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Updated: June 7, 2025
I asked Ikkie as Dinkie calls Iroquois Annie about this and Ikkie says the teepee squaw has no cow's milk and has to keep on the move, so she feeds him breast-milk until he's able to eat meat. Ikkie informs me that she has seen a papoose turn away from its mother's breast to take a puff or two at a pipe. From which I assume that the noble Red Man learns to smoke quite early in life.
Ikkie has also been enlightening me on other baby-customs of her ancestors, explaining that it was once the habit for a mother to name her baby for the first thing seen after its birth. That, I told Dinky-Dunk, was probably why there were so many "Running Rabbits," and "White Pups" and "Black Calfs" over on the Reservation.
"I fell for those bouncing black curls of yours before I was in the place five minutes." At that there was an incredible flow of baby talk. "Gemmemen ike ikkie gurl wiz naughty-naughty black curl-curlies?" "You bet your life I do," said Mr. Loeb, unashamed of comprehension. Mr. Kahn flashed another look at his watch. "Say, don't you know, you girls oughtn't to keep us boys up so late.
It may be that I'll put Ikkie in overalls and get her out there too, for there's not a day, not an hour, to be lost. I want my crop in. I want my seed planted, and the sooner the better. Whinstane Sandy, on account of his lame foot, can't follow a plow. But there's no reason he shouldn't run a tractor. If it wasn't for my bairns, of course, I'd take that tractor in hand myself.
"He play somew'ere roun'," announced Ikkie, secreting the purloined head-gear and circling away from the forbidden dressing-table. "But where?" I asked, with exceptional sharpness, for my eye had already traversed the most of that shack and had encountered no sign of him. That sloe-eyed breed didn't know just where, and apparently didn't care.
But any one who'd lamped me in that get-up, covered with oil and dust and dirt, would know that never again could I be a perfect lady. I'm a wiper, a greaser, a clodhopper, and, according to the sullen and brooding-eyed Ikkie, a bit of a slave-driver. And the odd part of it all is that I'm wringing a perverse sort of enjoyment out of the excitement and the novelty of the thing.
For I've already triumphed over a tangle or two and now I'm going to see this thing through. I'm going to see Alabama Ranch make good. I teamed in to Buckhorn, with Dinkie and the Twins and Ikkie bedded down in the wagon-box on fresh wheat-straw, and had a talk with Syd Woodward, the dealer there.
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