This Fourth of July saw the last great Sioux celebration. Hereafter, according to Chief Stinking Bear, the Indians will have a white man's holiday.
It seems a pity, for a more picturesque affair is inconceivable. Picture a houseless, treeless, grass-green plain, guarded by rolling hills and barren buttes, within the shelter of which is a giant circle of tepees, three miles around, the smoke of a thousand camp-fires bluing the wondrous air of a South Dakota summer, the distant prairies dotted with nervous ponies, belly deep in their grazing, while at your feet rages an army of charging, screaming ocher-painted centaurs, bedecked with the barbarous treasures of a whole red nation, each and every one togged out like a cozy corner.