The rangers had brought a slender fir into the Information Room and we
had it trimmed within an inch of its life. Cranberries and popcorn ropes
festooned its branches, and again Montgomery Ward and Company's
catalogue had been searched for treasures to load it with. Every child
in the Park, regardless of race or color, was remembered. Little brown
brothers, whose Filipino mothers worked in the laundry, found themselves
possessors of strange toys; Navajo babies and Hopi cupids from the Hopi
House were well supplied. One small Hopi lass wailed loudly at the look
of the flaxen-haired doll that fell to her lot. She was afraid to hold
it--she wouldn't let anybody else touch it--so she stood it in a corner
and squalled at it from a safe distance. When the party was over, an
older sister had to carry it for her. I suspect she much preferred her
native dolls.

After the tree was bare, we all went down to the Fred Harvey Recreation
Room and danced the rest of the evening away.

I could hardly wait for morning to go for a ride on Tar Baby. Ranger
West brought him down to the house to saddle him. While I dressed up in
my new boots I overheard the conversation between the ranger and the
horse. It was a rather one-sided talk, but quite interesting.

"Whoa there, Tar Baby!" very firmly and casually. "Stand still now!"

"Hey, now, you black devil, don't you try bitin' me again! Yes, he's a
nice baby horse," this last remark quite saccharine. A slight silence
fell while the cinches were being tightened, then--heels beating a tune
on the side of the shed, and sultry, sulphuric remarks being fitted to
the tune. About that time I was ready to go out.