taken out by his father
or uncle on a hunt. Prior to that time he is not allowed to go. But
before he can eat of the product of the chase he must himself kill a
deer with large enough horns to allow him to crawl through them.

A friend of mine was out with a Washoe Indian whose boy was along
on his first hunting expedition. They hunted a deer for nearly three
days, but as soon as they found tracks the father, after studying them
awhile, said: "This a little fellow. No good. He not big enough"--thus
signifying to his son that his horns were not large enough to allow
him to crawl through, hence it was no use following the animal
further.

The Indian is quite sure that deer can smell him and know when he
is on the hunt. He becomes skillful in detecting and following their
tracks, and knows just how to circle around their hiding-place and
suddenly walk in upon them. My friend, referred to above, who is a
great hunter, was once out with a Washoe. They had had three "bad"
days, when suddenly they found a deer's track. It was fresh, but when
they came to the hole where he had lain down to rest, though the place
was quite warm, the deer had gone. The Indian at once exclaimed: "That
deer smell me. I must get rid of the Indian smell." Accordingly he
scooped out a hole in the ground, heated a number of rocks in it,
then, spreading fir boughs over them, lay down over the rocks and
took a "fir-sweat" for fully ten to fifteen minutes. As he arose he
exclaimed: "Deer no smell me to-morrow," and my friend said he did no
longer smell like an Indian, but like burnt fir wood.

Turning to the Indian, however, he said: "You're all right, but how
about me?" to which the reply instantly came: "You all right. Deer
only smell Indian. He not smell white man."

Chief among the women's work is the making of baskets. The best
Washoe basket makers are not surpassed by any weavers in the world.
At Tallac, Fallen Leaf, Glen Alpine and several other resorts
basket-makers may be found, preparing their splints, weaving or trying
to sell their baskets.

Not far from Tahoe Tavern, about a quarter a mile away in the
direction of Tahoe City, is the little curio store of A. Cohn, whose
headquarters are in Carson City, the capital of the State of Nevada.
Mr. and Mrs. Cohn hold a unique position in their particular field.
Some twenty-five years ago they purchased a beautiful basket from a
Washoe Indian woman, named _Dat-so-la-le_ in Washoe, or Luisa
Key