After serving us with supper, the missionary invited us to a prayer meeting in his parlor. Four Indians and two babies comprised the prayer meeting. Slicked up and awkward, their faces shining with soap, they proved once more that clothes make the man. An Indian who is terrifying and dignified in beaded buckskin is only stolid in overalls and necktie. To the tune of a parlor melodeon they dismally sang “Brighten Up the Corner Where You Are,” though it was obvious from their expressions and the wails of the babies that if it were left to them the Corner would stay just as it Was. I could not help wondering, with all respect to the sincerity of our host, what advantage there was in offering Billy Sunday’s elementary twaddle to a people whose language is so subtle that a verb paradigm often has 1500 forms. But surely, when the Indian is taught to discard his own arts and crafts and culture, let us give him substitutes of an equally high standard from our viewpoint. Pater might pass over his head, but Poor Richard would not, for his homely commonsense would find an echo in the Indian’s own native philosophy. Probably the most valuable thing the missionary and his wife had to offer they thought the least of,--their warm friendliness and human interest in each convert and backslider, their folksy neighborliness with red people, and the unconscious example of their straightforward lives. Keams Canyon is only eleven miles from the first mesa, and our car was soon climbing dunes of sand toward the base of the long, bold mesa on which Walpi is built. From below we could hardly discern the tiny villages perched on the cliff, so perfectly were the buildings fused with the gray rock itself, both in color and mass. Even the black specks which marked the position of doors and windows seemed like natural crevices in the rock. Mont St. Michel is the only other place I know where architecture is so completely one with its foundations. As we climbed to Polacca, the Indian hamlet at the base of Walpi, the ruts became so deep that at the last we were buried to the hubs. A dozen little Indians, giggling and shy like boys the world over, ran to help us push, but their help was of little value. All our questions, though they are taught English at school, passed over their heads, and their replies were limited to “Yes” or “No,” shouted so hoarsely that we jumped involuntarily whenever they spoke. For an hour we chopped brush in the broiling sun, backed and shifted gears till the wheels caught at last, and we plunged up hill to the trader’s. He told us we were the first of a dozen cars stalled there that week to extricate ourselves. The village seemed deserted as we passed through. Finally we met with a red-haired man with a vague chin who advised us to camp near the spring, to which he promised to direct us. “Everybody in town seems to have gone to the next mesa,” commented Toby.