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Explorer Is Sought by Head Hunters in Wilds of Eastern Ecuador Finds Thrilling Adventures Among f Shuara Indians m the Land of Tropical .Brainstorms, Where Murder at Dawn Means Luck —A Direful Prediction Amid Scenes Where Poisoned Spears and Darts Are Common Weapons. Evidence of the Warlike Attitude of Natives Enlivens Journey of Investiga tion. The writer of this article spent more than a year among the savage tribes of the Ecuador . tingle. Upon his return to New York City, he donated a collec tion of various objects gathered during his stay to the American Museum of Natural History. This collection included the fan tastic bark dresses of the In dians of the Jungle, their war lances, Mow guns, poison darts, and witch-doctor charms. By CARE I.ESTER 111)1)1.E THHE first time 1 saw a shrunken j head —tlie kind Ecuador Indians! turn out —X could hardly believe it j was human. It was in the window of rt big New York store, and there was e crowd gaping at it. It was about the size of an orange, black and shiny, with strongly marked perfect little Matures and long, coarse, black hair. The look of the thing was repug pant to me, and yet X was fascinated by It. The placard underneath ex plained that it was the work of the Shuara Indians in Ecuador, but that did not satisfy me. X wanted to Jtnow by what amazing process it Was made, and how it was preserved. Seeing that grisly thing lit a fuse In my mind. And, along with strange Stories about divine nectar drugs, dream beds, crystal charms of In dian witch-doctors, I was lured on ward. These were the direct causes of my finding myself, months later, Jn Ambato, Ecuador. I was there as an explorer about to make the jump into the jungles Os the upper Amazon. I had de termined to get to the bottom of this head hunting and head-reducing *nd mysterious fortune-telling busi ness which the 30.000 Indians of that dark region practice. Tile day before T was to leave Am t>ato a veteran American traveler— an old friend of mine—insisted on my going for a long walk with him. When We were outside the town, swinging along a narrow road, he let loose. "Fool" was the mildest of the names ho called me. "Do you realize,” he said, "that you'll he the first white man most of those Indians have ever laid eyes on ■—one of thh few whites that have : ever been donkey enough to risk it? Brown heads with long black hair are familiar to those devils. But think what they’d do to get hold of a white' head! You’ll be a curiosity for once In jour life. "If you go In. some Indian will come to me a year or so from now to get a thousand dollars out of me for a Tare white head —nothing like it been seen before. And, my friend, that head will be your head. Don’t go into the Oriente of Ecuador. It’s sheer craziness." In spite of the well meant advice, I started off the next morning for this very same Oriente, variously Discovery of a New Writer of Poetry Among Workers at a Washington Hotel BY .JOSEPHINE TIC.IIE WILLIAMS. AWEI.L known latter-day poet is lunching admirably, whole somely, in the big cheerful dining room at Wardman Park Hotel. He looks literary lonesome, aloof, as he alternately nib bles daintily at his food, then reads a. bit from the volume near his plate. A uniformed negro bus boy, stag gering tinder a piled-high service waiter, timidly but purposely joggles the poetical one’s arm. The Creative Genu is looks up. slightly annoyed, to see the bus hoy place several sheets of typed paper beside the volume. The negro bus boy. with a word of muttered apology, and evidently bad ly frightened, disappears into what ever cubbyhole or butlery bus boys frequent. The poetical looking man. who is no other than Nicholas Vachel Lind say. author of "Gen. Booth Enters Heaven” and other, many other, poems, begins skeptically, hurriedly to scan the typed pages. Then he rereads them, slowly, meticulously, metrically, and, if truth must be told, in bewilderment. He calls the head waiter and re quests instant production of the bus boy, who, when he as promptly ar rives, looks at the poet as a cat might look at a king. The king demands, ‘‘Who wrote this ver.*e?” Thr dining room's uniformed helper replies, in very evident embarrass ment and terror, “I did, sir!" Then the poet looks at the negro this boy. Very little conversation passes, but the poet does, from the dining room, carrying with him the typewritten manuscript. That night, at his recital at Wardman Park, before an intelligent, admiring and smart audience, Vachel Lindsay Included in his reading three of the poems written and handed him by Langston Hughes, 23-year-old near- Waiter at Wardman Bark Hotel. If you’ve ever heard or seen Vachel Undray read his own stuff, with Wealth of gesture, much tramping up and down, voice dropped to pianissimo bare, blared to fortissimo there, you'll know how he read and what he did with Langston Hughes’ "Weary Blues” —a poem, by the way, recently awarded first prize of SBO In a poetry contest instituted for negro poets. How does it begin? Those two first lines! "Droning a drowsy syncopated tnne, rocking buck and forth to a mellow croon— —” But as the intro ductions to a serial story command, "Now go on with the story": THE WEARY' BLUES. JDramnir a. drowsy itvncopalt-d tune, iiuakinr back and forth to a mellow croon. I 5-earii a n**ro play. tJowu Oil Lenox avenue the other ilirht Bv the nale dull pallor of an old izae llrlit Me did a lazy sway. . - He did a lazy sway 6„ the tune o’ those Weary Blues. With his ebony hands on each Ivory key He made that poor piano moan with melody. Swavinar to aJid fro on his rickety stool He played that sad ragey tune like a musical fool Sweet Blue*! , Cottiine from a black man e eoul. O fbiUcs * In a deep song voice with a melancholy I heard thot Nearo sing, that old piano "Ain’t 1 not nobody hi all this world. Ain’t sot nobody but ma self., Je gw me to quit ma frowniu And put ma troubles on the shelf. Tnump. thump, went his loot on the floor. He plaied a few chord* then sang tome "I “Sot* the Weary Blue* And I can t be eatieflad. 3ot the Weary Blue* And can’t be satisfied— I ain’t happy no mo called "Eand of the Head Hunters," ■‘Band of the Phantom Hunters” and "land of Women Man-Hunters.” The region includes part of Ecuador and part of Peru. ** * * Vl/ITH a cavalcade of guides and ” muleteers. 1 traveled for two weeks, pushing up into the Andean heights and then dipping down into the almost impenetrable jungles of the Shuara Indians, finally reaching the 1 first real Shuara village, called Are i picos. This included a nonedescrip. j collection of about 1 j or 20 dwellings i with dome shaped roofs, thatched with j leaves. | l.ong before making the plunge into this district I’d picked up every scrap of information I could get as to the superstitions of the Indians, and knew that my best chance of returning alive was to pose as a white capitu, or witch-doctor. So I’d brought along simple remedies —iodine, calomel, mer cury ointment and quinine, together with a complete first aid kit. Most important of all. for tins witch business, I’d let my beard grow. The Shuaras are beardless, and I’d heard that any man who would go to them with a "Beaver” could count on their veneration. Besides my medicine and in>- heard I'd brought along bundles full of things to give away: beads, brightly colored cotton cloth, hatchets, mirrors, gunpowder and needles. I had rifles, too, but not for use on those Indians, if I could possibly help it. I realized that once I had killed a Shuara my life would not be worth much in a land of poisoned spears and silent poisoned darts where revenge is a cult. I planned to coax, not to shoot, my way through. As we drew near Arepicos, the "leading citizens” came out to look us over, and to give us the Indian close up. Solemnly I presented each with a little gunpowder and a j'ard or two of cloth, paid off the guides who had brought me across the mountains and arranged for carriers and new guides familiar with the jungle. Tiien I learned, through my in terpreter. that I had been invited to spend a few days in one of the houses. This interpreter—Juanga, by name— through whom I got that message, was to be my mainstay on that trip. That evening my host made a place for me beside the family fire, on the clay floor, by shooing away some of the dogs and chickens, tame monkeys and tame parrots. There we spent several hours in telling stories and in drinking the potent chlcha, served b>’ his prettiest wife. Before I went to bed that night, Juanga—ever present with sugges tions—drew me aside. "The senor will have take notice,” he said, “that to this house are two wings. One of these contain the men, and the other contain the harems. Between these two quarters there is a dividing line I jv JSf TB Sf HMmK i |9 n| |jjj LANiGSDON HUGHES, WASHING I ON’S BUS BOY POET. Copyright by Underwood & Underwood. And I wish that I had died." And far Into the night he crooned that tunc. The etars went out and so did the moon. The sinter stopped playimr and went to hed While the Weary liluos echoed through his head He slept like u rock or a man that's dead. “Blues, sweet blues —coming from a black man’s soul.” Poetry? Mr. Lindsay says it is. Carl Van Vechten. musical, dramatic and poetry critic, agrees with Lindsay. "With his ebony hands on the Ivory keys”—yes, that’s poetry, real poetry, declare John Farrar, Witter Bynner, James Wel don Johnson and Clement Wood, the Judges who selected “Weary Blues” as the prize-winning poem. In a. published article lajst Septem ber, Van Vechten devotes a column of spuce to three of Langston Hughes' poems. The first is "Cabaret,” taken from Crisis, a negro magazine. You who have whirled the red night into spectral gray morning, dancing to Jazz strains played by colored Jazz men, perhaps can answer, "Does a jazz band ever sob?” The six, sax, sex lines follow: Joes a jazz band ever sob? They cay a jazz band a «ay: Yet. as the vulgar dancer* whirled. And the niaht wore away. One said she heard the jazz band cob— When the little dawn was gras. Langston Hughes is 23 years old, but Into that short period has crowded more adventure, travel, color, excite ment and observation than most of THE SUNDAY STAB, WASHINGTON, D. C„ DECEMBER 13, 19215-PART 5. fsfdfd for visitors, invisible but sacred. The head hunters are very jealous. My last client, he had Ills head chopped off. He step over the invisible line.” I thanked him warmly and told him that, since the line was invisible. I'd better not pet out of bed at all. He agreed with me. When I first got settled in my new sleeping quarters I smelled smoke and thought the place was on fire, There was a small fire, but it proved to be tiie last thing in Indian luxury, 10, and behold, a foot-warmer! The bed itself was four feet long and three feet wide, made of bamboo poles, while at its foot was a horizontal bar serving as a foot support. In every well appointed native house the foot warmer is kept burning every night, underneath the horizontal foot rest. These fire feet-bakers are supposed to take the edge off the night chill and to be an essential part of my bed— ** * * wishing to be unappreciative, I stretched m>self out on the bam boo and put my feet over the slow fire. I soon discovered that the fire, though doubtless kept low enough not to burn the tough feet of an Indian, was hot enough to broil a pair of white feet. After 15 minutes I gave it up and was just climbing out of "bed” to look for more restful sleep ing quarters, when, thank heavens, I remembered the “Invisible line.” I jumped immediately back to bed and gazed at the sleeping warriors and the dimly lighted distant harems and just about where the “invisible line" was drawn. I was not going to risk a poisoned lance In my ribs, so I rolled into a ball on the frail structure and made the best of a bad night for the rest of the torture. I stayed three days at Areplcos, making preparations for my trip fur us will accomplish in long and varied lives. He was bom in Joplin, Mo., February 1, 1902; was taken from there when about a year old by his parents, living subsequently in Kan sas, Colorado, Illinois and Ohio. His high school work was In Cleveland, Ohio, where he graduated in 1920, not only us editor of his class magazine, but also class poet, and this, too, in a school of mixed races. Class poetry was the first verse he ever attempted. Finishing high Langston Hughes for a year and a half taught English at Toluca, in the south of Mexico. Then on to New Y'ork, where he worked for a year on a. farm. Then to sea, making one long trip to Africa, visiting up and down the west coast. Then Europe, with seven months In Paris us a waiter in a Montmartre case. Italy. Back to America, work ing his way home as a sailor, and now employed at Wardman Park as bus boy in an effort to obtain money to start himself in college. In appearance Hughes is little dif ferent from any other youth of his color and age. Ills manners and Eng lish are good, he is quiet, earnest, rather gentle and diffident. No t is he fooled with regard to the years of pieparatlon and study ahead of him. He acknowledges that he has no work ing Idea of verse-building, and says that the poetry just "comes along aa fast as I cen write It down.” ther into the interior. I became bet ter acquainted with my host through my ingratiating Juanga. As a mark of his friendship, he took me into his Holy of Holies: the .room where he kept his collection of heads. Here, for the tirst time, I handled the trophies of war. There were 11 of them, their cheeks tinted with red, their long, coarse hair flowing free. The Indian word for them is tsantsas. When I touched them they felt like hard leather. The lips were sew'n up with red cord, in order, my host explained, "to keep the spirits submissive.” Afterward, when I myself was the owner of several heads, bought from the Indians. I had a chance to prove how durable the tsantsas are. I threw one against a wall, stood on it and even pounded it with a rock, with out breaking it or marring it in any way. My Shuara host explained that lie had acquired these trophies by wiping out the males of an entire family— his enemies by blood-feud. He laid a finger on one of his tiny human remnants, his eyes gleaming. "This one,” he said, "was once on the shoul ders of a mighty man, who had the wickedness to steal one of my wives, lie and his brothers and his sons, we made their heads small." Which is what the Shuara warrior gets when lie flirts too much with other head-hunters' wives. This set tled me once and for all. During the remainder of the trip. I never so much as glanced at an Indian maiden with but one exception—which comes later. I now begun a trip which took me from one group of families to an other, always working further into the interior. I found, to my surprise, that the deej>er into the Jungle 1 went, the better grew the conditions of the "I usually pro over It two of three times,” he adds. “takinK out extra words here and there. When I saw the offer of a prize for a poem, I worked for days trying to write a masterpiece. When finished, I didn't like it very well and decided to send my 'Weary Blues’ along with the 'masterpiece. ’ As it turned out. 'Weary Blues,' which had Just spun itself along and went almost entirely uncorrected, won first prize. "From what I can earn," he adds, "I want to go to college—probably to Lincoln College, Pennsylvania, a col lege for negroes.” Mexico! Africa! Italy! From Holland to Harlem! And with reference to Harlem, there's Langston Hughes' scolding poem, directed at “Midnight nan,” a denizen of Leroy’s jazz palace In Harlem: TO MIDNIGHT NAN AT LEROY'S Stmt nml Wiggle. Shameless gal. Wouldn't no good fellow Be your pal! Hear dat music . . Jungle night. Hear dat music . And the moon wm white Sing jou l - Blues song. You want lovin’ And you don’t mean mayhe. Strut and wisgle. Shameless Nan. Wouldn't no good fellow Be your man V Hughes Is one who conspicuously ignores racial bitterness. In this par ticular he follows the footsteps of Paul Laurence Dunbar, who, with racial sob deep In soul and throat, sang a sad song of nativity, of cruel circumstance, perhaps, but never one tinged with shade of antipathy, un eongeniallty or hostility. Van Vechten, writer of sophisticated novels, sponsor of negro music, poetry, spirituels, declares that the work of Langston Hughes "Is informed with a sensitivity and a nostalgia, racial in origin, for beauty, color and warmth. His subjects are extraordinarily di versified. His cabaret verses dance to the rhythm of negro jazz.” Hughes’ "morning the hurt of the black man.” is perhaps best expressed In his tremendously thoughtful free verse arrangement, “I am a Negro,” which Is appended: POEM I am a Nagro; Black as the night is black. Black like the depths of my friea. I ve been a slave: Caesar told me to keep hi loorstops clean. 1 brushed the boots of Washington. I ve been a worker: Under my hand the pyramids arose. X made mortar tor the Wooiworth Build i v. in * I ve been a singer: All the way from Afriea to Georgia 1 carried my sorrow songs. I made ragtime. 1 ve been a victim; The Belgians cut off my hands in the Congo. They lynch me now in Texas. I am a Negro: Black a* the night is black. Black like tha depths of my Africa. In conclusion it Is but fair to the young negro poet to show that when he writes of “joy,” he feels it, pulses It, sings it In away that you must sing it, too. What Is there about the following eight lines, with their con stant repetition, that makes you bub ble with laughter and keep saying, over and over again. "Such company! Such company?” JOT I went to look for Joy. Slim, dancing Joy, Gay. laughing Joy— And I found her Driving tne butcher's carl » In the arms of tha butcher's boy! Such company, such company. i A* keepa this young nymph. Joy: Indians. In spite of the evidence of the heads I'd seen, I was beginning to think of the Shuaras as a mild, childlike people, not addicted to blood shed, when something happened that made me change my mind. My guides and I had spent the night at the hut of a half-breed trader. At dawn, when we were just about ready for a get-away, 1 noticed with a feeling of horror that one of the guides was dipping the tip of his lance into the gourd of poison that ulw-ays hung, within easy reach, over his shoulder. The half-breed trader was standing nearby, and 1 remember that my brain asked a lightning question: “Which Is lie going to kill, the trader or me?" When I looked back at the guide, he was staring at the top of a nearby ehonta palm, but his fingers that held the spear were taut. I was unarmed, a carrier had my rifle, and there was not time to jump for it. before the guide whirled around. ** * * yen'll a quickness I was unable to follow', he plunged the lance into the half-breed’s chest, piercing the heart! Then, without a sound, he van ished into the jungle that was all about us. "Catch him!” I yelled out, leaped for my rifle and was on the point of sending a bullet through the jungle at the place where the branches had barely stopped swaying. Then I felt the steel grip of Juanga on my wrist, and he poured out a stream of Span ish. "Put down the rifle. The Indians think your customs are crazy; like wise, you think their customs are crazy. Each seems strange to the other. Hut It is a matter of custom with the head-hunters, that they en joy killing some one at the break of day. It bring good luck for the rest of the trip." Useless to argue, against centuries of tradition! 1 followed the long line down the trail. From that time on, I always kept to the rear, for safety's sake. Several hours later the mur derous guide, whom I thought crazy and lost in the jungle, quietly Joined the column again. His face was serene and elated. He had the air of pro claiming: "Look at me! I've brought luqk to your trip." The blood lust which had seized my guide is characteristic of these Shu ara warriors. It is a trait that has often been a puzzle to travelers In the regions of the upper Amazon, and sometimes cost them their heads. This sudden mania seems to have nothing to do with hate, revenge or warfare. It is the kind of tropical brainstorm which takes the form of an insane desire to kill. I had gone to the Oriente for the express purpose of seeing human heads reduced, and it was beginning to look as if I would go back to civilization—if I could get back—with this wish unsatisfled. In the end I saw the whole process by sheer accident. My guides and I stumbled Into the encampment of a war party. There were 80 of them. They had just had a great victory and w'ere half crazy wdth excitement, yelling and dancing. On a long banana leaf lay a collection of severed enemy heads. Soon I saw the method by which these W'ere reduced and preserved. A sort of master of ceremonies first dealt each head a vertical blow at the back with a machete. From then on the details of preparing the trophy are grewsome in the extreme. At length a wooden object, about the size of a small orange, but an ex act reproduction of the original head, was then produced, and over tills the tsantsa was fitted. The victor s fel low warriors and his faithful wives danced around him. The men yelled and grunted and the wives sang weird, barbaric songs. This uncanny music, I learned, was supposed to render harmless the spirit of the slain enemy. When the tsantsa was hone-dry, a potent liquid was rubbed into the skin to harden and preserve it. And here is the mystery. This liquid is amber-colored, a concoction made of a number of herbs, but exactly what they are is a Shuara secret. Finally the wooden form was re moved, the slit in the back of the head was sewed with fiber from the chamblra palm, and the trophy was complete, an object of triumph and superstitious veneration. Eventually it would figure in a great victory feast if the warrior who owned it managed to escape the spears of his victim's kinfolk. After I had watched this unusual process for some time, I sat down, took out a pad and pencil to make a few notes, and put on my glasses. That was a mistake, as a young war rior gave me a look, halted In his dance, and let out a bellow that sent a chill up my spine. If I never knew what fear was before, I knew it then. For I realized in a flash what was lit this warrior’s mind. He wanted a tsantsa with glasses on its noße. He gave another yell, pointed, and everybody wanted a tsantsa with glasses on Its nose. At this critical juncture, while I was attempting my best to appear un shaken, Juanga, my faithful guide, sauntered up, with a feigned indif ference. He carried a fine rifle and a sword machete. Holding up his hand, he smiled in a superior way. “The two little windows,” he said, "do not grow on the nose like a tooth with a root. They do not hold on tight, like hair.” He stopped, then took the glasses off my face, and placed them on the nose of the young warrior. Astonish ment was expressed In a wave of guttural exclamations. When this had subsided, the young fellow decided then and there that he'd keep the glasses. Whereupon .Tuanga was quick to explain that they brought luck only to their rightful owner. Then they were given back to me in a hurry. < ** * * PREPARATIONS for a great vie tory feast, or head-reducing liesta, are so thorough that they take six months, a year or two years. Guests come by hundreds and spend a week. About 10 days later, I heard of such a feast and turned up at the fiesta house, uninvited. Warriors, old und young, sat about the fires, mag nificent in bright feathers and paint. Their wives, dressed with heads and gleaming seeds, served quantities of roast monkey meat and boiled yucca. The fiesta drums beat their fantastic rhythm. On entering the house of this head reducing fiesta I was surprised to see. facing me a painted and tattoed Indian, lam e poised above his head, grunting like an Infuriated wild dog. at the same time jumping forwards and then backwards as if on the climax of a severe convulsion. Glanc ing around lor any possible avenues of escape, my eyes fell upon a long ehonta lance, thrust into the ground at the immediate left to the entrance of the doorway. My heart sank. Hanging near the middle of the lance dangled a dried shrunken Indian head with long black hair. I took all this in at a glance, like a drowning man who reviews the incidents of a lifetime on his last trip down. Then I waited, too surprised to move, and with not enough control of the Shuara language even to talk. I waited—years it seemed —for my lance man to throw his weapon through me. But he kept on dancing, grunting, running forwards and back wards, until I felt that whatever he was up to, he surely was taking his own savage time to do it. In the meantime my Shuara guide arrived with my pack carriers. He shoved me aside, then he started at Is There a Jinx of the Navy? (Continued from Third Page.l pieces in the air with the loss of her captain, Comdr. Zachary Lansdowne, and 13 of her crew, the ship herself being totally destroyed. ** * * t*¥K we are pessimistically inclined.” A says Secretary Wilbur, “we can look at the shattered hulk of the Shen andoah and deprecate the decadence of the United States Navy, but if we go into the clouds and see the gallant commander of that ship, unperturbed and undismayed, giving his order in a quiet conservations! tone for the man agement of his ship in the storm which he encountered; if we see the men and officers under him perform ing their duties unhesitatingly and without evidence of fear: if. after the tearing away of the control cabin, we note the remainder of the crew han dling the broken parts of the ship and bringing them safely to earth; if, in stead of dwelling upon the loss of life, deplorable and heart-breaking as it is, we recognize the worth of the men who fought with the elements, we see occasion not only for congratulation that the men of the Navy are operat ing the Navy with the same courage and skill and determination that they have always operated it, but also we will note that the expectations of those who designed the ship, with its 18 independent gas cells, were Justified in their belief that these separate cells or balloons would. In event of disaster, provide a relatively safe means of escape. The greatest loss of life in the Shenandoah accident was due to the breaking away of the control car.” It may .well be added that the real cause of the disaster appears to have been the lack of adequate and fre quent weather reports, which are nec essary and must be provided, ail ex perts agree, if we desire to develop air navigation to its ultimate destiny with safety over the continental area, of the United States. While the Navy was mourning the loss of lives in the Shenandoah acci dent, on September 7 the destroyer Noa suffered an explosion in her ljoller room, killing four of her crew. These men, trapped within narrow lim its, without chance of escape, were in stantaneously surrounded by a cloud of super-heated steam. Before the Navy could recover from these two terrible disasters word came on September 25 that the steamship City of Rome, off Block Island, had rammed the submarine S-51 and that the submarine had gone to the bottom, carrying to their death 34 members of her crew. Pitiful as disasters of this kind are, they are typical of the hazards of the sea, for under the most propitious cir cumstances a seafaring life is danger ous. The safeguards which are the development of centuries and which have been thrown around the mariner and his floating home by governments and shipping operators intent on re ducing maritime losses, while contrib uting to the safety of ocean naviga tion, cannot remove certain definite hazards always and forever present. The latest visitation of the jinx was on October 25 at Baltimore, where during a tornado which swept over the eastern part of the country 17 seaplanes broke from their moorings and were dashed against a sea wall, totally destroying six of the planes, seriously damaging five and slightly damaging six more. No lives were lost. Not Including the Shenandoah disas ter and the sweeping smashup of the my lance-jumper, gun poised above his head—-muzzle to the rear, grunt ing, dancing, running forwards, then backwards, Just like a wild bull. This duel of grunts lasted more than half an hour—after tvfiich .ny guide took a strong and deep drink of ehlcba, saying that he had not seen his friend (my lance threatener) for more than two years, and that he had greeted him for me. He explained that I did not know this formal “hello” and furthermore did not speak the Khuara language enough to understand such a grunted “hello." Still, to this date I have never been able to go through one of these formal savage greetings. My guides have always had to come to my assistance in any greeting that I took part In. Nor was milady of the jungle lack ing In interest at this head-reducing fiesta. The women, who busied them selves serving chlcha. meats or fruits to their husband-warriors, were deco rated with triangular black figures on each cheek with a few black or red dots In each triangle. Over the nose and across the chin and even on the teeth a checkerboard of very small black squares had been designed as part of the formal drees of the host esses. '’'his artlstio ornamental design was unusually attractive and fascinating on the teeth because the white showed through like small strips of bright pearl. The warriors, however, had painted their teeth completely black "to keep them from decaying.” as they explained to tne. And surprising as It may seem, these savages had a concoction that actually kept the teeth preserved, although jet black. Around their necks the women wore adornments of some 10 or 15 strings of beads made from the many-colored seeds which grow In the Oriente These strings were wrapped snugly around the neck and held by rainbow colored gems. Around their wrists and upper parts of their arms one could see bracelets and broad hands made from the thorns or long pieces of brown bark or red cotton strings which they made from the cotton grown on their own plantations. * * * J-IERE I was actually in the fiesta house on the evening before the mysterious victory feast was to start. I was to see the drinking of the magi cal solutions of the divine nectar drugs; I was to see their uncanny re ligious views expressed with all the sacred rites and with all the gala of the tsantsa ceremonies. These were only a few of the fea tures that were flitting through my brain, not to mention the surprises that were in store for me during the next four days of the actual cere monies when I myself was forced to take actual part in the weird rites which made a human head into a magic tsantsa, the strange curio sold to tourists. \\ ith a desire to obtain pictures, samples of hair and measurements of these Indians, one of their strangest superstitions in regard to the powers of a so-called dream drug, or divine nectar as they call it, was presented to me in a startling manner. I de sired profiles, close-ups. and even a hit of hair from each in order to use for comparison. The work of photographing and measuring was progressing nicely, hut the wrong wrinkle In the whole af fair came just as T was attempting to cut off a lock of jet hiack hair from one of the Indian maidens. I feared trouble, but the Indian warriors seemed interested in their new gifts, and I imagined the trick could be pulled before it was noticed by these jealous members of the, male sex. The hair was more on the order of horse hair than that of a human be ing. It was coarse and stiff. This caused me much trouble. In fact, it delayed my intentions so long that trouble really started. I cannot recall just how it all hap pened, but suddenly there arose a howl among the warriors as if a tiger had dropped out of one of the nearby chonta palms into their very midst. As they related afterwards, there had been revived in their minds planes at Baltimore, naval aviation so far this year reports 159 aircraft crashes, in which 34 men were killed. Those seriously injured and those sus taining minor injuries are not listed. It cannot be denied that the fore going list of accidents and fatali ties is appalling, and it would not be unusual if the general public should ask: “What is the matter with the Xavy? Why all these accidents? Is the Xavy shot to pieces?" As a mat ter of fact, such misgivings are natu ral, but they are not justified even with this list of exhibits before us. Certain it is that our naval authorities must give extraordinary attention to the safety factors in the operation of ships and aircraft, but the very fact that we do have these accidents indi cates that the Xavy is increasing its activities in time of peace as a preparation for time . f war. The Xavy that never has any accidents is the one which is dismantled and laid up on the beach and the one in which aircraft are never flown. Admiral E. W. Eberle. chief of naval operations, in commenting on naval accidents during the last three years, says: "For our Xavy to be prepared to fulfill Its duty In war it must carry out a great variety of drills, exercises, target practices and war games in peace time. There is no way in which these can be made realistic and valu able without introducing the element of risk. Destroyers m*st run at high speed at night among columns of bat tleships, neither showing any lights. Submarines must make quick dives at the sounding of the klaxon by the captain, when each man must per form his duty rapidly and exactly, without the supervision of any officer, and when any single mistake may re sult in the loss of the ship. Air planes must be shot otf battleships by catapults and land on the deck of a carrier. "In addition to these special exer cises, the ordinary operation of cer tain types, destroyers, submarines and aircraft is dangerous. When such a large number of ships is in constant operation accidents cannot be avoided. The only way to stop them would be to cease operating. Our accidents are due in some cases to the fault of our own personnel, in others to the fault of personnel outside the naval service and still others to unusual circum stances over which no one has any control.” In justice to our Xavy, especially in those cases where new elements are being fitted into the organization— elements which increase the hazards of operation—the officers and men must be given the benefit of the doubt. Take aircraft crashes, for example. Here the risk is greatly augmented by training beginners, by experimenting with new and untried types of air craft, by mechanical devices for launching and landing planes on ship board and by unknown weather haz ards. Even so, despite an increase In operation each year, the number of hours and miles flown per fatality and crash Is running up to new and encouragingly impressive figures. Then there are the submarines, in creasing in number, in size and in op eration stunts each year. Submerged, these vessels are like whales without eyes or ears, and when they are operated in a manner to simulate battle conditions there is very great risk of collision and of me hanical breakdown. Again, the amount of explosives an ancient superstition, in connection with various phases ht witchcraft arid sorcery, which had been prac ticed by their forefathers and which was somehow connected with a woman's lock of hair. The superstition was to the effect that, under the influence of this di vine nectar drug, the spirits had told a witch-doctor of their tribe that one could impose witchcraft on a woman or, as they call it, "pray her to death," if the sorcerer was able to steal a lock of hair from the victim's head. The head-reducing fiesta lasted four whole days. Mountains of food were eaten and there was a perfect org\ of drunkenness on chlcha and toha co juice and teas made from mysteri ou.s herbs and drugs. The tsantsa ceremonies were, for the most par’ ritualistic dances. If properly pet formed, they were supposed to "lay the spirit of the victim and to prevail’ it from inflicting witchcraft on tic slayer. ** $ * T WAS lucky in not having to sleep in the fiesta house after all thi made orgy was over. N'o lesser pei sonage than the brother of the slayer himself, painted from head to foot in weird designs, offered to lead me to his brother's fortified house, for one peaceful night. It was surely well he led me.' As he got near the place, lie pointed out a perfectly innocent looking spot, coveted with vines, and said: "Death trap"’ ' "Why death trap'.'” I wanted to know. “Are the vines poisonous?’ I hey were not poisonous, but worse They were practically rooted in tl.e air. Fite slayer had ting a gre, - pit, and in tlie bottom of it ho.: stuck poisoned spear heads, then points upward. Over this trap vine had been trained. When they were closely matted, earth had been spree over them, end tropical grass seed sprinkled on this. It ail looked so natural I wanted to examine the diabolical thing mop closely, and tried to. My guide clutched my arm—l had almost slippy into a second pit. “Why two?” I gasped. "My brother’s enemies fall into nui her one,’’ he explained. “Their friend they come to rescue and fall into number two. If they are not dr-no from the poisoned spears, mv l>ro*he kill all." That night I had no fear <■> "brother's enemies.” A year after going into the i-our try of head hunters 1 found mvse' on a windy ridge of the Andes, taking a last look at the distant sea of green that was the jungle land of the: home. When I reached civilized Ecuadoi I was approached by various cage individuals in the larger cities I passe i through. Their question was alway:- the same. What were the chano s of getting the little heads from th Indians? | There ere men who cater to the I most grewsome of all tourist craze —a craze which had led to a seer*-: traffic. It is said that tourists in Ecuador have paid as high as SSOO .-• piece for these reduced heads within the last year. Even “fake” human heads, shrunken by bunglers tgnoram of the preserving process, have been made and sold. Uuyers of such “curios” have paid big prices, only to have their trophies decay in a few weeks. Only the Shuara Indians know the mysterious preserving soiu tion. Ecuador has passed a law which makes it a crime to sell or even buy shrunken human heads. Tourists are not allowed to take them through, the customs. But the prices paid by rich tourists have brought a new kind of bootlegger, nr “head legger on the South American scene. I had my last glimpse of Ecuador as I sailed out of the harbor of Guaya quil. With me. on the same vessel, was the American friend who had tried to persuade me not to start on my adventure. I had never confessed to him my innermost conviction that it was only by the finest of split hairs that I came out of the Oriente—not a reduced head. (Cotiyright. 1925.1 I handled, the deadly character of these j latter-day explosives and the very ! great speed of modern big-gun firing in battle practice, particularly when the whole broadsides are being fired at one time, with a consequent rush and hurry in al! the ship's magazines and powder handling rooms, make for danger, and except for the most ex perienced and skillful management accidents during target practice would be frequent and terrible. Granting all these difficulties, allow ing for errors due to the personal equation, giving due weight to the natural hazards of the treacherous ocean, when this list of accidents in the Xavy since the World War is scanned does it seem unreasonable ro mix a little superstition with our thoughts and search around for the jinx or Jonah or whatever it is that sailors call plain hard luck? i Copyriirht. 192">.) “Dry Ice.” GCIEXCE has perfected a new way to keep Ice cream frozen in its original state for hours at a time without the use of ice, according to Popular Science Monthly. It is now possible to send a pint of ice cream from Xew York City to Chicago by air mail, and w-hen the package is opened the ice cream will be found frozen hard, just as it came from the freezer many hours before! The wonderful material that makes this remarkable feat possible is called "dry ice." It cannot melt. It is per fectlv dry to the touch, and yet It is so cold that it will make a thermome ter go down to 110 degrees below zero. You have noticed the small hubbies that form and rise to the surface in a soda-pop bottle when you pry-off the cap. This new ice is made out of the same gas that forms those bubbles. In other words, it is carbon dioxide gas cooled down and compressed until It finally forms a solid, frozen mass Solidified carbon dioxide has been produced on a laboratory scale several times, but this is the first application of this queer freezing agent to the preservation of ice cream. Its use is the result of a long search by a Xew York lee cream manufacturer for a method of packing his product in small packages so that customers can take it home an.l keep it in perfect condition for hours afterward. Although the temperature of dry ice is colder than the North Pole In Win ter time, it may be handled with the bare hands, provided the skin of the fingers is not allowed to touch the solid lumps for more than a second o; two at a time. In the ice cream plant, lumps of dry ice are sent to the pack ing room, where a workman places a cylindrical piece In a large carton, which also holds a smaller container filled with ice cream. The outside container, as well as the one that holds the Ice cream, is made of paraffined cardboard and is itself a fair heat insulator, so that the warmth from the outside air pene trates slowly. Instead of heating and melting the ice cream, the air warms the surface of the block of frozen car bon dioxide and gradually converts the latter back into a gas again. The gas then passes away through a small hole In the outer containei. and when it is all evaporated no trace remains to show that there ever was anything in the larger container ex cent the package of ice cream.