road and look cunning.

One day a severe cold kept me in bed. Three or four of the little
rascals found an entrance and came pell-mell into the house. One located
a cookie and the others chased him into my room with it. For half an
hour they fought and raced back and fourth over my bed while I kept
safely hidden under the covers, head and all. During a lull I took a
cautious look around. There they sat, lined up like schoolboys, on the
dresser, trying to get at the impudent squirrels in the glass! Failing
in that, they investigated the bottles and boxes. They didn't care much
for the smell of camphor, but one poke-nosey fellow put his nose in the
powder jar and puffed; when he backed away, he looked like a merry old
Santa Claus, his whiskers white with powder and his black eyes
twinkling.

Once the Chief gave them some Eastern chestnuts and black walnuts. They
were bewildered. They rolled them over and over in their paws and
sniffed at them, but made no effort to cut into the meat. We watched to
see what they would do, and they took those funny nuts out under the
trees and buried them good and deep. Maybe they thought time would
mellow them.

But the worst thing those little devils did to me happened later. I had
cooked dinner for some of the powers-that-be from Washington, and for
dessert I made three most wonderful lemon pies. They were dreams! Each
one sported fluffy meringue not less than three inches thick (and eggs
eighty cents a dozen). They were cooling on a shelf outside the door.
Along comes greedy Mr. Bunty looking for something to devour.

"You go away. I'm looking for real company and can't be bothered with
you!" I told him, and made a threatening motion with the broom.

He went--right into the first pie, and from that to the middle one; of
course he couldn't slight the third and last one, so he wallowed across
it. Then the horrid beast climbed a tree in front of my window. He
cleaned, and polished, and lapped meringue off his gray squirrel coat,
while I wiped tears and thought up a suitable epitaph for him. A dirty
Supai squaw enjoyed the pies. She and her assorted babies ate them,
smacking and gabbling over them just as if they hadn't been bathed in by
a wild animal.

[Illustration].

_Chapter V: NAVAJO LAND_

Indians! Navajos! How many wide-eyed childhood hours had I spent
listening to stories of these ferocious warriors! And yet, here they
were as tame as you please, walking by my door