Then, again, when I am invited to a home where no servants are kept (as I often am), and see the hostess worrying and wearying herself to prepare a great variety of “dainties” and “fine foods” for me that I know I am far better without, what kind of creature am I if I can accept such hospitality with equanimity? I go to see people to enjoy them, their kindness, their intellectual converse, the homelikeness of themselves and their children. If I want to “stuff and gorge” I can do so at any first-class restaurant on the expenditure of a certain sum of money. But at the homes of my friends I want them; I go for social intercourse; and to see them working and slaving to give me food that is an injury to me is not, never can be, my idea of hospitality. I would not have my readers infer from this that I am unmindful of the kindly spirit of hospitality behind all of this needless preparation; nor would I have them think that I never eat luxurious things. I am afraid some of my readers would forego their kind thoughts towards me if they were to see me sometimes as I indulge in all kinds of things that “ordinary people” eat. But I do want to protest against the ostentatious and extravagant manifestation of our hospitality, and also the injuriousness of much of it when it comes to the food question, and to commend the spirit and method of the Indian’s way. If friends come unexpectedly to an Indian home, they are _expected_ to make themselves at home. They are not invited to the “festive board” to eat, but they are _expected_ to share in the meal as a matter of course. Hospitality is not a thing of invitation, whim, or caprice. It is the daily expression of their lives. Every one, friend or stranger, coming to their camp at meal times is for the time being a member of the family. There is no display, no ostentation, no show, no extra preparation. “You are one of us. Come and partake of what there is!” is the spirit they manifest. There is nothing more beautiful to me than to find myself at a Navaho _hogan_ in the heart of the Painted Desert, and to realize that I am expected to sit down and eat of the frugal meal which the family has prepared for itself. [Illustration: HOPI INDIANS COOKING CORN IN AN UNDERGROUND OVEN.]