One time a white man from down below came along this river, asking about baskets. He wanted to know the name of everything. He was kind of crazy, that fellow. They used to call him “Häpó’o,” or “Basket-designs.” He was always asking, “What does that mean?” or “What is the name of that?” He wanted to know all about baskets. He talked to old Louisa for a day and a half about her baskets. Then he came through the fence to my house. I wouldn’t say a word to him, and he went away. My friends won’t talk to Louisa, or her friends. It will be that way forever.