The Indian finds his bedroom under the stars. He puts the invalid flat on the ground,--a sheepskin, perhaps, between him and the earth, but that is all. When will the superior white race learn that rejuvenation of the body comes quicker to those who “shed” their civilization, forswear their home comforts, quit their indulgence in fixed-up dishes, refrain from social frivolities (commonly called duties), and first and foremost,--after throwing away all the cares and worries that come of being so highly civilized,--get to a place where it is possible to sleep out of doors _on the hard ground_, protected, of course, as the Indians are. Get into the woods, on to the hills, down in the canyons, out on the deserts. Take a roll of blankets along, and no matter what the weather, learn to sleep on the bosom of Mother-Earth, out of doors. And if the region is one near hot springs or mud baths, all the better. Make it for the time being your home. Ah! how wise is the Indian in his choice of a home. I have before referred to this, but I cannot help writing of it again. Home! It is not a place of unrest to him, where it requires the labor of wife and daughter, or a host of servants, to keep it in order; where polished furniture, polished floors, polished doors, polished mirrors, keep one forever with wiping-cloth in hand, removing the marks of careless fingers; where bric-a-brac is accumulated and piled everywhere to the shattering of nerves if the children get near it, or careless visitors happen to call; where “social demands” are so great that children are relegated to the care of servants; where brothers and sisters scarce have time to know each other, and husbands and wives meet semi-occasionally--no, it is not a home of this kind. To most Indians “everywhere” is home provided there is a little shade, water, and grass for his burro or pony. In the mountains, where he can shelter under an overhanging rock, or in the forest where he has a roof of emerald, supported by great pillars of pine or cottonwood or sycamore,--there is home. In the desert, where the roof is millions of miles high, decorated with suns and moons and stars and comets and meteors and Milky Way and countless nebulæ, and the walls are bounded on the east by the rising sun, and on the west by the setting sun, and God’s own laboratories make new, fresh, pure air every moment--there is home. The San Francisco disaster taught thousands of people the healthfulness of the outdoor life. People who had been ailing for years, puny children, anæmic youths and maidens, dyspeptic parents, all “picked up” appetite and health when compelled to live in the parks and on the streets. Let us heed the lesson. Let us follow the example of the Indian and be more simple, more natural. Let us relegate to the museum the collecting of curios and bric-a-brac and the thousand and one things that so crowd our houses as to make museums rather than homes of them.