“Sin.”
“Cherry Creek, May the eighth.
“My dearest Cynthia: About half an hour ago, a girl you used to know was looking out of the window of her little prairie home. Such a funny little home, just one big room all shining yellow pine, with skins and rag rugs on the bare pine floor, a closet curtained off with dark blue calico, a black iron bed and a wash-stand and a trunk and some book-shelves built out of packing-boxes. Oh, and a lot of Indian bead-work on the walls, and a pine table covered with a Navaho blanket, and on it some old school-books and papers and pens and ink; and right over it a class picture in a frame—the class of 19—— at Laurel academy!
“The girl, as I said before, was looking out of the window; just watching the green creep over the prairie like an emerald fire kindled by the sun, and following the white road with her eyes as far as she could—the road that leads to the agency and the railroad and civilization.
“While she looked, a black speck appeared away out on that road. The speck grew bigger; soon it turned into a lumber wagon drawn by two shaggy ponies and driven by a tall, dark man in the navy-blue uniform of the Indian Police, with a shining shield on his breast that flashed in the sun.
“In a few minutes she heard the rattle of wheels, and then the camp dogs ran out to meet the good policeman with welcoming barks, and the girl left her window and went to the door that opened on the green prairie. For there are two doors in the yellow pine house; the other one leads right into a log kitchen where a tin coffee pot stood on the stove and an old woman squatted close by, tending a dear little baby, while the baby’s mother, in a red dress made like a kimono, was piecing a calico quilt.
“Well, the policeman pulled up his rough little ponies right in front of the door, threw down the lines and began handing out beef and flour and other things, which the woman in the red kimono carried into the house. Then, last of all, he put his hand in his breast pocket, took out two letters and gave them to the girl. After that, he saluted and drove away again.
“The girl sat down on the high door-sill and read her letters; one made her laugh out loud, to the great surprise of a very small dog who had curled up on a corner of her skirt. The letter was from her friend—her dearest, far-away friend in the New England hills. And now she is going to sit down at her table with the gay blanket cover, facing the class picture, and write her answer.
“I hope this doesn’t sound homesick, Cynthia and Doris—for this letter is to Doris, too—but you know how it is in the spring; how the people and the things that are far away seem to pull at your heart. If I were back there in Laurel, I should be dreaming of Dakota; and it is wonderful out here, girls! I wish you could see the great, furry anemones and the colt’s-foot and verbenas and all the other purple and gold-colored things that follow each other in a mad scamper over the wavy bluffs. And it seems as if I had never drawn a real, deep breath anywhere but here. It’s like the ocean wind without the salt in it.
“And I’m very fond of the people, though they are provoking, sometimes. They forget so—just like children. And Sir Walter mustn’t be jealous, but you ought to know my Sheka—that means ‘Poor Little Thing.’ He never leaves me if he can help it, and he’s just exactly like a real person.