"You can never trust an Indian," said Mrs Murchison at the anxious family council.

"Well do I remember them when you were a little thing, Advena, hanging round the town on a market-day; and the squaws coming to the back door with their tin pails of raspberries to sell, and just knowing English enough to ask a big price for them.

But it was on the squaws we depended in those days, or go without raspberry preserves for the winter.

Slovenly-looking things they were with their three or four coloured petticoats and their papooses on their backs.

And for dirt--! But I thought they were all gone long ago." "There are enough of them left to make trouble all right," said Alec.
"They don't dress up like they used to, and I guess they send the papooses to kindergarten now; but you'll find plenty of them lying around any time there's nothing to do but vote and get drunk." Allowing for the natural exaggeration of partisanship, the facts about the remaining red man of Moneida were much as Alec described them.
On market-days he slid easily, unless you looked twice, into what the Express continues to call the farming community.