insignificance before the idea of coaxing a wild Indian away from the
reservation and running the remorseless horse-clippers over the wild
foliage to which his head has been acclimated these many years.

This is a noble suggestion, and no doubt the Indians will take kindly to
the barbers and pay them much attention even if their tommyhawks and
scalping knives are a little dull at first.

In the dramatic language of the plains Biff Hawkins, of Spotted Dog,
Idaho, thus describes the opening of the first barber shop in the
vicinity of an Indian reservation:

"Hist!"

The speaker was the bootblack in one of those handsome hand-painted
barber shops which a loving government at Washington has placed at
intervals along the border of the Indian Reservation.

"What is it, Mike?" said Sniffles, the barber.

"Hist!"

Again that ominous word, and Mike pointed feverishly at the distant
horizon.

On it an Indian was walking, steadfastly, onward, onward, onward!

Remorseless as a gas bill the Indian came onward to the barber shop.

Sniffles, the barber, jumped quickly into his armor-plated working