File:Through our unknown Southwest, the wonderland of the United States- little known and unappreciated- the home of the cliff dweller and the Hopi, the forest ranger and the Navajo.- the lure of the (14596362308).jpg

Identifier: throughourunknow01laut (find matches)
Title: Through our unknown Southwest, the wonderland of the United States-- little known and unappreciated-- the home of the cliff dweller and the Hopi, the forest ranger and the Navajo.-- the lure of the painted desert
Year: 1913 (1910s)
Authors: Laut, Agnes C. (Agnes Christina), 1871-1936
Subjects: Hopi Indians Navajo Indians
Publisher: New York, McBride, Nast & company
Contributing Library: The Library of Congress
Digitizing Sponsor: Sloan Foundation

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hat alldanger of raid had passed, You go up an see! Now I understood. The water pools were but glintsof silver on the yellow sands. The flocks of sheepand goats looked like ants. The rampart rocks thatengirt the valley were yellow rims below; and acrossthe tops of the far mesas could be seen scrub for-ests and snowy peaks. Have generations — genera-tions on generations—of life amid such color hadanything to do with the handicrafts of these people•—pottery, basketry, weaving, becoming almost anart ? Certainly, their work Is the most artistic handi-craft done by Indians in America to-day. Boys and girls, babies and dogs, rush to salute usas we come up; but my little guide only takes tighterhold of my hand and shoos them off. We passa deep pool of waste water from the houses, lyingin the rocks, and on across the square to the twin-towered church in front of which is a rudely fencedgraveyard. The whole mesa is solid, hard rock; andto make this graveyard for their people, the women
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ENCHANTED MESA OF ACOMA 97 have carried up on their backs sand and soil enoughto fill in a depression for a burying place. The boneslie thick on the surface soil. The graveyard is nowliterally a bank of human limestone. I have asked my little guide to take me to MarieIteye, the only Acoma who speaks English; and Imeet her now stepping smartly across the square, feetencased in boots at least four sizes smaller than mine,red skirt to knee, fine stockings, red shawl and a pro-fusion of turquoise ornaments. We shake hands, andwhen I ask her where she learned to speak such goodEnglish, she tells me of her seven years life at Car-lisle. It is the one wish of her heart that she maysome day go back: another shattered delusion thatIndians hate white schools. She takes me across to the far edge of the Mesa,where her sisters, the finest pottery makers of Acoma,are burning their fine gray jars above sheep manure.For fifty cents I can buy here a huge fern jar withfinest gray-black decorations, whi

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