A greasy old squaw came to the door with her papoose on her back.

She wanted to trade berries for bread.

There were berries everywhere for the picking; I had more dried than I could use in two years.

We planted only a little patch of wheat and father had to ride three days to carry to mill what he could take on a horse.

I baked in an outoven and when it was done, a loaf of white bread was by far the most precious thing we had to eat.
Sometimes I was caught, and forced to let it go.