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On an outing nothing goes so well with breakfast, luncheon or dinner as

Baker's Cocoa

It is very nutritious, has a delicious flavor and a delightful aroma that appeals mightily to the healthy appetites engendered by the open spaces, fresh air and exercise. It satisfies

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REG. U.S. PAT.OFF.
BOOKLET

and sustains.

Be sure that you get the genuine with the
trade-mark on the package. Made only by

WALTER BAKER & CO. LTD.

Established 1780.

DORCHESTER, MASS.

OF CHOICE RECIPES SENT FREE ON REQUEST

Please Mention Overland Monthly When Writing Advertisers

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JANY years had passed since I last set foot

Min the pueblo of Santo Domingo. How

in the pueblo of Santo Domingo. However, I noticed no change. It was the same unmodernized congregation of mud houses with their dabs of whitewash and startling blue, receding second stories, long pole ladders, chimneys capped with earthen jars, strings of red chilis dangling from projecting beamsbaroque crudity perfectly becoming the desert, and ingenuously attractive. There was the same colorful bustle of life; slim erect females balancing jars and baskets on their heads, halfnaked children, frowsy males.

Notwithstanding the lapse of time my Indian friends knew me. They even called me by name, which was more than most of my former American neighbors could do.

assembly. Santiago deftly accomplished the trick for me, and another Indian held up a glowing torch. Then they told their story.

"So it is citizenship again," I murmured.

A paper was thrust into my hand. It proved to be a communication from a New Mexico congressman stating that the time had arrived when the Pueblos must choose between two masters-Washington or New Mexico. The old question of wardship or citizenship.

"Which do you want?" I enquired.

Out of the soft jargon Santiago interpreted: "We want them to let us alone."

I had not the heart to try to vindicate our policy of aggressive interference, nor to try to lead them to see the necessity for chance. Then in the course of my visit, remingling in the But shortly I became aware of an undercur- blithe happy life of the Indian village, I began rent of uneasiness.

"What is it, Ventura?" I asked my old friend. His lively black eyes seemed to search me. Satisfied that I was the same (in heart) as the white boy who had passed days beside his hearth, sharing full in the Indian life, he mouthed a significant "Come," and led me to a house buried deep in the village.

Here a number of middle-aged and old men were gathered. It was a dim interior receiving light only from one small window. In a corner-fireplace red coals were glowing. A pile of cornhusks lay on the floor. The air was thick with tobacco smoke. I attempted to roll a corn-husk cigarette; succeeded in amusing the

to ask myself: Why can't we let the Pueblo Indians alone?

Twelve thousand human beings, or nearly that number, comprise the Pueblo Indian nation. They dwell in twenty-eight villages in tribal groups spread over the territory between Santa Fe, New Mexico, and the Grand Canyon in Arizona. All of the men, and many of the women, are natural born farmers, having always, so far as our histories and their traditions go, dry-farmed and irrigated the desert. The barrenness and dreariness of their chosen land have repelled the white man. But now with America's overflowing population, the contracting of the public domain and the develo

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