The Maricopas, or Co-co-Maricopas, as
they are also called, are the remains of a
small tribe of Indians which formerly
occupied the land about the junction of the
Gila and the Colorado; being too few to
hold their own amongst the larger tribes of
the latter river, they were forced to retire
up the Gila, until at last they crossed the
Gila desert, and asked the Pimas to allow
them to settle with them on their lands.
To this request the Pimas consented, and
now the only difference to be recognised
between them is a moral one. Unchastity
in a Pima woman is very rare indeed, but
the licentiousness so common amongst the
Colorado tribes is still characteristic of the
Maricopas.

The Pimas are rather short in stature,
darker and less manly in appearance than
the Zuñians, and wear, as a rule, less
clothes, because they inhabit a much
warmer climate. A cotton kilt, or breech-
cloth, with gaiters and moccasins, is usually
the working attire for both sexes, but in
the evening the cotton blanket is thrown
gracefully over the shoulders, and
sometimes fastened with a band round the waist.
Besides these simple native garments, they
will wear any cast-off clothes which can be
obtained from passing travellers; and since
intercourse with the outer world has
become general, the slow and laborious
process of making homespun cloth formerly
practised by them has been discontinued.
The women are stronger and more robust
than the men, probably because they do
more work. They grind the corn by a
slow process of rubbing it between two
stones, the larger of which—the metate— is
grooved for that purpose; they hoe the
ground, carry most of the burdens, gather
mezquite beans from the neighbouring hills,
make baskets and pottery, and occasionally
weave and spin, in addition to taking care
of the children and household matters.
The men attend to the acequia madre
common to all, gather in the crops, look
after the stock, protect the settlements, and
do most of the idling.

AS THE CROW FLIES.

DUE WEST. PADSTOW TO REDRUTH.

BETWEEN Wadebridge and St. Columb, the
crow finds a small stone cross, six miles from
Padstow. It was here that, in February, 1840,
a Mr. Norway was murdered by two brothers
named Lightfoot. The footpads were hung at
Bodmin, and confessed their crime in all its
details. It was considered an extraordinary
and miraculous case of presentiment, that the
very evening of the murder, the murdered man's
brother—chief officer of the Orient, then seven
miles N.N.W. of St. Helena—dreamt that he
saw the murder perpetrated, observing all its
details, except that a house which he well knew
to be on the right of the high road, seemed to
stand on the left. Now, really, soberly looked
at, this story has nothing wonderful about it.
A superstitious naval officer, in the evening, on
a lonely sea, dreaming of home and his brother—
of the dangers of his journeys in wild places,
of his possible murder by footpads amongst such
wild places, thinks of the specially wild two-mile
stone on the road towards St. Columb. Who is
there that tells his dreams if they do not come
true? There is much more that is difficult to
explain in the true and singular story of the
Cornish gentleman who dreamt of Perceval's
murder, and some time afterwards, going to
London, found, to his surprise and almost
horror, that the assassin in his dream exactly
resembled in dress and features the maniac
Bellingham. There had been nothing to prompt
that dream, except, perhaps, some vague political
anxiety of a Tory partisan for the statesman's life
in those troublous times of Luddite riots, general
distress, and discontent.

Near St. Columb the crow takes care not to
flap his sooty wings too fast over the wooded
Carnantow, once the home of that mischievous
old lawyer, attorney-general Roy, who revived
the odious and tyrannical tax of ship money, till
Hampden punctured the legal bubble, and it
burst. The old parchment-coloured pedant
used to say dryly that his house had no fault
save one, it was too near to London. The
beautiful valley of Lanherne stretches from St.
Columb to the sea-shore and, up the coast the
crow catches in perspective the groves of
Carnantow, the nunnery of Lanherne, and the old
church tower of Mawgan embowered among
small-leafed Cornish elms. In the churchyard
of St. Mawgan (three miles from St. Columb)
there is a memorial of death which is essentially
Cornish. It is the stern of a shattered boat,
painted white, which preserves the memory
of ten poor fishermen, who, on a bitter winter's
night in 1846, were drifted ashore in this boat,
frozen to death.

It is the fine granite cliffs around Mawgan and
Bodrothan steps that that very pleasant artist
Mr. Hook delights to paint. The cliff tops
bedded with cushions of sea pink, the twenty
miles of purple cliffs, the golden and silver
sands, the emerald crescents of the bays, the
fantastic caverns hollowed for the mermaids,
the strange blow holes where the sea spouts
like an angry whale, he has painted with a true
Englishman's love of ocean; but he must not
sink into small mannerism, for there is half
England still to paint. At Newquay, not far
from that great double entrenched earth-fort
of King Arthur's Castle an Dinas, there is a
change going on which seems to explain the
construction of all the sandstone in England,
and that is the consolidation of sand rocks
from blown sand by the infiltration of water
holding iron in solution.

A flight further westward, and the crow
touches at Truro, in the pleasant valley where