we set forth,--Puchilowa, my friend and photographer, Mr. C. C. Pierce, of Los Angeles, and myself,--laden down with four cameras and an abundance of plates and films. We succeeded in getting many photographs, some of which are here reproduced. But at one camp, an old woman, the grandmother, doubtless, of two children left in her care, refused to be pictured. She covered herself up and bade the children hide their faces, but their curiosity overcame their fears and they were "caught." Poor old Leve-leve and his wife were found, both of them nearly blind, in their miserable hawa, a mile or so from Kingman. I had some useful medicament for their eyes, and although it hurt dreadfully, they both patiently bore the pain while I gave their eyes treatment. By the side of the old man was his gourd rattle, which the shaman had left to help him drive away sickness, and for hours the old man sat quietly singing and rattling, endeavoring to get rid of the evil powers that were cursing him. While I made a picture of him in the dark hut, his wife went into an inner room and soon returned clad in an elaborately fringed apron of buckskin. This was her ceremonial costume, made by Leve-leve for her as the mother of the tribe, when she led the annual dance of thanksgiving for the corn and melon harvest. Sus-quat-i-mi was as good as his word, and I not only secured some excellent photographs of him, but he sang for me into the graphophone some of his ceremonial songs. The Wallapais' war-song is a stirring and exciting one, and it conveys us back to the days when their primitive weapons were in use. After an incitation to anger against the foe it bids the warriors "get rocks and tie them up in buckskins; make of them fierce and deadly battle-hammers, with which smite and kill your foes. Take the horns of the buck and sharpen them, and with them seek the hearts of your enemies with blows skilful and strong."