183

The other day a procession of Indians
cowboys and hard riders filed down past the
administration building, headed by a rousing
band.

All ran to see, of course, and looked their
all at warriors with variegated faces of
chrome yellow and crimson and green.
"Mercy !" shrieked one woman to another
as she clutched her dress in one hand and
her child by the other and bounded across
the grand plaza to a place of vantage. I'd
hate to have anyone I knew see me just
now!"

It is curious, but that is the universal,
shame-faced remark made by every one
when they đisplay a little curiosity or eagerness
which they fear is undignified. The
cowboys in the procession were such hardy,
strong fellows, sat so straight and were so
evidently free from dyspepsia and so well
satisfied with themselves that one thought
of our bent-over, city bicyclists with dismay.
Buffalo Bill himself graced the line and received
a wild ovation on recognition. He
took it all as a matter of fact and scattered
his bows as a king might have done.

Close-cropped prairie grasses and moving
herds of cattle, the hot, fierce breath of the
prairie fire and silent march of Indian bands
-all swept across the minds of spectators
as the line went by, and the spell was not
broken until the last rider disappeared from
sight.