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THE NATIONAL GEOGRAPHIC MAGAZINE 



cargador, buried under our mountainous 

 bags, scampered ahead for a cab. The 

 morning was crisply cold, the stars unbe- 

 lievably near and vehemently bright 

 against a background of fathomless, 

 cloudless, dark blue. 



We climbed under the half roof of a 

 low-swung carriage, behind a driver who 

 towered above us in buckskin and brass 

 buttons and a cathedral-like black hat. 

 The little horses reared and jumped and 

 fought for their heads. Their neat round 

 hoofs pattered on dark streets cobbled in 

 quaint patterns between dark, one-story 

 houses. 



The driver hammered at the double 

 door of the dark hotel. Through a half 

 door, set in one side of the great portal, 

 two odd figures scuttled out. 



They were the night porters, who sleep 

 by night, Mexican fashion, in the great 

 arch of the door. Bemused by sleep and 

 cold, they said no word, but led us to our 

 beds. 



I sank into sleep, barely conscious of 

 the vine-tangled patio outside, of the fif- 

 teen-foot ceiling overhead, and of the 

 stones of the floor, worn into hollows by 

 passing generations. 



MORNING MADE HIDEOUS BY CLANGING 

 BELLS 



A most abominable clangor woke me 

 to curse a hotel which would permit such 

 a breakfast gong. 



It was not a breakfast gong after all. 

 The vicious tumult came from the church 

 bells of Culiacan. As we traveled on, we 

 became accustomed, in time, to the in- 

 credible uproar of the Mexican church 

 bells ; but none ever approached in horror 

 those of Culiacan. They remain my most 

 vivid memory of this fine old town. 



Yet there is another sound that marches 

 in my memory with the bells. Each 

 morning as I cursed the sonorous bom- 

 bardment I would hear another sound 

 under the window that gave upon the 

 street — slip, slip, slip — the faint shuffle of 

 barefooted Indians on their early way to 

 work — marketmen and women, probably ; 

 no others would rise at such an indecent 

 hour. I could barely see them, sliding 

 through the gray of dawn, indistinct in 

 their white cottons and straw hats ; but 



for the almost inaudible susurrus of their 

 sandaled feet, the}' might have been 

 sheeted ghosts. 



Through the open doorway came the 

 light rustling of the palm branches in the 

 patio, stirred by that breath of air that 

 heralds the sun. 



It was a relief to find the cathedral was 

 not worthy of its superb exterior coloring. 

 One grows tired of altarpieces and the 

 blackened paintings of saints. 



Outside we watched the policemen, 

 wide-hatted, sword and revolver in belt, 

 riding snappy little horses. 



Ice is properly regarded in Culiacan as 

 a luxury and is treated ceremonially. The 

 ice wagon was painted white and gold, 

 like an animal van in a circus, and was 

 drawn by two white, pink-eyed mules. 



Long teams of mules hauled in dye- 

 wood. 



RAILROAD TILS OL EBONY AND MAHOGANY 



From Culiacan to Altata, a dying port, 

 there is an ancient British built railway, 

 of which the ties are ebony. This is no 

 longer startling, however, for the South- 

 ern Pacific's tie contract provides for 

 forty-two kinds of wood, of which ma- 

 hogany is a commonplace. 



Housemaids on the ranches are paid 

 one peso weekly, which is equal to fifty 

 cents American. Drivers of excellent 

 two-horse teams wait for the four-o'clock- 

 in-the-morning train, on the chance of a 

 two-peso fare. 



In front of the movie theater women 

 sit each night behind tables covered with 

 crude sweetmeats, under twinkling can- 

 dles. Three dollars American would buy 

 the entire stock. 



Culiacan is the capital of the State of 

 Sinaloa. A prosperous town once, it was 

 ruined by the war, as were the other 

 coastal towns. In the handsome market- 

 house only the cheaper necessities are 

 sold. The banking-houses are for the 

 most part empty. Commercial travelers 

 still visit the town with that complaining 

 industry common to the breed. 



Even in the most crowded hours the 

 streets seemed almost empty. But this 

 can only be a state of suspended anima- 

 tion. Anything can be raised in the fat 

 soil under the almost hothouse-like condi- 

 tions. 



