Solomon, the only man in sight, took every opportunity to efface himself whenever the bargaining raised a cross-ruff of feeling. He even ducked around a corner when a very stout lady, having sold us all her pottery, again brought up the subject of our paying five dollars admission. We appeased her by offering her a bribe to carry our purchases down to the car. While we were still halfway down, lifting our feet laboriously from the heavy sand, we saw her, a tiny round dot, with the _ollas_ balanced above her floating turquoise scarf, stepping blithely and lightly over the desert floor. “What a pity we couldn’t get any pictures,” I said to Toby, as we raced a thunder-cloud back to Laguna. “H’m!” said Toby. “I took a roll of pictures while you kept them busy selling pottery. I got a beauty of the fat woman who made such a fuss. I must say it would be an improvement if half of _her_ passed into the camera.” CHAPTER XVI THE GRAND CANYON AND THE HAVASUPAI CANYON A glittering day, cool and sweet. Long shadows slanted through the scented Coconino Forest. The Gothic silences of the woods were clean of underbrush as an English park. Endless rows of pines had dropped thick mats of needles on the perfect road, so that our wheels made no sound. Beside these pines of northern Arizona our greener New England varieties seem mere scrubs. Then, unexpectedly, we passed the forest boundaries. Driving a few rods along the open road, we had our first sight of the Canyon at Grand View Point, with the sun setting over its amethyst chasm. Years before, stepping directly from an eastern train, like most tourists I had seen the Canyon as my first stunned inkling of the extraordinary scale on which an extravagant Creator planned the West. This time, Toby and I had the disadvantage of coming newly to it after being sated with the heaped magnificence of the Rockies. Would its vastness shrink? Would it still take our breath away? I don’t know why people want their breath taken away. In the end, they usually put up a valiant fight to keep it, but at other times, they constantly seek new ways to have it snatched from them. But we need not have worried about the Grand Canyon. It is big enough and old enough to take care of itself. It could drink up Niagara in one thirsty sip, and swallow Mt. Washington in a mouthful. It could lose Boston at one end, and New York at the other, and five Singer buildings piled atop each other would not show above the rim. Not that I mean to attempt a description of the Canyon. To date, millions have tried it, from the lady who called it pretty, to the gentleman who pronounced it a wonderful place to drop used safety razor blades. They all failed. The best description of the Grand Canyon is in one sentence, and was uttered by an author who had never bought a post-card in El Tovar. “What is man, that Thou art mindful of him!”