And that reminds me of a now not undistinguished artist who once accompanied a small party of mine some years ago to the Snake Dance at Oraibi. I came down to camp one day and found him cooking several slices of our finest ham, dishing up our choicest and scarcest vegetables, crackers, and delicacies, with a large pot of our most expensive coffee simmering and steaming by the camp-fire; and when I asked, "For whom?" was coolly told it was for three lazy, fat, lubberly, dirty Oraibis, who sat in delightful anticipation around the pump close by. My objection to this use of our provisions was expressed in forceful and vigorous Anglo-Saxon, and when I was told it was "none of my business," I emphasized my objection with a distinct refusal to allow _my_ provisions to be thus used. Then for half an hour immediately afterwards, and for days subsequently, at intervals, I was regaled with vocal chastisement worthy to be ranked with Demosthenes' "Philippics." "The Indian was a man and a brother. We were Christians, indeed, and of a truth when we would see our poor red brother starve to death before our sight," etc., _ad libitum_. Now between my artist friend's course and the one first named the happy mean lies. I do not believe we should give to the Indian only the scraps that fall from our national table; neither, on the other hand, do I believe we are called upon to give him the very best of our foods and provide special coffee at seventy-five cents a pound. And this sermon has occupied our time, by the way, as we have walked up the trail, by the Mashonganavi kivas to a spot from which we gain a good view of the village and of Shipauluvi on its higher and detached pinnacle a mile farther back. Again descending the trail to the terrace below, we walk half a mile and then begin the ascent of a steep stone stairway, carefully constructed, that leads us directly to Shipauluvi. This is a small town, occupying almost the whole of the dizzy site, with its few houses built around its rectangular plaza. Here I was once present at a witchcraft trial. It was a complicated affair, in which the dead and living, Navahoes and Hopis, were intertwined. A Hopi woman accused a Navaho of having bewitched her husband, thus causing his death, and of stealing from him a blanket and some sheep. The evidence showed that the Navaho had met the Hopi, and that soon afterwards he was taken sick and died, whereupon the sheep and blanket were found in the possession of the Navaho. There was little doubt of its being a case of theft, and the Navaho was ordered to return sheep and blanket, but he was exonerated from the charge of witchcraft.