en we had a
moment for reflection, we were a little aghast. Carrying a mail route in
homestead country was a far cry from life in St. Louis. It began to seem
as though we rarely acted according to plan out here; rather, we were
acted upon by unforeseen factors, so that our activities were constantly
shifting, taking on new form, leading in new directions. The only
consistent thing about them was that they never back-trailed!

Now and then we hired boys to help us with heavy jobs which were beyond
our strength, and occasionally a young prairie girl, Ada Long, fourteen
years old, went for the mail. It was against the law to let anyone who
happened to be handy carry the mail, but the settlers had to have postal
service.

Ada was fair, with long yellow braids, strong and accustomed to the hard
ways of the prairie. She could hitch up a team and drive it like a man.
There was only one drawback to Ada. On Saturday when we were busiest
she went home and to church; and on Sunday she hung out the washing. Ada
was a loyal Adventist.

Settlers meeting on the trail hailed one another with "Hello! Where you
from? I'm from Illinois"--or Virginia--or Iowa. "You breakin'?" They had
no time for backgrounds. It didn't matter what the newcomers might have
been. That was left beyond the reservation gate. One's standing was
measured by what he could do and what kind of neighbor he would make.
And always the question, "Where you from?" Missouri, Michigan,
Wisconsin.

Bronco Benny, riding through one day, said, "I never seen so many gals
in my life. Must be a trainload of 'em. Some pretty high-headed fillies
among 'em, too." Bronco Benny knew no other language than that of the
horse world in which he lived.

Not only dirt farmers but many others became sodbreakers. The sod was
heavy, and with the great growth of grass it took all the strength of
man and teams, four to six horses hitched to a plow, to turn it. Steady,
slow, furrow by furrow, man and beast dripping with sweat, they broke
fields of the virgin earth.

How deep to plow, how to cultivate this land, few of them knew. The more
experienced farmers around the Strip, like Huey Dunn, would know. Here
was a service the newspaper could perform by printing such information
for the newcomers. Subscriptions for the paper began coming in before we
were ready to print it. We named it _The Reservation Wand_, and how it
ever was accepted in that man's country with a name like that is beyond