Compared with Walpi, the first two villages are neat and tidy, their interiors whitewashed clean, and little pots of flowers almost invariably on the window sills. The Indian love of flowers impressed us everywhere. House after house we entered, to receive a soft smile of welcome from the old grandfather squatted on the floor dangling a naked brown baby, or from the grandmother, busy with a bowl of clay which she shaped and painted with quick fingers, while she talked to us through her English-speaking daughter. In these Hopi houses, ropes of dark crimson jerked beef buzzing with flies fill the hot room with a fragrance loved only by the Indians; strings of wampum, worth sometimes two horses and a burro, rugs, native woven and of the gaudy Pendleton variety, coats, overalls, dried herbs and peppers hang from convenient beams. In another corner, in the older houses, is a row of two or three metate bins, for grinding corn, with a smooth round stone lying beside it. If one arrives during the season, he can witness the corn grinding ceremony. A Pueblo woman, loaded with beads and silver, stands behind each bin, which is filled with varied colored grains. In the corner an old man sits, beating the tombé in rhythmical strokes and singing the Song of the Corn Grinders, to which the women bend back and forth in perfect time, rubbing their flat stones over the corn. No man except the singer of the ceremonial song can be present in the room while this grinding is in process. To violate this rule is a grave offense. Most of the houses have a small Mexican fireplace in the corner. At the side of some rooms is a loom with a half finished rug on it, but this is becoming a rare sight. The Hopis, who originally were expert weavers and taught their art to the Navajos, gradually relinquished it to the Navajos, who were able to get a superior quality of wool. Now the Hopis trade their baskets and pottery to the Navajos for their rugs, or buy the less beautiful but more gaudy commercial rugs from traders. Being a native of Hano, our little guide hesitated to take us into Walpi. It was evident that no great love was lost between the two villages, for a reason we learned later, so we preceded him across the uneven, narrow tongue of rock which led to the tip of the mesa. The late afternoon sun lighted the stony pile with glory, and cast rich, violet shadows the length of the houses. It was almost impossible to disentangle the stairs of one house from the roof of another. Stairways terraced into the mortar of the houses led to roofs, and ladders pointed still higher.