Oriental or not, the origins of Taos are clouded with antiquity. Coronado was the first Aryan to visit this ancient pueblo, and we, to date, were the last. The same gentle courtesy met us both. We were given the freedom of the village, invited into the houses, and allowed to climb to the roof-tops, with the governor’s pretty little daughter as our guide. Taos, like all pueblos, has a republican form of government, and a communal life which works out very peaceably. Annually the two candidates for governor run a foot-race, one from each division of the town, and the political race is indeed to the swift. Perhaps they get as good governors by that method as by our own. Taos, like all Gaul, is divided into tres partes, quarum unam the Cubists incolunt. No place could be more ideal for an artist’s colony, with scenery unsurpassed, air clear and sparkling, living inexpensive, picturesque models to be had cheaply, and little adobe houses simply asking to become studios. San Geronimo de Taos, on the Pueblo Creek belongs to the Indians. Ranchos de Taos, where a fine old mission church, bulwarked with slanting plaster buttresses has stood since 1778, at the lower end of the straggling town, is given over to Mexicans. The middle section, once famous as the home town of Kit Carson, proclaims by its blue and lavender doorways, mission bells, fretted balconies and latticed windows, the wave of self-consciousness that had inundated American Taos. But it has its own charm and adapts itself admirably to the native dwellings. Kit Carson’s old home, facing a magnificent view over the river, has become a sumptuous studio; and scaling down from that to the most humble loft over a stable, every available nook in the town is commandeered by artists, where every style of art is produced from canvasses out-niggling Meissonier to the giddy posters of the post-post-impressionists. Regardless of results, they are lucky artists who have the pleasant life and brisk ozone of Santa Fé in the winter, enjoy the picturesque Indian dances in spring and fall, and in summer paint and loaf in the purple glory of the Taos mountains, cooled by frosty air blowing from the two and a half mile snow line. [Illustration: ARTIST’S STUDIO IN TAOS, NEW MEXICO. No place could be more ideal for an artist colony.] [Illustration: CORONADO WAS THE FIRST WHITE MAN TO VISIT THIS ANCIENT PUEBLO AT TAOS, NEW MEXICO.] CHAPTER XIV SAYING GOOD-BY TO BILL As the spring sun daily pushed the snow line higher up toward the peaks of the Sangre de Cristo, and the time approached when we must leave Santa Fé, Toby and I grew sad at heart. We knew we must begin to think of saying good-by to Bill.