Nmexican blanket dating

The basic color is white with the lines of the serrated diamonds in a light red, dark brown, dark blue, rich maroon-chocolate, with touches of lemon-yellow.The blanket has been washed many times and some of the colors have slightly ‘‘„run„’’ into those of other lines, and this seems to have enhanced the color values instead of detracting from them. This was brought from Mexico in lumps about the size of a walnut.Here he found the Pueblo Indian and from him learned much.Then, when the Spaniard came, both Pueblo and Navaho had sheep added to their possessions, the wool from which practically changed the future of the art of weaving as far as they were concerned.The settlements that form Chimay´ are known as follows, coming up the river from west to east—all are on the north side of the stream except the Little River. Here a large plaza is surrounded by well-built, thrifty-looking Mexican houses. Apples, peaches, plums, and cherries grow abundantly and of finest flavor, and a ready market is found for them in Santa Fé, Albuquerque, and other points on the Santa Fé Railway.

The Navaho brought a rude loom and rude methods of work with him.When all the coloring matter was thoroughly dissolved and the liquid boiled, the wool was immersed several times until the color was thoroughly absorbed.The yarn was then allowed to drain for a short time, after which it was hung out to dry.The name implies ‘‘„the meeting of the streams.„’’ Just above the uppermost settlement the Rio Cundiyo and the Rio Chiquito unite and form the Santa Cruz. (Vroman Collection.) brought us to the settlement, snugly nestled along the foothills, beyond which snowy-clad peaks of the Rocky Mountains tower into the New Mexico sky.The dwellers in the ChimayÓ settlements call it the Rio Chimay´ until it reaches the town of Santa Cruz, when they are then willing to call it the Rio de la Santa Cruz—a change rather confusing to the ordinary American not accustomed to the idiosyncrasies of the Mexican mind. It is a straggling place, with streets that remind one of Sam Walter Foss's poem of the Boston ‘‘„Calf Path,„’’ in their irresponsible and altogether unsuspected twinings and twistings.