On the Road to Mexico

IF THE present road-building pace is maintained by states on the West Coast of Mexico Arizonans will one day, not too far away, have a new travel destination-one that will carry them to a land that invites relaxation and a somewhat slower pace than the average American is used to. Leaders of the vast, sparsely-populated regions that lie south of the International border are working in earnest to open their land to automobile travel and, if present indications mean anything, within a reasonable length of time residents of western states will be able to enjoy all the scenic thrills and picturesque beauty that Mexico offers.

The route down the West Coast is one link in the International Pacific Highway that one day will connect Alaska with Argentina. It also forms a portion of the Great International highway that connects Canada and Mexico in an almost direct North and South route. When this stretch is completed an autoist can enter the republic at Nogales, travel south to Mexico City and return to the United States by way of Laredo, Texas, or vice versa.

Such a trip would offer the motorist a great variety of scenery and an abundance of entertainment. En route to the republic's capital city he would pass through many age-old Mexican cities rich in historical treasures, missions and cathedrals that date from time long before the famed missions of the Western United States were constructed and intriguing pueblos and picturesque coast cities. Between Nogales and Mexico City lie Hermosillo, picturesque capital of Sonora; Guaymas, famed fishing resort; Culiacan, colorful capital of Sinaloa; Mazatlan, often termed "The Riviera of Mexico;" Guadalajara, city of beautiful flowers, and scores of picturesque villages that invite inspection. En route to the south may also be seen many of Mexico's famed haciendas, idle volcanos, picturesque valleys and thousands of acres of fertile farming land.

By Don Smith

The scenic trip down the West Coast is possible only by rail at present.

Auto travel is now possible in comfort only as far as Guaymas, which city has gained fame for its excellent deep-sea fishing. Although the Nogales-Guaymas highway is not in too good condition at present, road crews are pushing work on this stretch that former Gov. Roman Yocupicio of Sonora has promised will be oiled before the end of 1940.

Once this section is completed attention will be turned to locating a road from Guaymas to the Sinaloa state line.

In the states of Sinaloa, Nayarit and Jalisco an extensive highway construction program has been under way for the last year.

Gov. Yocupicio and Col. Alfredo Delgado, governor of Sinaloa, have made road building in the two northermost West Coast states their main projects.

With eyes on tourist dollars, officials of the two lower states on the West Coast have likewise stressed highway improvement programs.

In Jalisco Gov. Silvano Barba GonValez, having already sampled some of the lucrative business from United States tourists since the route from Mexico City to Guadalajara was paved, is pouring every available peso into the highway building program. He has approximately 500 men working on the stretch between Guadalajara and the Nayarit boundary.

Of the entire route between Nogales and Guadalajara, a distance of 1100 miles, the most difficult area, as far as road construction is concerned, is in the region that lies North and South of Tepic, Nayarit, known as the "barrancas." This mountainous section, one of the most beautiful along the entire West Coast route, is presenting a mammoth engineering problem.

Through scores of towering cliffs and treacherous ravines this road is being built and when completed will be a true engineering feat. When the Southern Pacific company laid tracks through this area between 1923 and 1927 it was necessary for their engineers to build 14 high bridges and 31 tunnels which are still in use.

Much credit for recent progress on the West Coast road has been given Governors Yocupicio and Delgado who have cut many other items in their budgets short so that funds could be put into the highway program. They have purchased expensive machinery from the United States and have employed some of Mexico's leading engineers on the project.

These progressive governors and other officials on the West Coast have been greatly encouraged in their efforts by directors of various automobile clubs in the West who have promised heavy tourist crops once the route is completed. Working in harmony with the Mexican officials are leaders of the International Pacific Highway Association, the Automobile Club of Southern California, the Great International Highway Association and the Arizona Automobile Association.. (Continued from Page 7)

Frank Luke, Jr. Arizona's Heroic War Eagle

pointed to that. He rushed back and barely made the fast disappearing special. One of the last to say goodbye was his pal Elder, who wanted so badly to join with him but the privilege was denied.

Luke sailed from New York on the U. S. S. Leviathan, formerly the German liner "Vaterland." Upon his arrival on foreign soil things happened fast and to his liking. He was nearing the actual war. The tempo quickened. Event followed event. The battle front came closer and closer. He was sent through a series of drill flights. From one he moved up to another, then another. He had several minor mishaps and numerous narrow escapes which served to thrill him to greater daring. He was restless -anxious he wanted action-combat! In July his wishes were gratified. He was to see action was assigned to a combat unit the unit that had lost such greats as Quentin Roosevelt, Lufbery, Gun, Miller, Davis and others who had gone down fighting. It was here he met the great Rickenbacker, whose twenty-six official victories made him America's leading ace!

Luke's first flight into battle territory was the beginning of the trait that later made him famous the act that was against all military regulations that of voluntarily leaving his flight formation. Landing several minutes after the formation came down Luke was reprimanded. The first thought that entered his mind was one he rightfully figured would stick "Engine trouble!" Next patrol flight he again left his formation. Again he was reprimanded. His reason this time was no excuse. It was a reality. "I got a Hun!" This victory, which proved to be one of the bitter controversies of the war was finally credited to Luke on the face of his exacting report. He had tasted victory. They couldn't stop him now.

One evening a few days later Luke overheard a conversation as to the im portance of balloons, their strategic value in observing opposing positions and maneuvers as well as directing gun fire. He also overheard the dangers of attacking enemy balloons so well protected by machine and anti-aircraft guns against an attacking plane. There was always ready For flight too, near by, a battery of protecting combat planes, ready to give chase or do battle. This stirred Luke to more daring endeavor. He made up his mind then and there to go after enemy balloons.

He made known his plans next day. His mates laughed. His mechanics chuckled. "I'm going to get one today!"

He reiterated. In less than two hours he had fired his first balloon-sent it crashing toward the ground a burning inferno of debris. He sighted three enemy planes gave chase, and drove them to cover. In his flight he sighted another balloon hanging low. He took altitude. At great height he dove straight toward the earth and the balloon. The enemy batteries had sighted him and were pouring shells toward his fast descending Spad. As he drove near the balloon which had been hauled nearly to the ground, he opened fire with his machine gun-ripping the gas bag with a hail of spitting bullets. He had leveled off his ship breathlessly close to earth. How did he come out of it? One guess is as good as another. How did he survive the enemy shell fire? Another unexplainable achievement, but just a sample of what was to come later.

Soon word of Luke's great achievements against almost unbelivable obstacles were carried from one end of the western front to the other. Noted newspaper men carrying the news of the war and certainly not of individual achievements, began to recognize the daring accomplishments of this "hellion" with the American forces. An Associated Press report of September 18 singled out Luke "With the American army on the Lorraine Front Three enemy balloons were destroyed last night by Lieutenant Frank Luke, Jr., of Phoenix, Arizona, on a flight into the German lines. This makes his total nine balloons in three days... Luke was credited with having downed two Hun planes before his record of nine German observation balloons in three days. This makes him one of the big men flying in France for an observation balloon is said to be much harder to down than a plane."

Luke was the first to inaugurate night flying, a feat unheard of before in military maneuver. His performance practically revolutionized the methods of air fighting. Defying death, he would swoop down in the dusk or darkness of night and send a balloon flaming to the earth. He was credited with as many as five

Victories in one night. The dangers of alighting with only the aid of flares was a great hazard in itself aside from the damaging shell-fire. Another Associated Press report from the same point the following day-" the Phoenix aviator who on Tuesday night destroyed three enemy balloons, added an enemy airplane to his list of victories at dusk yesterday. The fight took place near Verdun, where the German machine was downed, but Luke himself landed near by to make the capture of the pilot." Another Associated Press report on the 20th "The shooting down of two enemy balloons and three airplanes . . . the destruction of the balloons has been confirmed by scores of witnesses who saw them burning. One of the planes landed within the French lines and confirmation of its destruction was secured by the aviator on the spot. The majority of the attacks on the balloons were made at the greatest personal risk to the flyer because he was the object of quantities of the type of anti-aircraft projectiles called 'flaming onions,' which set an airplane ablaze if it hit it accurately, and which must be nimbly dodged in the air. Reports followed reports. New and more daring victories crowded old ones. The uncanny "balloon buster" was creating havoc against the enemy airline. Then as the still of the night-reports ceased to come in. Frank Luke, the daring ace, reported missing! Missing in action! Could it be that the lad from Arizona who fought through thirty-nine days and nights of miracle battles was finally bested? Was he brought down a prisoner? Was he wounded? Was he killed? They hoped for the former at best but remembered Luke's terse remark, "I'll never be taken prisoner!"

Reports of that last aerial battle later filtered through. It was probably the most stunning lone achievement in the annals of military aviation. Luke had the habit of taking off unannounced on his scouting trips and raids. Sometimes he would return to his base more often he would alight at some other American base or a French airdrome. He was known to have landed far into the German lines, spent the night there in some secluded spot, taking off early the next morning on his reign of terror. One day after returning from a visit to the French airdrome, he was questioned as on numerous other occasions, as to his whereabouts the night before. After informing his superior, he was ordered grounded indefinitely. Unmindful of the rebuke, Luke strode back to his plane and immediately took off for Verdun. An orderly announced Luke's departure. "Place him under arrest!" was the sharp command. "Send a car with a pilot for him! Bring him back in the car!"

"What'll you do to him now?" was the query. "I'm going to recommend him for the Distinguished Service Cross," he declar ed, "Then, by God, I'm going to courtmartial him!"

As Luke landed at Verdun he met Captain Hartley who had just arrived. Luke immediately informed the captain that he wanted to go after three balloons that he had spotted. The captain, knowing well of Luke's enviable record, consented. As the sun rolled down below the skyline, the whir of Luke's motor died out in the distance. As he flew over the American balloon headquarters at Souilly he dropped a note to a surprised group of observers." Watch three Hun balloons on the Meuse-Luke." In a few moments he had his first balloon in flames. Straightening his plane he soared toward another farther east. An interval of two or three minutes followed. He smashed at the second balloon with a spitting hail of bullets. He was flying through a sea of shell-fire as the enemy was then well aware of his presence. A German squadron was now pursuing him. Then a bullet caught him. He quickly recovered from the shock-brought his plane into a nose dive to ward off the attacking planes. He was so close to the ground the Germans probably took for granted he had crashed. They reversed their course and sped away.

Luke swooped down again on the second balloon. It exploded with a great flash and crashed to the ground enveloped in smoke. He pointed toward Milly where he had a third balloon spotted and quickly destroyed it. Three balloons in ten minutes! A heroic achievement never before nor since equalled. He headed back toward Murvaux. His injury no doubt began to exact its toll. He lost altitude. As his plane, badly riddled, dropped toward the ground in the little village of Murvaux, Luke spotted groups of German soldiers in the street. In a split second he opened fire. His machine gun sputtered, killing and wounding several of the enemy. As his plane dropped beyond the village church it hit the ground with a thud. Lieutenant Luke, wounded, slid from the cockpit and made for a stream near by. As he approached the stream a group of German soldiers came toward him and demanded that he surrender. Luke backed to his planereached for his automatic and opened fire. Then he slumped to the ground. The greatest air battle and the greatest air victory of his career was ended-and for him-it too was the end! It was some time after the armistice before the news of Frank Luke's fate and the location of his grave came to light. He had been buried in the little churchyard at Murvaux by the kindly villagers who had long heard of Luke's feats of daring. They had cared tenderly for his grave too. Later, it was decided to remove his grave to Romagne -the last resting place for the great ace -at Romagne with the thousands of other Americans who gave their lives so gloriously, if not as conspicuously, as Luke.

In recognition of Luke's unprecedented achievements he was awarded, posthumously, the Congressional Medal of Honor, the only one awarded to a United States Army flyer; the Distinguished Service Cross, with oak-leaf cluster and threebars; the Italian War Cross; the Aero Club of American Medal for honor and the Margarita Fisher Gold Medal for the first Rockwell Field pilot to conquer an enemy in the air. The Congressional Medal of Honor, awarded under the authority of the Congress is the highest decoration that can be awarded by the United States for gallantry in action involving actual conflict with an enemy at the risk of life above and beyond the call of duty. Prior to the World war only eight of these had ever been awarded. So high is the congressional medal of honor esteemed that it is never sent through the mail. Either the recipient is personally decorated by the president, or his special representative, or in the case of being awarded posthumously, as in the case of Frank Luke, it is sent to the nearest relative of the hero in the care of an army officer.

The official war department citation accompanying Lieutenant Luke's Congressional Medal of Honor is as follows: "Near Murvaux, France, September 29, 1918 . . . After having previously des-troyed a number of enemy aircraft within seventeen days, he voluntarily started on a patrol after German observation balloons. Though pursued by eight Ger-man planes which were protecting the enemy balloon line, he unhesitatingly at-tacked and shot down in flames three German balloons, being himself under heavy fire from ground batteries and the hostile planes. Severely wounded, he descended to within fifty meters of the ground, and flying at this low altitude near the town of Murvaux opened fire upon enemy troops, killing six and wound-ing as many more. Forced to make a landing and surrounded on all sides by the enemy, who called upon him to sur-render, he drew his automatic pistol and defended himself gallantly until he fell dead from a wound in the chest."

gressional Medal of Honor is as follows: "Near Murvaux, France, September 29, 1918 . . . After having previously des-troyed a number of enemy aircraft within seventeen days, he voluntarily started on a patrol after German observation balloons. Though pursued by eight Ger-man planes which were protecting the enemy balloon line, he unhesitatingly at-tacked and shot down in flames three German balloons, being himself under heavy fire from ground batteries and the hostile planes. Severely wounded, he descended to within fifty meters of the ground, and flying at this low altitude near the town of Murvaux opened fire upon enemy troops, killing six and wound-ing as many more. Forced to make a landing and surrounded on all sides by the enemy, who called upon him to sur-render, he drew his automatic pistol and defended himself gallantly until he fell dead from a wound in the chest."

The Distinguished Service Cross, pre-sented by the President, is awarded for extraordinary heroism in connection with military operations against an armed enemy. As with the Congressional Medal of Honor, no more than one shall be issued to any one person; but for each succeeding deed or act sufficient to justify the award, the President may award a suitable bar. Aside from the oak-leaf attached to Luke's distinguished service cross, three additional bars accompany the award.

The official War Department citation accompanying this medal reads: "Near St. Mihiel, France, September 12-15, 1918-By skill, determination and bravery, and in face of heavy enemy fire, he successfully destroyed eight enemy balloons in four days. He is also awarded an oak-leaf cluster for the following act of extraordinary heroism in action near Etain, France, September 18, 1918. Immediately after destroying two enemy observation balloons he was attacked by a large formation of German planes (Fokker type.) He turned to attack two which were directly behind him and shot them down. Sighting an enemy bi-plane, although his gasoline was nearly gone, he attacked and destroyed this machine also."

As the writer was preparing to leave the Luke family home after an exciting evening reviewing the exploits and early days of America's heroic flyer; the kindly, brave little lady, Frank Luke's mother, told me of the lily bed grown in the yard. One day when Frank was in a hurry to get away to play in a football game, his mother insisted that he plant some lily bulbs before he could go. The restless, energetic youngster carelessly jammed the bulbs into the ground in hap-hazard fashion, and was away. That was twenty years ago before he had ever given thought to war or flying. "And you know," she said to me, "For twenty years that bed of white lilies have been coming up and blooming in the per-fect shape of an airplane!" I went out into the yard and saw for myself. She had the plot fenced a living memorial to her heroic son. "You know," she added as I left, "There are some things that just can't be explained!"

Ostriches In Arizona

(Continued from Page 23) was to produce fine breeding stock, which was always at a premium, and high grade feathers. Birds averaged one hundred dollars each.

Few of those who operated ostrich Few of those who operated ostrich ranches on a large scale during those experimental years are now living. To one man, W. M. Cross of Chandler Heights, 75 years of age, we are indebted for much of the information and stories reported in this narrative; the pictures were taken when he, as manager of the Pan American Ostrich Company of Phoe-nix, developed the largest flock of os-triches in the world-all within the brief span of six years. The United States bulletin, compiled by Watson Pickerell back in 1905, helped also to gain a glimpse of the work done by earlier pioneers in the building indus-try.

Early in 1900 after the death of A. Y. Pearson, president of the Pearson Ostrich Company near Cashion, 8 miles west of Phoenix, the Phoenix National Bank had been compelled to take over their holdings on a mortgage. That 1600 acre ranch was then rechristened the Pan American Ostrich Ranch. Its 500 birds and equipment, represented a large investment and had been operated at considerable loss for several years. When Mr. Cross assumed control of that ranch his first objective was to build up strong, vigorous birds. He believed that only ostriches in the pink of condition could yield the best plumage. Large acreages of grain and 528 acres of alfalfa were planted. The new manager was confidently preparing to take care of a decided increase in his flock.

In 1909 came what is known as the "Big Hatch" when 2000 lusty feather-makers popped out of the incubators. Then the ranch swarmed with activity. Six mowing machines were constantly at work. Men, teams and wagons were kept busy preparing, chopping and hauling twenty tons of fresh alfalfa daily to stuff those demanding maws. Several men on horses, trained to ride the fields, constantly patrolled the pastures where there was danger of birds getting caught on wire fences; of fighting and stampedes.

A stampede occurred one night during an electric storm. It started in a pasture where three hundred birds were sleeping. Their panic set flock after flock into mad flight. The next morning 650 mangled, bleeding bodies were removed from the broken wire.

By 1911 Mr. Cross really began to ship feathers to the New York City markets. Average return on his birds was $22.50 each, an increase from 14 oz. to 2 lb. 2 oz. per bird.

At that time the United States was using 64 per cent of all the ostrich feathers produced in the world. There were imported plumes valued at $5,013,778.50.

According to the census of 1910 there were then 5,316 ostriches in this coun-try valued at $1,696,140. Somewhere among the archives in Washington is a bill passed in 1912, introduced by Sena-tor Carl Hayden of Arizona, which appropriated $5000 for experimentation in the feeding and breeding of ostriches by the Bureau of Animal Husbandry.

When ostriches were first introduced to a new world the term "streamlined" was unknown; but it is apropos in describing the unbird-like looking bird immigrant which, in the twenty years of its exploitation, added a picturesque chapter to the history of Arizona. The ostrich, with its pointed beak, bare snaky neck with its odd esophagus coiled around the vertabrae, bare muscular legs, the rounded elevation of the back, and the feather-producing area of wings and tail, is streamlined in every count; all of which is responsible for the tremendous speed it can maintain in covering the ground. When in full flight it can take 20 feet at a stride and travel 30 miles an hour for long distances.

When eight months old the young bird, its head shrouded, was driven into a wedge-shaped pen for its first plucking; and every eight months thereafter. According to Mr. Cross it took six months to grow a full grown feather and two months to mature the quill which was then painlessly extracted. The best feathers grew between the first and second joints on the abbreviated wings. Every bird was personally examined for maturity of feathers. Each had a number in the web of its wing and an accurate record kept of every class of feathers it produced. Selective breeding was chosen by those records. An ostrich was full grown in eighteen months.

Carl Hagenback, world famous German animal trainer and circus man visited the Pan American ranch. After seeing "Dr. Cook," a magnificent breeding bird, whose black and white plumage made him the constant target for cameras, he wanted to buy him. When an offer of five thousand dollars failed to tempt the manager, Mr. Hagenback made a reluctant departure.

Doctor Cook was a feathered Ishmaelite with a cantankerous disposition a killer yet a general favorite on the ranch. He could run like the wind, dodge like a quarterback and fight like a demon; yet was always the first to greet visitors. After the debacle he sold for five dollars.

One day Mr. Cross hung his vest on a fence and forgot it. When he went to get it he found a tattered rag and something that had been his watch, still hanging by its leather strap, sans everything that made it tick. Some inquisitive ostrich had vainly tried to swallow the shining tidbit. The watch, as Exhibit A, was long on display in a Phoenix jeweler's window.

A troop of one hundred ostriches were bought of the Pan American Ostrich Company, by Dr. A. J. Chandler of Chandler. Six mounted men were sent to get the birds.

An ostrich is as terrified of a barking dog as an elephant is of a mouse, therefore a request was broadcast asking that all dog owners pen up their pets on a certain day. The dignified cortege, flanked by outriders, started the twenty-five mile trek across the desert toward town. Suddenly an animated wisp of yellow hair and bark rushed noisily out; apparently from nowhere. There was an explosion as one hundred feathered projectiles shot out across the desert.

When men and horses emerged from an enveloping cloud of grey powder, only distant puffs of dust marked the course of the fugitives. Many days elapsed before the stampeded "desert express trains" could be rounded up.

Then, immersed to their necks in water, were lassoed from the Grand Canal near Phoenix. Only one bird was lost. "The ninety and nine" were placed in an alfalfa pasture the present site of the famous San Marcos Hotel golf course, until moved to Dr. Chandler's ranch near Mesa where some remained on exhibition until the thirties.

Comedy and tragedy are the woof upon which is woven the Tapestry of Time. So also do humor and pathos form the background for the ostrich motif of Arizona. As an aged couple, Mr. and Mrs. L. D. Rousseau, were driving home at dusk their horses took fright at some strange apparitions which rose suddenly before them, and ran away killing the woman and critically injuring her hus-band.

An ostrich drops on the ground wherever night overtakes it. Some of that stampeded troop had settled down to spend the night in the road; when the horses approached they rose with out-spread wings and scurried away in the darkness, causing the calamity.

A man came one day and asked Mr. Cross if he might spend a little time in looking over the ranch. He spoke with a strong German accent. Permission was given. He watched every department with absorbed interest. One day he dropped a bomb in the manager's lap by saying that he had been sent by the German Emperor to investigate operations on the ranch. On his return to Germany, the envoy said, he would make a favorable report to Emperor William. Mr. Cross would then receive an offer for the opening up of a large ostrich ranch for him in German Southwest Africa. In parting he said, "Think it over." This was followed by the cryptic remark: "You will get word immediately, unless someone drops a match in the powder barrel of Europe."

He set sail on June 28, 1914, the very day the Austrian Archduke was murdered the spark which set the world on fire.

Before the break in the market $101,-000, worth of raw feathers had been sold in 1913 by the Pan American. Produc-tion on the ranch was on a paying basis. That sale netted a profit of $64,000.

Almost as quickly as the mantle of night falls in this topsy-turvy land of deserts and mountains came the end. White primes dropped from $130.00 to $8.00 a pound on New York markets. The whole enterprise collapsed; wreck-ed at the threshold of a great triumph.

Several causes entered into the debacle of late 1913; the World War; open cars, and fashion's decree. Memory re-calls woman's attempt to protect her prized plumes by enveloping her hat in yards of chiffon when motoring. The long fluttering ends caused many a driv-er to see red and his passengers to look black and blue. Then when Paris turned thumbs down our American industry crumbled.

Surplus bales of feathers were dumped onto an unwilling market; or put into storage, save such plumes as were needed for decking of Lodge regalia, etc.

Long ago the first ostrich motif in the Tapestry of Time was completed. Will there ever be another?

When the beautiful and gracious Queen Elizabeth appeared with ostrich plumes on her hats on her recent visit to America it caused a ripple of interest among feminine admirers.

A memorial of a vanished industry is carried on an old assessment record as "item-0-15-75;" as difficult to decipher as the hieroglyphics left on stones by an ancient civilization.

Arizona Sketch Book

(Continued from Page 14) Visions he had acquired while living in the Southwest. Breath-taking are his canvases of the thunder-heads piled high over some mountain peak, whether it be mid-day with cloud shadows or the crimson of sunset. These pictures hold you spellbound with their beauty. Then again one longs to travel with him the winding, twisting roads that lead across the desert to some far distant peak a desert dotted with oases of cotton-woods or palms or mesquites, their vivid green outlined against the vermilion cliffs. Or to travel across the immense sand dunes partially covered with wild verbena, or with grease-wood playing hide-and-seek within the dunes.

After a rain, when the desert is all aglow, the Indian wheat, the wild verbena, lupin, desert poppies and a multitude of other desert growth spring to life. Harry Wagoner knows, as all desert habitues knew, what rain means to this arid land and his pictures throb with that peacefulness that abounds after a rain on the desert.

Where else but in the Southwest has Nature created such beautiful settings for man as the Superstition Mountain with all its allure; the calm, reserved Camelback Mountain; Picacho Peak amid its desert grandeur; and the beautiful canyons of the Santa Catalina Mountains. These are among Mr. Wagoner's favorite subjects.

Whatever the mood of the desert may be Harry Wagoner portrays it with a truthfulness that has brought people from all parts of the world to view, as they say, "Harry Wagoner's desert." With his station wagon as a studio he wanders over Arizona catching the ethereal and mysterious mirage, the silent cacti sentinels, the clear blue void of a sky, the desert hard and yellow or carpeted with flowers. Always is he ready to transfer the gamut of the desert's emotions to his canvas.

Harry Wagoner personally is an exemplary man. He is sincerely fond of people and derives an intense satisfaction from meeting and pleasing his public. He never considers himself personally if he can be of service. With those of his fellow artists who are fortunate enough to know him he is a great favorite.

Though a native of Indiana Mr. Wagoner spent his youth in Chicago studying art. This later took him to all parts of Europe where he studied and painted.

His paintings are hung in many of the finest collections in this country and in Europe. This year Mr. Wagoner was invited to hang one of his paintings in the Koyal Academy in England.

His annual exhibition in November, held at the Anderson Galleries in Chicago, is always met with great enthusiasm. Mr. Wagoner is one of seven artists whom the Anderson Galleries features with one-man shows. It is after this exhibition that he returns to Arizona for his western showings which are held exclusively in Phoenix and Tucson.

In summing up Harry Wagoner and his paintings Fred Hogue said: "To transfer upon canvas with pigments of color the majesty and beauty of the desert land may be a simple matter but to make that canvas come alive by expressing thereon the inward impressions of a nature spiritually atune to the quiet loveliness of that majesty and beauty, that is a task for genius. For beauty is a thing within us, 'that thou seest, that thou beest,' this being the reason, perhaps, why paintings differ, the artist, not his tools, being the medium of expression . . . And so the true desert lover appreciates the work of Harry B. Wagoner, who was driven to its wastes for health, and who found himself in this arid land and his pictures throb with in him a great, tender simplicity and a clear-eyed sense of beauty and living. These are the qualities of the man that cause his canvases to pulsate and glow with life and color."

Seven-Down Seventy-Seven Up

comfort of an upholstered chair. But you'll learn more geology in one trip down a canyon trail than you will by reading a dozen books on the subject. You'll see geology in the making!

Before the trails were improved, a trip into the canyon was a feat not to be lightly undertaken. Some of the unused trails still are formidable. It may appear ridiculous to mention a mere twenty years where everything is spoken of in terms of centuries, but turn back to a paragraph in recent history and see what C. A. Higgins had to say of his trip as late as 1918. He went down the old Grandview trail which has since been abandoned, and had reached the top of the great redwall that girdles the canyon like a seemingly impassable barrier, when he wrote: "A little beyond this temple it becomes necessary to abandon the animals. The river is still a mile and a half distant. The way narrows now to a mere notch, where two wagons could barely pass. Obstacles are encountered in the form of steep, interposing crags over which the pedestrian must clamber. AfAfter these lesser difficulties come sheer descents, which at present are passed by the aid of ropes. With so little labor may one come to the Colorado river in the heart of its most tremendous channel."

Compare that with the modern streamlined trails of today with an average grade of 15 per cent, which isn't particularly uncomfortable going either down or up. It meant camping overnight in the canyon for Higgins to reach the river. That's how the old boys had to do it.

If stiff legs and tender spots in intimate portions of your anatomy will spoil the pleasure of your journey, don't go. You probably wouldn't appreciate it anyway. With a calloused soul instead of a tough posterior, you'll wonder how a mule stuffed with hay can be so hard. But you can't ride fourteen miles on a mule with the effect of soothing lotions at your point of contact with saddle leather!

Or should the exuberance of some of your party detract from the enjoyment of your trip, don't be too concerned about it. The hilarity diminishes in exact ratio to their descent into the canyon. The farther down they go, the less noisy they become. It's a safe bet that somebody will sing "There's a long, long trail." The singing will fade out around the thousand-foot level, and most of the wisecracking will disappear in another thousand feet. By the time you reach Indian Gardens, all will be quiet and you'll be free to observe and meditate, undisturbed.

Did you ever stand on the shore of a sea and wonder what it was like down below the water? If you have, you probably had a swell time doing it. When you ride into the canyon, the first rungs of the ladder-like trail actually carry you through the bed of an ancient ocean. The greybeards say that this Kaibab limestone formation which caps the canyon's rim, was once the bed of a great sea that came down from the north and covered the region. They'll not only tell that it was the bed of an ocean but they'll show you shark's teeth fossils; sponges turned to rock millions of years ago, and perfectly formed seashells embedded in this age-old deposit. Here where you ride, denizens of the sea once lived their span of life, then gave up their ghosts, settled on the slime-covered bottom and added their bit to the earth's history now revealed to you. Scientists from throughout the world search for obscure threads of history etched in the sheer walls that form the canyon.

A geologist will tell you that it's a loose statement to make, but as a rough estimate, for each thousand feet you descend into the great gorge, you pass through nearly two million years of the work of nature. Simple division gives you the answer. The canyon is estimated to be nine million years old, and it is a mile deep. Figure it out for yourself. Some of the formations, of course, were cut faster than others. The speed was regulated by the hardness of the stratum, the rate of water flow and the cutting tools which were sand, gravel and huge boulders. The shales, for instance, were cut faster than the limestone redwall.

the work of nature. Simple division gives you the answer. The canyon is estimated to be nine million years old, and it is a mile deep. Figure it out for yourself. Some of the formations, of course, were cut faster than others. The speed was regulated by the hardness of the stratum, the rate of water flow and the cutting tools which were sand, gravel and huge boulders. The shales, for instance, were cut faster than the limestone redwall.

Pay close attention to this so-called "Redwall." It actually isn't red it's masquerading. The red is only a veneer like some of our social graces. Down under its skin, it's blue limestone. Observe the wall where the red overlying shale has eroded away. There you'll see it stripped of its mask. The red is a stain washed down from above.

Stacked layer on layer in varying colors, the canyon is not unlike in appearance those appetizing cakes your mother bakes-first a layer of brown, then one of red, and so on. Then the whole is topped off with a capping of grey-white. The frosting of the Grand Canyon cake is the great Kaibab forest with its vast expanse of evergreen trees.

Should you feel yourself getting a bit dry as you near the bottom of the Kaibab formation, that's only natural. You're approaching the arid Coconino sandstone. Don't worry about your thirst. The guide carries a canteen of water and he'll give you a swig when he stops to tighten cinches.

The dark-red formation below the Coconino sandstone is a fresh-water deposit from streams that flowed into the region from the northeast. An abundance of delicate fern fossils, insect wings and animal tracks are found in this material. Over on the Kaibab trail, an exhibit of fern fossils uncovered in this Hermit shale has been prepared by Park Naturalist McKee, just as they were found in the layers of rock.

These three top formations of the Canyon are plausibly explained by geologists, in the language of the layman, when you consider them from the bottom up. Remember you're traveling against the grain. Going into the canYon is a case of the "last is first and the first is last." First came the fresh water river flowing to the sea the same as rivers are known today. The banks were lined with ferns which were buried in the slime of the river. That is represented by the Hermit shale. At that time the region was sinking and the ocean moving in. Then came the shore of the ocean with its wind-swept sand dunes. That's now represented by the Coconino sandstone. As the region continued to sink, the sea encroached on the shore, finally to submerge it and deposit the Kaibab limestone in which are found an abundance of marine fossils. It's as simple as all that. The green oasis which you have seen far below on the Tonto Plateau, has progressively become more prominent and what appeared to be a clump of shrubbery has metamorphized into huge cottonwood trees. Also it is "old home week" for the swig of water you had farther up the trail. The pumping plant that hoisted the water 3600 feet up to the rim is located here.

Don't be alarmed along about now if you see what appears to be a rock jump up and go bounding across the plateau. It's only a startled antelope. A small herd ranges in the vicinity of Indian Gardens, and it is hard to distinguish the animals when they lie among the rocks.

A short distance below Indian Gardens is one of the most interesting points on the trail. Edwin D. McKee, park naturalist, discovered and prepared for exhibit, a bed of fossils as they were discovered. Five hundred million years ago, Naturalist McKee said these crab-like creatures lived. Trilobites, they're called. And the imprints are not an artist's reconstruction of how he thought they ought to look. They are the actual imprints of creatures that lived so long ago that it is difficult to comprehend the time. Here is a place to ponder a bit and do a little mental arithmetic. Compare, for instance, your own span of life with that of America since Columbus hocked the queenly jewels, bought himself a boat and sailed away to see what lay beyond the sunset. That was something less than five hundred years ago. Seems rather short, doesn't it? Now as you gaze at this record in stone, remember that what you see is one-third of total age of the earth. If all you see are "some rusty old bugs," then you've wasted your time in making the trip.

Should the "fossil graveyard" fail to stir your imagination, perhaps the innergorge of the canyon will. In it is the second longest and the fourth largest by volume of any river in North America, and you'll be in direct contact with the oldest formation known to man. The trilobite fossils you saw above are mere infants in comparison with this archean formation through which the Colorado river is now cutting. Geologists, by means of radio activity, have estimated the age of this rock at a billion, five hundred years old, or the estimated age of the earth. It is totally barren of fossil records. No life whatever existed at the time it was formed.

A rugged individual with an abundance of intestinal fortitude can walk down to the river and out again and still talk about the experience with a certain amount of enthusiasm, but it isn't advisable. Few days pass during the heat of summer when there isn't a "drag-out" of one or more hikers who over-estimate their endurance and have to send to the rim for help. If you must walk, don't do it on a summer day, or you'll swear you were detoured into Mephisto's bakery before you get half way down. It gets hotter the deeper you go. So if you're going to ride out, you might as well ride down and enjoy the trip. When you send for help, you're stuck for the price of the round trip anyway, and on top of that a special guide charge is tacked on. Better do the job right in the first place. Nick the roll for the price of a trail mule and a box lunch with a guide thrown in. You'll need them all and you'll thank yourself and everybody else that you have them. Don't let your enthusiasm get the better of your judgment and go skittering down the trail afoot. The going down isn't so bad, but the rub is in coming out. Old-timers will tell you "It's seven miles going down, but you'll think it's seventy-seven coming out!"

Phoenix Union High School

(Continued from Page 11) groups. This is a scientific approach to reading. The students are given tests on the Ophthalmograph which makes a chart by photography showing the movement of the eyes while reading a given piece of reading material. This chart is studied for reading faults in lack of span, regressions, return sweep and fixation. With this study a Tele Binocular test is made to determine if the eye functions properly or when glasses are worn if the proper corrections have been made. A great advantage of this work is that class exercises are of a remedial nature and definite steps are made to overcome the faults. This work at present is handled with five classes, a total of 165 students.

Probably the greatest piece of cooperative work done by the school is the annual pageant, the Masque of the Yellow Moon. This annual show has been given fourteen times and each year a new story, new costumes, new dances, new scenery are presented to a capacity crowd in the stadium. It is entirely the work of the school and every student, teacher and janitor contributes something toward its completion.

The Art Department enters its work in many of the national competitions and brings back more than its share of the awards. These have included wood cuts, sculpture, fabric designs, Christmas cards and pottery. This work has been so practical that several of the fabric designs made by the students in the art classes have been used by local compan-ies and the students received cash awards for their efforts.

The Red Book, a manual of conduct and information for students, has been given wide recognition, not as an "on-the-campus guide" for which it is intended and is efficiently used, but for its discussion of courtesy and manners for young people. This book is often ordered in numbers for other high schools and was used as a reference in classes of several universities this summer.

Many speakers at Phoenix Union High School are astonished after speaking to an assembly where every seat is filled and extra chairs are provided on the sides of the stage, to be told that another assembly with as large a crowd will fol-low after ten minutes are allowed for the students to change.

This was the picture of Phoenix Union High School to September, 1939. In the fall of 1938 bonds to supplement a Federal grant were approved and two new school plants valued at $2,000,000 have been built. This figure includes the new gymnasium on the old campus which is not yet completed. One of the cam-puses called the North Phoenix High School is at Thomas Road and Tenth streets. The other campus, Phoenix Jun-ior College, is on Thomas Road north of the Encanto Park. This leaves the buildings formerly occupied by the Phoe-nix Junior College on Seventh street to be taken over by the Arizona Vocational School.

So the schools comprising the Phoenix Union High Schools stand on the threshold of a new era of advancement, recognition, and progress in the instruction of the youth of the Valley of the Sun..

The Killing of Jack the Ripper

(Continued from Page 21) Noses at our American whiskey. Not being able to get their native mescal, anything short of sulphuric acid was tasteless to them. Fisher, the owner, drank but little. He had to keep order. I remember his telling one of the girls she had better wear longer dresses when she appeared on the streets, lest she get the whole outfit in bad with the law. I looked. The naughty girl's dress was actually a full five inches from the floor. The only discordant element was Jack the Ripper. Every time he passed near Fisher, he would mutter, "stingy." Whereupon the latter would be driven to drink.

The drinks flew faster. Soon, a rather large girl was sitting on the knees of a little bandy legged cowpuncher telling him all about her troubles. The Mexican Grandees started playing the wheel in a big way. They selected a few numbers and piled the limit on each. Had any of those numbers ever come up they would have been the new owners of the saloon, wheel and all.

At last I decided to retire. Everyone was getting woozy and the hour was late. As I started for the door, I was startled by seeing Jack the Ripper produce the house gun, a big forty-five, from behind the bar. Like a chump I stopped to see what he was going to do. A few others saw him at the same time. They were more experienced. Those that could threw themselves down in front of the bar out of sight. "Bang" went the Colt. The bullet shot out the big coal oil lamp causing semi-darkness. I made one grand dive for that big cast iron stove before mentioned. As fast as I was, a big New York drummer was faster. He calmly tossed me back. One glance at the doorway showed me I was too late there. It was jammed to the top. About twenty men had tried to go out at once together. They appeared piled there like cord wood. "Bang" went the Colt again and the chimney of the small lamp at the rear crashed. I made a second dive for that stove, but the big nosed drummer again repelled me. Again the Colt spoke, then a man yelled and another gun joined in. It spitted a fusilade and by the sing of its slugs, I knew it to be an automatic, a new type of gun just appearing in Arizona. Burnt powder smoke filled my nostrils. This was plainly no time to fool around out in the open. Remembering my football training, I tackled low and hard and heaved that drummer into the beyond where he commenced to squawk like a stuck pig. Unless you have been in a similar situation, you will never appreciate the beauty and advantage of the old fashioned big cast-iron burners over the little tin heaters of today.

The Colt spoke again and the automatic soon answered with a second volley. Evi dently its owner had slipped in a second clip. Even then I noticed that each "zing" of the automatic was accompanied by an ominous "zip," sounding pretty much like when you shoot into a wild bull.

By the noise from the rear I knew the rear door was also jammed. There was no more shooting and the front door soon cleared of its human dam. Not knowing exactly what might happen next and fearing the guns were simply being reloaded, I leaped outside and then stopped, standing as close to the building as I could and right beside the doorway. I correctly guessed the nearby doorways were already filled with my late companions who would probably wel come me much as the drummer had.

From the time the Colt had first "blamed," until the last automatic slug "zinged," I do not think more than twenty seconds elapsed. It must have been a full moon for, outside, everything was almost as light as daytime. There was no more shooting. Everything grew deathly quiet. I was the only one in sight on the main street. Shortly, a few cautious heads appeared above a stone wall across the road that separated the highway from the railroad grounds. The doorways around disgorged their occupants. Townspeople appeared and soon a great crowd collected. I turned my head before they arrived and cautiously looked inside. The interior was quite dim. The crazy little lamp on the piano was smoking badly and giving a little light. The reflection from the moonlight helped. Jack the Ripper was still at the bar, leaning over it on both elbows it seemed. As I looked, he slumped over backward to the floor.

It so happened that Harry Wheeler, then a Lieutenant of our Arizona Rangers, was in town. He appeared and took charge of the proceedings. An inquest was immediately held.

Then we learned that the user of the automatic was Jessie Fisher. With his left hand he was holding onto that area below and behind his left hip where the Ripper's third shot had punctured him. It was only a flesh wound, though rather inconvenient. Jack the Ripper was completely dead.

Fisher stated that when the Ripper shot out the lights he thought it was simply friendly fun, but when the third shot stung him where it did, he felt he must stop the racket lest Jack hurt someone else. Of course, all the other witnesses corroborated Fisher and he was freed on the spot.

All the automatic slugs hit in Jack's breast. A silver dollar would have covered most of them. They made one big hole right through. Pretty good shooting in the dark.

I went to bed. Arose late the next day. Went down town. Business as usual everywhere. All the business houses, including Fisher's saloon, were open. A new barman was on duty. Hardly a word to be heard anywhere concerning the flare up of the night before. The Benson of those days had seen too many saloon killings to be excited by this little affray.