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They seemed to know that we were looking after the tent of Wasara's father; but each time they would return looking in the face of their masters silently, as if to say "We find nothing." We were somewhat afraid of wolves, but trusted in the dogs to warn us of their approach. We at last concluded to stop; we kept the reindeer harnessed and stood near them.
The women were all busy; one was weaving shoe-bands of bright colors, red predominating; another was just finishing a "kapta," and a third one was putting a lining of red flannel over the seams upon a tiny pair of reindeer-skin shoes for a child; the girls were sewing some undergarments. Wasara's father's first name was Pehr, he was a fine-looking Lapp, about seventy years old.
Wasara's father came outside of the tent, drove the dogs away, and told them to be quiet. He recognized his son and bade us come in. "What a strange abode these nomadic Lapps have," I said to myself, as I looked around inside of the tent.
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