The Hopi Indians

              THE HOPI INDIANS
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By 􀀎􀹔TER. lrylOUGf-1 "' .
Curator Division of Ethnology, United States National Museum,
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Washington, D. C.
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CEDAR RAPIDS. IOWA
THE TORCH PRESS, 1915
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To My Wife
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CONTENTS
THE COUNTRY, TOWNS, AND PEOPLES • • 13
SOCIAL LIFE • • • • • • • 28
FOOD •.\ ND RE-,-IR\NG • • • • 49
THE WORKERS • • • 69
AMUSEMENTS • • • • • • 102
BmTHi MARRIAGE . \NDD E.ATR • • 114
R,ELIGIOUS LIFE • • 132
MYTHS • • • • • • • 179
TR.ApITIONS AND HISTORY • • • • 201
BR.IEF BIOGRAPHIES • • • • 218
'rnE ANcm.􀀆􀙔T PEOPLE· • • • • 250
INDEX • • • • • • • 263
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MESA FOLK OF HOPILAND
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PREFACE
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Wlioevet· visits tlie Hopi f all,s per/ ot·ce 'Ultider tlie
1nagic 1:,11,fi,ue1ice of tkeit· life and pe,rsonality. f a1iy­one
e1itertai1is t}ie belief that'' a good India1i · a dead
Indi,a,1i, '' let him tr«AJel to tke lieart of the Sout}iwest
a,nd dispel. his illit,Sions in t}ie prese1ice of the sturdy,
self-supporti1ig, self-respecting citizens of tlw puebuJs.
Jlfany sojoil,rJis i,n a 1·egiori wlwse fascirtations are sec-
01·id to no otJier, experie1ices tl,.,a,t were Jiappy Ollid as­sociations
with a people wlw i1iterest all co1ning i1i
contact ivith them cor,ibined to indite the foll.owiaig
pages. If th,e writer may seem biased i·n favor of t1ie
'' Q1uiker Indians,'' as Mt1n11iis calls them, be it knoiv·-rt
that lie is moved by afection 11,ot less than by 1·espect
for· the Hopi and moreover believes that liis co1nnie1ida­tions
at·e worthily bestowed.
The 1·ecording of tliese sideliglits on tlie Hopi fai·
f 1·om being a1i irkso1ne task lUIS bee1i a pleasure wliic.71,
it is Jioped 1nay be passed 011, to tlie reade1·, who 1n(J/Jj
lie1·e 1·eceive a,-n in·ipression of a tribe of Indians livi1ig
<it· the tht·esliold of rwde1··1i c,iviU.zi1ig inftuen.ces mnd
still 1·etaini1ig -i11, g1·eat, 11ieasu1·e tlie- life of tlie ancient
Jio1t,<;e-builde1·s o.f tlie it,·1iwate1"ed la1tds.
To J-[1·. F. W. Hodge of tlie B1i·rea11, of A1net·icari
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•• . ·· . 􀀖􁘠 : · ·: .. · 'P.RElJ'A()E
Etlinology of tlie Smithsonian In.stitut io·ri, a f elwiv
worker· i·n, tlie Pueblo fiel,d, gratef,ul acknowledg1nents
are due fo1· liis c1·iticism and advice in the preparatio·ii
of this book. Tlie fro1itispiece is by that clisting11,,i.shed
a1nateur P. G. Gates of Pasadena. Tl·nde·r th ,e 0/1,1,spices
of tlie exploratio1is ca1·ried 011, by Dr·. J. Walter
Fewkes, for· tlie Bureau of Anier·ica1i EtJinowgy, th.e
write1· liad i1i 1896 his first introduction to tli.e Hopi, a
favo1􀃿􏼠 an.d a pleasu're that ivill always be 1·err1,enibered
.with gratitiuie on Jiis pa·1·t. The i·ndebtedness of sci­ence
to tlie researches of D1·. Fewlces a11w1ig tlie Hopi
i.􀄀􀀠 vei·y g1·eat and t}iis book has p·rofited by 71.is i1ispi1·a­tion
a,.s well a,S by lii..<; coii1isel.
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THE COUNTRY, TOWNS, AND PEOPLES
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The Hopi, 01' Peaceful People, as thei1" name ex- v"'
preses, live in six 1􀂚􉩯ock-built towns perched on three
mes'as in northeastern Ai·izona. They number about
1,600 a.nd speak a dialect of the language called the
Shoshonean, the tongue of the Ute, Comanche, and
other tribes. in the 1Jnited States. There is anothe1·
town, called Hano, making up seven on these mesas,
but its people are Tewas who came from the Rio G1'ande
valley in Ne,,, 1\'Iexico more than two centuries a.go.
There are a number of ways of reaching the Hopi
pueblos. If one would go in by the e·ast, he may
choose to start from Holbrook on the Santa Fe Pacific
Railroad, or Winslow ( two days each) , or by the west
f1'om Canyon Diab lo ( two .days), Ol' Flagstaf ( three
days). The estimates of tim.e are based on '' traveling
light'' and with f e\v interruptions. A longe1· journey
may be made from Gallup, during which the Canyon
de Chelly, with its wonderful clif dwellings, may be
visited if one has a suficient outfit and plenty of time.
The home-land of the Hopi, known as Tusayan fro􀂛􉬠
old times, is􀂜􉰠 semi-desert, lying a mile and a quarter
14 􀀗􁝉IESA FOLK OF HOPILAND
above sea-le,rel. _ It is deeply sca1·red by canyons an(1
plentifl1lly studded with bl1ttes and mesas, though
tJ1ere a1·e vast str·etches which see1n level till one gets
closer acquaintance. Fr·om the pueblos the view is
ope11 fr·om the nor-th,vest to the soutl1ea.st, and l1ni1-
ter·1-upted over the g1·eat basin of the (;olora.do Ol1i­quito,
or Little Colorado Rive1·, rirnmed 011 tl1e J!ar
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h.01·izo11 by the peaks of the San J:!.,rancisco, l\:IogoUon,
and White 1Vlountains, ,v11ile n1 tl1e otl1er <111a1'ters
b·roken mesas shut out the view.
Tl1e 1·a.infall a.lmost immediately sinking into the
sand)r ,,·astes, determines that there shall be no peren­niallyfl-
owing rivers in Tusayan. , and that spr·ings
must be f e,v a.nd fa.1· between and the 1nost valued of
all posse.ssions. Were it not for· ,v'inter sno,vs an(l ·
sum1ne1· tl1l1nder·-sto1·1ns, T11sayan ,vo111d be }1 dese1·t
incleec1.
The l1a1·c1y g1·a.sses ancl clese1·t plants do their best to
cover· the nakedness of the col1nt1·y; along the ,vashes
are a fe\v cottonvvoocls; on the mesas are jt111ipe1·s an<l
pinyons; ancl in the higher· la.nds to the no1·th s1nall
oa.ks strive fo1· an existence. At times, when the r·a.it1R
a.re favoring, J)lants spring 11p and the desert is pai11te(l
􀅈􄡲rith great 1nasses of eolo1·; he1'e and there are stretches
green ,vith grass or· yellow with the flowering bunches
of the '' rabbit br11sl1'' or gray ,vit.h the ice l)lant. I11
sheltered spots ma.11y rare and bea.l1tift1l flowers ma.y
be. found.
The Hopi enjoy a s11rnme1· climate the tempe1·att1re
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MESA FOLK OF HOPILAND 15
of ,vhich is that of 1\1:aine and a winte1· climate that is
f a1· less severe than the latter·, since most days a1·e
b1·ight and the sun has power·. Even in the warmest
season the nights are cool, and an enjoyable coolness is
found by day in the sha<le. The dryness of the region
renders it ideal .for hea.lthful sleeping in the open ai1·.
A pt11·e a.tmosphe1·e like that of the sea bathes '11u­sa.
yan ; no mic1·obes pollute it ,vith thei1· p1·esence and
, it fills tl1e bodJr 'v\-ith goocl blood and an exhila1·ation
like ,vine.
Pe1·force the Hopi a1·e ag1·icultt1ral, and since there
is little game to be hunted, the)7 a.re also la1·gely vege­tarians,
their· chief food being corn. When the corn
c1·op fails the desert plants are 1·elied on to prevent
sta1-vation. The Hopi thus fol'm a good example of a
people \\'hose very existence depends on the plants of
the ea1·th, and it speaks well fo1· their· skill as fa1·mers,
in so unfavorable an environment, that the1·e a1·e any
of them living in Tusay. an at this day.
Out of 'this envi1·onment the Hopi has shaped his r·e- ,
ligious beliefs, whose st1·enuous appeal is f 01· food and
life :f1·om the grasping destroyers of nati1re tl1at whel1n
him. And in like n1anner he has d1·awn f1·om this
nigga1·cl st1·etch his house, his pottery, baskets, clothing
and all the arts that sho,v how man can 1·ise above his
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environmen t. But let us ·have a closer view of this
Indian who is so ,vorthy of the 1·espect -0£ his superiors
in culture.
The Hopi man is mode1-ate of statu1·e, well-f1·amed,
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har·d-mliscled, a.nd agile, since he dependecl on his o,vn
feet for going anywhere and on his ar·ms for work be­fore
the day of the bur1·0 and tl1e horse. Black,
straight hair wo:rn long, brownish skin, the smo.otl1
and expressive face in the yol1ng men, intensif J7ng as
they gro"' older, bringing out the high cheek-bones, the
11ose, the la1·ge mouth and accenting the111 witl1
\'vrinkles, bl1t never developing a sulle11, ferocious cast
of countena11ce, al,:vays preser-ving the lines of ,vortl1
and clignity a.nd the pleasing cur·ves of hl1mor and
goocl-fello,vship to the end of life, - these are tl1e
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salient characters of the Hopi.
The sa.me remarks apply to the othe1· sex, ,vho fro1n
childhood to old age run tl1e cou1·se in milder degr·ee.
Many of the n1aidens a.re p1·etty ancl the matrons ar·e
con1ely and wholeso1ne to behold. Tl1e old, wrinkled
and bowed go their· way ,vith quiet 1nien and busy
themselves with the light duties in ,vhich their experi­ence
cot1nts :for 1nucl1.
I11 spite of the lux11riant hail' that ac1orns the l1eads
of this people, 011e n1ay notice the difference of hea(l
sha.pe 1''hich distingt1ishes them from the t1·ibes of tl1c.·
plair1s. The cradle-board is partly responsible .fo1·
this, since, frorn infancy, tl1e cl1i]d1·en are bound to tl1e
cradle and obliged to lie on the back for longer or
shorter inte1·,,a.ls, and tl1us begi11s tl1e flattening of tl1e
back of the skl1ll. Bt1t the lie-ads of the ,vome11 ar·e
1·arely flattene(l, probably l)eca11se ihe gi1·1s are not so
well carec1 for as tl1e boys.
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MESA FOLK OF HOPILAND 17
There a.re among the Hopi a greater nwnbe1· o:f
albinos in proportion to, the population than may be
found a.hnost anyvvhere else. They go about their
avocations like the rest and are in no way regarded as
diferent from their kin. The impulse is to add1·ess
them in English, and one feels surprised when they do
not comprehend. One albino maiden of 􀂧􊝦fishongnovi
has a marvelous gr·o\vth of go.Iden hair which shovts to
great. a,dvantage in her ample hai1. whorls. Many
students believe tha.t albinism has its 01-igin in the
nervous system, and perhaps the timidity of the Hopi
explains the number of these 1"emarkable people in
their midst; but this is a theory, based on a theory.
It has been observed that some of the albinos are be­low
the average in intelligence, and it has been ascer­tained
that the la1·ger proportion of them a1·e s.eco.nd
in order of birth in a family.
Fr·om the number of old people in the pl1eblos one
would ga.in the impre􀂨􊡯on that the Hopi a.re long­lived.
All things considered, this is doubtle􀂩􊤠 the
truth, but there ai·e no statistics to settle the matter;
besides, the question of age is a doubtful one among
the Ho,pi themselves. If '' sans everything'' is any
criterion of a centenaria11, ther·e are such among the
Peaceful People. One must conclude that, on passing
childhood, the avera,ge I-Iopi is due £01· a second te1m
of tl1e helples period.
''Welcome'' is not written over- every Hopi doo1·,
but the spirit of 11ospitality pervades the entire popu-
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lation. T.his is 011e of the pleasar1t features of the
Pueblos and is the chief reason ,vhy tl1e 1:Iopi are helc1
in friendly 1􀅀􄁥e1ne111b1·ance by visito1·s. An acquai11t­ance
,,rith tl1e Indians in the difere11t l)l1eblos of the
S011thwest will co11vince one that the1·e is a consider­able
range of clis1)osition among the1n. Per·ha1)s tl1e
extremes a1·e tl1e untr·act<;Ll)le Santo Domingans and t􀅁􄅥e
i1npressionable liopi. It see1ns to be a 1natter of the
elements of vvhich tl1e tribes have bee11 made up an<l
of tl1eir past experiences a11c.1 associations.
High llp on the g1·ay rocks tl1e Hopi towns look as
tl1ough they ,verc pa.rt of the native clif. Tl1e severt
towns, - thol1gh t,venty mile.$ and th1·ee distinct 1nesas
separate tl1e ext1·emes, - 􀅂􄈠 a.nc.l Oraibi, - are
built on the same stratum of sandst-0ne.. The rock
shows tints of ligl1t red, yellow, and l)rown, and cle·aves
into g1·eat cubical pillar·s a,r1d blocks, leaving tl1e £ace
of the clif alwa.ys ,,ertica.l. T1·ails at c1iferent points
lead llp over the lo,v masses of talllS arid reach the flat
top through c1·evices a.nd breaks in tl1is ro􀅃􄍫k-,vall, ofte11
over s11rfaces whe1·e pockets have been cut in the stone
for· hancl and foot. A very little powc.le1·, properly aJ)­plied,
,vould render t11ese mesas as dificult of a.􀅄􄐮.cent
as the Encl1anted Mesa nea1· A.corna.
Once on top and b1·eathing 1101·1nally a.ft er the f 011r
l1Ulldred feet or so of precipitous climbing, one sees
,vhy the oute1· ,valls of tbe to\.vns seern to be a con­tin11ation
of the living 1·ock. Tl1e housrs ar, e l)uilt of
sla,bs of stone of ,,arious sizes, r111arried from tl1e mesa
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lVIESA FOLK OF HOPILAND 19
and laid up in mud. They are of terrace style, rarely
more tha.n of t,vo stories, fla.t-roofed, and grouped in
masses so as to form streets and plazas and conform­ing
to the irregular􀂢􊉴ties of the stu·face and outline of
the mesas. For this reason not much order can be
found in a Hopi pueblo. The uneven surface of the
mesas gives a varying height to the houses and in­creases
the pictur·esqueness of the skyline. ' These Hopi towns are the most primitive of the in-habited
pueblos. Before 11s is a picture of the ancient
life as true as may be found in this day of inquisitive
travelers and of rapid transportation to the ends of
the earth. But this state of things is changing with
increasing ra.pidity; the Hopi is becoming p1·ogresive
and yearns for the things of the ,vhite man. with in­creasing
desire, therefore it is evident that, before
many yea.rs, mucl1 that is charming in 'l'tlSayan by
reason of the ancient touch about it will ha.ve vanished
from the lives of its brown inha.bita.nts.
This change is most marked at W alpi, because the /
East l\!Iesa people have longest been in contact with the
civilizing influences of schools, missions, and trading
posts; besides, they were always ap-parently the most
t1·actable of the Hopi. Many f ami]ies have abandoned
the, villages on tl1e clifs, and their modern, 1􀂣􊍥ed-roofecl
houses dotting the lower ground near the fields show
the tendency to forsake the crowded hill-towns. But
the old towns exist in all their primitiveness and fur­nish
bits of surpassing interest to lovers of the pie-
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turesque. 'l'o these tl1e bulk of tl1e conservative Hopi
still cling witl1 all the force of their inhe1·ited instinct.
T􀁤􆐬,o centllries ago visitors arrived at Wal pi f1·om
the Rio G1·ande. These wer·e a tribe of Te,, ra, invited
to come to Tusa.yan to aid i n fighting off tl1e Apache
and Ute, those ,vily no1nad a,dversaries ,vitl1 ,vho1n
the Peaceful People fo1· so long l1ad to co11tend. IIe1te
tl1ey have lived ever since in thei1􀄲􃈠 viJla,ge of llano, at
the l1ead of tl1e most readily accessible trail up tJ1e
mesa, preserving their language a.i1d ct1sto1ns, and be­sides
tl1ei1􀄳􃌠 o,,7).1 tongue, spea.king 􀁤􆐢"ell the langtlage of
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. their f1·iends and neighbors. The Te,11a brought witl1
them their potter's art and now l1ave the l1011or to be
p1·actically tlte only n1akers of earthenwa.re in 'rl1.­saya.
n. Nampeo is the best potter at Hano an(l her
work sholvs l1e1· to be .a worthy descendant of the
a.ncient artists, whose graceful vessels lie ,vith tl1e
bones of th􀄴􃐠 dead beneath the sands of the grea,t
Southwest.
Beyond Hano, a.nd mid􀄵􃕲ray bet'\1een it and Walpi, is
Sichornovi, which signifies '' flower mound.'' Sicho­movi,
if "''e 1na.y j11dge from th􀄶􃘠 good preservatio11 of
its houses and the regularity ,vith \\'bi. cl1 the to,vn is
laid out, seems to be comparatively ne"', and indeed,
there is traditiona.1-y testimony to tl1is effect. The
dusky histo1·ians of W alpi relate tl1e circumstances of
its foundation, when the yello,v flowers grf',\' in the
crevices of the rock at the place ,,rl1er·e se,rera] strringer
cla.ns v,·ere allowed to settle.
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MESA FOLK OF HOPILAND 21
Passing out of Sichomovi and crossing· a narrow
neck of the mesa traversed by a well-worn trail, W alpi
is reached. This village from diferent points of view
presents the appearance of a confused jumble of dilap­idated
houses, and a walk through its a.lleys and pas­
sages confirms the impression. Walpi was a town of
necessity and was erected in 1590, having been moved
up from a lo,ver point after troubles with the Spanish
conquistadores.
Looking down from the town one may trace the site
of Old Walpi and descry the pottery-strewn mounds of
still older settlements, since around this mesa the first
comers to Tusayan probably located. At the foot of
the mesa ar. e also springs and shrines, one of the latter
being the true '' center of the world'' to the Hopi
mind, a point which gave the ancients much trouble to
determine. Along the ledges are corrals for the mot­ley
flocks of black and white sheep and goats, adepts
in· subsisting 01 all so1:ts-;f unpaiafu.'6le brush. Far­ther
down in the level are the fields, at the proper sea-
• son green with the prospect of corn, melons, and beans.
W alpi streets are the living rock of the mesa worn
smooth by human feet and swept by the oficious wind­god,
whose dry air, with the aid of the sun, form the
board of health of the Hopiland. This_ rocky surface
must have been a great trial to the kiva builders, as
traditional custom requires that such meeting places
of the secret societies or brotherhoods should be under­ground.
The kivas along the streets thus represent a
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great a1nount of ,vork in tl1eir const1"'uctio11, and it is
clea1· tl1at, vvhen tl1e builder-& foun<l a cleft in the rock
01· a nicl1e in the cliff-edge, tl1ey app1·opriated it as the
site of a lr,i,va, then built an outer ,vall overhanging
tl1e p1·ecipice ancl p1·epared tl1e deep oblong room witl1
toilso111e labor, fo1· t11ey l1ati 0·11ly tl1e 111cle tool':! of tl1e
sto11e age.
'l'l1e tvvo !)oles of tl1e ladder l)roject f1·om tl1e kiva
ha.tchv;1ay, a.nd one 1nay descend if no ceremony is 011
hand. 'l'l1ere is not n1t1ch to see except an empty,
s111oke-blacke11e(l 1·001n vvitl1 stone-pa.ved floor·, plas­tered
,valls, a11<1 ceili11g c1·ossed by hea.vy bea1ns. J 11st
in front of tl1e ladder is a , fi1·eplace, co11sisti11g of }l
stone l)ox su11k i11 tl1e floor, and tl1e po-rtio11 of tl1e
1·001n baclr of tl1e ladder is elevate<l. Tl1ese subter­ra.
nea11 cl1a.111be1·s are now fo11-nd. in use- only in '1'11-
sa,yan, v·vl1e1·e tl1is 1nanner of bt1ildi11g the1n, along with
Tna11y ot}1er ancie11t euston1s, l1as 1)€en pr·eserved by
t11e Hopi tl11·0,ugl1 111any gene1􀄣􂍡atio11s.
flopi hor1ses are s,1na 11, an(l as in tl1r otl1e1· l)ueblos
of tl1e Sot1tl1west, tl1e first £a111ilies live ir1 tl1e seco11<.l
sto1·y, ,vhich is 1·eacl1ed by a la.dder. J 11 recent tin1es1
tl1011gl1, the gr·o-und floo1·, ,,,hich for1nerly ,,1as t1se<l
cl1iefly f 01· storage, has been cleane<l out, f t1rnishe<]
,,,itl1 doors, and occt1pied as habitatio11s. Steps 011 the
c]ivicling walls lea.d to tl1e 11pp€>r sto1"Y a.nd tJ1e 1·oof
for1ns a, general loitering-place. Tl1e living 1·00111 is
kept in good order, and a goodly array of blankets,
h arness, and clothes hanging from a. swi11ging pole are
lIESA FOLK OF HOPILAND 23
looked on with pride and complacency. In the gran- /
a1-y, which i􀃁􌄠 generally a back room, the ears of corn
are often sorted by color· and laid up in neat walls and
one yea.r's crop is always kept in 1·eserve for a bad
season. Red co1·n, yellow co1"11, ,vhite corn, blue corn,
l)lack co1􀃂􌉮n, and mo,ttled coi·n make a Ho,pi grain room
a study in color. Three oblong hollowed stones or
metates of graded fineness are sunk in the floor of
every Hopi house, and on these, vvith another stone
held i n tl1e hands, tl1e co1·n is grot1nd to fine meal, the
grinders singing shrill songs at their back-breaking
,vork.
In ·the corner· of the baking-room is a fireplace cov­ered
with a smoke hood and containing sla.bs of stone
£01· the baking of piki, or pape1' bread, while scattered
about are many baskets, jai·s, bowls, cups, and other
utensils of pottery ,vell fitted for the pt1rposes of the
Hopi Cl1linary a1·t. Outside the house is a sunken pit
in which corn-pudding is baked.
These and many other things a.bout the Hopi vil­lages
will interest the visitor·, vvho will not ha.ve serious
·- dificulty in overlooking tl1e innovations or in o-btain-
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ing a clea.. r idea of Pueblo life as i t was in tl1e ti111es
long past.
If one crosses the plain ,to the t.hr·ee villages of tl1e
Middle ,\l, ftesa, he will find still less o.f the efect of con-tact
with n1ode1􀃃􌍮n things. Mushongnovi, the second t/
town of Tusayan in po·i:1)-t of size, prese11ted as late as
1906 a pe1·fect pictt1re of an unmodified pt1eblo on its
./
24 MESA FOLK OF HOPILAND
giant mesa, the eastern a.nd northe1·n ,valls of the town
blank a.nd high like the :face of a clif. Within this
closely-built village the ter1·aced ho11ses fa.ce the st1·eets
and open p.lazas, after the ancient fashion. BecaTise
of thei1· harmony with their pri1nitive sur1·oundings,
one hesitates to believe in the mode1·nness of the chim­neys
of these pueblos, yet i t appears to be true that the
idea is of Spanish introduction.
Shipaulovi, on its high vantage point, seems newer
than Shumopavi, its neighbo1·, the latte1· bei11g the
' most regular pueblo in Tusayan. Some fifteen 111iles
beyond Sl1umopavi is Orajbi, tl1e la1·gest of the seven
Hopi to,vns, whose rough walls gi"vve it a.11 appea1·a1ce
of great age. Ora.ibi held out longest against the
white intruders, a11d even now would much prefer· to
be left alo11e in the enjoyment of its accusto1ned wa,ys,
but the school-houses and the red roofs brought by tl1e
,vhite man increasingly menace its old-vvo1·lt1 notions.
'l'he nea.rest neighbors of the Hopi ar·e the Navaho,
that la1·ge and 1·apidly growing tribe ,vho are what
they call the111Selves, Derie, ''men.'' They c1􀃲􏉯o􀃳􏍲rd upon
the Hopi, and when the opport11nity ofe1?s ''raise''
some stock or dicta.te ,iV'ith sublime egotism the conduct
of the ceremonies. Several l1und1·ed years of contact
with tl1e pueblo folk have 1nade the once uncultur·ed
Navaho in many respects like the1n. The tirnid Hopi
do not choose to afiliate with tl1e Navaho, but rna,r-
1·iages a1·e not infrequent an1ong n1ernbers of the two
tribes. Generally it is a Naval10 b1·ave Virl10 seeks a
. MESA FOLK OF HOPILAND 25
Hopi maiden to wife, coming to live with her people,
but rarely does a Hopi youth lead a ''Teshab'' girl to
his hea1·th as did Anowita of W alpi.
A few Zufii have ca.st their lot at Tusayan and sev­e1
·al of the latter live at· Zuni and in some of the Rio
Grande pueblos. Not many years ago, a Hopi was • chief of an important f1·aternity at Sia, a pueblo on
tl1e Jemez River in New Mexico. The Zu:fij are quite /
neighborly and visit Tusayan to witness the ceremonies
or to exch.ange necklaces of shell and turquoise beads
for bla-nkets. Tradition has it that some of the clans
- · from the Rio G1·ande can1e by way of Zuni and that
Sichomovi has a strong admixture f1·om that pueblo.
In support of this it may be said that the Zufii vis­itors
are usually domiciled at Sichomovi, whe1·e they
seem very much at home, and many of the people the1·e
speak the Zufii language.
At the time of the ceremonies, especially those pe1·­formed
in summer, Tewa from the Rio Grande pueblos
come to visit and trade and enjoy t-he merrymaking
that attends the dances. Some of the people of Hano
have visited their relatives on the Rio Grande, but
fe,v of the Hopi are so far-traveled in these days.
There has been for centuries, however, more or less
communication across the vast stretch of ar·id country
lying between the Great River and Tusayan, and in a
number of instances in the distant past, whole tribes
have emigrated from the east ·to the Hopi country
,vhere they have founded new towns. Althol1gh 100
•
\
26 l\·1ESA FOLK OF HOPILAND
1niles a,vay, tl1e Hava.supai may also be regar·ded as
near neighbors ,v; ho cross the desert to sell their fine
baskets and superior Vi1l1ite-ta.nned deerskins, for
wl1icl1 atticles there is great de1na .nd. 􀅊􄩲rhe Hopi 􀅋􄭴tlso
t1·averse the sandy \Va.ste to visit the '' PeoJ>le of tl1e
Ladders," a.s they call tl1e Havas11pai, aud l)ri11g ba.cl{
sacr·ed 1·ed ocher a.nd green copper stone fo-r pig1nents.
The liavasupai and Hopi a1·e likeVi1ise linke(l by tracli­tions
of a.n ancient time.
Long ago, say the Hopi, tl1e Paiute, ,vl10 arc ur1cul­tt11
·ed bt1t strong in the art of "·arfar·c, came (l0Vir11
fro111 the nortl1 and harassed the111 11ntil the l)eople of
Ha110 va11<.Jttished tl1en1. 'rl1e Paiute, altl1ot1gl1 re-
1notely reJat.ed, Vi1ere not friendly to tl1e I-Iopi, and be­sides,
tl1ere was 1nuch of valt1􀅌􄰠 to be seized fro1n tlie
n1esa-d,,relle1·s. For this reason tl1e Ho1)i (lid 11(>t c11l­tiva.
te the frier1dshlp vvitl1 the Pai11te and tl1e 011l􀅍􄵲r
011e of tl1 at tribe living in 1􀅎􄸱11saya11 is '' '110111 Sa ,vyer, ''
,;v}1ose portrait is d1·aw, i1 i11 t1.11oth.e1· place.
No1· t\.·e1·e the Apacl1e 1no1·e desirable ne1ghbo1·s. 'l'l1e
Hopi tell of the tro11blo11s ti1nes ,vl1e11 theSB non1ac1s
can1e f1·om the so11tl1 and co111pelled them to clra\,. 11p
thei1􀅏􄼠 la.dders fro111 the cliff at night. Still, Pai, t1te
an(l Ap. ache baskets and other a.boriginal 111anufact11re􀅐􅀠
fo11nd their ,vay to the p11eblos, who \ve1·e al,v,1ys cos-
1nopolitan i11 their tastes a11d c1id 11ot. allo\\,. tribal e11-
mity to intcrfer·e vvith t1·a.(le.
Far to the soutl1 a11ot}1er people ,,rcre frie11ds of tl1e
IIopi. ,r ery long ago the Pi111a \Ve1Te close1· 11ejg}1bors
•
l\iIESA FOLK OF HOPILAND 2·7
and allies of son1e of the Hopi clans, who touched
them in their wide migrations, which brought them to
the ''Palatk:wabi.'' This is the Red Land of the
south, lying on the Verde River and its trib11taries.
Tl1e Hopi lay claim to the Tonto Basin in so11tbern
Arizona, which has been tl1ought to be th􀂣􊍩ir· ancient
countl"j' since far an. d wide over this southern 1"egio11
is found the yello,v pottery so cha1yacteristic of the
golden age of tl1e Hopi. Sometimes still the Hopi
visit the Pima, and it is, knovvn that £0,rmerly they
j.oined in a fair that was held in the Pima country and
brought back various commodities in exchange for·
their own products. Even today agave sweetmea.ts
and a.lde1· ba1·k, the latter used for dyeing leather, ai·e
found in Hopi dwellings, having been b1􀂤􊑯ought from
beyond '' Apache House,'' as they call the region
south of the Sru.1 Francis-co itountains ,vhere the
Apache formerly lived.
•
II
SOCIAL LIFE
When the crops are har·vested and India.n s11mme.t·
is gone and the cold ,vinds bufet the mesas, the Hopi
find comfort in their substantial l1ouses a1·ound thei1·
hearth-stones. The cha.nge of the season enforces a
pleasant reunion and the people who were occupied
,vith the care as ,vell as the delights of ot1tdoor su1n­mer
life, begin to get acquainted again.
The me.n have plenty O·f idle ti1ne on their hands, -
the masks need repairing and 1·efurbishing with new
colors; there are al,vays moccasins to be made; the
ca1-vers of dolls construct these odd painted figures
from cotton \\rood p1·ocu1·ed during t.he Sllmmer, and
the 'weave1· works at his loom. Now the b.asket ma.ke1·
dra,,vs on her· stock of split yucca leaves, twigs and
grass, but tl1e potter's cr·aft is in abeyance till the
warm months.
One would tl1ink that the winter work falls p1􀂁􈅥etty
severely on the women, but their duties are la.rgely the
same. in all seasons. There is co1·n to ·be ground, food
to be prepared, and water to be carried up the steep
trails. The winter sto1·e m11st be guarded against
MESA FOLK OF HOPILAND 29
mice and vermin a.nd occasionally sunned on the roof.
There are, no doubt, ma.ny ca1·es and much labo.1., but
the women take then. time and· everyone, from the
little child to the experienced old grandmother, lends
a helping hand. A Hopi \Voman would pe1·haps not
understand 011r kind commiseration for the lot that
he1· sex has experienced and th1iven under from time
irnmemo1-ial.
Winter in Tusayan is more enjoyable than other­wise,
as the sun is b1ight and the sky a clear blue.
'rhe snows of winter are nearly as rare as the rain­storms
of s11mme1.. , much to the regret of the Hopi.
Often the cold at night is intense, bl1t the day. ma.y
have the crisp though mild ai1· o.f a rare day in spring
at the East.
Not much change comes o·ver the landscape of Tu- ·
sa.yan by the a.dvent of winte1·. There are few trees
to lose their leaves after a gorgeous pageant of fare­well.
The desert plants scarcelJr ever alter the ap­pearance
of the earth by their· leaf tints of sp1 .. ing,
summer, or autumn; with thei1􀂖􉘠 diminutive leaves and
sober color they sink into the vast surface and ar·e lost
among the vivid ae1·ial tints and the bright hues of the
rocks and plains. The1·e are no rivers to be covered
by a sheen of ice, and rarely does a mantle of snow
1·each across the dese1􀂗􉝳s fr·om the snow-clad moun­tains.
The winds rave and whirlwinds swirl tl1e sand
along the plain in giant columns, "rhile the sun hangs
lower and lo,ver in the so·uth,vest u11til the Hopi fear
30 lVIESA FOLK OF HOPILAN.D
that lie \vill finally c1epa1·t ancl leave the1n i11 the gr·asp
of \Vinter. . But the priests 11av. e potent char1ns to
dravv l1i1n back, i1nd afte1· the So)·ala.na ce1·e1nony a.t
the ,vinte1· solstice a11yone can see tl1at the SID1 no
longer vvanders.
Those Hopi \Vl10 have not laid in a Slll)ply of fuel
ml1st go \Voocl-ga.ther·ing right spee<.iil;y· ,vl1en coltl
wea.tl1er aprJro·aches, £01· the t1·ees a.i·e distant and tl1e
clay is l1a1·cll)' 1011g enough to get a burro loacl r>iled
on tl1e house wall. Ever:)1 n101·ning also the flocks of
sl1eep and goa.ts rn11st be c.iriven out f1·01n the corral􀅯􆼠
on the ledges llD(lct· the mesas, to l>r·o,vse on tl1e leafless
br11sh.
Octobe1· is ca.lled tl1e liarvest .1noon. 'rl1e ,vo1nc11
vvho garr1er tl1e g1·airi }1old a cere1i1ony at this tirne ar1cl
great is the fea.stir1g a11d r·ejoicing in the pueblo. 'rl1e
􀅰􇁮nter tigl1tens ir1 Novernl)cr, called tl1e '' NeophytP
moon,'' since the youtl1s of proper age are initiat.c<l
into the societies in tl1is 1nonth. . 'rhese beginners bear
the sportive 11arne of '' Pigeon I-la\.\·ks. '' In even years
cornes tl1e great ce1·emony of the New Fire, fl1ll of
stra.nge rites of fi1·e ,vorshjp ha11ded down from the
olden time. In oclcl yea1-s occurs the Na-a-ish-11ya
ce1·emony, ,vhich like the other is perfo1·1ned by t.he
Ne,v Fire Society. By December, 'rus"'-t}'fln is ha1􀅱􇅤d i11.
tl1e grip of winter, and as the spirits are helcl fast be­neath
tl1e frozer1 gro11nd, tl1ey can_uot do ill to anyone
who speaks a.bol1t ther11, so tha.t many legends and
sto1":ies and rnl1cl1 sacred lo1·e are freely divt1lged
'
•
•
l\-IESA FOLK OF HOPILAND 31
a1·ound the glowing fires of fat pin.on "vood in the
Hopi ho11ses. Everyone is also on the Cfl1i vive :for the
Soyaluna, in many respects the most impo1,tant ce1·e­mony
in the Hopi calendar, when the first kachinas
appea1·. December is called the '' ,!I_oe moo􀃒􍉮n ! ' because
in this month it is prescribed that the fields shall be
clea1·ed £01· the sp1-ing planting. The wind has per­l1aps
done its share toward clearing movable things
f1·om the fields, but 1n11ch remains to be done in level­ing
the surface for the spring so,ving.
No month of winte1· is too cold for a ceremony.
J anua17, called the '' Prayer-stick moon,'' b1-ings the -
Alosaka, a ceremony of the Horn Society with thei1·
grotesque masks. D11ring the vicisitudes of this hard
month, mo1·e of the beloved kachinas return to tl1ei1·
people from the high peaks of the San Francisco
Mountains, poetically known as the '' snow houses,''
and to these ancestral beings many petitions a1·e made.
February, the hardest month of all the winter, is
called the '' Getting-ready moon." It ,vas in this
month tha.t the hero of the Kachina people fotmd
1nelons and green CO·rn near the San F1·anciseo Moun­tains.
The Powamu cere1nony is held during this
IllOn.
If the }lopi should have nearly reacl1ed the starva­tion
point, March is likely to inspire a hope of 1·each­ing
the end of the disastrous season, for in sheltered
' places a. few shoots of g1-een appear, and if the mois­ture
from melting snow is suficient, pe1.h . aps the little
,
32 MESA FOLK OF I-IOPILAND
wiwa plant springs up, furnishi11g pala.tab1e aucl nour­ishing
greens. Fo1· some reason Ma.rch is ca.lle<1 tl1e
''Prickly-pea.r 1noon, '' and it is the only month named
from a natural object. Per·haps t)1e c1esignatio11
points to a time ,vhen so111e of tl1e Hopi live(l in a
clin1e where the p1􀅯􆽩ickly-pear bloomed in Nlarcr1. 'l'l'1is
1night have been in southern Ar·izona, whence a n11mber
of clans, for insta.11ce, Sl1ch as the '' Agave People,''
l1a,,e derivec1 their names. 1'ia1·ch 11she1-s in tl1c 1n<)st
dist1gr·eeable pa1-t of t11e year, the season of :fie1·ce
,vi11cls charged ,vith dust and sand wl1ic11 drift lilre
snow against the sides of the mesas.
'rhis . ..cbronicle of the winter of the Hor)i, inco1nplete
as it is, shows that the '' Pet-1,cef11l People'' get a great
cleal of enjoyme11t out or life at this sea.5on. J\iar1y
important cere1nonies l)elong to tl1e ,vintertir11e and
tl1ere a.re conventio11s of the difere11t societies. 111
th.e under·ground meeting-plac.es those entitled to tl1e
p1·ivileges drop in for· gos.􀅰􇁩ip, as at a cl11b, being sure
of warinth, agreeable company, and perha.ps a S1noke
t o ,vhile away the ti111e. ( Arou11<.i tl1e fireside, also,
there is a goo(l co1npany, ancl plenty of stories, ,vell
wortl1 the hearing, are told. 􀅱􇄠 T11e n'len may go ht1r1t­ing
or 1nake a 'v\rinter jo11rney to the settle1nents 01·
the mot1nta.ins.
As for th.e cold, the Hopi see1n to regard it Jigl1tly .
There is little 01· no change in the cost111ne, tl1ougl1 tl1e
bla.nket or the rabbit-f1:1r rol:>e co1nes i11 l1an<l\r for a •
v\'rap. If a r11an has an er1·an<1 Ollt of (loors 11(' tr11sts
MESA FOLK OF HOPILAND 33
to running to keep up the circulation. After the cere­monies,
the men usually ascend, scantily clothed, from
the superheated 7,iva.s into the bitter air, with utter
disregard fo1· the rules of healt4,. 'l'he purity of the
􀂫􊬠 is a saving factor; nevertheless, pulmonary dis­eases
are common, due to the cloS'e, badly ventilated
houses more- than to any other causes.
Most visitors to Tusayan see the Hopiland at the
best season, when tl1e cornfields are green and the cot­tonwoods
are in full leaf, when the desert smiles to its
greatest capability and the people are well fed and
happy. The rebirth of Nature begins in April, when
the thrifty farmers cut brush and set up long wind­breaks
to p1·otect prospective crops. The month is
- named fo.r this circu1nstance, and like everything else
at the pueblos the time for beginning work is pre­scribJ1d
.according· to custom, by those in autho1·ity
over the clans.
Frosts and lashing winds. often destroy every green
shoot i n the spring, save the native plants,_ which are
inured to the weather, a11d tl1e people frequently have
to mou1'Il the loss of thei1· peaches, their only desil·­able
fruit, :for which they owe a debt to the Spanish
friars of long ago.
In the ''Wai ting moon,'' as Ma.y is called, all is ac­tivity
in the fields, for- the planting of the sweet corn
goes merrily on and the I-Iopi becon1e, for 1nost of the
time, an out-door people. The winds pe1􀂬􊱨haps have
abated their po,ver or have ceased entirely, and life is
34 l\1ESA FOLK OF I-IOPILAND
more pleasant u11de1· the warin sun. Still, witl1 all the
\1ork incident to the ca1·e of the. fields tl1e1·e is ti1ne for
ceremony and du1i..ng tl1e. pe1·iod bet\veen the ar1􀆇􈝩ival
of tl1e tacl1inas iri' Decembe1· and their departt1re i11
J 􀆈􈠁􀆉􈤬, tl1ere a1·e n1any n1inor celebrations by rna.sk:ed
da.nce1·s in acldition to the great ·montl1ly cere1.r1onies.
Especially inter·esting in th.e season of a vvakening life
anl g1·0,ving cr·ops are these kachir1a dar1ces ,vith tl1eir
pleasing songs and pagea.ntry, their· unlimited va1".iet)'
and s11·rprises. 1'he '·Peaceful People'' enjoy this
season in the highest degr·ee. June and July see every
Hopi happy, unless there is so1netl1ing constit11tio11a.lly
,vi·ong ,vith him 01· he is aflicted ,vith sickness. It is
dificult to rea,lize 110\v thorougl1ly -all Hopi life is
linkecl ,vitl1 g1·0,ving things, showing out in their e,,ery
,,,01·d and actio11 a11cl entering into thei1· ideas of tl1e
unseen Vv·o1·ld.
When tl1e sun pauses i11 his ma1􀆊􈩣ch alo1lg the easte1·n
ho1·izon at the st1mmer solstice, tl1e IIopi spe11d the
da.y in making feathe1· prayer-plu1nes as petitio11s for
blessings. Tl1cse chlld1·en of tl1e Sl1n know the course
of Daioa, tl1.e sun, ancl r·eac1 J1is positions as ,ve the
l1ands of a clock.
With the depa1·t111·e of tl1e ka.chi11as a ne,,· class of
ceremonies begins. 'l'he clancers wl10 J)revious]y ap­pear.
ed i11 st1·ange 111asl{S and headgea1· IlO\"i' perforn1
un1u.asl􀆋􈭥ed, and the c111ubrous pa.1·aphe111alia is laid
a,vay for anotl1e1· )'Cal'. Tbe g1·eat C'\'C11t of tl1c s11Tn-
1ne1·, tl1e Snake Da11ce1 is n<>,,. at ltR11cl, a11d. e.ve1·youe
I . -
-
t
•
MESA FOLK OF HOPILAND 35
sets about preparing for a good time. In the latter
part of August, afteT· this ceremony, the pueblo re­sumes
its normal state and the people settle down to
the feast of good things from their fields, which they ·
attack ,vith primitive zest and enjoyment. _It􀂧􊜠 great­ly
to the credit of the Hopi that they work well and
rest well like the unco􀂨􊡩ious philosophers they are.
'11l1e moon ·of September· watches over a scene of
peace and plenty in Tusayan. The cool, clear nights
betoken that frosts a.nd the time of ha1·vest are ap­proaching.
The heat of summer is gone and the sea­son
is ideal.
Since the Hopi ate good people one would infer that
they need no rulers. One might live among the Hopi
for some time and.not wittingly come in contact with
a chief or a policeman or any evidence ·of laws, but the
rule1--s and laws are there nevertheless.
The voice of the town crier a,wakens one to the fact
that here is th􀂩􊤠 striking apparatus of some sort of a
social clock. It will be found that there is an organ􀂪􊨠
ization of which the crier· is the ultimate utterance.
Chiefs are there· in abundance, the house chief, the
kiva -􀂫􊬀􀂬􊱩ief.; the ,var chief, the speaker chief ,:vho is the
--- . --
crier·; chiefs of clans, who are cl1iefs of the frater·ni-ties:
all these ar·e members of the council that rules
the pt1eblo. The council meets· on occasion and a.cts
for the common weal, and the village chief pt1blishes
thei1· manda.tes by crier.
In this most democratic organization tl1e agents of
•
•
I
I
36 MESA FOLK OF HOPILAND
1j fithned iGnogv ae1. ·rnems1e)onnt si􀄐􁁢brhleo h,veiasdh, tfo'e lttr efaotr cwedit ht ot haep pHooinpti , onnoet.
Thus eacl1 Hopi pt1eblo received a Sllpreme ruler, ,vho
neithe1· deceivecl himself 11or the peoJ)le as to tl1e power
he acquired from Washington, ,vl1ich ,􀀥􂕲ras nil. rrhe
true rulers a1-e the heads of the clans, and by their
t\ w,vrisiet taednv liacwe sa nedve trhyetih1·i nkgn oivsv lreedgguel aotfe dth feo trr athdeit itornaactl atb.1nle­
·
HoP. · acl1 pueblo acts for itself and knows nothing
rand cares less fo·r the d.oings of tl1e other pueblos, S() there has 11ever· been a league of Hopi tribes. In a
ew instances thete-·v\ras a tempo1·a.ry unity of action,
as ,vhen the people of other pl1eblos destroyed .i\ ,:va­tobi,
an eve.nt related circumstantially i11 the tradition.
( See p. 210.) rrra.ces oi this independence of action
abo-und in the So11tl1,ves.t. Tl1e ru1cient rt1ins sl10,;v that the clai1s built each its l1ouse cluster· apa1·t from
the others ancl n1oved when it liked. Tl1e present vil­lages
a,re niade up of clans a11d frag111ents of clans,
each. living in the ,,rard where it settled when it joined
tl1e others in the old time.
These cla.ns are la1􀄑􁅧ger £a.milies of blood 1·ela.tions,
who trace their descent from tl1e n1otl1e1- and ,vho l1a,ve
a general fa.mily name or tote111, as Eagle, Tobacco
Plant, Cloud, etc. Alt.hough no blood 1·elationship
1nay be tracea.ble bet,veen them, 110 yo11th and ma.id
of the same clan ma.y ma.n·y, and this: see1ns to be the
first la,v of tl1e clan. Tl1e working of the strange la'\1 ·of mother-right 111akes tl1e chil<Jre11 of 110 cla11 rr.la-
MESA FOLK OF HOPILAND· 37
I tion to the father. Since the woman o·wns the house
an·d the children, the father is only a sojourner in the
clan of his wife.
Anothe1· lav of the greater family was that of mu­tual
help, p1·oviding fo1· the weak, infirm, and unpro­tected
members. From this grows the hospitality of
the Indian, and nowhere does- this graceful custom
prevail mo1·e than a1nong the Hopi.
As if in recognition of the interests of the whole
people in the farming la.nds the messengers sent out to
bear plume-p1·ayers to the nature gods while the cere­monies
a1·e in_ progress eneircle all the fields o ,f the
pueblo, so that all may receive the blessings of rain.
While the lands are spoken of as belonging to the vil­lage,
they are known to have been immemorially di­vided
among the cla.ns, hence at W alpi the oldest and
other·wise ranking clans have the best land. The di­vision
of the land in severalty by the United States
government some yea.rs ago had no efect on the
ancient boundaries .and no one but the surveyor knows
where his lines ran.
Every once in a while the Hopi have a ''raising,''
but instea.d of the kind and willing neighbors of the
''bee'' in the States, here the workers are clan rela­tions.
Cooperation or communal efort goes a long
way toward explaining why the days of the Pueblo
dweller are long in the land and the Mo1·mon settlers
in the Southwest also followed this primitive law
which goes into efect wherever men ·are gathered £01·
the common weal. ·
38 lvIESA FOLK OF HOPILAl􀀓􁍄D
La,:vs a1·e b11t exp1·essions of co111111on se11se formu­f
lated by t.he ,visest and 1nos.t exper·ienced. ':Phe Hopi
1nt1s½ have good la.,vs, for though tl1eir• 1a,vs are strong­er
by far tl1an those ,vritten and refined by civiliza-
.,.,. i tion, the people observe them uncons.ciouslj' aJ.1d never
feel the burden. rl'here are so fe,v i11fractions of tl1e
la,,r that it is dificult to say ,vl1at tl1e va1·ious pu11js}1-
1nents are. Tb.e taki11g o.f life hy £01·ce 01· la.,v is l111-
kno,vn; the 1·espect of 1uine and. tl1ine is the 1·11le
ame>ng tl1e Hopi, and so on througl1 the temptations of
Jife thi:tt beset mortals. 'l'he1·e is 110 desi1·e to pla.ce the
Ifopi on a pedesta.l and declare them perfect, f.01· they
are not; b11t in 111any ,vays t}1e3r set their civilizecl
b1·others a11 example. A.s to 1)unishI11ent, it is prob­able
tl1at a Joss of standing in a fraternity, ost1·acisn1
fro1n the· clan 01· p11eblo, and ric1ic11le a1·e the s11asive
penalties.
Witl1 the i11creasc<l influence of edl1catjo11 a11c.l co11-
tact ,1rit11 ,vhite people tl1e bl1si11ess sicle of the Hopi
i s bei11g bro11gl1t 011t, and beca11se fron1 time in1-
'1emorial they l1ave been chirf a1uong tl1e t1·afickers
i 1 tl1e primitive co1111lleI·ee of the South,vest, tl1ey l1a·ve
r pidl}' assimilated tl1e devices of 1node1·n trade. They
ha.,re their own na.tive 1ne1·cha11ts ancl a1·e grac1ui:t l l.Y
bec0Tni11g in.dependent of the t1􀄼􃱡ader. The latter· say
tl1ey ,vot11d 1·athe1· deal ,􀄽􃵲rith six Navaho tha11 011e Hopi,
becat1se the Na.vaho does not hagg1r, ,vhile the Hopi,
,vitl1 the thrift tl1at is bringing hin1 to tl1e fro11t, JS <le­ter111in.
ed to get the lJenefit of a. bargai11.
MESA FOLK OF HOPILAJ\TJ) 39
'l'he Pueblo folk retire early and leave the safety of
the village to the pat1·ol. Some one is always on guard
abo11t the pl1eblo, ,vhethe1· it be the child.I-en amusing
tl1e1nselves on the r·ocks, - and these little folks have
eyes as sl1arp as any, - or the grown people looking
of into the countr·y £01· ''signs,'' a ctlStom which has
become habitual with them. The night patrol is a
su1'Vival of tl1e times when the whole village was a
committee of safetJr, £01- the outside foes we1·e fierce
and treacherous.
If rtmning about tl1e town keeping the dogs barking·
and good folks a\vake is the princii:)al ofice of the
patro1, then it is eminently successful and the pueblos
f11rni'sh noctt1rnal noises on the scale of the cities of
civilization. The tr·a,dition of the coming of the Flute
clan speaks of the watclunan of Wa.lpi, who was Al­osaka,
a ho1·ned being alert as a mountain .sheep. The
Flute migrants also sent out ''1\101mtain Sheep'' to as­certain
whether human beings lived in t,he locality.
During some of the ce1·emonies · the1·e ar·e vigilant
patrols, and o·n a few ce1·emonial days no living being
is allowed to come into the pt1eblo from the outside,
formerly under· pa.in of death at the hands of the fra­ternity
guard.s. It is tl1ought that the t1·ouble a1·ising
between the Spa11iards a11d the Hopi 011 tha.t first visit
to Tt1sayan in 1540 ,vas du. e to a violatio-n of the cere­monial
ba1·, a.nd not to the belligerent habit of the In-
,
di􀃚􍨮.
The village sl1ephe1·ds have an easy, t11ot1gh ve1-y
,;
"
40 MESA FOLK OF HOPILAJ.􀃫􎭄D
1nonotonous occupa.tio11. They !1ave the advantage of
other .A.rizona sl1epherc1s because their cha1·ges a1·e
l)1·ought at nightfall into sect1re cor1·als runo11g the
rocks below the to,vn a.nd do not 1·equire care till
morning. F1·equently one sees a ,vo1na11 and a child
driving the 11.erd around, in ,vhat seems a vai11 search
for green things that a sheep \vitl1 a not too fastidious
appetite might ea.t. Formerly, at least, the office of
herder ,vas besto,,,ed bJ' the village cl1ief, 1111.1ch as was
once the case ,vitl1 the village s,vi11eherd or gooseherd
of Europe in olde11 time.
Perhaps a visito1· st1·aying about a I-Iopi village at a
time wl1en there are no ceremonies in progress 1nay
find a quaint street market, co11ducted by a few
vvomen sq11atted on the ground, with thei1· wares
s1Jread i11 front of them. Sucl1 n1arkets are only a
faint 1·eflection of those ,vhicl1 have been held in Mex-ico
from time i1nmemorial; but it is inter·esting to
k110,v that the Hopi have such ar1 i11.stitution, because
it sho􀃬􎱲rs a step in po-litical econo1ny that has been
1·arely noticed among the Indians in the United States.
The little barter by exchange that goes on here, accon1-
panied with the jollity of the Hopi ,vomen, has i11 it
the ger1n of com1nerce with its ,vo1·ld-en1bra.cing
activities. Ifere it is fot1nd a.lso that ,,,on1a11 has her
place as the. beginner .and promoter of bu;)ring and sell­i11g
as she has i11 the inception of ma1Jy other lines of
huma.n progress.
Roni, the speaker-chief, is tl1e living newspaper of
MESA FOLK OF HOPILAND 41
.
Walpi, 01· rather he is a vocal bu.lletin-boa1·d. Like
the reader for tl1e United States Senate, his voJ.ce is of
the robust kind, and f 01􀂔􉐠 this qualification, perhaps,
he was selected to make the n111uerous announcements
from the housetops. His news is principally of a re­ligious
character, such as the beginning and progress
of the many ceremonies at the pueblo, but there is a
fair sprinkling of secular notices of interest to the
community. Roni, however, is only a voice crying in
the wilderness at the bidding of the secret council or
of the heads of the b1·otherhoods Vl'ho are the true
rulers of the pueblos, because they have the destiny of
the flock in their hands. He holds, however, the of­fice
of spea.ke1·-chief, the pay of which is not highly
remune1·ative, but the duties do not interfere ,vith the
pursuit of othe1' occupations, since his announcements
are made usually ,vhen the people have gathered in
tl1e town after their day's labor i11 the fields. No
doubt, Honi regards himself and is 1·ega1·ded by others
as an important functionary who, with the ho1lse chief,
has the privilege of £1·equenting the Mong-kiva 01·
council chamber of the pueblo. The tovvn crier's an­nouncements
attracted the notice of the Spanish con­c1uerors
in the early days as they have that of modern
travelers. In the quaint language of Castaneda,
speaking of Zuni: '' They have priests wl10 preach
to them whom they call papas. These are the elders.
'rhey go up on the highest roof of the village and
preach to the village from there, like public criers in
42 lVIESA FOLK OF HOPILAND
the 1no1·ni11g vvl1ile the s11n is risiI1g, the whole village
being silent and sitting in the galleries to listen. They
tell tl1em ho\v to live, and I believe tl1a.t they give cer·­tai11
co·1n1nandments for them to keep.''
It m11st be admitted th.at Roni 's is a11 a.ncie11t and
honorable ofice, found useful by ci,·ilizetl corr1n1t1ni­ties
before the ti1ne of ne,vspapers an(l st1rvivi11g yet,
as the sere1io of Spain.
-1 It is s111·p1·ising􀅻􇬠 by the Viray, l1ov.1 fast 11e,,1s flies in
Hopiland.. 1"he arrival of a. ,vl1ite 1nan is known th.e
,vhole lengtl1 a11d brea(lth of. Tusayar1 in an i11ered.­ibly
sho;.·t tin1e. .c\. £011clness fo1· s111all talk, togetl1c1·
,,1itl1 the dea.rtl1 o·£ ne,\'S, 1T1alre it inc11mbent 111)011
ever:}' Hopi, ,vhen c1n3rtl1111g happens, to pass tl1e ,vorcl
along.
'ro a ,risito1􀀞􁸠 e11campecl belo,v tl1e Wal 1)i 111e8a tl1e
nove·1ty -of hea.ring tl1e spea1(er-chie£ £01·· the first ti111e
is a thing long to be re111e11.1.bet1·ed. 011t c>f tl1e clark-
11ess and indesc1·iba.ble sile11ct3 of the desert co111es ti
voice, and st1cl1 a voice! Fron1 tl1e l1ejgl1ts nl>o,re it
seems to con1e 011t of space ancl to be a11<lil)le for an
infinite distance. It tal(eS tl1e forin of a cl1a11t, long
c1rawn ancl ft1ll of son.oro11s c111alit)r. Everjro11e listens
breathlessly to the i1nporta11t 1nessa.ge, a11cl ,vhen t11e
crier finishes afte1· the third repetition, a11 Ir1dian i11-
forms 11S tl1at the s11bsta11ce of tl1e anno11.nce1nent v.,as
tha.t the vvire 􀅼􇰱1hich ''Washington'' hacl pro-r11ised t<)
send l1ad con1e and that in t,vo days the villages ,vo11ld
go 011t. to b11ild fe11ces.
MESA FOLK OF HOPILAND 43
That Honi 's messages are ,,·orth hearing is ,vit­nessed
by the following a.n:nouncement of the Ne,􀃇􌜠
FiJ.-e ce1·emony. Roni, sta.nding on the housetop at
sun-up, intones:
All people awake, open your eyes, arise,
Become children of light, vigoro-us, active, sprightly;
Hasten, Clouds, from the four world-quarte1·s.
Come, Snow, in plenty, that v;rater may abound when
su1umer a.ppears.
Come, lee, and cover the fields that after planting,
the3r may yield abundantly.
Let all hearts be glad.
The Wuwutchimtu will assemble in four da.ys.
They will encir·cle the villages, dancing and singing.
Let the v;romen be r·eady to pour ,vater upon them
"rl1at moisture m·ay come in plenty and all shall re-
• •
JOICe.
This is a good example of the poet1--y of the Hopi
,vhich, in the kachina. songs, is of no lovv dt'!gr·ee of
ar-tistic exp1􀃈􌡥ession .
. The Hopi use tl1e wo1·ld £01· a dial and the sun for
the clock-han. d. Tl1e sun-pri􀃉􌥴t from hi$ observator·y \
on a point of the mesa ,vatches the lumina.1-y as ca1·e­fully
as any ast1·onome1-. He determines the time for
the beginning of each ceremony or i1uporta.nt event
in the life of the pueblo, such as co1t1 planting, by the
1·ising or setting of the sun behind a certain peak or
notch in the marvelous mountain pr􀃊􌩯ofile on the easte1·n
and weste1·n horizons. These pr·ofiles are known to
him as we know the figl1res on a ,vatch face. Along
44 MESA FOLK OF HOPILAND
.
them he notes the march of the seasons, and at the
prope1· ti1ne the town-crier chants his announcement
from the house-tops.
The clear air of Tusayan renders the task of the
s11n-priest easy; this primitive astrono1ner has the best
of skies for observation. By tiay the San F1􀃛􍭡ancisco_
pea.ks, a hundr·ed miles- a,vay, stand clea1·ly silhouetted
on the horizon; by night the stars a1·e so brilliant that
one can distinguish objects by their light .
The· Hopi also knoVi' much of astro·nomy, and 11ot
only do ·they ha.ve na111es for the planets and partict1-
lar stars, but are familia1􀃜􍰠 with many co·11stellations,
the Pleia.des espe. cially being ve11e1·at. ed, as a1nong
ma11y primitive peoples. Tl1e 1·ising a11d positio,n of
the Pleiad.es determine tl1e time of some important
ceremonies ,v hen the '' sweet influences'' 1·eign. A11y
fixed star may be 11sed to mark of a periocl of time by
position a11d progress in the heavens as the sun is used
by day. Tl1e moon determines the months, but tl1ere
is no ,vor·d for 􀃝􍴧'year'' or for the longer periods of
time. Days are marked by ''sleeps," thus today is
pi1,i or '' no,v''; the days of the week are t,vo sleeps,
three sleeps, etc. ; tab'lt,co is ''yesterday. ''
While tl1e lar·ge1􀃛􍬠 periods of time a1·e kept with ac­curacy,
so that the time of begin11ing the cere1nonies
varies but little from year to year, the Hopi have poor
memories for dates. No one knows his a.ge, ancl many
of these villages seem to live within the shifting hori­zons
of yesterday and tomorrow. The priests, hovv-
,
•
· MESA FOLK OF HOPILAND 45
ever, keep a record of the ceremonies by adding to
their· tiponi, or palladit1m of their society, a feather
for eacll celebration. At Zuii a 1·ecord of the death
of priests of the war society is kept by making
sc1·atches on the face of a large rock nea1· a shrine, and
by this method a Hopi woma.n keeps count of the da.ys
from the child's birth to the natal ce1·emony. Ask a
Hopi when some event happened, and he will say,
'' Pai }1,e sat o, '' meaning '' some time ago·, when my
f athe-.r was a boy'' ; stress on the word means a longer
. time, and if the event was long beyond the memory of
man, the India.n will almost shake his head of with
emphasis.
· 'J;he only notched time-stick is that jealously guard­ed
by the sun priest, and no one knows just ho,v he
makes his ca.lculations from it.
As for dinner time, the gi·eat sun and '' the clock
inside'' a.ttend to that; dawa y(J;mtt,, dawa nashab, and
d{J/Wa poki stand for '' su11rise, '' '' noonda.y,'' a.nd
''sunset.'' If the Hopi makes an appointment .for a
special hour, he points to where the sun will be at tl1at
time. The seasons are kno􀂲􋉲rn to him in a general wa.y
as the time of the cold or snow, the coming back of the sun ( winter sols.tiee), the time of bean / 01· co,rn plant-ing,
the time of green corn, the time of l1arvest, etc.,
but there is a calendar ma1·ked by the ce1·emonies held
during each month.
Perha.ps these children of the sun are happie1· in not
being sla.ves of the second as we have become. Our
46 MESA FOLK OF HOPILAND
watches, ·which they call daiva, '' the sun,'' have not
bound them to the wheel by ,vl1ose turning ,ve seem to
advance. 􀆵􋔮.L1hey are satisfied witl1 the g1·a.11der p1yoces-sion
of the heavenly bodies, and their tlay, s fade ir1tc,
happy forgetfulness.
An experience of sever·al years a.go 1nay here be r·e­l,
1te(l i11 01·der to sho\v ho,v the clan na1ne of a 1-Iopj
i s a ver·itable pa.rt of himself and a.lso links him to'hi􀆶􋘠
cla .n. ancl the most intimate religious and secular· 1ife of
the pt1eblo.
'rl1c1·e w􀆷􋝴ts a jolly cro,ivd of Hopi 1tnde1.. the tle11s(
shacle of a. cottonwoocl on the Little Colo1·ado Rivel
one. hot day in J11ly. The, n1ound o-f eai·th, stI·e,vn
"''itl1 chips of flint ancl potshe1·ds like a b11ried city 011
the E11pl1ratcs, had yieldecI its secr·ets, ancl the hous<
,valls of the ancient tolvn of Ho1nolobi rese1nbletl ,l
huge l1oneycomb on the bluff.
The Hopi, who l1ad ,rorke<l like 'l'r·ojaJ1s ir1 Jaying
bare tl1e ha.bita.tions of their· presu1nptive a11cestors1
we1·e now asse1n blecl to receive their wages i11 sil,re1·
dolla1·s, ,:vhich they exp1􀆸􋡥essively call '' little ,vhitr
cakes.'' Ar·ouncl '"''e1·e scattered the va1·io11s belong­ings
of an Indian camp1 among whic}1 ti11 cans ,vere
pro1ninent; a "rind-brealr had been constructed of cot­ton,-
vood bo11gl1s; fro111 the tree h11ng i.lJc sl1el]s c,f
ttirtles ca,11gl1t. in tlte river; a c111antity of ,-vilc.l tobacco
was sp1·ea.cl ot1t to c11·5,. i11 tl1e s1111, an(1 several crop­eared
b11rr·os hobbling abo11t <)11 tlITee legs vvere e11jO)'­ing
an 11111 1s11al]3r ]11.x11riant l)a􀆹􋥴tttre of s:-1gcbrusl1.
.
MESA FOLK OF HOPILAND 47
'' Paying of'' is sm·r·ounded with a.ttractions for all
sorts and conditions of men. The Hopi seemed like
a lot of children anticipating a holida,y, as they sat in
a cir·cle around Dr. Fewkes, who was .pa.ymaste1·. This
'"ras tl1ei1· fi1·st experience, perhaps, with Government
'' 1·ed ta.pe, '' of whose intricacies they must have had
but the faintest idea. There are times when blisful
igno1·ance is to be enviecl.
The '' sub-,rouchers'' we1·e filled olit with the time
of se1·vice and the amount to be paid, and as the doc­tor's
cler·k called out the _names, the boys came fo1·­war
·d to sign. An Indian sign his name ! Cur·iously
enough, eve1-y Hopi fr·om the least to the greatest can
sigi1 his name, and l1e does not have to 1·esort to the
''X-ma.i·k'􀃶􏘠 of our boasted civilization.
Pe1·haps it would be better· t-0 say '' dr·a,vs his na.ine,''
for when the first Indian gtasped the pen in the most
unfamiliar way imagina,ble, he drew the pictu1·e of a
rabbit, the next clrew a tobacco plant, the thir·d a liz­ard,
and so on, until the strangest collection of sig­natu1
·es tli.at e􀃷􏝥er graced a Government voucher-book
v\"as completecl.
It must be explained that each Hopi has a11 eve1·y­day
name which his fond relatives devisecl fo.1· him
cluring infancy, and a clan name, ,􀃸􏡲rhich sho1vs his
blood 1·elationship 01􀀌􀰠 fa.1uily. Nowhere, even i11 these
da.ys of ancestor hunting, is 1nore i1nportance give11 to
family tl1 a11 in Hopiland. If you ask, '' Who is tl1is
n1a.n 1 '' tl1e answer may be, f 01· instance, '' Kopeli,''
•
I
48 1\IIESA FOLK OF HOPILAND
his individual name. '' But what is he in \Valpi 1' '
'' He is a chua," that is, he belongs to the importa11·􀂠􊀠
Snake clan and his totem signatt1re is a cralvling rep­tile.
It afords great amusement to tl1e Hopi ,vhen a per­son,
not acquainted ,vi.th their customs, asks a man hi􀂡􊄠
name; it is a.lso very embarrassing to the man aske(l,
unles the1·e is a third pai't)' at hand to volunteer th1􀂢􊈠
service, becatise no Hopi can be prevailec1 on to speal􀂣􊌠
his own name fo·r fear of the bad conseqt1ences fol­lowing
'' giving hlmself away.''
'
•
III
FOOD .AND REARING
•
. Indian legend tells of a time when all was water;
then land was ma.de; for a long time the ea.rth was too
wet for human beings and at la􀂓􉍴t the ea1'th was dried
.out by a mighty fire. .All these are pretty stories for
those who are looking for deluge legends and the ef­fects
of blazing comets, but if the Indian account is
true, the drying proces.s was carried entirely too far
in the Southwest. Wa.ter ! water! 1 water! The word
gains a new significance in this arid region. The1􀂔􉑥e is
a rippling, cooling, refreshing note in it, a soothing of
parched lips and a guaranty against death from thirst.
So, all conve1-sation among the people is replete with
refe1·ences to this mainsta.y of life, and one comes, like \J
them, to discus􀂕􉔠 the water question with an earnest
rega1·d for its problems . .
Wherever there is water, a.lmost always will there
b􀂖􉘠 found ancient l'Uins. In mode1·n times the wind­mill
of the settler often staJ1ds by the spring which
quenched the thirst of the ancient inhabita.nts of a
now crumbling pueblo. The blesings which were in­voked
in Biblical times upon tl1e man who '' digged a
•
50 l\'1ESA FOLI{ O:b., IIOPILAND
,vell'' a.pply also in this se1ni-deser't, fo1· Syria and
Arizona do not diffe1· g:reatl,y in cli1nate. The Bedouin
,vith lus horses and ca.1nels ,vould not be .ol1t of place
011 tl1e sa11d ,vastes of our· Sal1a1·a.; nor ,ver·e the Span­ish
conquero1·s on unfamiliar· grol1nd ,vhen they ex­changed
the dusty plains and naked sierr·as of their
native land £or those of the Ne\v World.
The t1·avele1· in Spa.in, 11ortherr1 Afr·ica, 01· Asia
l\finor· is impressed witl1 the si1nilarity bet,veen these
countries a.nd Olll' Sol1tl1,vest, so tl1a.t the na1ne of Ne,v
Spa.in, ea.r·ly applied by the Spania.i·tls to all of 1\1:ex­ico,
see1ns very ap. propr·iate. !Jike these countr·ies, to(),
ottr· South,,1est is a land of tlli1·st; the dry air a11d fe1·­vcnt
sun pa.1·cl1 the ski11 and devour· eve1-y trace of
n1oistu1·e. ( One feels as thol1gl1 l1e ,,rer·e placed under·
a, bell glflS exha.usted of a.ii· undergoing tl1e shriveling
process of the apple in tl1e experirnent.)
So, before t􀅢􆉴tking a jo111·ney, one inquir•es not so
much of the 1·oads a:
nd d.istances, b11t whether ,vater
ma.y be found, .for it is often necessar:)r to submit to
t.hat 1nost 1mpleasar1t of contingencies, a '' dry camp.''
l\!Iany pa.r·ts of Arizona a11c1 Ne,v l\1exico ca.nnot easily
be visited except in favorable sea,qo11s, becal1se one is
tolcl, ''it's a l1unclred miles to '½
1ate1·.'' The Hopi
often provide for tl1e long jou1-i1eys ac1·oss waterless
co11ntry bJ? hiding ,, ra.ter at points along the 1·011te.
This ""rise preca11tion, ·vvhicl1 ,,Tas noticed by the S1)a11-
ish explorers of tl1e sixteeutl1 cent11ry, co11sists of
burying sealec1 wate1·-jR.1·s i't1 t11t:􀅣􆌠 sa11d, their sit.uat:ion
•
•
MESA FOLK OF HOPILAND 51
being indicated by '' signs. '' Far from the ancient or
modern habitation these ja1􀃌􌰬, uncovered by the ·wind,
are often discovered by riders on the cattle ranges ..
Not only must the dusty explorer' 'haul water·,'' for
even the railroads across the semi-desert are p1·ovided
with ta.nk trains for water service, a.nd the water ta.nks
of the huge locomotive tenders of all tr-a.ins are of un­usual
capacity.
Far out on the sandy, sa.g·e-br·ush plains a.re f1·e­quently
seen small cairns of stones, called by the
knowing ones '' Indian water s-igns,'' pointing out the
direction of wat.er, but the more common signs a.re the
trails made by· e.a.ttle on which a myriad of tracks in
the dust point to water, miles, away perha.ps, and
oftentimes, ,vhen the tracks are not fresh, leading to a
dried-t1p pool, st1rrounded by carcasses 01· bleaehing
bones.
The Navaho herdsman. or herdswoman is a perosn • with grea.t responsibility, for the sheep and ponies
must have water at least every three or four days.
When a well-defined thunder-storm passes within
twenty or thirty miles of his camp he starts £01· the
path of its influence, knowing that there ,vill be pools_
of ,vater and quick-springing herbs and g1·ass. 'rl1is
chasing a thunder-st-Orm is novel - and much more
satisf a.ctory than chasing a rainbo-w-. _Even_th; wild
cattle scent the water a.nd make for it, running like
race-horses.
As a ma.tter of fact, the animals of the desert have
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52 MESA FOLK OF HOPILAt􀃬􎱄D
of necessity become used to doing without wate1·. So
far as one can determine, the rats-, mice, sqt1irrels,
badgers, coyotes, prairie-dogs, skunks, and othe1· den­izens
of the sand-wastes so rarely get a good dr-i.nk of
water tha.t tl1ey seem to l1a.ve outgr􀃭􎵯own the need of it .
. Cattle and horses have also developed such powers of
abstinence as might put a camel to sha1ne. The1·e is a.
belief i n the Western country that a.t least one of the
burrows of a prairie-dog to,vn penetra.tes to watee,
but wl1ether this be true or not, judging f1·om some of
the location.s of these queer animal villa.ges tl1e tribe
of gophers must contain adepts in abysmal engineer-
Ing.
One does not live long in the wilds of Arizo11a ,vith­out
beco1ning ,veatl1en·vise and, pe1·l1aps, skille<l in
signs and t1·a.ils like a frontiersman. 'rhe country is
so open that the ,veather for a hundred 1niles or more
can be taken i n at a gla.nce and the mar·ch of several
storms observed at once·, even tl1ough the sound of
wind and thunder be fa1· out of heari11g. At Flag­staf,
fo1· i11sta.nce, i t is ea􀃮􎸱1sy to tell ,vhen the Ho-pi are
rejoicing i11 a rain, altl1ough it is more tl1an a. hunclred
miles away.
In a co11nt1y with so little 1􀃯􎽡ajnfall a.s Tus:lya11 and
in which the soil consrists largely of sand "1ith under­lying
porous rocks, springs a.re few and their flo\7
scanty. The rivers, also, during 1nost of tl1.e year,
flow fa,1􀃰􏀠 beneatl1 their· sandy beds, vvl1ich only once in
a while are torn by raging tor1·ents. Tl1is is one of
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. l\fESA FOLK OF HOPILAND 5"3
the many novelties of a country that probably ofers
more attractions than any land on earth.
Around the springs the life of the Hopi 􀂎􈹯omes to a
focus, for here, at all hours of the day, women and,
girls ma,y be seen filling their canteens, getting them
well adjusted in the blankets on their backs f o·r the
toilsome climb up the trail. A feeling of admiration
tinged with pity arises for these stttrdy little women
who in the blanket tied across the forehead literally­
by the swea.t of their brows ca,ry half a hundred­weight
of water up a height of neaJ.>ly half a thousand
feet. Mang i uk, '' tired ? '' one asks them. 0 kiowa
niang i uli, ''Yes, alas, very tired!'' they answer, these
slaves of the spring.
. At the 􀂏􈽤dge of the water in the sp􀂐􉁩ing, w􀂑􉅥ere no􀂒􉉨h-/
1ng can drsturb them, are green-painted sticks with\
dangling feathers. These are oferings to the gods
,vho, rule the water element. At none of the frequent
ceremonies of the Hopi are the springs forgotten, for
a messenger carries prayer-sticks to them and places
them in the wate1·. In former times oferings of pot­tery
and other objects were thrown into springs by
devout worshippers.
Around the springs are. gardens in which onions
and othe1· '' garden sauce'' are grown. When it is
gardens-.-.:.J'he growing· greens lend much to the drear
surroundings of the springs, but the plants must be enclosed by a stone wall to keep away m.arauding 1, burros and goats. · 1 􀀂􀈠
54 MESA FOLK OF HOPILAND
At least o,ne spri11g at each pueblo is dug out and
enlarged, forming a pool a.t the bottom of an excava­tion
ten feet deep a11d tl1irty in (lia1net€r', ,vith a
gr·aded way leading do,vn to tl1e ,vater. These springs
a.re convenient for ,•.rate ring t-he thirsty stock, b11t tl1ey
are especially used in the cere1nonies. D,11·ing the
Fltite Dance, £or example, they for1n the theater of
an elaborate ceremony in ,vhicl1 the priests wa,de i11 tl1e
􀄽􃵰pt·ing a.nd blo,v their􀄾􃸠 flutes iI1 the ,va.ter.
All the springs h.ave bee11 giver1 descriptive nar11es .
At. W alpi, tl1ere ar·e Da,,ra,pa, '' sun spring''; Isl1ba,
'' ,vol£ spring''; Ca.nelba, '' sheep spring''; Koki11ngba,
'' spider spring'' ; Wipoba, '' r11sh sp1-ing'' ; l{achinapa.,
'' kachina spring,'' a.nd a 11111nber of otl1e1·s, around
which cluster 1nany associa.tions dear to the good peo­ple
of tl1e Ea.st Mesa. Like the Hopi, every otl1e1· l1u­n1an
being who fares in tl1e dry Sol1thwest 11ncon­sciously
beco111es a devotee of ,vate1· worship a11d event.-
11ally finds l1imself i11 tl1e g1·ip of the po,,ve1·s of Nature
who111 the Indian.s beseech for tl1e fertilizing 1·ain.
Springs a.re ofte·n uncertain Ql1a11tities in this 1·e­gion.
Earthquakes have been kno,v11 to s,vallo,v up
springs i11 Olle place a.nd to cat1Se then1 to burst out at
a11otl1er fa1􀄿􃼠 a.way. One can 1·ea.dily iu1agine ,vhat a
terrible calamity such a pheno1nenon ca11 be m so dry
a country, for the only thin.g the people ca11 {lo unde1􀅀􄀠
si.1ch circun1stances is to 111ove a.ncl to n1ove quickly.
Tt seen1s proba.ble that s01ne of the many ancient In­dian
settJe1nents tl1at n1a.ke tl1e Sol1th,vest a J'11in-
,
TuIESA FOLK OF HOPILAND 55
st1"ewn 1·egion have been caused by just sucl1 :fickle­n
􀃏􌼠 in the water supply.
When modern enginee1􀃐􍁩ing comes to the aid of the
Hopi in storing the occasional vast 1·ushes of wate1·
£01· use througl1out the J·ea,r, a new era will dawn £01·
the Peaceful People. They may then become prosper­ous
farme1·s and gi·adually fo1·get the days when they
invoked the po,ve1-s of nature with strange charms
and ceremonies.
If the Hopi kno,v well the springs, they are not less'>./
perfect in kno,vledg·e of plants that a.1"e useful to
them. One day Kopeli, the former Snake chief, un­dertook
to teach his pupil, Kuktajmu, the lore of the
plants growing neai· the East Mesa. They set out £01·
a flooded cornfield neai· the "'ash, a11d long before they
1·eached i􀃑􍄬, they could hea1- the watchers emitting
blood-curdling yells to sca1·e a"\'\1ay the hated angwisli­ey,
crows, that fron1 time. to time made a dash for the
toothsome ear-s.
It goes without sa.ying that the· day was beautiful,
£01• in August thunder-cloud mases often fill the sky
,vith graceful forms, tinted beneath by a rosy glow re­flected
fro1n the st11".face of th.e red plains. 'rl1e rain
had st􀃒􍈱1·ted the vegetation anew and tl1e deep green
cornfields showed its benign influences.
Kopeli was communicative, but Kuktaimu, although
having been blessed. lJy Sa.lako ,vith a Hopi name, was
,veak in the Sl1bt]eties of Hopi speecl1 and missed
many points to whicl1, out of polit.eness, l1e responded
•
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56 MESA FOLK OF HOPILAl􀃔􍑄D
Owi, ''yes.''. Still, the queer·-sounding names of the
plants and thei1· uses given by Kopeli were duly put
do-wn on pa.per, for which the Hopi have a word which
literally means corn-husk. On their journey around
the co1·nfields they met var-ious g1·oups of watcher·s,
some recljning beneath the sloping far1n sl1elte1·s of
cottonwood boughs, some chatting together or gnaw­ing
ears of corn roasted in a little fire. Everyone re­quested
matches and willingly as1sted in conferences
over plants of which Ko·peli might be doubtful. Boys
with their bows and arro\,rs tried for shots at cr·ows,
a.nd little girls minded the babies. Life in the fields
is full .of enjoyment to the Hopi, and the children
especially delight to spend a day picnicking amidst
the rustling cor·n-leaves.
The plants having been l1unted out in the cornfields,
Kopeli and Kuktaimu sought higher ground among
the rocks belo,v the mesa, where diferent species of
pla.nts grow. At the foot of the gray rocks are found
many plants of great medicinal and ce1􀃕􍕥emonial val11e
t o -the Hopi, according to the Snake priest, who grew
enthusiastic over a small silvery specimen with pun­gent
odor. ''Very good medicine,'' he said. At this
juncture, when tl1e plant had been carefully pla,ced
in the collecting . pa.pers, Kopeli rnade a characteristic
gesture by rapidly sliding one o.f his palrns over the
other and said ·paslia, ''all.'' The nea1·ness 9£ the
evening m􀃖􍙬l must have been the influence that cal1sed
R;opeli to sa.)7 that the flora, of 11usayan had been ex-
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MESA FOLK OF HOPILAND 57
hausted in a single day's search, for subsequent jour­neys
about the mesas brought to light many other
plants that have pla,ce in Hopi botany.
It·is surprising to find such a genei·al knowledge of
the plants of their country as is met with among the
Hopi. No doubt this '\Vonder arises among those who
live the artificial life of the cities. The Hopi is a true
child of the desert and near to the desert's heart. His
su1Toundings do not furnish clear streaJns, gi·asy
meadows, and massy trees; there is much that is stern
a.nd ba1,􀂬􊱲ren at fi.1-st glance, and there is a meagerness
except in vast outlooks and brilliant coloring. Here
Nature is strippE-'<i and all he1' outlines are revealed,;.-
the rocks, pla.ins and mountains stand o,ut boldly in the
clear air. Still, in all this barrenness there is abun­dance
of animal and vegetal life which has adapted
itself to the ·semi-desert, a.nd if one becomes for the
time a Hopi, he may find in odd nooks and eorners 􀂭􊴠
many things delightful both to the eyes and the under­standing.
There are few Hopi who do not know the herbs and
simples, and some are familiar with the plants that
grow, in the mounta.ins and canyons, hundreds of miles
from their villages. Even the children know many of
the herbs, and more tha.n once . I .have ·successfully
asked them for their Indian names. This is·not strange,
because such things are a part of their education and
in this ,·Atay they are in advance. of the majority of
their civilized brothers. After a :while the idea im-
58 MESA FOLK OF HOPILAND
p1·es.ses one that the Hopi depend on the crops of Na­ture's
sowing as much as on the prod11ct􀅇􄜠 of thei1·
well-tilled fields. Many a time, as. tl1e legends tell,
the people were kept from fa.mine by the plants of the
desert, wl1icl1, good 01· bad seaso11s alike, tl1rust their
gray-g1·een sl1oots tlu·ough the d1J7 sands, a r·eminder
of the basis of all :flesl1.
Perhaps all the Hopi believe that the "rild pla11ts
a.i·e most val 11a,ble for healing anc.l religious pt1rposes,
fo1· tl1c pla.nts they use i11 1.uedicine ,vould stock a
p1-in1itive d 1·t1g store. Bunches of d.r·ied }1e1·bs, roots,
etc., 11a.ng fr·o1n the ceiling beruns o·f every hot1se, 1·e-
111i11ding 011e of tl1e mysterious bundles of '' yar. bs'' i11
􀅈􄠮. negro cabi11, a11cl, as occasion recJl1ires, a1·e 1nade into
tea.􀅉􄤠 a,ncl powders for all so11:s o,f ills.
Hopi doctors l1a.ve a tl1eo1·y aJld. pra.ctice of 111edi-
." cine􀅊􄨠 jl1st as have their n101·e learned wl1ite bretl11·e11.
Without the rcn1otest acq11aintance witl1 the schools
dividing the opinions of ol11· 1neclicine--a.fflicted 1·a.ce;
they unconsciously follo·"1 a 1111mber of the famo11s
teachings. So, if a patie11t has a prickli11g sensa.tion
in the tru􀅋􄭯oat a tea made fro1u the tlustle ,vill perforn·1
a c11re, as '' like cures like.'' 'rl1e hairy seeds of the
clemat, is will mal{e tl1e l1air· gro,,,, and tl1e f11Jit of a .
prolific croeping p]ru.1t sl1ot1ld be placed i11 tl1e water­melon
hills to i11sure 111a11y 111elo11s. The leaves of a
pl3Jlt nruned for the bat a.re placed on the head of a
r·estles child to i11duce it to sleep in the c.laytin1e, be­ca11se
that is the time the slot,hful bat sleeps. It is
MESA FOLK OF HOPILA."?\TJ) 59
not often that Hopi children r·equir·e an application
of bat-plant medicine, but even the best of children
get fractious sometimes.
Many a1·e the strange uses of plants by the Hopi,
and much curious lore has gatl1ered about them. S01ne
of the plants are named for the ani1na.ls and insects
which live upon them, such as '' the ca,te1·pilla.r, his
corn,'' '' the mole, his corn''; ,vhile some, from fancied
·1·esen1blances, a1·e called '' ra.t 's ea1\ '' '' ba.t plant,''
'' 1·attle plai1t, '' etc. 'l'wo plants gi;owing in company
are believed to be related and one is spoken of as the
child of the other·. Plants ar"'e also kno,,rn a.s, male
and female, and eaeh belongs to its special point o,f the
compass. Ma.ny a.i·e 11sed n1 t􀃰􏁥e r·eligio11s cere111onies;
those beloved by the gods appear· on the prayer-sticks
ofer·ed to beseech the kind ofices of the nature deities.. /
St1·ange as- it may seem, tl1e Hopi have medi􀃱􏅩ine'\j
'\>vomen as well as- medicine men. The best la1own of
these is Saalako,. tl1e 1nother of tl1e Snake priest. She
br·ews the dai.·k medicine for tl1e Snake dance a.nd
gua1·ds the secret of the antidote for snake bites. The
,vriter· once met at the pla.ce called ''Broad House'' a
Navaho medicine man. He was a ,vrinkled, grizzled
specimen of hu1nanity mounted on a burro and was
hunting £01- her·bs, as was seen by a glance into the
pouch which l1e wor·e by his side. A little tobacco in­duce.
d him to dis1nount a.nd sp1·ead out l1is store o'f
he1·bs. When sho,rn the write1 . 's collection of plants,
he became mt1ch interested, no doubt believing tl1a.t
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60 1\1:ESA FOLK OF HOPILAND·
he had found a fellow practitioner. He. requested
samples of several of the plants, and when they were
given him, stored them away in his pouch with every
evidence of satisfaction.
The Hopi priests are also very glad to receive any
herb coming from fa.r of, especially from the sea­coast,
'' the land of the far water,'' as tl1ey call it.
They treasure such ca.refully a11d mix it with s:acred
smoking tob-acco or introduce it into the '' .charm
liquid'' which is us􀂤􊑤d in eve1·y ceremony to mix the
paint fo1· the p1·ayer-sticks and to sprulkle duri11g
their st1·ange rites.
An American farmer might be at a loss to 1·ecognize
a Hopi cornfield ,vhen he sa,v one. I11 the usually
dry stream beds or ''washes'' he ,vould see low clumps
of vegetation, arranged with some regulai'ity over the
sand. '11
l1is is the Hopi cornfield􀂥􊔠 so planted in order
to get the benefit of rains which, falling higher 11p,
may fill the washes, for the summer th11nder-sto1'I.ns
are very erratic in their favors.
The Hopi farmer sets ot1t to plant, armed only witl1
a dibble ,vhich serves as plow, hoe, and cultivator·
combined. Arriving at the waste of sand which is his
unpromising seed-field, he sits down 011 the gro11nd,
digs a hole, a.nd p11ts in perl1aps twenty grains, cover­ing
then1 witl1 the hands. Whether he has any rule like
One for the cutworm,
One for the cro,v,
One for luck,
And three for to grow,
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I
MESA FOLK OF HOPILAND 61
tiso dboeu pbltefnutli, fbuul th ien p tlhaen tyse amrosr we hcoennr c utot wth"Oer mhisl la. re likely feeOt,n es ihtsi lld fowinins,h eadn, dh eg· ogeest st hurpo, umghov etsh ea wsaamy ea bporuotc etesn. sHtael knse cvleors e tthoignest hteh1·e f ocro nrsha, dbeu atn dle apvreost ectthieo nn fu1·momer othues · winds. f1the weedst aTu.nc da kreee opfi nthg ea fiwealdtc cho nosni ststhe m cerroewlys, iwn hhiochei nhge \
afrrieg hatleson sw ao,nvdaeyr sb yo fd ienmgoenniuaict ys,h aonudts . maHnyis as ctairmeec roownes i,· takWesh tehne mth ef ocro 1w􀂥􊕡a 1􀂣􊍳sc hffitu lf oIrn drioaau.stsi􀂤􊑮n g ears the Hopi get cfoaltu amnnds tohfe rsem oisk ef eaar.stiiesn gf rformom 􀂦􊘠 hme orrona sttiilnl gn ipgihtst. inT tahlel -wfieitldhs . buTnrhiensge lbarrtglSeh· ,p ifitsl leadre wdiutgh irno atshtein sga neda,r sh, eaatnedd uclsousaeldl yl ltph eti gohoctalysi ofnor o a.f fdia·oyli. ckTinhge aonpde nfienags·t ionfg a, wphite :ries laughte1· an. d song prevail. Some of the corn is con­osuf
mwehdic ha tt hoen cHe oipni mpraekpianrge pmuadndyi,n agns da w.ndh aott rheemr adiinssh eiss dforrie tdh eo nw itnhtee rc.o b and hung in bunches in the houses anTd hae reea h.risd odfe nth be yI nthdiea nbl acdoersn, awrhe icclho steo utoc ht hteh eg rasounndd.
The blades are usually tatte1Nwind, so that by the time theed caon1􀂧􊝮nd ib,sl oiw􀂨􊡰pne a, wthae.y fboyd dthere ilasb noorti ooufs lmy uccahr 1·vieadlu bey. bThe ripe coi·n is gathered and ·ack-lo,a.cls up the steep mesa to
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62 MESA FOLK OF HOPILAND
the hol1&.es, wl1ere it is stored a,vay i11 the co1·n cham­ber.
He1,e the e-a1·s are pilecl up in symmet1·ical ,,ralls,
separate from the last year's crop, ,vhich may no,v b1:
used, as the Hopi, taught by fan1ine, keep one yea·r \-;
l1arvest in r·ese1·ve. Once in a while, the "vomen b1·ing
out the old co1·n, spread it on the roof to Sl1n, and care­ft1lly
brush of et.cl1 ea1· before retun1ing it to, tl11:
grttnary, for· in this d1·y count1·y, though corn 11eve1·
111olds, insect pests are nl1merol1S.
Ar11ong the superstitions connected ,vitl1 con1 tl11!
1-Iopi believe that the cobs of the seed corn r11ust no·:
be bUI·ned until r·ain ltas fallen on tl1e Cl'(>p for fca,1􀅁􄄠 of
keeping a,vay or '' drying up'' the rains.
No ce1·eal in the world is so beautift1l as Ifopi corn.
'l'lre grains, tho11gh small, a1·e fl1ll and highly J)Ol ·
isl1ed ; the ea.r·s are ,vhite, yellow, red of seve1·al sha,des.
a lovely rose madcler·, blue, a ve1·y dark blue or pt1rplt
which the Hopi call bla.ck, and mottled. A t1·ay of
shelled co1·n of various colors looks like a mosaic.
In the clivisio,u of labor, the 1>lanting, care o:f tl1C'
co1-n in the fields a.nd tl1e l1a.1-vest.ing belong to tl1r
men. When the b1·illiant ears a.re garnered, the11 tl1c
'"1omen 's ,vork begins. No 􀅂􄉴tl1er featurve of the llopi
household is so interesting as the ro,v of three or mo1·e
slabs pla.cec1 s1an1i\Vise in stone-lined troughs sunk in
tl1e floor; tl1ese a.re tl1ei1· rnills. Tl1ey a1·e of graded
fineness, a11d this is also tr11e of the oblong hand
stones, 01· mcitios, ,vhich are 1·t1bbed upon them ,vitl1 a11
t1p and c1o,vn motion as in using a ,vashboard. So1ne-
MESA FOLK OF HOPILAND 63
tunes three women work at the mills; the fir-st woman
grinds the co1·11 into coarse meal on the coarse stone
and passes her· p1·od11ct over· to the second, ,vho grinds
it still finer, a.nd the thi1'd :finishes it on the last stone;
sometimes one woma.n alone carries the meal th1·ough
t11e successive st.a.ges, but it is a poor household that
cannot furnish two g1·inders. Th€ skill with which
the woman spreads the meal over the grinding slab. by
a flirt of the hand as the tnano is brought up for the
1·eturn stroke is truly 1·emarkable, and the rhyth!Dic
p1·ecision of a.11 the motions suggests a machine. The'
weird song sung by the grinders and the rumble of the
mill ar·e characteristic sounds of the Hopi pueblos, and
as the women grinde1-s powde􀂿􋼠 thei1· perspiring faces
with meal while tl1ey work, they look \vell the part of
millers. Little girls are early taught to grind, and
they often ma.y be prevailed upon to display their· ac­complishment
before visitors.
The finely ground mea.l is piled and patted into
conical hea.ps on the flat basket trays, making quite an
exhibition of which the Hopi ,vomen are very proud,
much meal indicating diiigence as well as a . bountiful
supply of the staf of life. Grinding is back-br-eaking
work, and one humanely wishes that the Hopi ,vomen,
a.11cl especially the immatu1·e girls, could be relieved
of this too heavy task.
While corn-meal ente1·s into a.11 Hopi · cooking as
the chief ingr·edient, rnost of it is made into '' pap. er­bread,''
c·alled 'J)ilc1i, r·esembling more than anything
I
64 MESA FOLK OF HOPILAND
else the material of a hornet's nest. This b1􀄌􀱥ead iH
made from batter, colored gray ,vith. wood ashes, dex -
terously spread very thinly with the hand o,ver ft
heated slab of sto,ne. Piki bakes qt1ickly, corning fr·e<􀄍􀴠
fro1n the slab and is directly fold.ed t1p into conven -
ient co-mpass and so c1􀄎􀹳sp is it that it cr·ackles lik<:
paper. Sometimes it is tinted ,vith attractive colo1·s
for festal occasion$, such as the Ka.china ceremonies.
--- -:13efore a dance the ,vomen bt1sily p1·epa.re f oocl ani!.
the girls go abot1t speechless, with n1ou.ths full of 1neal,
'' che􀄏􀽲ring yeast'' for the co-rn l)t1dding. This a·nc􀄐􁀠
other ins and outs of the kitchen 1nake the kno,vin€:
traveler rather shy of the othe1􀄑􁅷wise attractive-lookin􀄒􁈺:
Hopi food.
Surely corn is the ''mother:'' of tl1e Hopi. All thf:
powers o-f na.tu1·e are invoked to grant a good crop
by giving 1·ain and fertility, and the .desire for corn
is the central motive of the numerous ce1·e1nonies of
the villagers of Tusayan. If tl1e l)rayers. of tl1e Hopi
could be forinulated like the '' Om, mane padrn.e Ji uni''
of the Hindus, it would be in the s1naller· compass of
these vvords, '' Grant us, corn!'' Nor are these sin1ple
villagers l1ngra.teful for such blessings. Kopeli use cl
to sta.nd looking ove1· his thriving co1􀄓􁍮nfield a11d sa.j'
with fervor, '' K wa kwi, K wa kwi, '' '' thanks, thanks, 11
and it was evident that the utterance was made ,vitl1
tn1e thankfulneS.') and a spirit of devotion.
It is clificl1lt to i111agi11e tl1e ancient people with-
011t corn; bl1t very long a.go, as tl1e legends tell, the)·
MESA FOI.IK OF HOPILAND 65
did not knov.1 this cereal Certa.in it is they were
not then pueblo dwellers and had not spread far in the
Southw-est. They lived in the pla.ces where tl1e1·e was
game, and for the sa.me reason that the important food
animals lived in such places, - the p1·esence of vegeta­tion
that would sustain life.
Their life was along the foot hills of well-watered
and timbered mountains rising from plains, where
with the flesh of game and seeds and roots of plants
they could supply their semi-savage ,vants. Long
perhaps they roved thus as hunters until they d1-ifted
to the land of promise - the semi-desert ,vhere agri­culture
of grajn plants was born and there they re­ceived
'' mother corn.'' Henceforward all the forme1..
soUI·ces of food 􀂾􋹶v1·ested from a 11igga1"'d Nature beca.me
as notl1ing to this food of fods, but even to this da.y
the Hopi have not fo1"'gotten their old-time intimate
kno"·ledge of the 1·esources in fields not so,vn by hu:.
man hands. With corn, which possesses a high fod
value and is easily raised, stored, and preserved, the
Hopi and their Pueblo brethren spread without fear
throughout the semi-arid lands.
It has been pointed out that a constant diet of corn
produces disagree.able physiological efects, and this is
suggested for the use of chile and other condiments,
the 1nixtm·e .,of corn food with meat and vegetable
substances, and, in fact, fo1· the multifa.riot1s ways of
preparing a.nd cooking corn. This necessity f 01􀀃􀌠 va­riety
also gives .an explanation of tl1e resourcefulness
>
•
66 1\1:ESA FOLK 0]., HOPILA.ND
of the I-Iopi l1ol1Se\vif e and has, acted as a spur' to l1er
inventio11 of palatable dishes.
11he vocabt1lary of corn in t4e If bpi lang1.1age is
extensive and contains \Vo1·ds descriptiv.e even of tho
paJ1:S of the pla.nt that are lacking to ·􀅻􇭭most civilized
people. 'l1he impo1i:ance of corn is also 1·eflected in
the 11urnero11s \:ti'ords desc1·ibing the kinds of meal, the
dishes n1ade from corn or in ,vl1icl1 co1·n enters. and of
the va1·iou.􀅼􇰠 ,vays ir1 which it is p1·epared by fire for·
the consumption of the ever-h11ngry Hopi. 'r o give
an ineo1nplete census of corn f-0ods, there a1·e fifte.en
\., kinds of pilci or pa.per· bread, th1·ee kinds of mush;
five of short-cake i eleven of boiled corn; four kinds
baked 01· 1·oasted in the co􀅽􇵬ls; tv\'O cooked by frying ;
fou1· stewed and eight of cooked sl1e-lled co111, making
fifty-t,vo va1·ieties.
After the paper-bread, perl1aps the most popular
food is pigamc1
01· s,vet corn 1nt1sh, ,vrapped in c-0r11-
husk and ba.ked ir1 an unde1·grotu1d ove11. Another
standby is shelle(l corn soakecl and boilec1 till each
g1·ain s,vells to several times the normal size. The
IIopi like thei1· foocl ,vell-cooked and ltnow the al't of
n1alring eacl1 sta1·cl1 g1·ain expand t o the limit. .1:\
book of Hopi cooke1·y v.rould be bulky, b11t ]10,v i11ter­esting
to tl1e l1ouse,:o.rife who ,􀅾􇸱1-011ld k110,,v ho,w to 1nakr
plain food a1)petizi11g ,vithot1t rnilk or eggs, and ,vl10
wot1lcl learn ne"' tt.ncl st1·a11ge combi11ations ! 'I'he1·e
a.r·e ca.kes macle' f1·01n (trie(1 fruits, cl101)pecl 1neat, and
strav,,, p11t 011 tl1e roof to c11')'; clu1nplings for1ned
,
MESA FOLK OF HOPILAND 67
arot1nd old ha1nmerstones, corn dodgers, pa.ts of corn􀂜􉰠
meal mush ,􀂝􉴬,rapped in corn htlSk and boiled or baked,
and many other styles of food that would seem
strange to other than a Hopi epicure.
When it is time to dine, a lai·ge bowl of stew is
placed on the floor as the piece de resistance and beside
it a tray of piki. Each member of the family breaks
of a piece of piki, and, holding it between tht1mb and
finge1·, it is dragged. through the stew much like a
seine to catch as many particles of meat as possible,
then deposited fa,r back in tl1e mouth so tha.t the stew
a.dhering to the fingers may be cleared of witl1 a re­sounding
sma.ck of the lips. A traveler to IIopi in
1869 describes a more :formal meal which consisted of
mutton, dried peaches, blt1e piki, cofee, and a drink
made by steeping tl1e roasted heart of a,gave in water.
This writer sa.ys:
You take a small piece, lay a fragment o.f mutton
and s·ome peaches upon i t or a little of the sweet
liquid and bolt the mass, spoon and all. This dinner,
though prepa1·ed a.nd cooked by Inclians, tasted better
than many a meal eaten by us in border settlements
cooked by whites.
Hopi women asiduously gather the seeds of grasses
and othe1· pla.nts, which they grind up and add to
corn-meal to improve the flavor of the bread, or, per­haps,
a prized bread is made entirely o.f the ground
seed of some desert plant. Oily seeds, such as those
of the pifion, pumpkin, and melons are ground to form
shortening in va.rio11s cakes and to add richness to
68 MESA FOLK OF HOPILAND
st.ews. Often food is colo.1e. d with harmless vegetable
dyes, no doubt with the deep-laid scheme on the par1
of tl1e mothe1· of the household to ca.use t.he farnilia1
fare to be attacked ,vith rene,ved zest. Our tradition
of '' spring lamb with mint sa.uce'' is d11plicated by
stewed 1·abbit ,vith 1wlriakopsJii greens, ,vhich, wit\,
various other herbs, ar·e put to appropriate 11ses by the
master of the Hopi culinary art.
•
J
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IV
THE WORKERS
The Hopi believe in the gospel of ,vork, which is
evenly divided between the men and the women.
When it is said that people work, there is, uncon­sciously
perhaps, a desire to know the reason, which
is rarely a subject of curiosity when people amuse
themselves. Come t o think of it, the answer is an
old one, and a Hopi, if asked why he works, might put
forward the first great cause, nusha, ''food.''
N-0t only must the Hopi ,vork to supply his wife
and little ones, but he must do his share for his clan, I .
which is the large family of blod-relations, bound
together by the strongest ties and customs of mutual
helpfulnes. This family is an object of the gr·eatest
pride, a little world of its own, in which every member
'. from the least to the greatest has duties and respon­sibilities.
So all labor- men, v;romen, and the little,
· ones, who add their tiny share. The gene1·al division !
j
of work gives the woman the afairs of the household,;
... -
and ihe man the cultivation of the fields. Men p1ant 􀂅􈔮. ft . .-. •
women and children frequently go down to the fields􀂆􈘠
l. and watch the crops to keep of birds. _ · · -·; ... - - 􀀁􀄢
•
•
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70 1\1:ESA FOLK O􀀒􁈮., HOPILAND
When the ha1·vest is gatl1ered, taken up tl1e mesa,
a.11d put into the grru.1ary, 1nan 's i11te1·est in it ceases,
except in tl1e matter of eating a large sha1·e. Never
was a I-Iopi who was not hungry. Much of the wo­man's
time is taken up in grinding corn a.ncl baki11g
bread. The ,vater-ca.n·ying . falls to l1e1·, and this
duty might give rise to a suspicio11 tha.t sl1e has tl1e
larger share of the burdens, if the Hopi we1·e not con1-
pelled to be frugal in tl1e use of ,vater. Besides tl1e
duties mentioned, she 111ay also add tl1at of potter,
basket make1·, l1ouse builder, and sometin1es carver of
dolls and make1· of moccasins. Then the children must
be ca.r·ecl for, but everyone tak.es· a hand at that, in­cluding
the cl1ildren themselves. If it wer·e not for tl1e
n11me1·011s e.e1,.emonies, vvoman 's wo1·l{ in I-Iopila11d
,vould be 1n11ch easie1·. Grinding, baking, '\-vater-cat7Y­ing,
a11d the bothe1" a11d hu1·ry of prepa1·atio11 for vari-
011s events Co·nti11t1e ,1vitl1 painful iteration. rrhe I-IOJ)i
house"rife can give full condole11ce to lier' ,vl1ite sister
who-l1as borne the burdens. of a cbt1rch festival, an<]
the pla.int that '' ,voma11 's wor·k is never clor1e'' ,vot1ld
sound familiar to her ea.rs. Still, 1·arely is sl1e hea.r<]
to be"rail her· lot, a.nd it may be depencled 011 tl1at. no
maidens bloom in idleness about l1er l1ot1se.
But the 111en also follo'«r cr􀄶􃙦fts, and of tl1esc, ca1·cl-
' )111g, spinning, dyeing, and vve􀄷􃜱1vi11g a-re excl11sively
Jnan's '\-Vork in contrast with tl1e. 􀄸􃡒Rvaho, among ,,rl101n
s11ch matters are woman's ,,York. llis-a.lso is the task
of ,,,ood-gathering, ,vhich ta.kes liin1 far afield, si11ce
MESA 'FOLK OF HOPILAND 71
there is ha.rdly a. gro,ving thing in the neighborhood
worth collecting for fuel. Coal there is in the ground
in plenty, but the Hopi make les use of it than did
their ancestors, and the householder sets out from
time to time with a burro 01· two for the distant mesas,
where the stunted cedars grow, to - lay in ,,vood for
cooking. Each year the cedars get farther away, so
tha.t at so-me f11tu1·e time the Hopi may l1ave to ma.ke
use of the neglected coal.
A Hopi is in a fai1· way to become a great man
among his kin "'hen he owns horses and a lvagon.
In consequence of such wealth, he usually sl1ows his
pride by the airs he assumes over l1is less fo1·t11uate
t1·ibesmen, a.nd justly, too, becat1se hauling supplies
for the schools and t1·aders brings in the silve1. . dollars
that replenish the larder ,vith white man's food. Ponies
are cheap, and twenty can exist as well as one on the
semi-starvation of the desert, so a Hopi teamster often
takes along his whole herd when on a fr·eighting trip,
to make sure of ar1·iving at his jot1rney 's end, and a.
look at his horses ,vill pr. ove him a ,vise man.
Seemingly the men work har·der· making parapher­nalia.
and costumes for· the ceremonies than a t any­thing
else, but it should be remembered that in ancient
days everything depended, in Hopi b,elief, on p1·opiti­ating
the deities. Still if we. \Vould pick the threads
of religion from tl1e wa:i􀃌􌱰p and ,voof of Hopi life the1􀃌􌱥e
apparently ,vo11ld not be much left. It mt1st be r·e­corded,
in the i11te1·ests 0£ truth, t.hat Hopi men ,,rill
·, '
I
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72 MESA FOLK OF HOPILAND
•
,vork at day's labor and giv·e satisfaction except when
a ce1·emonJr is about to take place at the pueblo, and
duty to their religion interferes ,vith steady employ-
111ent much as fiestas do 􀄰􃁮n the easy-going co11nt1·ies-to
the southwa1·d. •
Really, the Hopi dese1-ve g1·eat credit fo1􀄱􃄠 thei1· i.n- ,.
dustry, fr11gality, and provident habits, a11d one 1nust
commend them beca.use they do not shu11 wor·k and be-cause
in fairness both men and ,,·omen· share in the _
labor f or, the commo-n good.
An account of the. arts ,vhich are ca1Tie(l on in the
1-Iopi tovvns may prove interesting to the 1·eader who
would li􀄲􃉥e to kno,v s01netl1ing of tl1e n1ethods of the
n1occasin make1·, potter, weaver, carver, basket ma.ker1
and hou.􀄳􃍥e builder, examples- of \Vhose l1andi,,,ork arc
scatte1·􀄴􃑤d widely among collecto1􀄵􃔠 of artistic and 1·e-marka.
ble things.
As t. hough to keep llp the dignit)'· of the Pea.ceful
People the wife of '' IIarry, '' the ne,v Snalce chief of
Walpi, frequently ,ve.ars t.11e cun1brot1s foot-gea.r co111-
mon along the Rio Grande. In spite of tl1e scarcity
of deer-sl{ins, ever·y Hopi bride n1ust ha,,e as part of
he1· t1·ousseal1 a J)air of tl1ese 1·emarkable foot-cover·­i11gs,
which reql1ire a large deer-skir1 for their􀄶􃘠 manl1-
facture. When the bl1rde11some cerernon)' of 111ar1·iage
is over the moccasins are laid. a,v: av or ,ror'll out an(l •
11ever a.gain n1ay the ,voman expect to l1ave her meas-ur
·e ta.ken for another pair.
But as moccasins are a. pa.rt of tl1e n1e11 's costume
,
•
•
I
MESA FOLK bF HOPILAND 73
'
•
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,vithout which they cannot run well over the- yielding
. '
sand, and as ther·e is n o ,'1.llage shoemaker, every•man
must make his.own 01· go ba.refoot. Frequently in the
villages one meets a moccasin maker, che,ving at the
I'a\Vhide a.nd busily p{ying his a:wl and sine\V While he
goes gadding about. t!ust before the Snake Dance,
wJ1en eve1'y - Sna.ke p1'iest must p1·ovide a pair of ne,v
ipoccasins £01· himself, this a1i, is very much in evi­dence.
The moccasin maker. takes pride in hiding his
stitches, and it must be said tha.t 'his sewing is excep-tionally
good in spite of the cn1de tools of his craft.
With the san1e skill he displays in other crafts, the
Hopi prepares the leather for the indispensable moc­casins.
The simplest way of giving color to the lea.ther
is to rub red ocher or other clay into the soft-tan.ned
skin, as is seen in the red moccasins of the Snake
dance1·s. A warm brown is given to the leather with
an inf1.1sion of the bark of the water birch, and a
black dye is made by burning pifion resin with c1·ude •
native alum. Sometimes the esthetic tastes of a young
man are gratified by moccasins d.yed witl1 aniline red
01· blue according to his fancy.
If the visitor will give an order f 01· a pair of totclii,
he may see the whole process at his leisu1"e. A piece
of well-curried cowhide, preferably from the back of
the animal, is p1·oduced, the outline of the foot is
marked out on it and a margin is left by the cutter fo.r
the turning up of the sole. This is all the moccasin
74 l\!IESA FOLK OF HOPILAND
maker seems to require, and. his formula for the height
of the instep has not been divulged, b11t it must be ef­fective,
because moccasins are 1nade to fit with greater
art than is displayed by ma11y civilized shoemaker-s.
The soles aJ'·e buried in damp sa.nd to n1ake them
pliable, a-nd the front section of the top is se\rn a1·ound
tl1e edge reaching to about the ankle bones. The 1noc­casin
is then tt11·ned inside out and the ankle section
sewn on. 'l'ying st1􀅅􄕩ings are 􀅆􄙴tclded, or if especial stylE
is desired, silve1· buttons made l1y Na.vaho· frorr1 di1ne􀅇􄜮.
or quarte1·s take their plaee.
The Hopi live a ve1·y long \Vay from tl1e range of
the deer, a fact ,vhich accounts la1·gely for thei1· use of
woven fab1·ics. B1Jt dee1-s·kins 1nust alwa.)'S l1ave been
i n demand, ancl these ,vere got i11 exchange "'ith the
Naval10, Ha,vasupai, and other neigl1bors. In tl1is "ray
i n ,ol<.l times b11ffalo skins and pelts of animals ca.1ne
to T11saya11, ancl Hopi b1·eacl and blanl{ets 􀅈􄡲re11t to 1·e-
1note rnountains a11d plains.
It ,vould be interesting to lrno,􀅉􄥲r ,r, l1cther tl1e Hopj
-f-01,.n1erly "'rere sandal people 01· moccasin people, ancl
this knowledge WOl1ld reveal a great deal tl1at is no,;,·
1nere gl1esslvork as to their histor·y. 'l'he sandaJ peo­ple
'.Vo11ld 1nea11 those of the soutl1 vvho- ,vere of Mex­ico,
,:vl1ere no mocca.􀅊􄩩ins seen1 eve1· to ba,: re bee11 ,vor11.
The 1noccasin J)eople vvould be tl1ose of the 1101·tl1, tl1e
tribes of 01u· 1not1r1tai1s a11d plains, among vv'l101n this
foot-,􀅋􄭲rear is typical. Perl1a11s tl1e Hopi belo11g to botl1
<􀅌􄱬lRsses. 'l'l1e clif-d,;vellers ,vore sanc1als, an<.1 for ,vin-
MESA FOLK OF HOPILMTD 75
ter had boots of net,vork to which tu1Tkey £eathe1"'B
were skilfully fastened as covering. The sandals
found in the clif-houses a1"'e va1-iously woven from
1·ushes 01· agave strips, or maybe a plain sole of leather
with the toe co1'd, but those worked of cotton showing
ingenious designs are ,vo1'thy of the highest admira­tion.
Those clans of the clif-people and the clans from the
south that congregated in Tusaya.n centm·ies a.go were
sandal wea.re1·s; while the 1·esident clans and those
coming from the north, perhaps bands of tl1e Ute, -
,vere 1noccasin wea1·ers a.nd imp1·essed their language
and moccasins on the H-0pi. 'rhls ,vas much to the ad­vantage
of the Hopi, granting that they had neve1·
thought of better protection than sandals from the
biting wint.e1·:
Everyone who visits Tusayan will b.ring away a.s a
souvenir some of the work of Nampeo􀃖􍙟.p&tter"'rl10
lives with her husband Lesu in the house of her
parents at Hano, the little Te,:va village on the g1·eat
Walpi mesa near the ga.p. The house belongs to
Nampeo's 111other acco1·ding to Pueblo prope11y right,
\.vhe1􀃗􍝥ein she and her l1usband, both aged and ruddy
Tewa, ,vith th.eir child1·en and g1·andchildren live
amicably as is usual a1nong tl1e Peaceful People. The
house below the mesa, topped with a glowing red i1􀃘􍡯on
''Gove1·nment'' roof, is Nampeo's:, who thus has t,vo
houses, bl1t she S})en<.1s most of her time in the pa1·ental
d"1elling at Hano.
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•
76 MESA FOLK OF HOPILAND
Nampeo is a 1·emarkable ,von1an. No feeling of her
racial inferiority a1·ises even 011 the first meeting with
this Indian woman, ba1·e-foot, bonnetless, and clad in
her quajnt cost111ne. For Nampeo is an a1-tist-potter,
the sole survivor in Hano of the generations of women
artists who have deposited the pr·oduct of their ha.ndi­craft
in the care of the dead.
In the household her aged fa.ther· a.nd mot lie1· a1·c
final authority on the interpretation of ancient S)'lll­bolic
or Cl1lt re1)1·e,sentations in art. N a.mpeo like-wise
carefl1lly copies on paper the decorations of all ,1vail­able
ancient po-ttery for future use. Her arcl1eologi­cal
methods are £11rther shown by her· <-1uest for the
clays 11secl by those excellent potters of old Sikyatki
and by l1e1· emulation of their technique.
One noon under· the bur·ning Aug11st s11n, Doctor
Fe,\'kes and the w1·iter climbed the East Mesa, the
fo1·me1· to attend the Flute Ceremony a,t W alpi and the
latter ,vith an appointment to pry into the secrets of
Nan1pe.o, the potter. In the house, pleasantly cool
and shaded, sat the. old couple and Lesu. 'rt1e ba.b;r
was being sect11􀃨􎡥ed to its boa.rd for its afternoon nap,
while Lesu spun. It was a. pleasure to exa1nine the
quaint surroundings and the curious belongings hung
on the ,:vall or thr·ust a.bo:ve the grea,t ceiling beams, -
strings of dried wi,iua, that early spring plant whicl1
ha.s before now tided the Pea.ceft1l People over famine,
gaily painted dolls, blankets, arrows, feathers, and
other objects enough to stock a n111seum. Lesu did the
MESA FOLK OF HOPILAND 77
honors and said ainong other things that some of the
ceiling beams of the r-0om came fro,m ancient A watobi,
destroyed in 1700 .
. A small niche in the rear wall of the living room,
.at the ha.ck of which stood a short notched log-ladder,
caused some speculation. Quite unexpectedly and in
a somewhat startling ,vay its purpose was explained,
for, when someone called the absent Nampeo, a pair of
feet were seen coming down the steps of the ladde1·,
followed finally by Na. mpeo, who, a.fter a profound
bodily conto1"tion, smilingly emerged from the narTow
pa􀂳􋍥e into the room.
Nampeo was prepared to instruct. Samples of the
various clays we1·e at hand and the novice was initi­ated
into the qualities of the hi.sat cJiuoka, o r ancient
cla)r, white, unctuo·US and fragrant, to which the
ancient Sik)ratki potte1·s ow:ed the perfection of their
ware; the reddish clay, siwu chuoka, also from Sikyat­ki;
t.he hard, iron-stained clay, clioku cliuoka, a white
clay with which vessels a.re coated for finishing and
decoration, comin.g from about twelve miles southeast
of Wa.lpi. In contrast with Nampeo's four cla.ys the
Hopi women use only two, a gray body clay, cliaka­
biitska, and a "'hite slip clay, kiitsatsuka.
Continuing her instrnctinns Nampeo transferred a
ha.ndful of well-soak. ed ancient cla.y from a bowl on the
flo1· by he1· side to a smooth, flat stone, like those
found in the ruined pueblos. The cla.y ,vas th111st
forwa.rd by the base of the right hand and brought
t
78 MESA FOLK OF HOPILAND
back by tl1e hookecl fingers,, the stones, sticks, and hai􀅇􄜁􀅈􄡳s
being ca1·efttlly removed. After suficient workin'5,
the clay ,,,as dat1becl on a board, ,vhich ,vas carried out,
slanted against the house, and s11bmitted to the a]l­dt-
ying T11sayan s1111 and air·. In a sl1ort ti1ne the cl2y
was t1·ansferred fro1n tl1e boa1·d to a slab of stone an<l
applied in tl1e same ,va.y, the reason being a mino1􀅉􄤠 01te
kno,vn to Na.mpeo, - perhaps because the clay aftc1'
drying to a certain deg1·ee n1ay adhere better to sto11e
th.an to wood. Sooner than anyone me1·ely accft1ainttd
,vith the desiccating p1·operties of the moistu1·e-laden
air of the East migb t ima,gine., the clay ,vas ready 1 o
,vork ancl the plastic rnass ,vas dt1ctile t1nder tl1c fi.11-
gers of the potter.
Na1npeo set ot1t fir·st to sl1ow the p1·oces of c.oiling a
vessel. Tl1e even '' 1·opes'' of clay were rolled out fro1n
l1e1· s1nooth palms in a 1narvelous way, a.nd eforts t.o
rival excitecl a smile from the farnily sitting arot1nd l1.S
interested spectato1·s. The concave dish called tabipi,
in ,vhich she began tl1e coiled vessel and ,vhich tur11s
easily on its curved bottom, see.ms t-0 be tl1e nea,:eest ap­proacl1
of the Pueblos to tl1e potte1·'s ,,vl1eel. The
seeming tra.ces of t1nobliterated coiling on the b·ases <)t
son1e vessels 1nay be the imprints fro1n tl1e coils of tl1e
tabi1Ji. .i\.s the vess.el was a small one, the coiling pro­ceeded
to the finish and tl1e i11terims or c1rying 􀅊􄩴ts ol)­se1"V
ed in the manufactl1re of large j,11·s were not neces­sar
·)􀅋􄬮. Then gourd smoothers, tit,h:11.,·pbi, ,vere emp]oy.ed
•
MESA FOLK OF HOPILAND 79
to close up the coiling grooves, and ,vere always backed
from the outside or inside by the fingers. Finally tl1e
smooth '' g1-een'' vessel vvas set aside to dry.
Then a toy canteen ,vas begun by taking a. lump of
clay which, by modeling, @On asumed the shape of a
low vase. With a small stick, a hole was punched
through each side, a roll of clay ,vas doubled for the
handles, the ends thrust through the holes and
smoothed down inside tl1e vase, through the openin.g.
The neck of the can teen ,vas inserted in a similar way.
No,v the problem ,vas to close the opening i n this soft
vessel from the ot1tside. N ampeo threw a coil around
the edge o·f the opening, presing the laye1·s together,
gradually drawing in, making the orifices smalle1· un­til
it presented a funnel shape. Then the funnel was
pressed towai·d the body of the canteen, the edges
closed together, soldered, smoothed, and presto! it ,vas
done and all tra.ces of handling hidden. Anyone
knowing the dificttlties ,vill app1·eciate this st1rpris­ingly
dext1·ous piece of manipulation. Afterward,
Nampeo made a small vase-shaped vessel, by Il).O(leling
alone, v.rithout the a.ddition of coiling as in the shaping
of the canteen.
The ware when it becomes suficiently dry must re­ceive
a wash of the white clay ·called ltopi ckuoka 01·
k1itsatsuka, which bu1·ns white. Tl1ereupon it is ca1·e­fully
polished ,vith a smooth pebble, shining from long
use, and is ready for decoration. The use of the gla1􀂮􊺭­ing
white slip cla,y as a ground for decoration was
I
l
)
80 lVIESA FOLK OF HOPILAND
probably brought fr·o1n the R,io Grande by the Te\va;
a.ncient Hopi \\r are is rr111ch more artistic, being pol­ished
on the body or paste, v.1 hicl1 usually ble11ds in
harmony \vith the decoration.
Nan1peo exhibited samples of her paints, of: whicn
she knows only red and dark b1·own. 'l'he re<l paint is
yellow ochre, called sikyatlw, turning red 011 firi11g.
It was rnixed on a concave stone witl1. ,vate1·. 'rhe
da,i·k brown paint is rnacle from t<Jh.O', an iron stone
brought from a distai1t 1nesa. It ,vas gi.·011nd on a
slab ,,rith a. medium made from the seed o,f tl1e tansv· •
musta.rd ( Sisy1nb1.,i·11,m ca1iescens). The brushes ,vere
t,vo strips of yucca, molitt-, one for eacl1 color. Witl1
these slender means, withot1t measlirement, Na1npe1)
ra.pidly coverecl the vessels ,,1ith desigr1s, eitl1er geo-
1netrical or conventionalized, h11man or cult, - fig­ures
or symbols. Tl1e na.r1·ow brush, h.eld like a paint­e1
·'s striper, is efective for fine lines. l11 broad lines
or wide po1·tio.ns of the decoration, tl1.e outlines a1·,􀅘􅠠
sharply defi.ned a.nd the spa.ces are filled in. No 1nis­ta.
kes a1'e 111acle, fo-r emendations an(l correctio11s :11·(•
impossible.
Ql1ite opport-11ne]y tl1e next day, an invitatio11 t<)
see the burning of potter)' came fro1n an a.ged potte1·
who resides at the S11n Sp1ing. When tl1e great Hopi
clock reached the appointed place i11 tl1e heavens., tl1e
bo\\1ed yet. active potter ,vas fo11n<l getting ready £01·
the importa11t ,.\rork of firing tl1e ,var·e. In the heaJ-)
of cinclcrs, asl1es, a11t1 bits of rock left £ro111 f orrner
]},IESA FOLK OF HOPILAND 81
firings, the little old woman scooped out a concave
ring. Nearby was a heap of slabs of dry sheep's
droppings, quarried from the floor of a fold perched
on a ledge high up the mesa and brought down in the
indispensable blanket. In the center of the concave
kiln floor a heap of this fuel was ignited by the aid of
some frayed ce·dar bark and a bon·owed match from
the opportune Pahana, '' people of the far water,'' the
name by which white men are known. When the fire
,vas well established, it was gradually spread over the
floor to near the margin and the decorated bowls
brot1ght from the house were set up around with the
concave sides toward the fire, while the potter brought,
in her bla.nket, a back load of fria.ble sandstone from
a neighboring hilloc'k.
Under the .first heat the ware tm·ned from white to
pur􀂬􊱰ple gray 01, lavender, gradually aSfi.1ming a lead
colo1·. . They vvere soon heated enough and vvere ready
for the kiln. Guarding her hand by the interposition
of a fold of the blanket, the potter set the vessels, now
quite unatt1"active, aside, prooeeded to rake the fire
flat and laid thereon fragments of stone at intervals to
serve as rests or stilts for the ware. Larger vessels
were set over smaller and all were a.r·1􀂭􊵡anged as com­pactly
as possible. Piece by piece, dext1·ously as a
mason, the potter built a.i·ound the vessels a wall of
f11el, nar1􀂮􊹯owing a t the top, till a few slabs completed
the dome of the structure, itself kiln and .fuel.
Ca.re wa.s taken not to allow the fuel to touch the
•
•
82 MESA FOLK OF H()PILAND
vessels, as a (1iscoloration of the ,vare would r·esult.
vvhicl1 might s11bject 􀄒􁉬lie potte1􀄓􁌠 to tl1e shafts of ridi.
cule. Gradually tl1e fi1·e from below creeps up tl1E\
'\ralls till the inte1·ior is aglow and the ware become.􀄔􁐠
1·ed hot. Little attention is no,v needecl except closing
bu1·ned ot1t apertures ,,rith new pieces of f11el; tl1(:
potter, ,vho befo1·e, du1·ing tl1e careful and exact dis-­positions,
has been giving little ejaculations as thouglt
talking to a small child, visits the kilr1 inter1nittentl)·
f1·om the nearby ho11se. Here she seeks refl1ge fronL
the penet1·a.ting, una1·omatic smoke ancl the bla.zinf;
Sllll,
The Hopi l1ave a11 odd super·stition that if any OD(!
v speaks above a whisper during the b111·ning of potte1-;}·
the spirit inhabiting the vessel ,vill ca.t1se it to break.
No doubt tl1e potte1· had this in mind while sh.e was
,vhispering and was using all her· blandishments tc,
induce the small spi1·its to be good.
She ren1arked that when the sun sl1ot1ld l1ar1g over
tl1e b1·ow of t,he 1nesa at the height i11di&'1tecl by her
laborious finger·s, the '"rare would be baked, the kiln a.
l1eap of ashes, tl1e yello\v decoration a lively red a11<1
the black a dark brown on a rich cream-color gro11nd.
Next da.y, with tr'Ue foresight, sh. e br·ought her quain1
,vares to the ca.mp and ma.de a good bargain for them.
incidentally a.sking, '' Matches all gone?''
One ,voman a.t least in 'T11sayan is a ,veaver of blank­ets.
A11owita 's ,vif e er1joys that distinction because
she is a Navaho, a.mo11g ,vl1on1 ·wea.ving is woman's
MESA FOLK OF HOPILAND 83
work. The Hopi hot1sewives have enol1gh to do keep­ing
house, a thing not burdensome to the Navaho, and
as has been explained, the Hopi men hold a. monopoly
of the spinning and weaving.
Time out of mind the Hopi have grown cotton in
their little fields, a.nd the first. white men that made
their acquaintance were presented ,vith ''towels'' of
their ,veaving as a peaee ofering. In the clif-houses
of the ancient people are found woven fabrics of cot­ton
and rugs made of strips of rabbit fur like those
now to be seen in the pueblos. The ancient people
also had featl1e1.. garments made by tying plumage to
a networl{ of cords. In the ruins of the pueblos one
often finds cotton seeds which have been buried with
the dead, and the brai􀃂􌉤d, mats o􀃃􌍟_yucca or bark and
bits of cloth fortunately preserved show that the peo­ple
of for mer times were skilful weavers. There is
no r·eason to doubt that the Hopi stufs were prized
.£or their excellence throughol1t the South"rest i n the
early times as they are now.
When the Spaniards bro11ght sheep among the pue­blos,
the weavers and fabric makers seem to have ap­preciated
the ,Talue of wool at once, and the ancient
garments of f ea.thers and skins quickly disappeared.
Cotton 1·ema.inecl in ll.Se only for ceremonial costumP-s
or .for cord employed in the religious ceremonies. The
rabbit-fu1· 1·obes whlch once were made thro11ghout a
vast region of the Rockies from Alaska to the Gulf of
California were largely displa,ced by blankets, in later
•
84 lVIESA FOLK OF HOPILAND
years, gorgeously dyed and cunningly ,vove11. Long
before the int1·oduction of trade dyes the Hopi were
· · satisfied with sober colors; the da.i·k blue and brown
given to the yarn by the women were from the pla.nts.
Even now the Hopi weavers stick to tl1eir colors and
refuse to perpetr·ate the zigzags of the Na-vaho. Fol'
tl1is reason tl1e women of all the pueblos of the South­west
dress in dark blue and brown, as the Hopi arE
purveyors of stufs for v;rear to all their fellow house­dwelle1
·s of Indian lineage. Good cloth it is, too, ano.
,:\'orthy of its renovvn, for it '\7ears exceedingly well
More than one gene1·ation often enjoys its service, and.
when the older folks get through ,vith their blanke1
d1·esses, tl1e little ones ha.ve ga.rments fashioned f1·on:1.
them for their ovvn appa.rel.
If one will examine the Hopi blankets, he will be·
" surprised at the skilful ,veaving they sho,v. The
bla.n.ket dress often l1as the body of plain ,v: eaving in
bla.ck and tl1e two ends bord.ered ,vith da, mask or bas­ket
,vea,ve in blue. Sometimes a whole bla.nket is of
dama,sk, giving a surface that, on close inspection, has
a pleasing efect. The ,,,01nen 's ceremonial blanket
of co·tton v;rith blue and red borders. s0111eti1nes sbo.􀄙􁤬,
thr·ee kinds of wea.ving and several varieties of co1·d­jng.
The belts also have a 􀄚􁩲ronderf11l range of pat­terns.
On the ,􀄛􁭲rhole, one is led to believe that thP
Hopi are more a.dept at weaving tha.11 their ri,,als, th􀄜􁰠
Navaho.
The carding and spinnjng. are thorol1gl1ly done, 1l1e
MESA FOLK OF HOPILAND 85
resulting yarn being strong, even, and tightly twisted
with the simple spindle. Som-etimes the spinnP-r
dresses a.nd finishes the yarn by means of a corn cob
. smoothed by long use. The women, by virtue of their
skill in culinary matters, are usually the dyers, an. d the
dye they concoct from s11nflower seeds or blue beans
is a fast blue. In old times cotton was prepared for
spinning by ,vhipping it with slender switches on a
bed of sa.nd, and this process is yet required for the
· cotton used for the sacred sashes. Now nearly every
family is provided with vvi1·e cards purchased from
traders. These cards look quite out of place in the
hands of priests in the k•iva, where they are used in
combing the cotton for the sac.red cord used in tying
the feathers to the pahos.
When the kiva is not in use for a ceremony it is
common to find there a we-aver busy at his rude loom
and growing web. To the great beams of the roof is
fastened the upper yarn beam of the loom, and secured
to pegs in holes i n the stone slabs of the floor is the
lower yarn bP-am. Between these is tightly stretched
the- wa1·p. The weaver squa􀁽􇴠 on the floor before the
loom, having ready by him the few simple implements
of his craft, consisting of a wooden knife or batten
highly polished from use, for beating down the yarn,
a wooden comb also for pressing home the woof, and
the bobbins which are merely sticks with the yarn
wrapped back and for ward spirally upon them. He
picks Ollt a certain number of warp threads with the
-
,
86 l\IESA FOLK OF HOPIL􀅋􄬼<\ND
batten, passes through the bobbin, beats the yarJ1
l1ome \11th g1·eat patie11ce, an.d so continues, makin1t
slow 11eadway.
There a.re several 1·easons wl1y the kiva is usetl b:·1
the \·eave1·s. 'fhese st1bter1·anea11 roo1ns, usually tl1,􀅌􄰠
p1:ope1·ty of the n1er1, are cool and quiet, and the light
str·eams dow11' from ove1.h . ead ac1.. o ss the su1·face of th􀅍􄴠
web, allowi11g the stitch.es. to be seen to goocl advantagt.
'rl1e best r·easo11 is tl1at. ·the kiva. ceiling is l1igl1 enot1gl1
to allow tl1e stretcl1ing of the wa1·p to tl1e full le11gtl1.
of a bla11ket, ,vl1icl1 cannot be <]011e in the Jow livir11{
rooms of tl1e d,1/ellings.
Belts, garters, and l1ai1' ta.pes are 111ade 011 a sn1a 11
loo.111 p1·ovid.ecl \1ith reed 01· heddle f1·ame, a11(1 ust1all;1
tl1;is is vvoman 's Vi101·k. Strangely eno11gl1 ,the l)el t
100111 is a kin.cl of 11aruess, £01· the ,varp is stretche( l
011t bet,reen tl1e wo-1na.n's feet a.nd a yoke that exte11d'5
across l1e1· back. Tl1e yarn t1sed for belt,􀅎􄸠 is bougl1t
fron1 tl1e tra.der. 'l'l1e ol<..l belts are marvels of desig11
and a,re a111011g tl1e 111ost J>1easing s1)ecirnc11s of the􀅏􄼠
.a11, work of tl1e Hopi.
With tJ1e introd11ctio11 of d,yed tr·ader 's )ra1􀅐􅁮ns a11(l
coal-tar· colors l1a.s con1e a, deterioration in the work
of the Navaho ,veave1·s. An1ong tl1e IIopi tllis is 11ot
noticeable, but, no doubt, fo1· this reaso11 the e111l>ro1<l­ery
on the hems of the ceremo11ial blankets, sashes, a11<l
kilts is ga,ye1· than i n former ti1nes "'rhen s11b.d11ed 1nj11-
e1·al colo1·s a,11d vegetable dyes only ,ve1·e av·ajla ble.
Eve1-y visitor to the 1-Iopi pueblos is attracted by
1\tIESA FOLK OR HOPILAND . 87
the carved ,vooden figures painted in bright colors
and deco1·ated ,,1ith feathers, e'tc.􀃘􍠠 that hang from the
1·afte1-s of the houses. '"Dolls,'' they a1·e usually
called, but the Ifopi know that they a1·e rep1·esenta­tions
of the spirit1.ial beings who live in the unseen
,vorld, and a grea.t variety ther,e is of them. Thou­sands
of these figu1·es a;re 1nade by the Hopi, many
to be sold to visitors, a thing no Zufi.i would do-, be­cause
in that pueblo these images have a 1·eligious char­acter
and are hidden away, while the Hopi deco1·ate
the houses with them.
The carvers of these strange figi1rines must be grant­ed
the possession of mucl1 skill and ability in their
art, ,vhich is ca1·ried on with a few simple tools. The
country fai· a.nd near is r·ansaclred for cotton wood,
this being the wood p1·escribed for masks, dolls, praye1·­sticks,
etc. 1􀃙􍥨he soft cottonwood, especially the root,
is easily worked ,,rith the dull knives that the Hopi
possess. Ou every hand is soft, coarse sandstone £01·
1·ubbing the wood into shape, and much of the work is
not only finisl1ed, but formed by this n1eans. For
this reason the rocks a.round a Hopi village a1􀃚􍨠 cov­e1
·ed 􀃛􍭲rith groo,ves and pits left by the workers in
wood.
If any parts, sucl1 as ea1-s, hair, v\1horls, etc., a1􀃜􍱥e to
be added to the figu1·es, tl1ey a.re pegged on quite in­securely.
Some of the ten·aces wl1ich surmo1mt the
kachina masks a1·e remarkable structures built up of
wood pegged together·. A little string, a fe,:v twigs
,
88 MESA FOLK OF HOPILAND
and pieces of cottonwood suffice the Hopi for· the co11-
str-uction of fl.ower·s and complicated parts of the decor­aitiou
of dolls and masks or· other ceremonial be.long·
ings. Corn l1usks, dyed horsehair, '"'oolen yarn, deer -
skin, cotton cloth, twigs, basketry-, and fea.thers a1·<:
,vorked in and the reSlllt, though crude, is efective.
But in tl1e realm of mechanical appar·atus tl1e II- or> i
is even ahead of the toy makers of tl1e Sch wartZ\va.lcl_
For the Palulukong cer·emony he arranges startline;
effects, causing the Great Plmneli S11ake to emerg<:
through screens, out of jars, or from the ceiling of
the kiva, to tl1e number of nine appearances, eac. l.
1·equi1·ing ar·tful de,rices. The head c>f the Snake i$ t,
gourd furnished 􀄱􃄬,ith eyes, having the mo11th cut intc,
sharp teeth, a long tongue, a plume, and tl1e whole:
surfa.ce painted. The body is 1na.de tip of ,vooden
hoops over ,vhich cor·ds 1·un and is covc1·ed ,vith clotl1.
Of. ten two of these grotesque monste1·s are caused, by
tl1e pulling of cor·ds, to aclvance and ,vithdra.w throt1gl1
flaps in the screen and to struggle a.gainst each other
with striking realism. Nothing in I{opiland is more
j
remarkable than this dra1na, as one may gather froi.n
Dr. Fewkes' acco11nt of it given at anot11er place.
Little of tl1e II- opi 's skill a.,c a ca1·ver and decorator
goes to the furnishi11g or b11ilding of tl1e hot1se; a1mos1
t..,... all is taken up ,:vith c.eremonial 111atters·. Previol1s to
a few years ago chai1·s were 11nk11own, as was any
othe1· domestic joinery, except tl1e II- opi head masks,
p1·ayer-sticks and the thousand ·ol)jects 11se<l in bis
MESA FOLK OF HOPILAND 89
pagan worship, in the manufacture of which he was_
master of all expedients. As a worker in stone and f.
shell he still knows the arts of the ancient times,
but lacks the .skill of his forebears. The turquoise
m-0saics of old days so regularly and finely set on the
backs of sea shells, have given place to the uneven
scraps of turquoise set in confusion on bits of 1vood,
as on the woman's earrings. Many devices have gone
out entirely, and it is probable that no Hopi could
make an axe of hard stone like the old ones or chip
a finely proportioned arrow-head. The hand-stones
for grinding corn a1·e still made, and a woman pecking
a.way at one with a .stone ha.mmer is not inf1·equently
seen and heard.
The Hopi \ve1·e never metal-workers., because free
meta.ls are scarce in the Southwest. Their name for
silver, ,1fith which they became familiar in the shape
of coins, is sJviba, '' a little white cake.'' Gold they
regard with suspicion, since it resembles copper or
b1·ass, with which they have been deceived at times by
unscrupulous persons. A few workers in silver have
produced some crude ornaments, but the Hopi gets
bis buttons, belt ornaments, etc., from the adept Nava­ho,
silversmiths by tra,de, through whom also strings
of beads come from the pueblos of the Rio Grande.
The rocks al over the Southwest bear witness that
the Hopi can draw. In thousands of instances he
expressed his meaning in symbols o·r in compositions
representing the cha.se of the deer or mountain goat.
90 􀀖􁙉IESA FOLK OF HOPILAND
One of these groups on t}1e s1nooth rocks near Hol­brook,
Arizona, sho,\rs a n1an driving a flock of tt1rkeys,
and is exceedingly graphic. On the cliff fa.ces below
Walpi are n111nero11s ,vell-executed pictographs, ancl
occasionally 011e runs across recent ,vo1·k on tl1e mesa
top that excites admira.tio11. Witl1 scu1ptt1re i11 the
1·ot1nd the Ho·pi has done notlu11g 1·en1a1·ka.ble because
his tas. tes ancl rnaterials have never led in this diree­tio11.
A £e,v 1·ather· large figures 1·t1dely carved f1·orr1
soft sandstone may be seen a1·ot111d the pl1eblos, and
11ur1erous fetiches, so1ne of very hard stone, 1·ep1·e­senting
,volves, bears, and ot11er artimaJs, are still i11
the keeping of the societies. Son1e of these a1·e ve1·y
,vell do11e, but sho'vv little f)l'o,gress i11 scul1)tu1·l􀄳􃌮. Tl1e
vi􀄴􃐧'ito1· mnst beware of the little fetiches vvl1ittle(l from
soft stone a11d offer·e(l for· sale as genuine by the g11ile­f11l
Hopi in ql1est of shiba.
1'he indt1str'Y which the I-Iopi \.Y0111an has all in her
own hands is basket-111aking, a11c1 tl1e worl{ is appo1·­tioned
to such a􀄵􃔠 􀄶􃘁􀄷􃝶ve tl1e skill a7
nd fancy for it, as_ if
there were a. d1v1s1on of la.l)or. Tl1e \1{01nen of tl1e
th1·ee tow11s 011 tl1e East 1\ifesa do 11ot make baskets at
all, those of the Middle 11esa se,v only coile(l l)askets,
,􀄸􃡨hile the wo111cn of Oraibi \\·ea.ve ,vicker ba.$kets ex­cl11sively.
Tl111s:, tl1.e1·e is 110 dificl1lty in saying j11st
wher·e a Hopi basket co,1nes from, and there is also nt)
excuse f o·r· not r·ecognizing these specirne11s of I-Iopi
woman's wo1·k at first glance, as they ha.ve a strong
indivicl11ality that separates them ·f1·01n all otl1er ba􀄹􃦭­kets
of the Indians.
•
MESA FOLK OF HOPILAi'ID 91
If one should vi􀃓􍍩it tl1e m06t skilful basket-make1· of
tl1e Middle l\iesa, Kuchyea1npsi, that modest little
,voman, might be seen busily at work, and from her a
g1•eat deal about the co11struction of coiled baskets
could be learned. But it wot1ld take some time a11d
patience to :find that the grass whose stems she gathe1·s
for the body of the coil is named takaslii1,, wl1ich botan­ists
know as Hilaria jamesii, aJ1d tha.t the strips which
she se,vs qver and joins the coil a.re from the leaves
of the useful 'niohu ( Yucca glauca).
Then when Kuchyean1psi comes home laden with
her basket materials one 1nu.st ta.ke furtl1er lessons in
stripping the yucca leaves, splitting them with the
thumb-nail to uniform size, and dyeing some of them
va.rious colors, for· which anilines are principally used
in these degenerate days. One must have an eye for
the colol'.'S of the natural leaves of the yucca and select
the yellow 01· yellowish g1􀃔􍑥een of the old leaves, the
vivid green of the yol1ng leaves, and the white of the
heart leaves, for the basket weave1· discriu1inates all
of these and t1ses them in her wo,rk.
Of course Kucbyeamps. i has all her mater: ial 1·eady,
tl1e st1·ips buried in moist sand, the grass. moistened,
and she ma.y be starting a plaque. The slender coil
at the center is to small to be formed with grass steins,
so she builds it up of 􀃕􍕲raste bits f1·om the leaf-tripping,
w1·apping it with yucca strips, and taking only a f e,v
stitcl1es with the encircling coil, since the bone awl is
too clumsy £01· continuo.us stitching at the outset. Af-
•
92 MESA FOLK OF HOPILAND
te1· the thi1·d round the bone awl is plied, continuouslJ·
piercing througl1 under the coil and taking in tht:
stitches beneath st1·ips. As a hole is made the yuccti
strip is thr·eaded thr·ough and dra,vn tight on th(:
grass coil, and so the patient work goes on till th(:
basket is complete. The patter·ns which appear· on tht:
ba.skets are stor·ed up in the maker's br·ain and unfolcl
as the coil progresses with the same accuracy as is
evinced by the potter-y decorator. The :finisl1 of thE·
end of the coil gives an interesting commenta.ry or,
Hopi beliefs. It is said that the woman vvho leaves thf.·
coil end unfinished does not complete it because tha1
would close her life and no mor·e children vvould blesf.,
her.
At Oraibi one ma.y see the women making wicker
tray-ba.skets. Tl1ree or fo-ur slender sumach twigs arE
wickered together side by side at the middle and an
other similar bundle la.id across the first a.t right
angles. Then dyed branches of a desert plant knovv11
as ''rabbit brush'' a􀂴􋑥e woven in and out bet,,reen the
twigs, and as tl1e basket pr·ogr·esses she a.dds other
radial rods until the basket is lar·ge e11ougl1. She fin­ishes
the edge by bending over tl1e sumach ribs, form­ing
a core, around which she wraps strips of yucca.
One must admire tl1e acc11racy \'1th wl1ich the de­signs
are kept in mind and woven into the structure of
the basket with splints of va.rious colors or strips of
tough yucca. The tra.nsla.tion of a design into tl1e
1􀂵􋕡adiating sewing of the coiled bas