Vol. XXII, No. 2 



WASHINGTON 



February, 1911 



T 



MATE0NAL 

 ©(SISAPMIl© 

 A3AEHNE 



— 1 



Q 



THE SNAKE DANCE 



By Marion L. Oliver 



IT was after a hot day's march across 

 the desert that I had my first glimpse 

 of Oraibi, one of the pueblo towns 

 of the Hopi Indians. It looked like 

 some gigantic fortress, looming in the 

 distance above miles and miles of desert 

 sand. 



As we rode nearer we saw that at the 

 foot of the great rock on which the town 

 was built were little patches of corn and 

 a few peach trees, tiny gardens which 

 looked parched and stunted in the hot 

 sun of the desert. We pitched our camp 

 at the foot of the mesa and spent the 

 night waiting in great excitement for the 

 morrow, when we were to see the great- 

 est religious ceremony of the Hopis, the 

 Snake Dance, which takes place only 

 every two years, and for which we had 

 come so far. The dance was to take 

 place at the hostile village, "Ho-Ta-Vila," 

 7 miles beyond Oraibi. This village to 

 many is more interesting than the other 

 older towns, for there missionaries are 

 not welcome, schools do not exist, clothes 

 are not thought necessary, and the old 

 faith of the Hopis is guarded and taught 

 with care by the Antelope and Snake 

 priests. 



At last morning came, and at the first 

 notes of the reveille I was up. My tent 

 was open and even from my blankets I 

 could see in the dim morning light the 

 great wall of the mesa, several hundred 



feet high, with the Hopi village on top, 

 frowning at the white men who had 

 come to see the sacred ceremony of the 

 Hopi nation. Although it was very 

 early, I could hear from time to time 

 songs and voices floating down on the 

 chill morning air ; evidently the village 

 was wide awake. The time passed all 

 too slowly, and breakfast and the regular 

 camp routine seemed unending. 



At last ii o'clock came, and, mount- 

 ing our horses, we started for what 

 proved a most thrilling experience. We 

 had to ride up a very hard trail over 

 the mesa, through Oraibi, and on over 

 the desert on the other side. The trail 

 was filled with both Navahos and Hopis 

 on little underfed Indian ponies, all on 

 their way to see the "big medicine." 

 Soon the hostile village, Ho-Ta-Vila, 

 was reached. Everywhere there was a 

 feeling of intense excitement, and al- 

 ready the roofs of the adobe houses 

 surrounding the tiny plaza were being 

 covered with gaily dressed squaws and 

 little naked children, looking like tiny 

 mahogany cupids. 



We found a cool spot in the shadow 

 of a house and ate our luncheon before 

 exploring the village. The village was 

 delightfully foreign, and I had to keep 

 pinching myself to make sure that it was 

 not all a dream. The doors of the low 

 adobe houses were open and one could 



