From the Relief Society Magazine, February 1947 –

The Tin-Can Doll

By Kathleen M. Bennett

We always took a trip on the first of May. Why, I never knew. My parents were neither English, with a May-Day background, nor Spanish, with the Cinco de Mayo tradition.

This particular excursion was the most eventful of all I remember, for it had so many exciting and strange happenings in it. We arose before the dawn, that mystical time when there is a sort of dark fragrance in the air. We hitched the horse to the wagon by lantern light, and piled quilts for us children to snuggle into, for the morning air was quite cool. We put a box of food under the seat, and started for the Dragoon Mountains, twelve miles away.

Everything looked strange and unreal, as the light quickened. We amused ourselves by pretending that the crested yuccas were Indian braves, crouching beside the trail, waiting to leap upon our wagon train and destroy us. The cooing of the mourning doves added to the effect, so that we were glad when the rising sun dispelled our pictured dangers. The air was warm and bright when we stopped for breakfast in a gulch about halfway to our destination. this was pure delight to us, for we had bacon and ham, broiled over mesquite coals, spiced with a few ashes and our ravenous appetites. We had just finished eating, when a noise in some near-by bushes brought visions of fierce wild animals, a coyote, or, perhaps, one of our Indians. On closer inspection, we found that our naughty little dog had followed us, hidden from sight. he was too tired to send back, so my father, very reluctantly, allowed us to take him into the wagon, where we put him under the quilts and warmed our feet on him.

We reached our destination, the Horse Ranch country, about noon. We had a lovely time for a while, playing, exploring. Then the weather suddenly changed. A high, cold wind, loaded with fine particles of sand, blew up. We took shelter in an old adobe ruin, roofless, windowless, and doorless, but with sturdy walls. We children began to make a playhouse in the lee of the wall.

The little dog dug a cave in the soft adobe. Suddenly, he came upon a cache, and we could see something inside. We reached in and found a doll. But such a doll! Her head was a small tin can, her body, a large one. Her neck was a bolt; her arms were bolts, with nuts for hands; her legs were the same. The only thing we knew about the house was that a family with the unusual name of Smith had lived there during Indian times, and that they had had a child. The Apaches had proven too much for them, and they had departed. No one knew where they had gone, or what had become of them.

We were enchanted with our find, and spent the afternoon playing and imagining all sorts of thrilling events around the life of our little tin friend.

Finally, it was time to go, so we took our priceless treasure tenderly to our mother to take home in style. Suddenly, we stopped. My sister and I looked at each other. Would our little lady be happy with us? Would the pretty dolls at home accept her? She had slept so long with little furry wild things for company! Her tiny cave was warm and comfortable. The young mistress of long ago had left her there. Perhaps she was waiting for her to return. Sadly and slowly, we put her back. We made a soft bed of grass and put a stone in front of her cave for protection from wind and rain. We brushed away our tears and slipped away. We never went back, so she must be there yet, in the shadow of Cochise’s rocks, waiting.