On the morning of the ninth day the race of the young men occurs. This is an exciting scene. Long before sunrise the Hopis, and as many visitors as have climbed the mesa heights, huddle together or sleepily sit watching a point far off in the desert. It is from that region--one of the springs--the racers are to come. Soon they are seen in the far-away distance as tiny specks, moving over the tawny sand, and scarcely distinguishable. One morning I stayed below at the spring on the western side of the mesa to watch them. The whole line of the mesa-top ruled an irregular but clearly defined line against the morning sky. The air was clear and pure, sweet and cool. From the Gap to the end of the mesa upon which Walpi stands crowds of spectators were silhouetted against the sky. The background, seen from my low angle of vision, was a pure blue; above, the sky was mottled with white clouds. On every projecting point which afforded a view the spectators stood, tiny figures taken from a child's Noah's Ark, chunky bodies, with a crowning ball of wood for head. But even at that distance and against the coming sunlight the brilliant colors of the dresses of the Indians, men and women, were revealed. Every note in the gorgeous gamut of color was played in fantastic and unrestrained melody. At Walpi the spectators crowded the house-tops, which there overlook the very edge of the mesa. The point was crowded. The morning light was just touching the cliffs of the west when the sound of the coming bells was heard. Jingle, jingle, jingle, they came, growing in sound at every step. There was movement among the spectators, each one craning his neck to see the strenuous efforts of the runners. Jingle, jingle, jingle, louder and louder, showing that the strides of these runners are great; they are making rapid bites at the distance that intervenes between them and the goal. Now they can be individually discerned. Their reddish-brown bodies, long black hair streaming behind, sunflowers crowning some, heaving chests, tremendous strides, swinging gait, make a fascinating picture. Now they crowd each other on the sandy trail. A spurt is being made, and one of the rear men passes to the front and becomes the leader. From the mesa heights the shouts and cheers denote that his success has been observed. Others crowd along. The spectators become excited and cheer on their favorites. Now the foot of the steep portion of the trail is reached. Surely this precipitous ascent will abate their ardor and slacken their speed. The steps are high, and it is a rise of several hundred feet to the mesa-top. The very difficulties seem to spur them on to greater effort. With bounds like those of deer or chamois, up they fly, two steps at a time. The pace and ascent are killing, but they are trained to it, having spent their lives running over these hot sands and climbing these trails. To them a "rush" up the mesa heights is a part of their religious training. The