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not see where the favor came in, but he was duly installed as a member of the Society.

Turning now from this strange, nerve-wrenching scene, which many have crossed the mysterious Painted Desert north of the Little Colorado river to witness, some general account of the Mokis should be interesting. Perched upon high, warm-tinted sandstone mesas, narrow like the decks of great Atlantic liners, are their clustered dwellings, scarcely to be distinguished from the living rock upon which they rest. High up above the plain, viewing from all sides an almost illimitable distance, basking in the brilliant sunshine from sunrise to sunset, bathed in the pure, life-giving air, the Mokis, or "good people," as they delight to call themselves, must feel freedom in its truest sense. Here is isolation. In the long centuries the Mokis have dwelt here they have had few visitors. The all-venturing Spaniards, in their sixteenth century quest for the mythical doorposts of gold set with jewels, were way-weary long before their toilsome journey brought them to the base of the giant mesas. In this semi-desert, far out of the trail traveled by friends and foes, the Mokis found the desired

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