experience I ever went through. All I can compare it to is the nightmare
I used to have after too much mince pie.

Safely back at our camp with a brisk fire crackling under a pot of
coffee, I began to throw off the shivering sensation, and by the time
the coffee pot was empty I was ready for new adventures. Word had gone
forth that I would buy all the baskets the squaws brought to me. I hoped
in this way to get some first-hand information about the feminine side
of affairs. Squaws and baskets and information poured in. Baskets of all
sizes and shapes were brought, some good, some bad, but I bought them
all. If I hesitated a moment over one the owner put the price down to a
few cents. Just a dime or two for a whole week's work. Time has no value
to them, and the creek banks are covered with the best willows in the
world for basket-making. The basket-making art is the only talent these
squaws have, while the bucks excel in tanning buckskin and other skins.
These they trade to the Navajo Indians for silver and blankets. Then
they race their ponies or gamble for the ownership of the coveted
blankets. How they do love to gamble! Horses, blankets, squaws--anything
and everything changes hands under the spell of the magic cards. Even
the squaws and children gamble for beads and bright-colored calico. When
a few pieces of real money are at stake, all is wild excitement. How
the black eyes snap, and how taut is every nerve!

Their hewas are merely shelters of willow, and there is absolutely no
privacy about anything. Yet they are neither immoral nor unmoral. The
girls all marry very young. At the age of twelve or thirteen the girl is
chosen by some brave, who bargains with the father for her. A pony or
its value in buckskin will buy almost any father's favorite daughter.
But the girl is not forced to go with a lover whom she does not approve.
The marriage ceremony is not elaborate; after all preliminaries are