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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 everyone 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 50 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.