"Are you a real Indian?"

"Yes, madam," Joe bowed.

"Where do you sleep?"

"In the Hopi House."

"What do you eat?" She eyed him through her lorgnette.

"Most everything, madam," Joe managed to say.

Luckily she departed before we lost control of ourselves. Joe says that he has been asked every question in the category, and then some. I think some of our stage idols and movie stars would be jealous if they could see the number of mash notes Joe receives. He is flattered and sought after and pursued by society ladies galore. The fact that he is married to one of his own people and has a fat, brown baby does not protect him.

The Fred Harvey guides could throw interesting lights on tourist conduct if they wished, but they seldom relate their experiences. Our card club met in the recreation room of the guide quarters, and sometimes I would get a chance to listen in on the conversation of the guides. Their narrations were picturesque to say the least.

"What held you up today, Ed?"

"Well," drawled Ed, "a female dude wouldn't keep her mule movin' and that slowed up the whole shebang. I got tired tellin' her to kick him, so I jest throwed a loop round his neck and hitched 'im to my saddle horn. She kept up then."

"Make her mad?"

"Uh-huh." A pause while he carefully rolled and lighted a cigarette. "I reckon so.

When we topped out an' I went to help her down, she wuz right smart riled."

"Say she wuz goin' to report you to the President of these here United States?"

"Don't know about that. She gimme a cut across the face with her bridle reins."

Another pause. "'Twas real aggravatin'."

Personally, I marveled at his calm.

"What made you late in toppin' out?" Ed asked in his turn.

"Well, we wuz late in startin' back, anyhow, and then I had to stop fer an hour pickin' cactus thorns outta an old-maid female."

"Mule unload her in a patch, or did she sit down on one?" Ed was interested.

"Naw, didn't do neither one. She tried to eat a prickly pear offa bush of cactus, and got her tongue full uv stickers. Said she always heard tell them cactus apples wuz good eatin'. I propped her mouth open with a glove so she couldn't bite none, and I picked cactus stickers till I wuz plumb weary."

"Yeh, women is funny that way," philosophized the listener. "They do say Eve et an apple when she shouldn't ought to had."

Another lad was lamenting because he had a pretty girl next to him in the trail

party; as he said: "I was sure tryin' to make hay before the sun went down. Every time I'd say something low and confidential for her ear alone, a deaf old coot on the tail-end of the line would let out a yarp—

"'What'd you say, Guide?' or, 'I didn't get that, Guide.'

"I reckon he thought I was exclaimin' on the magnificence of the picturesque beauty of the scenery, and he wasn't gittin' his money's worth of the remarks."

One guide said he had trouble getting a man to make the return trip. He was so

scared going down he figured he'd stay down there rather than ride back up the

trail.

Every morning, rain, snow, or shine, these guides, in flaming neckerchiefs, equally audible shirts, and woolly chaps, lead their string of patient mules up to the corral at the hotel, where the trail parties are loaded for the trip into the Canyon. Each mule has a complete set of individual characteristics, and mules are right set in their ways. If one wants to reach over the edge of a sheer precipice and crop a mouthful of grass, his rider may just as well let him reach.

Mules seldom commit suicide, although at times the incentive must be strong.

"Powder River," "Dishpan," "Rastus," and a few other equally hardy mule brethren are allotted to carry helpless fat tourists down the trail. It's no use for a fragile two-hundred-pound female to deny her weight. Guides have canny

judgment when it comes to guessing, and you can't fool a Harvey mule.

"Saint Peter," "Crowbar," and "By Jingo" are assigned to timid old ladies and frightened gentlemen.

If I were issuing trail instructions for Canyon parties I would say something like this, basing my directions on daily observation:

"The trail party starts about nine o'clock, and the departure should be surrounded with joyous shouts of bravado. After you have mounted your mule, or been laboriously hoisted aboard, let your conscience guide you as to your actions up

and down the trail. When you top out at the end of the day and it is your turn to be unloaded, weakly drag your feet out of the stirrups, make sure that the guide is planted directly underneath you, turn loose all holds, and fall as heavily as possible directly on top of him.

"After you have been placed on your feet, say about the third time, it might be well to make a feeble effort to stand alone. This accomplished, hobble off to the hotel, taking care to walk as bow-legged as possible. If you have a room with bath, dive into a blistering hot tubful and relax. If you were having a stingy streak when you registered, order a bath at the public bathroom and be thankful

you have seventy-five cents with which to pay for it. Later take an inventory of your damages and, if they are not too severe, proceed to the dining-room and fill up on the most soul-satisfying meal Fred Harvey ever placed before the public.

"Afterward, in the lobby, between examinations of 'I wish you were here'

postcards, it might be well to warn newcomers about the dangers of the trip.

Probably few tourists are as expert riders as you."

We liked to poke fun at the saddle-sore dudes, but all the same the trip is a soul-trying one, and the right to boast to home folks about it is hardly earned.

It is really a revelation to study the reaction of the Canyon on various races. On leaving the train a Japanese or Korean immediately seeks out a ranger or goes to the Park Office and secures every bit of information that is to be had. Age, formation, fauna, and flora are all investigated. Then armed with map, guidebook, and kodak he hikes to the bottom of the trail, and takes everything apart en route to see how it is made. English and German travelers come next in

earnest study and observation. I am sorry to say that all foreigners seemed to show more intelligent interest in the Canyon than our own native Americans.

Perhaps that is because only the more educated and intellectual foreigners are able to make the trip across the ocean. Lots of Americans never get farther than El Tovar, where they occupy easy chairs, leaving them several times a day to array themselves in still more gorgeous raiment.

Of course, out of the hundreds of thousands that come to Grand Canyon, only a

stray one now and then causes any anxiety or trouble. It is human nature to remember those that make trouble while thousands of the finest in the land pass

unnoticed. Any mother can tell you that gentle, obedient Mary is not mentioned

once, whereas naughty, turbulent Jane pops into the conversation continually.