We lunched under a few spreading junipers, where water in muddy rock basins was to be found. The sun was low when we started again, for in that country it does not pay to ride through the heat of mid-day. The region, broken no longer by gigantic canyons, softened to a dull monotony of sage and rolling hills. Camp was already made, when at evening we rode into a small, semi-enclosed valley at a short distance from a second cliff-town, under an arched recess of rock high above us. While the men unpacked, Martha, Toby and I found a tiny pool yielding a basin full of water, but ice-cold, it soothed our weary bodies wonderfully. About all we need for our physical selves in this world is a bath after dust and heat, food after hunger, sleep after weariness, warmth after cold, and freedom from worry,--and camp life completely satisfies for a time, because these simple desires are both intensely stimulated and gratified. Our campfire warmed the chill night air, and gave us an hour’s relaxation and gayety. But sleep could not be held off long, and at nine, we all retired to our tents under a thicket of junipers. [Illustration: NAVAJO MOUNTAIN FROM THE MOUTH OF SEGI CANYON. A herd of elephants carved in sandstone guarded the entrance to Segi Canyon.] These cliff dwellings yielded Toby magnificent specimens. Behind camp lay a small hill mostly of pottery fragments. She attacked it and single handed soon reduced it to a hummock. The bandana would hold no more, and her sweater and pea jacket bulged at the pockets, and when I opened our pack I found crumbled pottery mingling with our toothbrushes. The next day brought us into more dramatic scenery. Once more we toiled up and up through an unimaginably vast and lonely country, whose barrenness of rock and sage was softened by a wilderness of flowers, of new and strange varieties. The cactus blossoms, most brilliant and fragile of desert flowers, with the texture of the poppy and the outline of the wild rose, ranged from the most subtle tones of golden brown, tea rose color and faded reds to flaming, uncompromising rainbow hues. We passed a bush with white waxen flowers like apple blossoms, called Fendler’s Rod, and another with mahogany branches, smooth to feel, with fragrant yellow bloom; blue larkspur in profusion, the Indian paintbrush in every shade from scarlet through pink and cerise to orange and yellow. Wild hyacinths began to appear in the cooler, tenderer shades of early spring, and a new flower, very lovely, called penstaces, in pink and purple. The mariposa lily of southern Arizona appeared here as waxy cream and twice as large as we had ever seen it.