Community Service of the A. A. A.

THE KID was riding alone in Lone-some Valley, practically in the shadow of Mingus Mountain searching for a sorrell horse whose return would put a five-dollar gold piece in his pocket. Five dollars would go toward the purchase of books when school opened in Prescott that fall.

Thunderheads rose massively above the granite hills to the southwest and rapidly blew across the rolling stretches of the valley. The wind blew stronger and despite attempts of the afternoon sun, the light in the valley became more feeble.

The knee-deep grass leaned sharply before the wind. Sand swirled out of small arroyos and a few miles away the tall straight pines and the gnarly cedars played a natural symphony of the summer storm.

The kid nudged his horse's flanks and moved a little more rapidly toward home at Spaulding's Station on the Camp Verde-Prescott road. He was still several miles away, and in the early '80's, Arizona riders did not carry ponchos. Rain was certain.

Before long the rain fell hard and lightning cracked over the valley, lighting up the trail and frightening an already nervous horse. Topping a little hill just as a long bolt flashed out of the black cloud-mass, the kid saw a rider ahead, also running his horse. The kid slackened a bit, too young to feel safe riding a dismal rain-swept valley with a stranger. Still he youthfully longed for company.

The stage from Prescott to Phoenix had been robbed a few weeks before, and who

Coroner's Fee By Bert Fireman

could tell, this might be the bandit. And what business did the man have in Lonesome Valley? Of course, he could have been riding from Jerome to Prescott but it was late in the day to still be so far from Prescott. Too, he was several miles beyond the trail. The kid walked his horse.

It was still raining hard an hour later when the kid's horse snorted and shied from the stranger and his horse sprawled on the road, struck dead by lightning.

The kid rode on to the ranch and told his father. As the storm abated in the evening word was sent to the sheriff in Prescott.

The next morning a buckboard drew up to the ranch with three passengers, a deputy sheriff and two witnesses. The kid climbed in and they drove out into Lonesome Valley to find the dead travel-er.

Buzzards marked the location of the body as the funeral party hurried into the valley. One pistol shot frightened the vultures from the two bodies, already torn by the beasts.

The dead man was a Mexican, neither old nor young. He was ordinarily clad. None of the party, widely-acquainted in the district, could identify him. There was not a single coin in his pockets, ab-solutely no papers or other signs of identification.

They buried the unknown traveler on a little hill out in Lonesome Valley and the buzzards consumed his horse.

One of the witnesses slipped into his blue denims the battered common pocket-knife that was the man's only personal possession.

The saddle and bridle was the coroner's fee.

"Natani Yazi" Little Captain

(Continued from Page 5) Articles in its keeping-priceless collections of the handiwork of man from all over the world.

It has grown to its tremendous proportions through the work of "the Dean."

He has never been known to go on a field trip into the Indian country, to go to a foreign land, without dipping into his own pocket-because there were not sufficient funds to purchase rare and beautiful things to buy something for "the museum."

He has always had a way, too, of making people want to give or loan things to the museum.

The museum has what is believed to be the only authentic Navajo sand paintings in existence. There have been copies made by white man, rugs woven incorporating their designs, and water color paintings made of them, but none made by a real medicine man and left intact.

It is the belief of the Navajos, who make the sand paintings as a part of their religious healing ceremonies, that the gods will be angry if the paintings are not destroyed before sundown of the day on which they are made.

The Dean, however, accomplished the seemingly impossible, and the university is richer by six beautiful paintings.

One of his Navajo friends was old Sam Chief who, with his wife and family accompanied Mrs. John Wetherill to Tucson one winter some years ago to visit Dr. Cummings and his family. The Dean took Sam Chief on a tour of the campus, and especially the museum, told him about his "children," then asked him to make him some sand paintings for his "children" to see. At first the old man demurred, saying the gods would visit a dire punishment upon him if he did. Especially was Sam Chief afraid of being struck blind. His eyes were already ailing.

Dr. Cummings told him that the white man's God was stronger than the Navajo gods, and that if he would make the paintings for the museum, he would not be struck blind but that his eyesight would actually be improved.

So, with childlike faith in Natani Yazi, the old medicine man began his task. Dr. Cummings took him to an eye specialist, his eyes were improved, and Sam Chief returned to the reservation to live out the rest of his days with never a regret for his defection.

Both the Navajo and the Hopi look to him for advice and counsel. Some three years ago, Tewa-quap-tiwa, hereditary chief of the Bear Clan and head chief of Oraibi, Hopi village in northeastern Arizona and the oldest continuously inhabited town in the United States, held up the machinery of the United States government for many days because he refused to act, or to permit his clansmen to act, until Dr. Cummings sat in conference with him, and helped iron out their difficulties.

No amount of persuading, no arguments, no pressure could bring the Hopi to a decision until the Dean had been consulted.

Finally the day came when Dr. Cummings could visit Oraibi. From early afternon, until long after night fall Dr. Cummings sat in the crowded little room which is the living room of Tewa-quaptiwa's home, and listened and talked to the Hopi men, with the government representative, a rather important individual in his own eyes, and a well known novelist on the side, chafing at the delay and completely unable to do anything about it.

The secret of the respect which is given the Dean by all Indian people who know him-Navajo, Hopi, Apache, Pima, Papago, Maricopa alike is, of course, that he treats them as human beings, as equals with equal rights and privileges. They are, in his eyes, intelligent individuals and he never talks down to them, nor ridicules them. Their cultural habits may differ widely from his, but there is no condescension on his part. He respects their religious beliefs, sees their sometimes weird ceremonies as they are -expressions of a deep religious faith which has grown through centuries-deserving of the same reverence which is expected from non-believers for Christian ceremonies.

He is always welcome in any Indian home and likewise does he welcome his friends when they visit him.

Early this spring, Dr. Cummings was host at Kinishba to the Hohokam society of Tucson, a group of non-professionals interested in archaeology, and most especially in the excavation and development of Kinishba. More than fifty people made the pilgrimage from Tucson to the magnificent ruins, some 200 miles away. And for the evening's entertainment several hundred of both whites and Apaches living in Fort Apache, White-river, and the surrounding country crowded into the main patio of the ruin.

A huge fire was built in the center of the patio, and the licking flames cast grotesque shadows on the four brown stone walls. The babble of voices, and the movement of the people seemed to give life to the long dead pueblo, and for the short span of hours it was reborn in all its 700-year-old glory.

For the entertainment of his guests, Dr. Cummings invited Tewa-quap-tiwa and a group of his clansmen to come to Kinishba to give some of their ceremonial dances. It is a long way from Oraibi to Kinishba, and the trip is sometimes difficult, but they came, even more of them than the Dean had expected, and graciously gave several of their ceremonials. Side by side they danced with As important as has been his contributions to scientific knowledge, more important has been the influence of Dr. Cummings on the hundreds of students who have studied under him at the University of Arizona. An understanding teacher, patient and thorough, Dr. Cummings has served his state and his profession to the fullest extent.

Tribute to a Ghost Town

(Continued from Page 11) It was hard to believe stories we heard of its ability to rise suddenly and terrifically. We were prepared for the drama of flood season. Excitedly, we splashed around in the mud and rain to watch it and listen to its roar. We stood about and speclated as to what it could do.

Before it was finished it had inspired considerable respect from us all. The people from the tent camp came flocking to the upper camp, bag and baggage, in the middle of the night. Cars were marooned. The cat-walk was swept away as if it were made of match sticks. Men watched the forms on which they had worked for weeks twisted into useless driftwood. A heavy bull-dozer tossed about in the muddy roaring current like a toy. The raging water hungrily ate up the truck loads of rocks dumped at the base of the mixing plant in an attempt to prevent its being torn loose from its foundation.

We washed our clothes in chocolate colored water and smelled the drying mud for some time after the flood was gone, and we lived on the excitement of it for weeks. Drinking water we bought in bottles from town.

Summer came, and the thermometer went up, and up, and up. Then we installed Arizona's distinguished and unique invention, the home-constructed aircooler. That wonderful device appeals to the inventive in men and all after Our work discussion was devoted to arguments as to the proper construction of it. Most of the men were better engineers than they were carpenters, so there was a variety of coolers, and it was a point of honor with each family to defend their own. I think they were all very effective, and ours ran constantly though I sometimes felt it was a little noisier than the others, and that I might be come "stir-crazy" from the incessant whir of the electric fan. Construction wasn't limited to the dam, the houses, and the coolers. Some of the men built play-houses for their small daughters. One engineer fulfilled a dream and built himself a little house which he used as a dark-house for developing pictures. It was a favorite amusement for the rest of the camp to stand and jeer at the would-be carpenter. Fondly and tolerantly we spoke of Stew's dark-house as his "horse-trap."

Once in every two weeks, at least, we went to town. Hopefully and eagerly we women started to town for a picture show and a bit of shopping. Glassy-eyed and limp, we came back to camp. There is something fiendish about that twisting, dusty desert road. Carsickness was almost universal, especially among the women and children. We tried sucking a lemon, eating raw potatoes, crackers, and nothing at all, but it was no use. One of the ghastliest things that ever happened to me was a trip to Phoenix with four other carsick women. We even bought pills prescribed for seasickness. The trip continued to mean one very bad day for me followed by a very quiet one for complete recovery. I have never been similarly afflicted anywhere else. Except for those infrequent, tortuous trips to town and the fact that our Bermuda grass lawns gave me violent and constant hay fever, my health was excellent.

Our little children led a beautiful life at Bartlett Dam. We were free from the worry of heavy traffic so they wandered at will from one yard to the other. They did not fear the rattlesnakes and scorpions as their mothers did. Shudderingly we learned what we must do if one of them got bitten and the doctor was not near. Their guardian angels did their work well. Although we saw many snakes and scorpions in and around camp none of our children was bitten.

The children organized frog-hunting expeditions and I will remember long my three-year-old daughter's look of pain and disgust when I could not bring myself to pick up one of the frogs gaily escaping from her share of the loot! He was big and fat, and his long legs dangled from her small, fat hands. Wearily his eyes blinked up at me. My guest from town took one horrified look.

"You'd better get that child back to civilization," she said. The child is back, now, and she still likes frogs.

I will never go back to Bartlett Dam. I don't want to see what the desert did to my chrysanthemums and Lin's oleanders. I couldn't bear to see Julie's and Sandy's deserted sandpile. I wouldn't like to see the tangled remains of Mister Jake's beautiful flower garden. I have no more curiosity about the dam, which was once just a big hole in the earth, then a skeleton over which men crept carefully day and night. Then there's the swimming pool whose depths at least one mother will never forget.

We are all gone from there now, scattered once more all over the country, and the finished perfection of the largest multiple arch dam in the world is the only monument to our town. Bartlett Dam is a ghost town, except to us, who lived there.

Community Service

School, the "old" High School, now, has been marked off, with perpendicular parking stalls, angled parking stalls, double lines for full stops, and central divisional markers. The entire street is held open for the use of the High School Safe Driving course. In the two years the course has been in operation at the P.U.H.S. 800 pupils have enrolled, and 700 of these have secured their licenses. During this time, only five of these licenses have been cited for minor motor vehicle misdemeanors, and none for major misdemeanors. This is, indeed, a record that any club might well be proud of. The final touch of "graduation" from the Safe Driving course is the receipt of a real honest to goodness license to drive, issued by the Arizona Highway Patrol. If every boy or girl learning to drive, will take this course as offered by the P.U.H.S. in a few years we will have the majority of the drivers on our highways of the safe and sane variety. This year, the dual control car "went to college," for Dr. Vaughn C. Wallace, head of the Department of Education at the State Teacher's College at Flagstaff, Arizona, instituted a splendid Safe Driving course for teachers. Thirty-four teachers spent a pleasant and profitable few weeks at the summer course, using the A.A.A. text books, and are returning to their various schools brimming with enthusiasm for the thorough and practical instruction they received in this course.

The complex traffic problems of today give each and every parent pause for sometime, perhaps today, and SURELY tomorrow, the power and strength of eighty horses will be held in leash under the two slim hands of Youth at the wheel. Can we train them to a sober sense of their responsibilities? Can we teach them to use "Horse sense with Horse Power?"

Hellzapoppin'

(Continued from Page 9) as by the more "legitimate" performers on the stage. In fact, it is being bruited about that a doctor in the house refused to attend a woman having a baby in the third row, because he thought it was all part of the act. He, so the story goes, wasn't finally convinced the off-spring was on the level until an usher tapped the woman on the shoulder and demanded another ticket for the child. While we cannot swear to the ABSOLUTE authenticity of this, it could have happened; and, at any rate, should serve to give you a rough idea of the confusion existing in "the house" during an average performance of "Hellzapoppin." The confusion backstage is another matter; confined, largely, to Ole's dressing room.

Here, if one waits long enough, one may see anyone even Ole. Though Chic denies this. It is the original clambake. Governors, judges, business executives, lawyers, doctors, glamour girls and boys, rub shoulders with call-boys, stooges, panhandlers, gag-men, and other such lower forms of life. It's a working-model of practical democracy, with all men and women brothers and sisters under the grin. But while Ole loves it, it's hard on Chic's delicate nerves. Almost any performance, Chic, who is habitually punctual, can be heard wailing in anguished tones, "For gosh sakes, Ole -we're on!" A cry which invariably catches Mr. Olsen in the middle of a story, and a state of undress that forces him to leap into his trousers and straighten his tie, as he races to make his entrance.

As you may readily see, the Winter Garden Theater sheltering "Hellzapoppin'" (another Adv.) is no place for a refugee from a nerve cure. But, as you may not so readily see, we love it. We did not fail, after all. Instead of "dragging others down with us," we have been able to give steady employment during the past year to one hundredtwenty-odd actors, chorines, musicians, stage-hands, and specialty artists who might not have worked otherwise. And, just by way of making our joy complete, the critics who excoriated us have turned around and generously decided "Hellzapoppin'" sets a new high for low comedy." All of which makes us very grateful.Life and people have been more than kind to us during our twenty-five years before the public; cramming our mem-ories with material for countless hours of delightful retrospection when inexorable Time has shelved us. And, of all these memories, none can exceed the one we hold of the true Western hospitality demonstrated when we were invited to crown Arizona's Cotton Queen at that "Helzapoppin'" celebration in Buckeye, two years ago. The neighborly reception accorded us, incorporating Ole and Mrs. Olsen's Silver Wedding Anniversary in your own fete activities, gave us a sense of be-longing in the State where "Summer Spends The Winter." And, although it's an "L" of a way from "HeLzapoppin'" to HE-double L-zapoppin,' our hearts belong to Daddy..