THROUGH BUTTES AND MESAS, PAST CANYONS AND OVERHANGING CLIFFS, THE "TRAIL" SWEEPS THROUGH THIS "VALLEY OF WARS"

Pullman to the coast, you take the Apache Trail Pullman at El Paso any Sunday, Tuesday, or Friday. That car is switched off the main line in the night, and in the morning you wake up in Globe, Arizona. You get your breakfast comfortably, and then there is the automobile waiting for you. The motor car takes you over the one hundred and twenty mile length of the Apache Trail, and lands you that same evening in Phoenix, right alongside a through Pullman for the coast. You have supper, and next morning you're in Los Angeles. Easy? Easy's no name for it."

"It must cost a small fortune, though," I suggested. "The automobile and the extra railway trip and all-doesn't that take money?"

The traveler laughed again.

a

"A small fortune, exactly," he said; very small fortune. The cost of that whole trip, including railway transportation and the motor-car ride, is precisely fifteen dollars. And now listen to what you get for it:

"The Apache country, in addition to being glorious to the point of inspiration, is old; not old as most of us understand the meaning of age, but old as the geologist and archeologist understand it. Among the Indians still living in this land of giant crags and yawning crevasses-Indians who now live peacefully side by side with the white man- there yet exists a legend which closely parallels in many ways the Biblical story of the Flood. That is one thing the traveler finds on the Apache Trail; an atmosphere of romance in which one is ingulfed as speedily and as promptly as one is encircled by the Arizona mountains themselves. Apache Land was what it is to-day when men who could live in rooms with ceilings four feet high still walked the earth. And that was some time ago-some ages. Yet you see the visible evidences of that flood legend, you enter on hands and knees those very same four-foot-high rooms of the Cliff Dwellers-all this and much more during the day's course of that motor ride through the newly opened canyons where moccasined feet and the unshod war ponies of the Indians were once the only possible means of travel.

"Your automobile purrs away from the railway station at Globe on the first stretch of the one hundred and twenty mile trip. For some seventeen miles the car swings upward and upward, following the easy curves of the road like an earth-bound airplane. You leave behind a couple of smashing big copper smelters; they and their smoke fade away in the valley, and you realize that you are leaving civilization, leaving modern America, for something else. The car climbs and climbs, until you are nearly a mile above the sea. Then suddenly, as it tops the summit, you begin to understand why you came.

pour

"Above you arches the changeless, turquoise Arizona sky. All about you are rocks, crags, precipices, mountains, blending and contrasting in a riot of color you never believed existed anywhere but on a painter's palette-sapphire, sea green, vermilion, brilliant orange. The sun is ing its warmth and light on all the scene with a lavishness never known in the north. Far to the northeast loom the distant Apache Mountains, apparently but a few miles away. In front of you, toward the west, twists what seems from that height to be the tiny gully of the Salt River Valley. Tonto Basin lies ahead, and far off across blue and purple masses of hill

and rock rise what we will later know more closely as Dutch Woman Butte (it looks like its name) and the Sierra Ancha Mountains. Sixty miles away (you would wager they were no more than ten) stand the famous Four Peaks of the Mazatzal Range, bathed in glorious color, and equally bathed in history and legend. And down beneath you, almost at your feet it seems, is a flash of deep sky-color. The driver tells you it is Roosevelt Lake, the largest and certainly the most beautiful artificial lake in all the world. You start swooping down the long winding grade as an eagle swoops down upon his prey. The brilliant rock walls begin to rise about you. The descent is well-nigh intoxicating. And think of the contrast of it-that perfect canyon-bridging road carrying you swiftly between those timeless, silent walls! The Red Spirit must look upon it as a sacrilege.

are there in plain sight.. If you want to, you can make the short climb.

Little Men lived their lives and died. You have to crawl into their apartments on your hands and knees, for the doors are only two feet high. How those Little People must have hated the height and physical strength, new to them, of which we to-day are the heirs! Perhaps their antagonists were the early Apaches, the most terrible tribe of Indians that ever lived and fought and killed. The power of the Apaches haunts this land in a way that makes its realization ever present even to the traveler

Here, up under the cliffs, the Little Men, who lived before history began, had their homes. There are a number of colonies scattered about, but here perhaps is the most intact of all-twenty well-preserved rooms, with evidences of some forty more apartments, now disintegrated by time. You are moved by a new reverence, and you find yourself speaking in whispers. How many tens of centuries ago these Little Men lived right here nobody knows. But live here they did, darting down into the valley for water at night and then scampering like monkeys back up their ladders to safety. What was down in that valley to frighten them so, to make them live in this way? Was it man- -the man of greater stature who took the Little Man's place on earth by exterminating him? Was it animals-the animals of prehistoric timesgreat lizards, immense carnivorous beasts that could run like the wind, serpents perhaps, or what? At all events, here the

"Where necessary the road is heavily walled, and it often has to be, for you run along on the brink of bottomless abysses, you dart around and between towering pinnacles of rock, you hum up, then down, then across, then up again. Suddenly the car slows down and stops. The driver points up the slope. The Cliff Dwellings

"There is a cave, not far from the Trail, where lie the whitened bones of the Apache warriors who made their last bitter stand against the onrushing whites. They died rather than surrender. You hear the story of Geronimo, the chief, who, with twenty. men under him and hampered by fourteen women, stood off an American army of two thousand men and a Mexican force of several thousand more, killed hundreds of men, women, and children, terrorized all that section of the United States and Mexico, and did it all without losing one of his own men. No wonder the Apaches have left their stamp!

INDIANS BELIEVED THAT THE GIANT CACTI CONTAINED THE SOULS OF EVIL SPIRITS

DEVIL'S CANYON IS ALMOST A BOTTOMLESS ABYSS

FROM THE MESA TOP THE "TRAIL" LEADS DOWN INTO FISH CREEK CANYON

around a shoulder of rock, and there before you lies Roosevelt Lake, held in place between its mountain walls by the glorious. white tiara of Roosevelt Dam. Here again is a contrast that makes you understand the wonder of the Trail. For Roosevelt Dam (you cross it) is almost a quarter of a mile in length, and rises two hundred and eighty feet above the rocky floor of the valley below. This dam is giving both electric power and water to the Salt River Valley-a valley which had never known anything but cactus and sage-brush and drought until this accomplishment of modern engineering began feeding it the life fluid which even already is making a quarter million acres green with orchards and ground crops. Three hundred and sixty square miles of hitherto barren land this dam has made fertile and livable. It is inspiring to realize it; how much more inspiring, then, to see the gleaming white façade of the great stone structure itself!

"There is a comfortable lodge at the dam, where luncheon is served, after which you climb once more into the automobile for the afternoon's run.

"It is eighty miles to Phoenix now, but you find yourself wishing it were a hundred and eighty. You go booming through the lights and shades of Fish Creek Canyon, you round Cape Horn as if your car were a fly on a rocky wall. Now the buttes and spires begin to take shape, and you slowly come to understand the wherefore of the stories which make this a legend country if ever there was one.

"Old Big Chief One-Eye stares you in the face; he may be nothing but a crag fantastically shaped and colored by nature, but you half suspect that he is actually alive. You see the Old Woman's Shoe, with the Old Woman herself glaring over the top at your intrusion. You catch your breath at the black depth of Hell's Canyon, you grin at the friendliness of Niggerhead Mountain, you look away from the dizzy height of Whirlpool Rock. Then the car drops from the mesa in great swooping spirals, you slide across Black Canyon, and presently you find yourself in a valley that seems dominated by a giant fast-approaching mountain. No wonder, for it is Super

THE MIRACLE OF WATER HAS BROUGHT NEW WEALTH TO THIS APACHE COUNTRY

stition Mountain, or the Mountain of Foam. Here centers the dominant legend of the Trail.

"This legend is the Apache story of the Flood, or its parallel. There came a great delage and the whole face of the earth was covered with rushing water. Chief White Feather, leading his people, managed to scale the precipitous sides of Superstition Mountain. There, safe for the moment, the great chief raised his voice to the lightning-crossed heavens and asked that his people be spared. A bolt from the sky people be spared. A bolt from the sky flashed down, struck the precious medicine stone he carried, broke it into a thousand pieces, and instantly changed White Feather and his followers to pinnacles of stone. Those pinnacles, strangely like human forms, may still be seen. But, more than that, there is a horizontal line of white rock, like white froth, near the top of the

mountain. This, say the Indians, marks the highest point reached by the water during the deluge.

"The driver tells these things in a matterof-fact way as you near the mountain and then pass it. He tells you, too, how it was a god-man known as the Drinker who sent the flood, and how afterwards the Drinker made new men out of mud to replace all those who had been drowned. The best ones, from the standpoint of artistic finish, he sent down into the valleys, where they became the good Pima Indians. The poorer jobs he shipped up into the mountains, where they became the evil Apaches. And some, that were too bad even to be made into Apaches, he turned into giant cactus plants. The Indians and the driver will show you the cacti to prove it.

"It is sunset, and suddenly the towns of Mesa and Tempe slide by us, redolent in their semi-tropical foliage, and before we know it we are in Phoenix, drawing up slowly at the railway station plaza. And there at Phoenix the through Pullman for Los Angeles is waiting for us, along with dinner and a comfortable berth for the night. The only trouble is that the trip is over so soon. The Apache Trail is miles and miles too short. Still, if it were longer it would take more than a day to make it."

This, in brief, is what the traveler in the Pullman smoking compartment told us. After he had finished there fell a moment's silence. Then he spoke again:

"I'm going back to the coast again now in a couple of months," he said, quietly, "and all I can say is that I'm going over the Apache Trail. It'll be my fourth time." "But don't you get tired of it?" I asked. He stood up.

"Tired of it!" he scoffed;" tired of it! Just you hit that Glory Trail once, and if you don't feel like doing it right over again, and then some, I'll-well, I'll buy you the best dinner you ever ate. Gentlemen, that holds for every man here, and it stands as a bet." Thereupon, very earnestly, he pulled out his card-case and gave

each one of us his name and address. From what I have learned about the Apache Trail since that talk I am pretty sure he will never lose.

The Reader's View (Continued) its satisfaction by deed, and has supported from twelve to fourteen students in the College for some time, who are under contract to teach afterwards in Turkish schools. Among those students last year was a daughter of the first Moslem graduate of the institution.

Certainly, Constantinople is proving an increasingly striking example of woman's work for women, and in just the place where it is most sorely needed.

"THE PRESIDENT'S IDEAL'

P.

In an editorial you say that the President was mistaken in saying that mankind is looking for freedom of life, and you give as a reason for your statement the fact that some men are depriving other men of freedom. Of course they are. If all men had freedom, they would not be looking for it. It is precisely because of the facts that you point out as disproving the statement that the statement is true.

Again, you speak as though the President said that "government rests on the consent of the governed," and point out that this is not so in Alsace and Lorraine and Belgium and Serbia. Of course it is not so in those places, any more than in Ireland or in Russian Poland, and it is just because of such instances that the President said, not what you imply he said, but what he in fact did say, namely: that the just powers of government are derived from the consent of the governed. It is because of the many violations of this principle, by the belligerents on both sides, that it was necessary that attention be called to the principle, and to the fact that no enduring peace can be based such violations of the principle.

upon

You deplore our deceiving ourselves, but are you not deceiving yourself and deceiving others when you so err in your reference to the statements and the reasoning of that noble argument.?

New York City.

ALGERNON S. NORTON.

THE DIVINING ROD AGAIN You

may

be sure

that any expression of doubt of the widespread belief that the presence of water underground can be indicated by the action of a hazel twig or willow rod (see your issue of September 6) will bring forth a communication similar to that from your Maryland correspondent in "The Reader's View," in your issue of December 13. The subject has been one of controversy for centuries. The idea that there is any influence between the hazel twig and the water is not admitted_by modern science. The Encyclopædia Britannica devotes a page to the divining rod. And now comes from far Honolulu the bulletin, July, 1916, of the Hawaian Engineering Association, bearing the title, "A Hypothesis Regarding the Use of the Divining Rod in Locating Underground Water," by Carl B. Andrews. The concluding sentence of this monograph may be quoted:

Finally, it appears to the writer that the subject of water-finding has reached a point in its development where it may be considered as having grown away from the atmosphere of mystery which has so long enveloped it, and that it is now to be considered as a process explainable by physics, in regard to which we should not despair of eventually obtaining a complete knowledge.

R. FLEMING.

Engineering Department, American Bridge Company, New York City.

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