f the house. High heeled shoes and hobble
skirts, two-story starched collars and tile hats are fashion signs of
civilization, but I cannot see why a ring in the nose and a tattooed arm
might not have answered just as well. I am getting harder to convince
that a broad foot, shaped on the lines laid down by the Creator, is less
beautiful or desirable than the one-toe pointed shoe, decreed just now
by our particular brand of culture, and today I would as lief defend the
cult of the simple red man as the savagery that disgraces the lands
across the water.

Whatever the merits of the matter, for one month of the year we and our
tent and automobile abandon ourselves to barbarism, and live as we
please. This year we chose to spend our month on the Yellowstone Trail,
the road that leads from the Twin Cities to the Yellowstone National
Park, and which is different from other roads leading in the same
direction mainly by its yellow mark, faithfully directing the traveler
on his way and preventing the loss of time in getting directions at
doubtful cross roads. Our party consisted of a young botanist, and his
wife, my wife, myself and our small boy Alan. Our equipment consisted of
a tent, 7x7 ft., weighing, stakes, poles, partition and all, 16-1/2
lbs.; a trunk on the running board made to hold bedding and grub box,
and an oil cloth to use as a tent floor. Like the Indians we go light,
and live the simple life while on the trail. We get off at six o'clock
in the morning, eating our breakfast on the move as we get hungry; lunch
at noon by the roadside, and camp early, seeking the most interesting
spot, from the top of a butte to a pleasant river valley--and cooking
the one square meal of the day by such a brushwood fire as we are able
to gather.

[Illustration: "Us" and some others at a mountain cabin.]

For the first few days we try to provide some straw to temper the hard
earth, but as the days go by, and we get used to roughing it, we sleep
soundly with nothing but a blanket and oil cloth between us and mother
earth. We pin back the tent door, and with the night wind fanning our
faces, close our eyes to the stars and flickering campfire. Some who
have never camped are afraid of bugs, snakes and wild animals. We have
spent our vacation month this way for twenty-five years, have camped in
most of the counties of Minnesota, and in Iowa, the Dakotas and Montana,
and have never had but one unpleasant experience of the kind. That was