"It is a wild world of varied color and activity," she wrote to Ann.
"The trailing air plants in the trees beside my wigwam weave a dense,
tropical jungle of shadow shot with sunlight. Keela's wigwam lies but
a stone's throw beyond. It is lined with beaded trinkets, curious
carven things of cypress, pots of dye made of berries and barks, and
pottery which she has patterned after the relics in the sand mounds.
There is an old chief with all the terrible pathos of a vanishing race
in his eyes. I find in his wistful dignity an element of tragedy. He
is very kind to Keela and talks much of her in his quaint broken
English.
"Moons back, he declares, when E-shock-e-tom-isee, the great Creator,
made the world of men by scattering seeds in a river valley, of those
who grew from the sand, some went to the river and washed too pale and
weak--the white man; some, enough--the strong red man; some washed not
at all--the shiftless black man. But Keela came from none of these.
"Ann, the squaws are _hideous_! Their clothes, an indescribable
_potpourri_ of savage superstition and stray inklings (such as a
disfiguring bang of hair across the forehead, a Psyche knot and a full
skirt) from the white man's world of fashion--years back. The pounds
and pounds of bead necklaces they wear give the savage touch.
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