of Sam Houston and Satanka.

Our trip around the reservation with the Agent began a few days later
with an exultant drive across the prairie to the South Fork of the
Canadian River. It was glorious summer here. Mocking birds were singing
in each swale, and exquisite flowers starred the sod beneath our wheels.
Through a land untouched by the white man's plow, we rode on a trail
which carried me back to my childhood, to the Iowa Prairie over which I
had ridden with my parents thirty years before. This land, this sky,
this mournful, sighing wind laid hold of something very sweet, almost
sacred in my brain. By great good fortune I had succeeded in overtaking
the vanishing prairie.

The arrival of the Agent at each sub-agency was the signal for an
assembly of all the red men round-about and Zulime had the pleasure of
seeing several old fashioned Councils carried on quite in the
traditional fashion, the chiefs in full native costume, their head
dresses presenting suggestions of the war-like past. The attitudes of
the men in the circle were at all times serious and dignified, and the
gestures of the orators instinct with natural grace.

One of the Cheyenne camps in which we lingered was especially charming.
Set amid the nodding flowers and waving grasses of a small meadow in the
elbow of a river, its lodges were filled with happy children, and under
sun-shades constructed of green branches, chattering women were at work.
Paths led from tent to tent, and in the deep shade of ancient walnut
trees, on the banks of the stream, old men were smoking in reminiscent
dream of other days.

As night fell and sunset clouds flamed overhead, primroses yearned
upward from the sward, and the teepees, lighted from within, glowed like
jewels, pearl-white cones with hearts of flame. Shouts of boys, laughter
of girls, and the murmur of mothers' voices suggested the care-free life
of the Algonquin in days before the invading conqueror enforced new
conditions and created new desires.

* * * * *

For two weeks we drove amid scenes like these, scenes which were of
inspirational value to me and of constant delight to Zulime. My notebook
filled itself with hints for poems and outlines for stories. In all my
tales of the Cheyennes, I kept in mind Major Powell's significant
remark, "The scalp dance no more represents the red man's daily life
than the bayonet-charge represents the white man's civilization." Having
no