THE IRRIGATION AGE. 



269 



CAN ADO. 



THE ARIZONA HOME OF J. L. HUBBELL. 



Nestled among the mountains of northern Arizona 

 is a namesake of that famous Spanish city, Ganado. 

 The new Ganado excites a wonderful interest in the 

 traveler who may stop there and enjoy the hospitality 

 of its principal citizen, Mr. J. L. Hubbell. 



Mr. Hubbell established the post for the purpose 

 of trading with the Indians, and his fair dealings with 

 them, his understanding of their labors,, trials and diffi- 

 culties and his sympathy for them has endeared him to 

 the heart of every tribe within two hundred miles of 

 Ganado. Long before the setting apart of that large 

 plot of land in Arizona known as the Navajo reserva- 

 tion Mr. Hubbell was at Ganado doing business with 

 the Indians. His heart is in his work. For forty years 

 he has been the Indian trader of northern Arizona, and 

 for forty years, strange as it may seem, the Indian has 

 always found him to be a staunch, true friend. Never 

 has he Lad any trouble with the tribes that knew him. 

 He has always given them more for their produce, and 



J. L. HUBBEL, Ganado, Ariz. 

 I As he appears at his trading post.] 



when sickness came he visited their homes, soothing and 

 encouraging with words of comfort and supplying, 

 when needed, more substantial comfort for the body. 

 Take a trip with Mr. Hubbell fifty miles or so from his 

 home and you will appreciate his character and under- 

 stand why the Indians trade with him and love him as a 

 friend and benefactor. It was my good fortune to make 

 such a trip with Mr. Hubbell in 1901. When we met 

 an Indian we stopped, hands were shaken and inquiries 

 made (in the Indian language, which Mr. Hubbell 

 speaks fluently) regarding the health, prosperity and 

 happiness of the Indian, his family, his father and 

 mother. The simplicity and kindliness of the greet- 

 ings, the light of friendship in the stoical eyes, all pro- 

 claimed most eloquently the fact that these men were 

 friends. Not merely friends of barter and exchange, 

 but friends of heart and soul, each understanding the 

 other, each sympathetic and kindly, always ready to 

 lend a helping hand. When we parted a short word or 

 so was spoken and away would fly the Indian on his 



pony to tell his family that Mr. Hubbell was coming. 

 Within a mile or so we would find a group of women 

 hurrying across the sage brush plain toward the road, 

 or already waiting there for us. Mr. Hubbell would 

 alight, greet them, encourage them, entering their 

 sphere of life so completely that to him they brought 

 their cares, their troubles and their happiness. Some 

 old woman who had not seen Mr. Hubbell for a long 

 time would put her arms around his neck and cry and 

 croon, as if- he were her' first-born returned, recalling 

 to his mind things that had long been forgotten. "Do 



HUBBELL STORE AND WAREROOM. GANAUO. ARIZONA. 



you remember the dismal winter when our food was 

 gone? We were sick and could not pay, and you 

 brought us the flour. God bless you, my friend. God 

 bless you." More than once the pathos of these scenes 

 brought a tear to my eye. Year after year has he been 

 the Indian's friend, and year after year will he be. The 

 Indian appreciates him more than we can imagine. 

 Beneath his stoical surface you cannot read except you 

 know him as Mr. Hubbell knows him. It is only in 

 Mr. HubbelPs store that you can appreciate the Indian's 



GANADO, ARIZONA, LOOKING ACROSS STREAM. 



love for Mr. Hubbell. There you find the choicest of 

 the Indians' produce. The finest blankets in the oldest 

 patterns and rarest colorings, the choicest jewelry, 

 strings of wampum that would adorn the modern belle, 

 amulets, stones and pottery that Mr. Hubbell alone 

 could buy. Year after year has he encouraged them to 

 better work, more conscientious effort. He preserves 



