Hopi Prayer for Rain

THE most primitive of all dances the world over is the Hopi Snake dance which is celebrated this month in the heart of the Painted Desert of Northern Arizona. Far from the highways and byways of modern civilization the Hopi Snake priests gather for this ageold ceremony of their clan. No blazing posters in Grand Central station announce this event. No publicity. Not even a sign-post to guide the stranger as he journeys into the land of the Hopis. Yet people come from all over the world to see this strange event; and it is never forgotten.

Years ago a young man looking over his cattle interests along the Little Colorado river, drifted out into the Painted Desert. He was attracted by the sounds of weird, wild music coming from the top of the mesa of Walpi. An Indian friend passing by told him it was the chanting of the Snake priests in their dance and invited him to go along and see the dance. This was William Babbitt, early pioneer of Arizona. Watching the performance, he realized that he was the only white man among hundreds of specta-tors and one of the first white men ever to witness a Snake dance.

Since that time many visitors have been attracted to this unusual event. A roster of the Hopis' guests would be interesting, for it would contain the names of distinguished people from all over the world. Among them would be: Mary Roberts Rinehart, and Irvin S. Cobb, who at different times journeyed to see the dance; Jimmy Swinnerton, who seldom misses a Snake dance; Earl Forrest and the late Will Rogers, beloved friend of the Indians, who attended the Snake dance in the early days, and President Theodore Roosevelt, distinguished guest, who traveled the roadsthrough unbridged arroyos, camped in the memorable peach orchard, and climbed the mesa with the Indians to see their dance.

The early visitors traveled the uncharted roads of the desert slowly by horse and wagon. Today hundreds arrive in streamlined motor cars for this event. But the dance remains unchanged. Guests are welcome as they come and go and are treated with great courtesy by the Hopis, but they are unimportant. Even the greatest personalities fade into the background as the first rattling sounds announce the coming of the Snake priests.

The Hopis, true to the faith of their forefathers, pray to their gods for preservation. The great god Tawa sends them sunshine, and annually the Snake priests send their requests for rain to the gods of the underworld by their "Little Brothers," the snakes.

Word comes in from the Tuba tradingpost that the Snake priests have announced the date of the dance. We pack up our camp equipment and leave Flagstaff a day or so early, in order that we may establish our camp and be ready for the events that precede the dance. Motoring out of the pine forest, down through the winding roads of gnarled old cedars and junipers we come to the Little Colorado river. Once across the river we are in a different world, the glorious Painted Desert, home of the Indians.

Traveling along the desert road one sees unusual sights. An isolated herd of sheep, tended by a small Navajo girl wearing a bright red head-band and a dress with full rippling skirt. Apparently she is alone, but soon we see far off from the road an Indian hogan with its curling smoke, and a corral of Indian ponies near by. Life seems to go on with little concern for the traveler, yet they are watching us with more interest than we are watching them. I remember once on the way to Oraibi seeing two saddles and two hand-woven saddle blankets by the road. Apparently no one was in sight. Had we slowed down to pick them up and take them to the trading-post, as we might have done, I am sure the owners would have appeared as if by magic from some place on that desert.

Oraibi is the first mesa we come to, traveling northeast from the Little Colorado. Here, most of the Indians live on the mesa-top but all come down to trade with Lorenzo Hubbell at his trading-post. We stop for a brief visit, then continue our way along the road that takes us over the second mesa, through the villages of Mishongnovi and Shongopovi where the Indians live contentedly, plying their trades of basketry, weaving, and pottery-making.

Walpi, our destination and the most picturesque of all the mesas, looms up in the distance to the east of us. It is so rugged, so rocky, and so steep that ascent to the top looks impossible. We travel on to the foot of the mesa where we find the spring and the peach orchard. It is here that we make our camp.

Relaxing around the camp-fire after our evening meal, and resting from the journey across the Painted Desert, we hear the first announcement of the Snake dance. A lone Indian, silhouetted against the sky, on a rocky promontory of the mesa, announces the dance. All night long at intervals of an hour or so we hear him, chanting in guttural Hopi tones, that the priests of the Antelope Priests before the Kisi. According to Hopi legend a member of the Antelope Clan was bitten by a rattlesnake. Members of the Snake Clan cured him, so in everlasting gratitude the Antelope Priests perform their ceremony during the Snake Dance. The dances at Walpi and Hotevilla are among the largest given by the Hopis.

The Snake clan are in the kiva preparing for the dance which will take place the following day, just at the sun casts a certain shadow from the San Francisco peaks.

Long before Coronado came this way, the Hopis of our land prayed to their gods for rain, their prayer taking form in their dances. In August of this year the Hopis will again gather on their high mesas and pray that the Gods of the Rains do not forget them.

The Hopi Snake Dance. This solemn, sacred dance is not staged for the benefit of the American tourist. It is part of the religion and way of life of a noble people. It represents part of America's oldest folklore and to their beliefs the Hopis cling with undaunted devotion.

Our rest is not disturbed for long by the chanting, for we are up before dawn to see the Indian races. Climbing the age-old trail at the side of the mesa, we finally reach the top and locate a good place to sit, overlooking the desert below, which stretches out into infinite space on all sides below us.

We left our warm comfortable beds and climbed the steep trail to see the races, climaxed by a sight never to be forgottensunrise on the Painted Desert. Slowly the first rays of the sun change the gray drab of dawn into faint color. As the sun shows at the far horizon line, changing colors creep faster and faster over the landscape, until at sunrise the entire desert is transformed into the most brilliant panorama imaginable. Far too colorful for any reproduction. It is, figuratively speaking, the sun painting the desert. Our attention is called to small specks far out on the desert that seem to be moving toward us. With the aid of binoculars it is easy to make out fifteen Indian runners, about ten miles away, starting their race toward the mesa. Steadily and swiftly they come, these bare-foot racers, clad only in a loin-cloth, their brown bodies glistening in the sun. Not until they reach the corn fields at the foot of the mesa, where they receive gifts of corn from the Hopi maidens, can we distinguish them by their colored head-bands. In quick pursuit they clamber up the mesa trail right to the place where we are seated, and the winner is acclaimed. Here a touch of romance enters our story, for the winner receives as his reward his choosen Hopi maiden.

The race is over and we return to camp. Indians, attracted by our campfire or the fragrant aroma of coffee, drift in for a visit. While they enjoy a smoke and a cup of coffee they show us their wares; baskets

Everyone is dressed in holiday attire. The women and the little Hopi girls, dressed in their best native costumes, are wearing all their jewelry and bright colored shawls of floral design. These cashmere shawls are not hand-woven. If we ask where they come from we would probably hear the reply: “We get them for trade at Tommie Pavatia's Trading-post at Polacca.” The keenest rivalry in dress is among the men, who vie with others as to which one can wear the most brilliant velvet jacket of purple, red or yellow, and ornament himself with the most costly silver and turquoise.

It is early in the afternoon, but if we want good seats at the Snake dance we must get there early for the crowd is tremendous. Wending our way to the Snake dance plaza we are surprised to find our friends Kate and Homer. They have saved seats for us on their house overlooking the plaza. It is in the shade and this we appreciate, for by now the desert sun is streaming down with all its power. We climb the ladder to the house-top and sit on the very edge with our feet hanging over. Here we have a fine view of the plaza, and time passes quickly as we watch the crowd assemble.

The kisi, or Snake dance altar, is erected out of green cottonwood branches, directly opposite us and stands about six feet high. In front of the kisi is a hole in the ground over which is placed a plank. A stooped old man with gnarled hands, carrying an apparently heavy bag, crosses the plaza and disappears beneath the kisi. He is a Snake priest and later on we realize his importance. Indian police are directing people into the plaza and carefully checking all kodaks. Pictures must not be taken. In the early days pictures were taken, but of recent years it has not been allowed.

The crowd continues to come, some climbing the ladders to the house-tops, others preferring to sit on the ground, and many The snakes used in the Hopi Ceremonials are rattlesnakes, the “little brothers of the Hopi underworld” who carry the messages of the Hopis to the Rain Gods. The snakes are handed to the dancers from the Kisi. Following the dance, the snakes are placed in the holy corn meal circle. Then they are seized and carried into the desert and released.

standing in the doorways or sitting in the windows. It is a strange assembly. The great majority of the audience are Hopis, none of whom wish to miss this sacred ceremony of their people. A group of Navajos stand aloof, awaiting the dance, with haughty indifference, but by their very presence manifesting interest in their rivals, the Hopis. Throughout the crowd are Indians of a different cast of features; these are the friendly Indians from the Zuni pueblo or from the Rio Grande tribes.

Scattered among the Indians is an equally varied and interesting group of white people; archaeologists from Smithsonian Institution, girls from exclusive western schools, scientists from Yale, arArtists, writers, guests from El Tovar seeing the Snake dance de luxe, with their binoculars and folding chairs, tourists from far and near, and ourselves, local Southwesterners, ever interested in our Hopi neighbors.

It is five o'clock and as long shadows creep across the plaza the Antelope priests enter. Indian police clear the entrance for the dancers. The leader and his twenty Antelope priests circle the plaza twice, before they line up in front of the kisi in two lines facing each other. Representing the white antelope of the desert they wear a costume of white, a short hand-woven kilt, embroidered at the bottom in bright colors. They wear white boots with trappings of red and green. Parrot feathers are attached to their flowing hair. The upper parts of their bodies are bare except for silver and turquoise that ornament them. They dance to the rhythm of their chant and accent it with gourd rattles which they carry. Completing their dance they fall into straight lines on each side of the kisi. Their costumes and the green of the cottonwood kisi form a colorful background against which the Snake dance will soon take place.

The Antelope dance is performed at this time by the Antelope priests, in grateful appreciation for the kindness of the Snake priests. According to the Hopis, many years ago a Snake priest saved the life of a member of the Antelope clan who was bitten by a venomous rattlesnake. The Antelope clan has shown everlasting appreciation by appearing in the preliminaries of the Snake dance.

A hush falls over the crowd. The Antelope priests stand at attention. With clanging rattles swinging from their knees, their long black hair flying in the breeze and their silver trappings jingling, twenty-three Snake priests dash into the plaza. Around (Turn to Page 34) An old Hopi woman with some children at the Antelope Kiva at Oraibi. Membership in the clan is handed down through the mother's side of the family. The clan is the strongest social group among the Hopis. The clan member is always expected to conduct himself with dignity befitting his clan.