Though this natural garden has long harbored various tribes, the length of the Havasupais’ tenancy and origin is uncertain. They are possible akin to the Wallapis and Yumas. Their history tells of a slow drifting northward from the Tonto basin, then the San Francisco peaks, and later, the Grand Canyon. Their skin is intensely brown, almost mulatto, their short, black hair in ill-kempt thatches. Having long known bitter poverty, they lack the beautiful silver trappings of their northern neighbors. The tribe has dwindled to a few hundred people. For years they had to travel more than a hundred miles to a government physician; consequently tubercular ulcers, trachoma and other revolting diseases ravaged the tribe, leaving the fortunate survivors so unbeautiful to behold, and unpleasant to live among that reservation agents, often inferior themselves, treated them with scant sympathy or open contempt. The men are fair farmers, and the women rival the Pomos in basketry, but their remoteness prevents their making a living thereby. Their lovely valley is too narrow for the sheep grazing of the Navajos, and no oil wells have made them millionaires, like the Cherokees. With the winter floods, their life becomes meager and rheumatic. The government seems to assume that the unimportant handful, so inconveniently remote, is likely to die out soon,--so why trouble about them? [Illustration: PANORAMA OF HAVASUPAI CANYON, ARIZONA.] Visitors are so rare that we were the centre of an admiring group on the agent’s lawn. Havasupai from nine months to ninety years freely commented on our every move. They imitated us as we ate apricots, and imitated us as we threw away the pits. The chief’s wife, a bride from the Wallapi, centered her fascinated gaze on Toby, and nearly sent that young lady into hysterics by faithfully repeating every word and inflection she uttered. Though of the sincerest flattery, this mimicry finally palled, and we made our way to what we had been told was a secluded nook of the river, where we might bathe unmolested. Seclusion was essential, as we had to bathe as the small boy does, sans clothes and sans reproche. We found the nook, the river shaded by dense osiers, but its shore bordering the main street of the village. Several Havasupai rode by our swimming hole, and we ducked, in danger, like some of Toby’s films, of overexposure. Their heads turned as gentlemen’s naturally would in such circumstances,--or, not to be ambiguous,--away. These Havasupai, though dirty and unread, were gentlemen, according to the definition of a certain Pullman porter I once met. Being about to descend from an upper berth on a crowded sleeper I had inquired of the porter if the berth below was occupied. “Yas’m,” the porter replied. “A man, lady. But he’s a gen’lman. He’s turned his face to the wall. An’ now he is a shuttin’ his eyes. Take youah time, lady.”