THE MESA TRAIL 



fication of his dwelling, and when it be- 

 comes wholly untenable, moves. 



A campoodie at noontime, when there 

 is no smoke rising and no stir of life, re- 

 sembles nothing so much as a collection 

 of prodigious wasps' nests. The huts are 

 squat and brown and chimneyless, facing 

 east, and the inhabitants have the faculty 

 of quail for making themselves scarce in 

 the underbrush at the approach of stran- 

 gers. But they are really not often at 

 home during midday, only the blind and 

 incompetent left to keep the camp. These 

 are working hours, and all across the mesa 

 one sees the women whisking seeds of chia 

 into their spoon-shaped baskets, these emp- 

 tied again into the huge conical carriers, 

 supported on the shoulders by a leather 

 band about the forehead. 



Mornings and late afternoons one meets 



