They had no way of communicating with our friends in Eastern States,
and the women at the Fort could ill afford to provide longer for us,
since their bread winners were still with Fremont, and their own
supplies were limited. Finally, my two eldest sisters were given
employment by different families in exchange for food, which they
shared with us; but it was often insufficient, and we little ones
drifted along forlornly. Sometimes home was where night overtook us.
Often, we trudged to the _rancheria_ beyond the pond, made by the
adobe-moulders who had built the houses and wall surrounding the fort.
There the Indian mothers were good to us. They gave us shreds of smoked
fish and dried acorns to eat; lowered from their backs the queer little
baby-beds, called "bickooses," and made the chubby faces in them laugh
for our amusement. They also let us pet the dogs that perked up their
ears and wagged their tails as our own Uno used to do when he wanted to
frolic. Sometimes they stroked our hair and rubbed the locks between
their fingers, then felt their own as if to note the difference. They
seemed sorry because we could not understand their speech.
The pond also, with its banks of flowers, winding path, and dimpling
waters, had charms for us until one day's experience drove us from it
forever. We three were playing near it when a joyous Indian girl with a
bundle of clothes on her head ran down the bank to the water's edge.
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