We Introduce White Customs in the Form of Two Christmas Trees, and, for a Moment, Fear We May Regret It
Christmas is now appallingly close. We spend every minute feverishly adding to our store of gifts. In spite of all we can do, the men are only scantily provided for. Every minute she can spare, Mabel is knitting mufflers or making tobacco pouches out of bits of cotton or silk.
All the presents that people from all over California have sent us, as well as those that have come from home, are in a long-shaped, boxlike pile, under the eaves in our sleeping room. We call this pile "McKinley lying in state." It is covered by a piece of old rotten canvas that we found in a deserted mine. The displacement under the canvas is about six by two and one half feet. Its resemblance to a concealed corpse is impressive.
The number of presents stands at forty fancy bags, thirty plain bags, twenty dress pieces, fourteen shirtwaist lengths, and a large number of toys. But we have only twenty-six articles that, in a pinch, can be given to the men, and we have reckoned about fifty Indian men among our rather close personal friends, not to mention about fifty more whom we know slightly but on a less intimate basis.
I wish there were some way we could make our Indian male friends believe that white men in the East relished little dolls. We have those and to spare.
Mabel says all she does, day after day, is to sing the song of the shirt--stitch, stitch, stitch. The shirt she is mak-