A week later, when the town of San Felipe gave a “corn dance,” we found another instance of the thoroughness with which the Pueblo jumbles his religions. Through the old white plaza, dazzling with color, dividing its lively crowds impartially between the lemonade stand at one end, and the draped altar at the other, we made our way to the old church which looks through an avenue of blossoming cottonwood on to a gentle blue and green landscape picked out by the meanderings of the Rio Grande. Meanwhile the dance in the Plaza had begun. Almost within sight of the stamping, chanting rows of Squash and Turtle clans, the men naked to the waist with long hair flowing, the women’s black-clad bodies and bare arms swaying, the congregation slipped in to the cool interior of the church, and, dressed in the gorgeous clothes and jewels they wore to honor their native gods, listened respectfully to a visiting Bishop, and knelt in prayer with accustomed reverence. They saw no incongruity in it, and neither do I, so long as good Christians throw spilled salt over their left shoulder, or wish on the moon. Yet it made a delightful contrast,--the little brown boys in their white robes intoning with the nasality of altar boys the world over, plus the Indian’s special brand of nasality; the quiet attention of the drifting congregation, and outside, the noise, color and sunshine; the bands of giddy bucks sprawling on painted ponies, the cool lovely valley beyond, and at its heart, the power which brought all these elements together,--sluggish old Rio Grande, taking its time on its everlasting journey to the Gulf.