34 A BOOK-LOVER S HOLIDAYS 



downpour drove in our faces; then through 

 cloud rifts the sun s beams shone again and we 

 looked on &quot;the shining race of rain whose hair 

 a great wind scattereth.&quot; 



At Lee s Ferry, once the home of the dark 

 leader of the Danites, the cliffs, a medley of 

 bold colors and striking forms, come close to 

 the river s brink on either side; but at this one 

 point there is a break in the canyon walls and 

 a ferry can be run. A stream flow r s into the 

 river from the north. By it there is a house, 

 and the miracle of water has done its work. 

 Under irrigation, there are fields of corn and 

 alfalfa, groves of fruit-trees, and gardens; a 

 splash of fresh, cool green in the harsh waste. 



South of the ferry we found two mule-wagons, 

 sent for us by Mr. Hubbell, of Ganado, to whose 

 thoughtful kindness we owed much. One was 

 driven by a Mexican, Francisco Marquez; the 

 other, the smaller one, by a Navajo Indian, 

 Loko, who acted as cook; both were capital 

 men, and we lived in much comfort while with 

 them. A Navajo policeman accompanied us as 

 guide, for we were now in the great Navajo 

 reservation. A Navajo brought us a sheep for 

 sale, and we held a feast. 



For two days we drove southward through the 

 desert country, along the foot of a range of red 



