the evening, and saw their pink sunset stomachs turn into the ecclesiastical color of the moon. And the moon shone on the mountains behind us. Fruitless business! February 2nd. It took all morning to get to Kino. It seemed after breakfast as though a thousand black people had come to involve themselves in our departure. Ona had come to say goodbye, and with him his father, the amiable Kukerai. Later came Cumbai and Lutnineva. Kino will always mean a sort of joke to me. It was the same old place. The joke springs, not from the people, but from the situation among the domestic animals. The ridiculous lean-ribbed dogs are so ridi- culous and the all too omnipresent chickens scratching incessantly in the dung, mud puddles, rocks and rain ripples of the village yard, are so easily outwitted by these ridiculous lean-ribbed dogs that it never could possibly be a serious village. The goal and the game of all these creatures is food. From some eminent position the dogs watch the chickens, who compose the reconnaissance army, search for it. Whenever one of these fowls finds a morsel the others (they all watch each other very closely) dash for it. This involves an enormous sortie in which the chickens in the yard unite in chase of the one who has by now decided to depart in search of a more un- contested eating quarter. This is the signal for the dogs. Attracted by the disturbance one of them descends