{"collection":"folklore-oral-tradition","full_text_available":true,"graph_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/api/page/gutenberg_10376/graph","html_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/page/gutenberg_10376","id":"gutenberg_10376","license":"Public Domain (US)","rights_basis":"gutenberg_metadata_copyright_false","source":"gutenberg","source_url":"https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/10376","summary":null,"tags":["Category: American Literature","Category: Biographies","Category: Essays, Letters & Speeches","Folklore","Native America","Yankton Indians -- Government relations","Yankton Indians -- Social conditions","Yankton women -- Biography","Zitkala-Sa, 1876-1938"],"text":"AMERICAN INDIAN STORIES\n\nBY\n\nZITKALA-SA _(Gertrude Bonnin)_\n\nDakota Sioux Indian\n\nLecturer; Author of \"Old Indian Legends,\" \"Americanize The First\nAmerican,\" and other stories; Member of the Woman's National Foundation,\nLeague of American Pen-Women, and the Washington Salon\n\n\n\"_There is no great; there is no small; in the mind that causeth all_\"\n\n1921\n\n\n\n\nCONTENTS\n\nImpressions of an Indian Childhood\n\nThe School Days of an Indian Girl\n\nAn Indian Teacher Among Indians\n\nThe Great Spirit\n\nThe Soft-Hearted Sioux\n\nThe Trial Path\n\nA Warrior's Daughter\n\nA Dream of Her Grandfather\n\nThe Widespread Enigma of Blue-Star Woman\n\nAmerica's Indian Problem\n\n\n\n\nIMPRESSIONS OF AN INDIAN CHILDHOOD\n\nI.\n\nMY MOTHER.\n\n\nA wigwam of weather-stained canvas stood at the base of some irregularly\nascending hills. A footpath wound its way gently down the sloping land\ntill it reached the broad river bottom; creeping through the long swamp\ngrasses that bent over it on either side, it came out on the edge of the\nMissouri.\n\nHere, morning, noon, and evening, my mother came to draw water from the\nmuddy stream for our household use. Always, when my mother started for\nthe river, I stopped my play to run along with her. She was only of\nmedium height. Often she was sad and silent, at which times her full\narched lips were compressed into hard and bitter lines, and shadows fell\nunder her black eyes. Then I clung to her hand and begged to know what\nmade the tears fall.\n\n\"Hush; my little daughter must never talk about my tears\"; and smiling\nthrough them, she patted my head and said, \"Now let me see how fast you\ncan run today.\" Whereupon I tore away at my highest possible speed, with\nmy long black hair blowing in the breeze.\n\nI was a wild little girl of seven. Loosely clad in a slip of brown\nbuckskin, and light-footed with a pair of soft moccasins on my feet, I\nwas as free as the wind that blew my hair, and no less spirited than a\nbounding deer. These were my mother's pride,--my wild freedom and\noverflowing spirits. She taught me no fear save that of intruding myself\nupon others.\n\nHaving gone many paces ahead I stopped, panting for breath, and laughing\nwith glee as my mother watched my every movement. I was not wholly\nconscious of myself, but was more keenly alive to the fire within. It\nwas as if I were the activity, and my hands and feet were only\nexperiments for my spirit to work upon.\n\nReturning from the river, I tugged beside my mother, with my hand upon\nthe bucket I believed I was carrying. One time, on such a return, I\nremember a bit of conversation we had. My grown-up cousin, Warca-Ziwin\n(Sunflower), who was then seventeen, always went to the river alone for\nwater for her mother. Their wigwam was not far from ours; and I saw her\ndaily going to and from the river. I admired my cousin greatly. So I\nsaid: \"Mother, when I am tall as my cousin Warca-Ziwin, you shall not\nhave to come for water. I will do it for you.\"\n\nWith a strange tremor in her voice which I could not understand, she\nanswered, \"If the paleface does not take away from us the river we\ndrink.\"\n\n\"Mother, who is this bad paleface?\" I asked.\n\n\"My little daughter, he is a sham,--a sickly sham! The bronzed Dakota is\nthe only real man.\"\n\nI looked up into my mother's face while she spoke; and seeing her bite\nher lips, I knew she was unhappy. This aroused revenge in my small soul.\nStamping my foot on the earth, I cried aloud, \"I hate the paleface that\nmakes my mother cry!\"\n\nSetting the pail of water on the ground, my mother stooped, and\nstretching her left hand out on the level with my eyes, she placed her\nother arm about me; she pointed to the hill where my uncle and my only\nsister lay buried.\n\n\"There is what the paleface has done! Since then your father too has\nbeen buried in a hill nearer the rising sun. We were once very happy.\nBut the paleface has stolen our lands and driven us hither. Having\ndefrauded us of our land, the paleface forced us away.\n\n\"Well, it happened on the day we moved camp that your sister and uncle\nwere both very sick. Many others were ailing, but there seemed to be no\nhelp. We traveled many days and nights; not in the grand, happy way that\nwe moved camp when I was a little girl, but we were driven, my child,\ndriven like a herd of buffalo. With every step, your sister, who was not\nas large as you are now, shrieked with the painful jar until she was\nhoarse with crying. She grew more and more feverish. Her little hands\nand cheeks were burning hot. Her little lips were parched and dry, but\nshe would not drink the water I gave her. Then I discovered that her\nthroat was swollen and red. My poor child, how I cried with her because\nthe Great Spirit had forgotten us!\n\n\"At last, when we reached this western country, on the first weary night\nyour sister died. And soon your uncle died also, leaving a widow and an\norphan daughter, your cousin Warca-Ziwin. Both your sister and uncle\nmight have been happy with us today, had it not been for the heartless\npaleface.\"\n\nMy mother was silent the rest of the way to our wigwam. Though I saw no\ntears in her eyes, I knew that was because I was with her. She seldom\nwept before me.\n\n\n\n\nII.\n\nTHE LEGENDS.\n\n\nDuring the summer days my mother built her fire in the shadow of our\nwigwam.\n\nIn the early morning our simple breakfast was spread upon the grass west\nof our tepee. At the farthest point of the shade my mother sat beside\nher fire, toasting a savory piece of dried meat. Near her, I sat upon my\nfeet, eating my dried meat with unleavened bread, and drinking strong\nblack coffee.\n\nThe morning meal was our quiet hour, when we two were entirely alone. At\nnoon, several who chanced to be passing by stopped to rest, and to share\nour luncheon with us, for they were sure of our hospitality.\n\nMy uncle, whose death my mother ever lamented, was one of our nation's\nbravest warriors. His name was on the lips of old men when talking of\nthe proud feats of valor; and it was mentioned by younger men, too, in\nconnection with deeds of gallantry. Old women praised him for his\nkindness toward them; young women held him up as an ideal to their\nsweethearts. Every one loved him, and my mother worshiped his memory.\nThus it happened that even strangers were sure of welcome in our lodge,\nif they but asked a favor in my uncle's name.\n\nThough I heard many strange experiences related by these wayfarers, I\nloved best the evening meal, for that was the time old legends were\ntold. I was always glad when the sun hung low in the west, for then my\nmother sent me to invite the neighboring old men and women to eat supper\nwith us. Running all the way to the wigwams, I halted shyly at the\nentrances. Sometimes I stood long moments without saying a word. It was\nnot any fear that made me so dumb when out upon such a happy errand; nor\nwas it that I wished to withhold the invitation, for it was all I could\ndo to observe this very proper silence. But it was a sensing of the\natmosphere, to assure myself that I should not hinder other plans. My\nmother used to say to me, as I was almost bounding away for the old\npeople: \"Wait a moment before you invite any one. If other plans are\nbeing discussed, do not interfere, but go elsewhere.\"\n\nThe old folks knew the meaning of my pauses; and often they coaxed my\nconfidence by asking, \"What do you seek, little granddaughter?\"\n\n\"My mother says you are to come to our tepee this evening,\" I instantly\nexploded, and breathed the freer afterwards.\n\n\"Yes, yes, gladly, gladly I shall come!\" each replied. Rising at once\nand carrying their blankets across one shoulder, they flocked leisurely\nfrom their various wigwams toward our dwelling.\n\nMy mission done, I ran back, skipping and jumping with delight. All out\nof breath, I told my mother almost the exact words of the answers to my\ninvitation. Frequently she asked, \"What were they doing when you entered\ntheir tepee?\" This taught me to remember all I saw at a single glance.\nOften I told my mother my impressions without being questioned.\n\nWhile in the neighboring wigwams sometimes an old Indian woman asked me,\n\"What is your mother doing?\" Unless my mother had cautioned me not to\ntell, I generally answered her questions without reserve.\n\nAt the arrival of our guests I sat close to my mother, and did not\nleave her side without first asking her consent. I ate my supper in\nquiet, listening patiently to the talk of the old people, wishing all\nthe time that they would begin the stories I loved best. At last, when I\ncould not wait any longer, I whispered in my mother's ear, \"Ask them to\ntell an Iktomi story, mother.\"\n\nSoothing my impatience, my mother said aloud, \"My little daughter is\nanxious to hear your legends.\" By this time all were through eating, and\nthe evening was fast deepening into twilight.\n\nAs each in turn began to tell a legend, I pillowed my head in my\nmother's lap; and lying flat upon my back, I watched the stars as they\npeeped down upon me, one by one. The increasing interest of the tale\naroused me, and I sat up eagerly listening to every word. The old women\nmade funny remarks, and laughed so heartily that I could not help\njoining them.\n\nThe distant howling of a pack of wolves or the hooting of an owl in the\nriver bottom frightened me, and I nestled into my mother's lap. She\nadded some dry sticks to the open fire, and the bright flames leaped up\ninto the faces of the old folks as they sat around in a great circle.\n\nOn such an evening, I remember the glare of the fire shone on a tattooed\nstar upon the brow of the old warrior who was telling a story. I watched\nhim curiously as he made his unconscious gestures. The blue star upon\nhis bronzed forehead was a puzzle to me. Looking about, I saw two\nparallel lines on the chin of one of the old women. The rest had none. I\nexamined my mother's face, but found no sign there.\n\nAfter the warrior's story was finished, I asked the old woman the\nmeaning of the blue lines on her chin, looking all the while out of the\ncorners of my eyes at the warrior with the star on his forehead. I was a\nlittle afraid that he would rebuke me for my boldness.\n\nHere the old woman began: \"Why, my grandchild, they are signs,--secret\nsigns I dare not tell you. I shall, however, tell you a wonderful story\nabout a woman who had a cross tattooed upon each of her cheeks.\"\n\nIt was a long story of a woman whose magic power lay hidden behind the\nmarks upon her face. I fell asleep before the story was completed.\n\nEver after that night I felt suspicious of tattooed people. Wherever I\nsaw one I glanced furtively at the mark and round about it, wondering\nwhat terrible magic power was covered there.\n\nIt was rarely that such a fearful story as this one was told by the camp\nfire. Its impression was so acute that the picture still remains vividly\nclear and pronounced.\n\n\n\n\nIII.\n\nTHE BEADWORK.\n\n\nSoon after breakfast mother sometimes began her beadwork. On a bright,\nclear day, she pulled out the wooden pegs that pinned the skirt of our\nwigwam to the ground, and rolled the canvas part way up on its frame of\nslender poles. Then the cool morning breezes swept freely through our\ndwelling, now and then wafting the perfume of sweet grasses from newly\nburnt prairie.\n\nUntying the long tasseled strings that bound a small brown buckskin bag,\nmy mother spread upon a mat beside her bunches of colored beads, just as\nan artist arranges the paints upon his palette. On a lapboard she\nsmoothed out a double sheet of soft white buckskin; and drawing from a\nbeaded case that hung on the left of her wide belt a long, narrow blade,\nshe trimmed the buckskin into shape. Often she worked upon small\nmoccasins for her small daughter. Then I became intensely interested in\nher designing. With a proud, beaming face, I watched her work. In\nimagination, I saw myself walking in a new pair of snugly fitting\nmoccasins. I felt the envious eyes of my playmates upon the pretty red\nbeads decorating my feet.\n\nClose beside my mother I sat on a rug, with a scrap of buckskin in one\nhand and an awl in the other. This was the beginning of my practical\nobservation lessons in the art of beadwork. From a skein of finely\ntwisted threads of silvery sinews my mother pulled out a single one.\nWith an awl she pierced the buckskin, and skillfully threaded it with\nthe white sinew. Picking up the tiny beads one by one, she strung them\nwith the point of her thread, always twisting it carefully after every\nstitch.\n\nIt took many trials before I learned how to knot my sinew thread on the\npoint of my finger, as I saw her do. Then the next difficulty was in\nkeeping my thread stiffly twisted, so that I could easily string my\nbeads upon it. My mother required of me original designs for my lessons\nin beading. At first I frequently ensnared many a sunny hour into\nworking a long design. Soon I learned from self-inflicted punishment to\nrefrain from drawing complex patterns, for I had to finish whatever I\nbegan.\n\nAfter some experience I usually drew easy and simple crosses and\nsquares. These were some of the set forms. My original designs were not\nalways symmetrical nor sufficiently characteristic, two faults with\nwhich my mother had little patience. The quietness of her oversight made\nme feel strongly responsible and dependent upon my own judgment. She\ntreated me as a dignified little individual as long as I was on my good\nbehavior; and how humiliated I was when some boldness of mine drew forth\na rebuke from her!\n\nIn the choice of colors she left me to my own taste. I was pleased with\nan outline of yellow upon a background of dark blue, or a combination of\nred and myrtle-green. There was another of red with a bluish-gray that\nwas more conventionally used. When I became a little familiar with\ndesigning and the various pleasing combinations of color, a harder\nlesson was given me. It was the sewing on, instead of beads, some tinted\nporcupine quills, moistened and flattened between the nails of the thumb\nand forefinger. My mother cut off the prickly ends and burned them at\nonce in the centre fire. These sharp points were poisonous, and worked\ninto the flesh wherever they lodged. For this reason, my mother said, I\nshould not do much alone in quills until I was as tall as my cousin\nWarca-Ziwin.\n\nAlways after these confining lessons I was wild with surplus spirits,\nand found joyous relief in running loose in the open again. Many a\nsummer afternoon a party of four or five of my playmates roamed over the\nhills with me. We each carried a light sharpened rod about four feet\nlong, with which we pried up certain sweet roots. When we had eaten all\nthe choice roots we chanced upon, we shouldered our rods and strayed off\ninto patches of a stalky plant under whose yellow blossoms we found\nlittle crystal drops of gum. Drop by drop we gathered this nature's\nrock-candy, until each of us could boast of a lump the size of a small\nbird's egg. Soon satiated with its woody flavor, we tossed away our gum,\nto return again to the sweet roots.\n\nI remember well how we used to exchange our necklaces, beaded belts, and\nsometimes even our moccasins. We pretended to offer them as gifts to one\nanother. We delighted in impersonating our own mothers. We talked of\nthings we had heard them say in their conversations. We imitated their\nvarious manners, even to the inflection of their voices. In the lap of\nthe prairie we seated ourselves upon our feet, and leaning our painted\ncheeks in the palms of our hands, we rested our elbows on our knees, and\nbent forward as old women were most accustomed to do.\n\nWhile one was telling of some heroic deed recently done by a near\nrelative, the rest of us listened attentively, and exclaimed in\nundertones, \"Han! han!\" (yes! yes!) whenever the speaker paused for\nbreath, or sometimes for our sympathy. As the discourse became more\nthrilling, according to our ideas, we raised our voices in these\ninterjections. In these impersonations our parents were led to say only\nthose things that were in common favor.\n\nNo matter how exciting a tale we might be rehearsing, the mere shifting\nof a cloud shadow in the landscape near by was sufficient to change our\nimpulses; and soon we were all chasing the great shadows that played\namong the hills. We shouted and whooped in the chase; laughing and\ncalling to one another, we were like little sportive nymphs on that\nDakota sea of rolling green.\n\nOn one occasion I forgot the cloud shadow in a strange notion to catch\nup with my own shadow. Standing straight and still, I began to glide\nafter it, putting out one foot cautiously. When, with the greatest care,\nI set my foot in advance of myself, my shadow crept onward too. Then\nagain I tried it; this time with the other foot. Still again my shadow\nescaped me. I began to run; and away flew my shadow, always just a step\nbeyond me. Faster and faster I ran, setting my teeth and clenching my\nfists, determined to overtake my own fleet shadow. But ever swifter it\nglided before me, while I was growing breathless and hot. Slackening my\nspeed, I was greatly vexed that my shadow should check its pace also.\nDaring it to the utmost, as I thought, I sat down upon a rock imbedded\nin the hillside.\n\nSo! my shadow had the impudence to sit down beside me!\n\nNow my comrades caught up with me, and began to ask why I was running\naway so fast.\n\n\"Oh, I was chasing my shadow! Didn't you ever do that?\" I inquired,\nsurprised that they should not understand.\n\nThey planted their moccasined feet firmly upon my shadow to stay it, and\nI arose. Again my shadow slipped away, and moved as often as I did. Then\nwe gave up trying to catch my shadow.\n\nBefore this peculiar experience I have no distinct memory of having\nrecognized any vital bond between myself and my own shadow. I never gave\nit an afterthought.\n\nReturning our borrowed belts and trinkets, we rambled homeward. That\nevening, as on other evenings, I went to sleep over my legends.\n\n\n\n\nIV.\n\nTHE COFFEE-MAKING.\n\n\nOne summer afternoon my mother left me alone in our wigwam while she\nwent across the way to my aunt's dwelling.\n\nI did not much like to stay alone in our tepee for I feared a tall,\nbroad-shouldered crazy man, some forty years old, who walked loose among\nthe hills. Wiyaka-Napbina (Wearer of a Feather Necklace) was harmless,\nand whenever he came into a wigwam he was driven there by extreme\nhunger. He went nude except for the half of a red blanket he girdled\naround his waist. In one tawny arm he used to carry a heavy bunch of\nwild sunflowers that he gathered in his aimless ramblings. His black\nhair was matted by the winds, and scorched into a dry red by the\nconstant summer sun. As he took great strides, placing one brown bare\nfoot directly in front of the other, he swung his long lean arm to and\nfro.\n\nFrequently he paused in his walk and gazed far backward, shading his\neyes with his hand. He was under the belief that an evil spirit was\nhaunting his steps. This was what my mother told me once, when I\nsneered at such a silly big man. I was brave when my mother was near by,\nand Wiyaka-Napbina walking farther and farther away.\n\n\"Pity the man, my child. I knew him when he was a brave and handsome\nyouth. He was overtaken by a malicious spirit among the hills, one day,\nwhen he went hither and thither after his ponies. Since then he can not\nstay away from the hills,\" she said.\n\nI felt so sorry for the man in his misfortune that I prayed to the Great\nSpirit to restore him. But though I pitied him at a distance, I was\nstill afraid of him when he appeared near our wigwam.\n\nThus, when my mother left me by myself that afternoon I sat in a fearful\nmood within our tepee. I recalled all I had ever heard about\nWiyaka-Napbina; and I tried to assure myself that though he might pass\nnear by, he would not come to our wigwam because there was no little\ngirl around our grounds.\n\nJust then, from without a hand lifted the canvas covering of the\nentrance; the shadow of a man fell within the wigwam, and a large\nroughly moccasined foot was planted inside.\n\nFor a moment I did not dare to breathe or stir, for I thought that could\nbe no other than Wiyaka-Napbina. The next instant I sighed aloud in\nrelief. It was an old grandfather who had often told me Iktomi legends.\n\n\"Where is your mother, my little grandchild?\" were his first words.\n\n\"My mother is soon coming back from my aunt's tepee,\" I replied.\n\n\"Then I shall wait awhile for her return,\" he said, crossing his feet\nand seating himself upon a mat.\n\nAt once I began to play the part of a generous hostess. I turned to my\nmother's coffeepot.\n\nLifting the lid, I found nothing but coffee grounds in the bottom. I set\nthe pot on a heap of cold ashes in the centre, and filled it half full\nof warm Missouri River water. During this performance I felt conscious\nof being watched. Then breaking off a small piece of our unleavened\nbread, I placed it in a bowl. Turning soon to the coffeepot, which would\nnever have boiled on a dead fire had I waited forever, I poured out a\ncup of worse than muddy warm water. Carrying the bowl in one hand and\ncup in the other, I handed the light luncheon to the old warrior. I\noffered them to him with the air of bestowing generous hospitality.\n\n\"How! how!\" he said, and placed the dishes on the ground in front of his\ncrossed feet. He nibbled at the bread and sipped from the cup. I sat\nback against a pole watching him. I was proud to have succeeded so well\nin serving refreshments to a guest all by myself. Before the old warrior\nhad finished eating, my mother entered. Immediately she wondered where I\nhad found coffee, for she knew I had never made any, and that she had\nleft the coffeepot empty. Answering the question in my mother's eyes,\nthe warrior remarked, \"My granddaughter made coffee on a heap of dead\nashes, and served me the moment I came.\"\n\nThey both laughed, and mother said, \"Wait a little longer, and I shall\nbuild a fire.\" She meant to make some real coffee. But neither she nor\nthe warrior, whom the law of our custom had compelled to partake of my\ninsipid hospitality, said anything to embarrass me. They treated my\nbest judgment, poor as it was, with the utmost respect. It was not till\nlong years afterward that I learned how ridiculous a thing I had done.\n\n\n\n\nV.\n\nTHE DEAD MAN'S PLUM BUSH.\n\n\nOne autumn afternoon many people came streaming toward the dwelling of\nour near neighbor. With painted faces, and wearing broad white bosoms of\nelk's teeth, they hurried down the narrow footpath to Haraka Wambdi's\nwigwam. Young mothers held their children by the hand, and half pulled\nthem along in their haste. They overtook and passed by the bent old\ngrandmothers who were trudging along with crooked canes toward the\ncentre of excitement. Most of the young braves galloped hither on their\nponies. Toothless warriors, like the old women, came more slowly, though\nmounted on lively ponies. They sat proudly erect on their horses. They\nwore their eagle plumes, and waved their various trophies of former\nwars.\n\nIn front of the wigwam a great fire was built, and several large black\nkettles of venison were suspended over it. The crowd were seated about\nit on the grass in a great circle. Behind them some of the braves stood\nleaning against the necks of their ponies, their tall figures draped in\nloose robes which were well drawn over their eyes.\n\nYoung girls, with their faces glowing like bright red autumn leaves,\ntheir glossy braids falling over each ear, sat coquettishly beside their\nchaperons. It was a custom for young Indian women to invite some older\nrelative to escort them to the public feasts. Though it was not an iron\nlaw, it was generally observed.\n\nHaraka Wambdi was a strong young brave, who had just returned from his\nfirst battle, a warrior. His near relatives, to celebrate his new rank,\nwere spreading a feast to which the whole of the Indian village was\ninvited.\n\nHolding my pretty striped blanket in readiness to throw over my\nshoulders, I grew more and more restless as I watched the gay throng\nassembling. My mother was busily broiling a wild duck that my aunt had\nthat morning brought over.\n\n\"Mother, mother, why do you stop to cook a small meal when we are\ninvited to a feast?\" I asked, with a snarl in my voice.\n\n\"My child, learn to wait. On our way to the celebration we are going to\nstop at Chanyu's wigwam. His aged mother-in-law is lying very ill, and\nI think she would like a taste of this small game.\"\n\nHaving once seen the suffering on the thin, pinched features of this\ndying woman, I felt a momentary shame that I had not remembered her\nbefore.\n\nOn our way I ran ahead of my mother and was reaching out my hand to pick\nsome purple plums that grew on a small bush, when I was checked by a low\n\"Sh!\" from my mother.\n\n\"Why, mother, I want to taste the plums!\" I exclaimed, as I dropped my\nhand to my side in disappointment.\n\n\"Never pluck a single plum from this brush, my child, for its roots are\nwrapped around an Indian's skeleton. A brave is buried here. While he\nlived he was so fond of playing the game of striped plum seeds that, at\nhis death, his set of plum seeds were buried in his hands. From them\nsprang up this little bush.\"\n\nEyeing the forbidden fruit, I trod lightly on the sacred ground, and\ndared to speak only in whispers until we had gone many paces from it.\nAfter that time I halted in my ramblings whenever I came in sight of the\nplum bush. I grew sober with awe, and was alert to hear a\nlong-drawn-out whistle rise from the roots of it. Though I had never\nheard with my own ears this strange whistle of departed spirits, yet I\nhad listened so frequently to hear the old folks describe it that I knew\nI should recognize it at once.\n\nThe lasting impression of that day, as I recall it now, is what my\nmother told me about the dead man's plum bush.\n\n\n\n\nVI.\n\nTHE GROUND SQUIRREL.\n\n\nIn the busy autumn days my cousin Warca-Ziwin's mother came to our\nwigwam to help my mother preserve foods for our winter use. I was very\nfond of my aunt, because she was not so quiet as my mother. Though she\nwas older, she was more jovial and less reserved. She was slender and\nremarkably erect. While my mother's hair was heavy and black, my aunt\nhad unusually thin locks.\n\nEver since I knew her she wore a string of large blue beads around her\nneck,--beads that were precious because my uncle had given them to her\nwhen she was a younger woman. She had a peculiar swing in her gait,\ncaused by a long stride rarely natural to so slight a figure. It was\nduring my aunt's visit with us that my mother forgot her accustomed\nquietness, often laughing heartily at some of my aunt's witty remarks.\n\nI loved my aunt threefold: for her hearty laughter, for the cheerfulness\nshe caused my mother, and most of all for the times she dried my tears\nand held me in her lap, when my mother had reproved me.\n\nEarly in the cool mornings, just as the yellow rim of the sun rose above\nthe hills, we were up and eating our breakfast. We awoke so early that\nwe saw the sacred hour when a misty smoke hung over a pit surrounded by\nan impassable sinking mire. This strange smoke appeared every morning,\nboth winter and summer; but most visibly in midwinter it rose\nimmediately above the marshy spot. By the time the full face of the sun\nappeared above the eastern horizon, the smoke vanished. Even very old\nmen, who had known this country the longest, said that the smoke from\nthis pit had never failed a single day to rise heavenward.\n\nAs I frolicked about our dwelling I used to stop suddenly, and with a\nfearful awe watch the smoking of the unknown fires. While the vapor was\nvisible I was afraid to go very far from our wigwam unless I went with\nmy mother.\n\nFrom a field in the fertile river bottom my mother and aunt gathered an\nabundant supply of corn. Near our tepee they spread a large canvas upon\nthe grass, and dried their sweet corn in it. I was left to watch the\ncorn, that nothing should disturb it. I played around it with dolls made\nof ears of corn. I braided their soft fine silk for hair, and gave them\nblankets as various as the scraps I found in my mother's workbag.\n\nThere was a little stranger with a black-and-yellow-striped coat that\nused to come to the drying corn. It was a little ground squirrel, who\nwas so fearless of me that he came to one corner of the canvas and\ncarried away as much of the sweet corn as he could hold. I wanted very\nmuch to catch him and rub his pretty fur back, but my mother said he\nwould be so frightened if I caught him that he would bite my fingers. So\nI was as content as he to keep the corn between us. Every morning he\ncame for more corn. Some evenings I have seen him creeping about our\ngrounds; and when I gave a sudden whoop of recognition he ran quickly\nout of sight.\n\nWhen mother had dried all the corn she wished, then she sliced great\npumpkins into thin rings; and these she doubled and linked together\ninto long chains. She hung them on a pole that stretched between two\nforked posts. The wind and sun soon thoroughly dried the chains of\npumpkin. Then she packed them away in a case of thick and stiff\nbuckskin.\n\nIn the sun and wind she also dried many wild fruits,--cherries, berries,\nand plums. But chiefest among my early recollections of autumn is that\none of the corn drying and the ground squirrel.\n\nI have few memories of winter days at this period of my life, though\nmany of the summer. There is one only which I can recall.\n\nSome missionaries gave me a little bag of marbles. They were all sizes\nand colors. Among them were some of colored glass. Walking with my\nmother to the river, on a late winter day, we found great chunks of ice\npiled all along the bank. The ice on the river was floating in huge\npieces. As I stood beside one large block, I noticed for the first time\nthe colors of the rainbow in the crystal ice. Immediately I thought of\nmy glass marbles at home. With my bare fingers I tried to pick out some\nof the colors, for they seemed so near the surface. But my fingers\nbegan to sting with the intense cold, and I had to bite them hard to\nkeep from crying.\n\nFrom that day on, for many a moon, I believed that glass marbles had\nriver ice inside of them.\n\n\n\n\nVII.\n\nTHE BIG RED APPLES.\n\n\nThe first turning away from the easy, natural flow of my life occurred\nin an early spring. It was in my eighth year; in the month of March, I\nafterward learned. At this age I knew but one language, and that was my\nmother's native tongue.\n\nFrom some of my playmates I heard that two paleface missionaries were in\nour village. They were from that class of white men who wore big hats\nand carried large hearts, they said. Running direct to my mother, I\nbegan to question her why these two strangers were among us. She told\nme, after I had teased much, that they had come to take away Indian boys\nand girls to the East. My mother did not seem to want me to talk about\nthem. But in a day or two, I gleaned many wonderful stories from my\nplayfellows concerning the strangers.\n\n\"Mother, my friend Jud\u00e9win is going home with the missionaries. She is\ngoing to a more beautiful country than ours; the palefaces told her\nso!\" I said wistfully, wishing in my heart that I too might go.\n\nMother sat in a chair, and I was hanging on her knee. Within the last\ntwo seasons my big brother Daw\u00e9e had returned from a three years'\neducation in the East, and his coming back influenced my mother to take\na farther step from her native way of living. First it was a change from\nthe buffalo skin to the white man's canvas that covered our wigwam. Now\nshe had given up her wigwam of slender poles, to live, a foreigner, in a\nhome of clumsy logs.\n\n\"Yes, my child, several others besides Jud\u00e9win are going away with the\npalefaces. Your brother said the missionaries had inquired about his\nlittle sister,\" she said, watching my face very closely.\n\nMy heart thumped so hard against my breast, I wondered if she could hear\nit.\n\n\"Did he tell them to take me, mother?\" I asked, fearing lest Daw\u00e9e had\nforbidden the palefaces to see me, and that my hope of going to the\nWonderland would be entirely blighted.\n\nWith a sad, slow smile, she answered: \"There! I knew you were wishing to\ngo, because Jud\u00e9win has filled your ears with the white man's lies.\nDon't believe a word they say! Their words are sweet, but, my child,\ntheir deeds are bitter. You will cry for me, but they will not even\nsoothe you. Stay with me, my little one! Your brother Daw\u00e9e says that\ngoing East, away from your mother, is too hard an experience for his\nbaby sister.\"\n\nThus my mother discouraged my curiosity about the lands beyond our\neastern horizon; for it was not yet an ambition for Letters that was\nstirring me. But on the following day the missionaries did come to our\nvery house. I spied them coming up the footpath leading to our cottage.\nA third man was with them, but he was not my brother Daw\u00e9e. It was\nanother, a young interpreter, a paleface who had a smattering of the\nIndian language. I was ready to run out to meet them, but I did not dare\nto displease my mother. With great glee, I jumped up and down on our\nground floor. I begged my mother to open the door, that they would be\nsure to come to us. Alas! They came, they saw, and they conquered!\n\nJud\u00e9win had told me of the great tree where grew red, red apples; and\nhow we could reach out our hands and pick all the red apples we could\neat. I had never seen apple trees. I had never tasted more than a dozen\nred apples in my life; and when I heard of the orchards of the East, I\nwas eager to roam among them. The missionaries smiled into my eyes and\npatted my head. I wondered how mother could say such hard words against\nhim.\n\n\"Mother, ask them if little girls may have all the red apples they want,\nwhen they go East,\" I whispered aloud, in my excitement.\n\nThe interpreter heard me, and answered: \"Yes, little girl, the nice red\napples are for those who pick them; and you will have a ride on the iron\nhorse if you go with these good people.\"\n\nI had never seen a train, and he knew it.\n\n\"Mother, I am going East! I like big red apples, and I want to ride on\nthe iron horse! Mother, say yes!\" I pleaded.\n\nMy mother said nothing. The missionaries waited in silence; and my eyes\nbegan to blur with tears, though I struggled to choke them back. The\ncorners of my mouth twitched, and my mother saw me.\n\n\"I am not ready to give you any word,\" she said to them. \"Tomorrow I\nshall send you my answer by my son.\"\n\nWith this they left us. Alone with my mother, I yielded to my tears, and\ncried aloud, shaking my head so as not to hear what she was saying to\nme. This was the first time I had ever been so unwilling to give up my\nown desire that I refused to hearken to my mother's voice.\n\nThere was a solemn silence in our home that night. Before I went to bed\nI begged the Great Spirit to make my mother willing I should go with the\nmissionaries.\n\nThe next morning came, and my mother called me to her side. \"My\ndaughter, do you still persist in wishing to leave your mother?\" she\nasked.\n\n\"Oh, mother, it is not that I wish to leave you, but I want to see the\nwonderful Eastern land,\" I answered.\n\nMy dear old aunt came to our house that morning, and I heard her say,\n\"Let her try it.\"\n\nI hoped that, as usual, my aunt was pleading on my side. My brother\nDaw\u00e9e came for mother's decision. I dropped my play, and crept close to\nmy aunt.\n\n\"Yes, Daw\u00e9e, my daughter, though she does not understand what it all\nmeans, is anxious to go. She will need an education when she is grown,\nfor then there will be fewer real Dakotas, and many more palefaces. This\ntearing her away, so young, from her mother is necessary, if I would\nhave her an educated woman. The palefaces, who owe us a large debt for\nstolen lands, have begun to pay a tardy justice in offering some\neducation to our children. But I know my daughter must suffer keenly in\nthis experiment. For her sake, I dread to tell you my reply to the\nmissionaries. Go, tell them that they may take my little daughter, and\nthat the Great Spirit shall not fail to reward them according to their\nhearts.\"\n\nWrapped in my heavy blanket, I walked with my mother to the carriage\nthat was soon to take us to the iron horse. I was happy. I met my\nplaymates, who were also wearing their best thick blankets. We showed\none another our new beaded moccasins, and the width of the belts that\ngirdled our new dresses. Soon we were being drawn rapidly away by the\nwhite man's horses. When I saw the lonely figure of my mother vanish in\nthe distance, a sense of regret settled heavily upon me. I felt\nsuddenly weak, as if I might fall limp to the ground. I was in the hands\nof strangers whom my mother did not fully trust. I no longer felt free\nto be myself, or to voice my own feelings. The tears trickled down my\ncheeks, and I buried my face in the folds of my blanket. Now the first\nstep, parting me from my mother, was taken, and all my belated tears\navailed nothing.\n\nHaving driven thirty miles to the ferryboat, we crossed the Missouri in\nthe evening. Then riding again a few miles eastward, we stopped before a\nmassive brick building. I looked at it in amazement, and with a vague\nmisgiving, for in our village I had never seen so large a house.\nTrembling with fear and distrust of the palefaces, my teeth chattering\nfrom the chilly ride, I crept noiselessly in my soft moccasins along the\nnarrow hall, keeping very close to the bare wall. I was as frightened\nand bewildered as the captured young of a wild creature.\n\n\n\n\nTHE SCHOOL DAYS OF AN INDIAN GIRL\n\nI.\n\nTHE LAND OF RED APPLES.\n\n\nThere were eight in our party of bronzed children who were going East\nwith the missionaries. Among us were three young braves, two tall girls,\nand we three little ones, Jud\u00e9win, Thowin, and I.\n\nWe had been very impatient to start on our journey to the Red Apple\nCountry, which, we were told, lay a little beyond the great circular\nhorizon of the Western prairie. Under a sky of rosy apples we dreamt of\nroaming as freely and happily as we had chased the cloud shadows on the\nDakota plains. We had anticipated much pleasure from a ride on the iron\nhorse, but the throngs of staring palefaces disturbed and troubled us.\n\nOn the train, fair women, with tottering babies on each arm, stopped\ntheir haste and scrutinized the children of absent mothers. Large men,\nwith heavy bundles in their hands, halted near by, and riveted their\nglassy blue eyes upon us.\n\nI sank deep into the corner of my seat, for I resented being watched.\nDirectly in front of me, children who were no larger than I hung\nthemselves upon the backs of their seats, with their bold white faces\ntoward me. Sometimes they took their forefingers out of their mouths and\npointed at my moccasined feet. Their mothers, instead of reproving such\nrude curiosity, looked closely at me, and attracted their children's\nfurther notice to my blanket. This embarrassed me, and kept me\nconstantly on the verge of tears.\n\nI sat perfectly still, with my eyes downcast, daring only now and then\nto shoot long glances around me. Chancing to turn to the window at my\nside, I was quite breathless upon seeing one familiar object. It was the\ntelegraph pole which strode by at short paces. Very near my mother's\ndwelling, along the edge of a road thickly bordered with wild\nsunflowers, some poles like these had been planted by white men. Often I\nhad stopped, on my way down the road, to hold my ear against the pole,\nand, hearing its low moaning, I used to wonder what the paleface had\ndone to hurt it. Now I sat watching for each pole that glided by to be\nthe last one.\n\nIn this way I had forgotten my uncomfortable surroundings, when I heard\none of my comrades call out my name. I saw the missionary standing very\nnear, tossing candies and gums into our midst. This amused us all, and\nwe tried to see who could catch the most of the sweetmeats.\n\nThough we rode several days inside of the iron horse, I do not recall a\nsingle thing about our luncheons.\n\nIt was night when we reached the school grounds. The lights from the\nwindows of the large buildings fell upon some of the icicled trees that\nstood beneath them. We were led toward an open door, where the\nbrightness of the lights within flooded out over the heads of the\nexcited palefaces who blocked our way. My body trembled more from fear\nthan from the snow I trod upon.\n\nEntering the house, I stood close against the wall. The strong glaring\nlight in the large whitewashed room dazzled my eyes. The noisy hurrying\nof hard shoes upon a bare wooden floor increased the whirring in my\nears. My only safety seemed to be in keeping next to the wall. As I was\nwondering in which direction to escape from all this confusion, two warm\nhands grasped me firmly, and in the same moment I was tossed high in\nmidair. A rosy-cheeked paleface woman caught me in her arms. I was both\nfrightened and insulted by such trifling. I stared into her eyes,\nwishing her to let me stand on my own feet, but she jumped me up and\ndown with increasing enthusiasm. My mother had never made a plaything of\nher wee daughter. Remembering this I began to cry aloud.\n\nThey misunderstood the cause of my tears, and placed me at a white table\nloaded with food. There our party were united again. As I did not hush\nmy crying, one of the older ones whispered to me, \"Wait until you are\nalone in the night.\"\n\nIt was very little I could swallow besides my sobs, that evening.\n\n\"Oh, I want my mother and my brother Daw\u00e9e! I want to go to my aunt!\" I\npleaded; but the ears of the palefaces could not hear me.\n\nFrom the table we were taken along an upward incline of wooden boxes,\nwhich I learned afterward to call a stairway. At the top was a quiet\nhall, dimly lighted. Many narrow beds were in one straight line down the\nentire length of the wall. In them lay sleeping brown faces, which\npeeped just out of the coverings. I was tucked into bed with one of the\ntall girls, because she talked to me in my mother tongue and seemed to\nsoothe me.\n\nI had arrived in the wonderful land of rosy skies, but I was not happy,\nas I had thought I should be. My long travel and the bewildering sights\nhad exhausted me. I fell asleep, heaving deep, tired sobs. My tears were\nleft to dry themselves in streaks, because neither my aunt nor my mother\nwas near to wipe them away.\n\n\n\n\nII.\n\nTHE CUTTING OF MY LONG HAIR.\n\n\nThe first day in the land of apples was a bitter-cold one; for the snow\nstill covered the ground, and the trees were bare. A large bell rang for\nbreakfast, its loud metallic voice crashing through the belfry overhead\nand into our sensitive ears. The annoying clatter of shoes on bare\nfloors gave us no peace. The constant clash of harsh noises, with an\nundercurrent of many voices murmuring an unknown tongue, made a bedlam\nwithin which I was securely tied. And though my spirit tore itself in\nstruggling for its lost freedom, all was useless.\n\nA paleface woman, with white hair, came up after us. We were placed in a\nline of girls who were marching into the dining room. These were Indian\ngirls, in stiff shoes and closely clinging dresses. The small girls wore\nsleeved aprons and shingled hair. As I walked noiselessly in my soft\nmoccasins, I felt like sinking to the floor, for my blanket had been\nstripped from my shoulders. I looked hard at the Indian girls, who\nseemed not to care that they were even more immodestly dressed than I,\nin their tightly fitting clothes. While we marched in, the boys entered\nat an opposite door. I watched for the three young braves who came in\nour party. I spied them in the rear ranks, looking as uncomfortable as I\nfelt. A small bell was tapped, and each of the pupils drew a chair from\nunder the table. Supposing this act meant they were to be seated, I\npulled out mine and at once slipped into it from one side. But when I\nturned my head, I saw that I was the only one seated, and all the rest\nat our table remained standing. Just as I began to rise, looking shyly\naround to see how chairs were to be used, a second bell was sounded. All\nwere seated at last, and I had to crawl back into my chair again. I\nheard a man's voice at one end of the hall, and I looked around to see\nhim. But all the others hung their heads over their plates. As I glanced\nat the long chain of tables, I caught the eyes of a paleface woman upon\nme. Immediately I dropped my eyes, wondering why I was so keenly watched\nby the strange woman. The man ceased his mutterings, and then a third\nbell was tapped. Every one picked up his knife and fork and began\neating. I began crying instead, for by this time I was afraid to venture\nanything more.\n\nBut this eating by formula was not the hardest trial in that first day.\nLate in the morning, my friend Jud\u00e9win gave me a terrible warning.\nJud\u00e9win knew a few words of English; and she had overheard the paleface\nwoman talk about cutting our long, heavy hair. Our mothers had taught us\nthat only unskilled warriors who were captured had their hair shingled\nby the enemy. Among our people, short hair was worn by mourners, and\nshingled hair by cowards!\n\nWe discussed our fate some moments, and when Jud\u00e9win said, \"We have to\nsubmit, because they are strong,\" I rebelled.\n\n\"No, I will not submit! I will struggle first!\" I answered.\n\nI watched my chance, and when no one noticed, I disappeared. I crept up\nthe stairs as quietly as I could in my squeaking shoes,--my moccasins\nhad been exchanged for shoes. Along the hall I passed, without knowing\nwhither I was going. Turning aside to an open door, I found a large room\nwith three white beds in it. The windows were covered with dark green\ncurtains, which made the room very dim. Thankful that no one was there,\nI directed my steps toward the corner farthest from the door. On my\nhands and knees I crawled under the bed, and cuddled myself in the dark\ncorner.\n\nFrom my hiding place I peered out, shuddering with fear whenever I heard\nfootsteps near by. Though in the hall loud voices were calling my name,\nand I knew that even Jud\u00e9win was searching for me, I did not open my\nmouth to answer. Then the steps were quickened and the voices became\nexcited. The sounds came nearer and nearer. Women and girls entered the\nroom. I held my breath and watched them open closet doors and peep\nbehind large trunks. Some one threw up the curtains, and the room was\nfilled with sudden light. What caused them to stoop and look under the\nbed I do not know. I remember being dragged out, though I resisted by\nkicking and scratching wildly. In spite of myself, I was carried\ndownstairs and tied fast in a chair.\n\nI cried aloud, shaking my head all the while until I felt the cold\nblades of the scissors against my neck, and heard them gnaw off one of\nmy thick braids. Then I lost my spirit. Since the day I was taken from\nmy mother I had suffered extreme indignities. People had stared at me. I\nhad been tossed about in the air like a wooden puppet. And now my long\nhair was shingled like a coward's! In my anguish I moaned for my mother,\nbut no one came to comfort me. Not a soul reasoned quietly with me, as\nmy own mother used to do; for now I was only one of many little animals\ndriven by a herder.\n\n\n\n\nIII.\n\nTHE SNOW EPISODE.\n\n\nA short time after our arrival we three Dakotas were playing in the\nsnowdrift. We were all still deaf to the English language, excepting\nJud\u00e9win, who always heard such puzzling things. One morning we learned\nthrough her ears that we were forbidden to fall lengthwise in the snow,\nas we had been doing, to see our own impressions. However, before many\nhours we had forgotten the order, and were having great sport in the\nsnow, when a shrill voice called us. Looking up, we saw an imperative\nhand beckoning us into the house. We shook the snow off ourselves, and\nstarted toward the woman as slowly as we dared.\n\nJud\u00e9win said: \"Now the paleface is angry with us. She is going to punish\nus for falling into the snow. If she looks straight into your eyes and\ntalks loudly, you must wait until she stops. Then, after a tiny pause,\nsay, 'No.'\" The rest of the way we practiced upon the little word \"no.\"\n\nAs it happened, Thowin was summoned to judgment first. The door shut\nbehind her with a click.\n\nJud\u00e9win and I stood silently listening at the keyhole. The paleface\nwoman talked in very severe tones. Her words fell from her lips like\ncrackling embers, and her inflection ran up like the small end of a\nswitch. I understood her voice better than the things she was saying. I\nwas certain we had made her very impatient with us. Jud\u00e9win heard enough\nof the words to realize all too late that she had taught us the wrong\nreply.\n\n\"Oh, poor Thowin!\" she gasped, as she put both hands over her ears.\n\nJust then I heard Thowin's tremulous answer, \"No.\"\n\nWith an angry exclamation, the woman gave her a hard spanking. Then she\nstopped to say something. Jud\u00e9win said it was this: \"Are you going to\nobey my word the next time?\"\n\nThowin answered again with the only word at her command, \"No.\"\n\nThis time the woman meant her blows to smart, for the poor frightened\ngirl shrieked at the top of her voice. In the midst of the whipping the\nblows ceased abruptly, and the woman asked another question: \"Are you\ngoing to fall in the snow again?\"\n\nThowin gave her bad passwood another trial. We heard her say feebly,\n\"No! No!\"\n\nWith this the woman hid away her half-worn slipper, and led the child\nout, stroking her black shorn head. Perhaps it occurred to her that\nbrute force is not the solution for such a problem. She did nothing to\nJud\u00e9win nor to me. She only returned to us our unhappy comrade, and left\nus alone in the room.\n\nDuring the first two or three seasons misunderstandings as ridiculous as\nthis one of the snow episode frequently took place, bringing\nunjustifiable frights and punishments into our little lives.\n\nWithin a year I was able to express myself somewhat in broken English.\nAs soon as I comprehended a part of what was said and done, a\nmischievous spirit of revenge possessed me. One day I was called in from\nmy play for some misconduct. I had disregarded a rule which seemed to me\nvery needlessly binding. I was sent into the kitchen to mash the turnips\nfor dinner. It was noon, and steaming dishes were hastily carried into\nthe dining-room. I hated turnips, and their odor which came from the\nbrown jar was offensive to me. With fire in my heart, I took the wooden\ntool that the paleface woman held out to me. I stood upon a step, and,\ngrasping the handle with both hands, I bent in hot rage over the\nturnips. I worked my vengeance upon them. All were so busily occupied\nthat no one noticed me. I saw that the turnips were in a pulp, and that\nfurther beating could not improve them; but the order was, \"Mash these\nturnips,\" and mash them I would! I renewed my energy; and as I sent the\nmasher into the bottom of the jar, I felt a satisfying sensation that\nthe weight of my body had gone into it.\n\nJust here a paleface woman came up to my table. As she looked into the\njar, she shoved my hands roughly aside. I stood fearless and angry. She\nplaced her red hands upon the rim of the jar. Then she gave one lift and\nstride away from the table. But lo! the pulpy contents fell through the\ncrumbled bottom to the floor I She spared me no scolding phrases that I\nhad earned. I did not heed them. I felt triumphant in my revenge, though\ndeep within me I was a wee bit sorry to have broken the jar.\n\nAs I sat eating my dinner, and saw that no turnips were served, I\nwhooped in my heart for having once asserted the rebellion within me.\n\n\n\n\nIV.\n\nTHE DEVIL.\n\n\nAmong the legends the old warriors used to tell me were many stories of\nevil spirits. But I was taught to fear them no more than those who\nstalked about in material guise. I never knew there was an insolent\nchieftain among the bad spirits, who dared to array his forces against\nthe Great Spirit, until I heard this white man's legend from a paleface\nwoman.\n\nOut of a large book she showed me a picture of the white man's devil. I\nlooked in horror upon the strong claws that grew out of his fur-covered\nfingers. His feet were like his hands. Trailing at his heels was a scaly\ntail tipped with a serpent's open jaws. His face was a patchwork: he had\nbearded cheeks, like some I had seen palefaces wear; his nose was an\neagle's bill, and his sharp-pointed ears were pricked up like those of a\nsly fox. Above them a pair of cow's horns curved upward. I trembled with\nawe, and my heart throbbed in my throat, as I looked at the king of evil\nspirits. Then I heard the paleface woman say that this terrible creature\nroamed loose in the world, and that little girls who disobeyed school\nregulations were to be tortured by him.\n\nThat night I dreamt about this evil divinity. Once again I seemed to be\nin my mother's cottage. An Indian woman had come to visit my mother. On\nopposite sides of the kitchen stove, which stood in the center of the\nsmall house, my mother and her guest were seated in straight-backed\nchairs. I played with a train of empty spools hitched together on a\nstring. It was night, and the wick burned feebly. Suddenly I heard some\none turn our door-knob from without.\n\nMy mother and the woman hushed their talk, and both looked toward the\ndoor. It opened gradually. I waited behind the stove. The hinges\nsqueaked as the door was slowly, very slowly pushed inward.\n\nThen in rushed the devil! He was tall! He looked exactly like the\npicture I had seen of him in the white man's papers. He did not speak to\nmy mother, because he did not know the Indian language, but his\nglittering yellow eyes were fastened upon me. He took long strides\naround the stove, passing behind the woman's chair. I threw down my\nspools, and ran to my mother. He did not fear her, but followed closely\nafter me. Then I ran round and round the stove, crying aloud for help.\nBut my mother and the woman seemed not to know my danger. They sat\nstill, looking quietly upon the devil's chase after me. At last I grew\ndizzy. My head revolved as on a hidden pivot. My knees became numb, and\ndoubled under my weight like a pair of knife blades without a spring.\nBeside my mother's chair I fell in a heap. Just as the devil stooped\nover me with outstretched claws my mother awoke from her quiet\nindifference, and lifted me on her lap. Whereupon the devil vanished,\nand I was awake.\n\nOn the following morning I took my revenge upon the devil. Stealing into\nthe room where a wall of shelves was filled with books, I drew forth The\nStories of the Bible. With a broken slate pencil I carried in my apron\npocket, I began by scratching out his wicked eyes. A few moments later,\nwhen I was ready to leave the room, there was a ragged hole in the page\nwhere the picture of the devil had once been.\n\n\n\n\nV.\n\nIRON ROUTINE\n\n\nA loud-clamoring bell awakened us at half-past six in the cold winter\nmornings. From happy dreams of Western rolling lands and unlassoed\nfreedom we tumbled out upon chilly bare floors back again into a\npaleface day. We had short time to jump into our shoes and clothes, and\nwet our eyes with icy water, before a small hand bell was vigorously\nrung for roll call.\n\nThere were too many drowsy children and too numerous orders for the day\nto waste a moment in any apology to nature for giving her children such\na shock in the early morning. We rushed downstairs, bounding over two\nhigh steps at a time, to land in the assembly room.\n\nA paleface woman, with a yellow-covered roll book open on her arm and a\ngnawed pencil in her hand, appeared at the door. Her small, tired face\nwas coldly lighted with a pair of large gray eyes.\n\nShe stood still in a halo of authority, while over the rim of her\nspectacles her eyes pried nervously about the room. Having glanced at\nher long list of names and called out the first one, she tossed up her\nchin and peered through the crystals of her spectacles to make sure of\nthe answer \"Here.\"\n\nRelentlessly her pencil black-marked our daily records if we were not\npresent to respond to our names, and no chum of ours had done it\nsuccessfully for us. No matter if a dull headache or the painful cough\nof slow consumption had delayed the absentee, there was only time enough\nto mark the tardiness. It was next to impossible to leave the iron\nroutine after the civilizing machine had once begun its day's buzzing;\nand as it was inbred in me to suffer in silence rather than to appeal to\nthe ears of one whose open eyes could not see my pain, I have many times\ntrudged in the day's harness heavy-footed, like a dumb sick brute.\n\nOnce I lost a dear classmate. I remember well how she used to mope along\nat my side, until one morning she could not raise her head from her\npillow. At her deathbed I stood weeping, as the paleface woman sat near\nher moistening the dry lips. Among the folds of the bedclothes I saw\nthe open pages of the white man's Bible. The dying Indian girl talked\ndisconnectedly of Jesus the Christ and the paleface who was cooling her\nswollen hands and feet.\n\nI grew bitter, and censured the woman for cruel neglect of our physical\nills. I despised the pencils that moved automatically, and the one\nteaspoon which dealt out, from a large bottle, healing to a row of\nvariously ailing Indian children. I blamed the hard-working,\nwell-meaning, ignorant woman who was inculcating in our hearts her\nsuperstitious ideas. Though I was sullen in all my little troubles, as\nsoon as I felt better I was ready again to smile upon the cruel woman.\nWithin a week I was again actively testing the chains which tightly\nbound my individuality like a mummy for burial.\n\nThe melancholy of those black days has left so long a shadow that it\ndarkens the path of years that have since gone by. These sad memories\nrise above those of smoothly grinding school days. Perhaps my Indian\nnature is the moaning wind which stirs them now for their present\nrecord. But, however tempestuous this is within me, it comes out as the\nlow voice of a curiously colored seashell, which is only for those ears\nthat are bent with compassion to hear it.\n\n\n\n\nVI.\n\nFOUR STRANGE SUMMERS.\n\n\nAfter my first three years of school, I roamed again in the Western\ncountry through four strange summers.\n\nDuring this time I seemed to hang in the heart of chaos, beyond the\ntouch or voice of human aid. My brother, being almost ten years my\nsenior, did not quite understand my feelings. My mother had never gone\ninside of a schoolhouse, and so she was not capable of comforting her\ndaughter who could read and write. Even nature seemed to have no place\nfor me. I was neither a wee girl nor a tall one; neither a wild Indian\nnor a tame one. This deplorable situation was the effect of my brief\ncourse in the East, and the unsatisfactory \"teenth\" in a girl's years.\n\nIt was under these trying conditions that, one bright afternoon, as I\nsat restless and unhappy in my mother's cabin, I caught the sound of the\nspirited step of my brother's pony on the road which passed by our\ndwelling. Soon I heard the wheels of a light buckboard, and Daw\u00e9e's\nfamiliar \"Ho!\" to his pony. He alighted upon the bare ground in front\nof our house. Tying his pony to one of the projecting corner logs of the\nlow-roofed cottage, he stepped upon the wooden doorstep.\n\nI met him there with a hurried greeting, and, as I passed by, he looked\na quiet \"What?\" into my eyes.\n\nWhen he began talking with my mother, I slipped the rope from the pony's\nbridle. Seizing the reins and bracing my feet against the dashboard, I\nwheeled around in an instant. The pony was ever ready to try his speed.\nLooking backward, I saw Daw\u00e9e waving his hand to me. I turned with the\ncurve in the road and disappeared. I followed the winding road which\ncrawled upward between the bases of little hillocks. Deep water-worn\nditches ran parallel on either side. A strong wind blew against my\ncheeks and fluttered my sleeves. The pony reached the top of the highest\nhill, and began an even race on the level lands. There was nothing\nmoving within that great circular horizon of the Dakota prairies save\nthe tall grasses, over which the wind blew and rolled off in long,\nshadowy waves.\n\nWithin this vast wigwam of blue and green I rode reckless and\ninsignificant. It satisfied my small consciousness to see the white foam\nfly from the pony's mouth.\n\nSuddenly, out of the earth a coyote came forth at a swinging trot that\nwas taking the cunning thief toward the hills and the village beyond.\nUpon the moment's impulse, I gave him a long chase and a wholesome\nfright. As I turned away to go back to the village, the wolf sank down\nupon his haunches for rest, for it was a hot summer day; and as I drove\nslowly homeward, I saw his sharp nose still pointed at me, until I\nvanished below the margin of the hilltops.\n\nIn a little while I came in sight of my mother's house. Daw\u00e9e stood in\nthe yard, laughing at an old warrior who was pointing his forefinger,\nand again waving his whole hand, toward the hills. With his blanket\ndrawn over one shoulder, he talked and motioned excitedly. Daw\u00e9e turned\nthe old man by the shoulder and pointed me out to him.\n\n\"Oh, han!\" (Oh, yes) the warrior muttered, and went his way. He had\nclimbed the top of his favorite barren hill to survey the surrounding\nprairies, when he spied my chase after the coyote. His keen eyes\nrecognized the pony and driver. At once uneasy for my safety, he had\ncome running to my mother's cabin to give her warning. I did not\nappreciate his kindly interest, for there was an unrest gnawing at my\nheart.\n\nAs soon as he went away, I asked Daw\u00e9e about something else.\n\n\"No, my baby sister, I cannot take you with me to the party tonight,\" he\nreplied. Though I was not far from fifteen, and I felt that before long\nI should enjoy all the privileges of my tall cousin, Daw\u00e9e persisted in\ncalling me his baby sister.\n\nThat moonlight night, I cried in my mother's presence when I heard the\njolly young people pass by our cottage. They were no more young braves\nin blankets and eagle plumes, nor Indian maids with prettily painted\ncheeks. They had gone three years to school in the East, and had become\ncivilized. The young men wore the white man's coat and trousers, with\nbright neckties. The girls wore tight muslin dresses, with ribbons at\nneck and waist. At these gatherings they talked English. I could speak\nEnglish almost as well as my brother, but I was not properly dressed to\nbe taken along. I had no hat, no ribbons, and no close-fitting gown.\nSince my return from school I had thrown away my shoes, and wore again\nthe soft moccasins.\n\nWhile Daw\u00e9e was busily preparing to go I controlled my tears. But when I\nheard him bounding away on his pony, I buried my face in my arms and\ncried hot tears.\n\nMy mother was troubled by my unhappiness. Coming to my side, she offered\nme the only printed matter we had in our home. It was an Indian Bible,\ngiven her some years ago by a missionary. She tried to console me.\n\"Here, my child, are the white man's papers. Read a little from them,\"\nshe said most piously.\n\nI took it from her hand, for her sake; but my enraged spirit felt more\nlike burning the book, which afforded me no help, and was a perfect\ndelusion to my mother. I did not read it, but laid it unopened on the\nfloor, where I sat on my feet. The dim yellow light of the braided\nmuslin burning in a small vessel of oil flickered and sizzled in the\nawful silent storm which followed my rejection of the Bible.\n\nNow my wrath against the fates consumed my tears before they reached my\neyes. I sat stony, with a bowed head. My mother threw a shawl over her\nhead and shoulders, and stepped out into the night.\n\nAfter an uncertain solitude, I was suddenly aroused by a loud cry\npiercing the night. It was my mother's voice wailing among the barren\nhills which held the bones of buried warriors. She called aloud for her\nbrothers' spirits to support her in her helpless misery. My fingers Grey\nicy cold, as I realized that my unrestrained tears had betrayed my\nsuffering to her, and she was grieving for me.\n\nBefore she returned, though I knew she was on her way, for she had\nceased her weeping, I extinguished the light, and leaned my head on the\nwindow sill.\n\nMany schemes of running away from my surroundings hovered about in my\nmind. A few more moons of such a turmoil drove me away to the eastern\nschool. I rode on the white man's iron steed, thinking it would bring me\nback to my mother in a few winters, when I should be grown tall, and\nthere would be congenial friends awaiting me.\n\n\n\n\nVII.\n\nINCURRING MY MOTHER'S DISPLEASURE.\n\n\nIn the second journey to the East I had not come without some\nprecautions. I had a secret interview with one of our best medicine men,\nand when I left his wigwam I carried securely in my sleeve a tiny bunch\nof magic roots. This possession assured me of friends wherever I should\ngo. So absolutely did I believe in its charms that I wore it through all\nthe school routine for more than a year. Then, before I lost my faith in\nthe dead roots, I lost the little buckskin bag containing all my good\nluck.\n\nAt the close of this second term of three years I was the proud owner of\nmy first diploma. The following autumn I ventured upon a college career\nagainst my mother's will.\n\nI had written for her approval, but in her reply I found no\nencouragement. She called my notice to her neighbors' children, who had\ncompleted their education in three years. They had returned to their\nhomes, and were then talking English with the frontier settlers. Her few\nwords hinted that I had better give up my slow attempt to learn the\nwhite man's ways, and be content to roam over the prairies and find my\nliving upon wild roots. I silenced her by deliberate disobedience.\n\nThus, homeless and heavy-hearted, I began anew my life among strangers.\n\nAs I hid myself in my little room in the college dormitory, away from\nthe scornful and yet curious eyes of the students, I pined for sympathy.\nOften I wept in secret, wishing I had gone West, to be nourished by my\nmother's love, instead of remaining among a cold race whose hearts were\nfrozen hard with prejudice.\n\nDuring the fall and winter seasons I scarcely had a real friend, though\nby that time several of my classmates were courteous to me at a safe\ndistance.\n\nMy mother had not yet forgiven my rudeness to her, and I had no moment\nfor letter-writing. By daylight and lamplight, I spun with reeds and\nthistles, until my hands were tired from their weaving, the magic design\nwhich promised me the white man's respect.\n\nAt length, in the spring term, I entered an oratorical contest among the\nvarious classes. As the day of competition approached, it did not seem\npossible that the event was so near at hand, but it came. In the chapel\nthe classes assembled together, with their invited guests. The high\nplatform was carpeted, and gaily festooned with college colors. A bright\nwhite light illumined the room, and outlined clearly the great polished\nbeams that arched the domed ceiling. The assembled crowds filled the air\nwith pulsating murmurs. When the hour for speaking arrived all were\nhushed. But on the wall the old clock which pointed out the trying\nmoment ticked calmly on.\n\nOne after another I saw and heard the orators. Still, I could not\nrealize that they longed for the favorable decision of the judges as\nmuch as I did. Each contestant received a loud burst of applause, and\nsome were cheered heartily. Too soon my turn came, and I paused a moment\nbehind the curtains for a deep breath. After my concluding words, I\nheard the same applause that the others had called out.\n\nUpon my retreating steps, I was astounded to receive from my\nfellow-students a large bouquet of roses tied with flowing ribbons.\nWith the lovely flowers I fled from the stage. This friendly token was\na rebuke to me for the hard feelings I had borne them.\n\nLater, the decision of the judges awarded me the first place. Then there\nwas a mad uproar in the hall, where my classmates sang and shouted my\nname at the top of their lungs; and the disappointed students howled and\nbrayed in fearfully dissonant tin trumpets. In this excitement, happy\nstudents rushed forward to offer their congratulations. And I could not\nconceal a smile when they wished to escort me in a procession to the\nstudents' parlor, where all were going to calm themselves. Thanking them\nfor the kind spirit which prompted them to make such a proposition, I\nwalked alone with the night to my own little room.\n\nA few weeks afterward, I appeared as the college representative in\nanother contest. This time the competition was among orators from\ndifferent colleges in our State. It was held at the State capital, in\none of the largest opera houses.\n\nHere again was a strong prejudice against my people. In the evening, as\nthe great audience filled the house, the student bodies began warring\namong themselves. Fortunately, I was spared witnessing any of the noisy\nwrangling before the contest began. The slurs against the Indian that\nstained the lips of our opponents were already burning like a dry fever\nwithin my breast.\n\nBut after the orations were delivered a deeper burn awaited me. There,\nbefore that vast ocean of eyes, some college rowdies threw out a large\nwhite flag, with a drawing of a most forlorn Indian girl on it. Under\nthis they had printed in bold black letters words that ridiculed the\ncollege which was represented by a \"squaw.\" Such worse than barbarian\nrudeness embittered me. While we waited for the verdict of the judges, I\ngleamed fiercely upon the throngs of palefaces. My teeth were hard set,\nas I saw the white flag still floating insolently in the air.\n\nThen anxiously we watched the man carry toward the stage the envelope\ncontaining the final decision.\n\nThere were two prizes given, that night, and one of them was mine!\n\nThe evil spirit laughed within me when the white flag dropped out of\nsight, and the hands which hurled it hung limp in defeat.\n\nLeaving the crowd as quickly as possible, I was soon in my room. The\nrest of the night I sat in an armchair and gazed into the crackling\nfire. I laughed no more in triumph when thus alone. The little taste of\nvictory did not satisfy a hunger in my heart. In my mind I saw my mother\nfar away on the Western plains, and she was holding a charge against me.\n\n\n\n\nAN INDIAN TEACHER AMONG INDIANS\n\nI.\n\nMY FIRST DAY.\n\n\nThough an illness left me unable to continue my college course, my pride\nkept me from returning to my mother. Had she known of my worn condition,\nshe would have said the white man's papers were not worth the freedom\nand health I had lost by them. Such a rebuke from my mother would have\nbeen unbearable, and as I felt then it would be far too true to be\ncomfortable.\n\nSince the winter when I had my first dreams about red apples I had been\ntraveling slowly toward the morning horizon. There had been no doubt\nabout the direction in which I wished to go to spend my energies in a\nwork for the Indian race. Thus I had written my mother briefly, saying\nmy plan for the year was to teach in an Eastern Indian school. Sending\nthis message to her in the West, I started at once eastward.\n\nThus I found myself, tired and hot, in a black veiling of car smoke, as\nI stood wearily on a street corner of an old-fashioned town, waiting\nfor a car. In a few moments more I should be on the school grounds,\nwhere a new work was ready for my inexperienced hands.\n\nUpon entering the school campus, I was surprised at the thickly\nclustered buildings which made it a quaint little village, much more\ninteresting than the town itself. The large trees among the houses gave\nthe place a cool, refreshing shade, and the grass a deeper green. Within\nthis large court of grass and trees stood a low green pump. The queer\nboxlike case had a revolving handle on its side, which clanked and\ncreaked constantly.\n\nI made myself known, and was shown to my room,--a small, carpeted room,\nwith ghastly walls and ceiling. The two windows, both on the same side,\nwere curtained with heavy muslin yellowed with age. A clean white bed\nwas in one corner of the room, and opposite it was a square pine table\ncovered with a black woolen blanket.\n\nWithout removing my hat from my head, I seated myself in one of the two\nstiff-backed chairs that were placed beside the table. For several heart\nthrobs I sat still looking from ceiling to floor, from wall to wall,\ntrying hard to imagine years of contentment there. Even while I was\nwondering if my exhausted strength would sustain me through this\nundertaking, I heard a heavy tread stop at my door. Opening it, I met\nthe imposing figure of a stately gray-haired man. With a light straw hat\nin one hand, and the right hand extended for greeting, he smiled kindly\nupon me. For some reason I was awed by his wondrous height and his\nstrong square shoulders, which I felt were a finger's length above my\nhead.\n\nI was always slight, and my serious illness in the early spring had made\nme look rather frail and languid. His quick eye measured my height and\nbreadth. Then he looked into my face. I imagined that a visible shadow\nflitted across his countenance as he let my hand fall. I knew he was no\nother than my employer.\n\n\"Ah ha! so you are the little Indian girl who created the excitement\namong the college orators!\" he said, more to himself than to me. I\nthought I heard a subtle note of disappointment in his voice. Looking in\nfrom where he stood, with one sweeping glance, he asked if I lacked\nanything for my room.\n\nAfter he turned to go, I listened to his step until it grew faint and\nwas lost in the distance. I was aware that my car-smoked appearance had\nnot concealed the lines of pain on my face.\n\nFor a short moment my spirit laughed at my ill fortune, and I\nentertained the idea of exerting myself to make an improvement. But as I\ntossed my hat off a leaden weakness came over me, and I felt as if years\nof weariness lay like water-soaked logs upon me. I threw myself upon the\nbed, and, closing my eyes, forgot my good intention.\n\n\n\n\nII.\n\nA TRIP WESTWARD.\n\n\nOne sultry month I sat at a desk heaped up with work. Now, as I recall\nit, I wonder how I could have dared to disregard nature's warning with\nsuch recklessness. Fortunately, my inheritance of a marvelous endurance\nenabled me to bend without breaking.\n\nThough I had gone to and fro, from my room to the office, in an unhappy\nsilence, I was watched by those around me. On an early morning I was\nsummoned to the superintendent's office. For a half-hour I listened to\nhis words, and when I returned to my room I remembered one sentence\nabove the rest. It was this: \"I am going to turn you loose to pasture!\"\nHe was sending me West to gather Indian pupils for the school, and this\nwas his way of expressing it.\n\nI needed nourishment, but the midsummer's travel across the continent to\nsearch the hot prairies for overconfident parents who would entrust\ntheir children to strangers was a lean pasturage. However, I dwelt on\nthe hope of seeing my mother. I tried to reason that a change was a\nrest. Within a couple of days I started toward my mother's home.\n\nThe intense heat and the sticky car smoke that followed my homeward\ntrail did not noticeably restore my vitality. Hour after hour I gazed\nupon the country which was receding rapidly from me. I noticed the\ngradual expansion of the horizon as we emerged out of the forests into\nthe plains. The great high buildings, whose towers overlooked the dense\nwoodlands, and whose gigantic clusters formed large cities, diminished,\ntogether with the groves, until only little log cabins lay snugly in the\nbosom of the vast prairie. The cloud shadows which drifted about on the\nwaving yellow of long-dried grasses thrilled me like the meeting of old\nfriends.\n\nAt a small station, consisting of a single frame house with a rickety\nboard walk around it, I alighted from the iron horse, just thirty miles\nfrom my mother and my brother Daw\u00e9e. A strong hot wind seemed determined\nto blow my hat off, and return me to olden days when I roamed bareheaded\nover the hills. After the puffing engine of my train was gone, I stood\non the platform in deep solitude. In the distance I saw the gently\nrolling land leap up into bare hills. At their bases a broad gray road\nwas winding itself round about them until it came by the station. Among\nthese hills I rode in a light conveyance, with a trusty driver, whose\nunkempt flaxen hair hung shaggy about his ears and his leather neck of\nreddish tan. From accident or decay he had lost one of his long front\nteeth.\n\nThough I call him a paleface, his cheeks were of a brick red. His moist\nblue eyes, blurred and bloodshot, twitched involuntarily. For a long\ntime he had driven through grass and snow from this solitary station to\nthe Indian village. His weather-stained clothes fitted badly his warped\nshoulders. He was stooped, and his protruding chin, with its tuft of dry\nflax, nodded as monotonously as did the head of his faithful beast.\n\nAll the morning I looked about me, recognizing old familiar sky lines of\nrugged bluffs and round-topped hills. By the roadside I caught glimpses\nof various plants whose sweet roots were delicacies among my people.\nWhen I saw the first cone-shaped wigwam, I could not help uttering an\nexclamation which caused my driver a sudden jump out of his drowsy\nnodding.\n\nAt noon, as we drove through the eastern edge of the reservation, I grew\nvery impatient and restless. Constantly I wondered what my mother would\nsay upon seeing her little daughter grown tall. I had not written her\nthe day of my arrival, thinking I would surprise her. Crossing a ravine\nthicketed with low shrubs and plum bushes, we approached a large yellow\nacre of wild sunflowers. Just beyond this nature's garden we drew near\nto my mother's cottage. Close by the log cabin stood a little\ncanvas-covered wigwam. The driver stopped in front of the open door, and\nin a long moment my mother appeared at the threshold.\n\nI had expected her to run out to greet me, but she stood still, all the\nwhile staring at the weather-beaten man at my side. At length, when her\nloftiness became unbearable, I called to her, \"Mother, why do you stop?\"\n\nThis seemed to break the evil moment, and she hastened out to hold my\nhead against her cheek.\n\n\"My daughter, what madness possessed you to bring home such a fellow?\"\nshe asked, pointing at the driver, who was fumbling in his pockets for\nchange while he held the bill I gave him between his jagged teeth.\n\n\"Bring him! Why, no, mother, he has brought me! He is a driver!\" I\nexclaimed.\n\nUpon this revelation, my mother threw her arms about me and apologized\nfor her mistaken inference. We laughed away the momentary hurt. Then she\nbuilt a brisk fire on the ground in the tepee, and hung a blackened\ncoffeepot on one of the prongs of a forked pole which leaned over the\nflames. Placing a pan on a heap of red embers, she baked some unleavened\nbread. This light luncheon she brought into the cabin, and arranged on a\ntable covered with a checkered oilcloth.\n\nMy mother had never gone to school, and though she meant always to give\nup her own customs for such of the white man's ways as pleased her, she\nmade only compromises. Her two windows, directly opposite each other,\nshe curtained with a pink-flowered print. The naked logs were unstained,\nand rudely carved with the axe so as to fit into one another. The sod\nroof was trying to boast of tiny sunflowers, the seeds of which had\nprobably been planted by the constant wind. As I leaned my head against\nthe logs, I discovered the peculiar odor that I could not forget. The\nrains had soaked the earth and roof so that the smell of damp clay was\nbut the natural breath of such a dwelling.\n\n\"Mother, why is not your house cemented? Do you have no interest in a\nmore comfortable shelter?\" I asked, when the apparent inconveniences of\nher home seemed to suggest indifference on her part.\n\n\"You forget, my child, that I am now old, and I do not work with beads\nany more. Your brother Daw\u00e9e, too, has lost his position, and we are\nleft without means to buy even a morsel of food,\" she replied.\n\nDaw\u00e9e was a government clerk in our reservation when I last heard from\nhim. I was surprised upon hearing what my mother said concerning his\nlack of employment. Seeing the puzzled expression on my face, she\ncontinued: \"Daw\u00e9e! Oh, has he not told you that the Great Father at\nWashington sent a white son to take your brother's pen from him? Since\nthen Daw\u00e9e has not been able to make use of the education the Eastern\nschool has given him.\"\n\nI found no words with which to answer satisfactorily. I found no reason\nwith which to cool my inflamed feelings.\n\nDaw\u00e9e was a whole day's journey off on the prairie, and my mother did\nnot expect him until the next day. We were silent.\n\nWhen, at length, I raised my head to hear more clearly the moaning of\nthe wind in the corner logs, I noticed the daylight streaming into the\ndingy room through several places where the logs fitted unevenly.\nTurning to my mother, I urged her to tell me more about Daw\u00e9e's trouble,\nbut she only said: \"Well, my daughter, this village has been these many\nwinters a refuge for white robbers. The Indian cannot complain to the\nGreat Father in Washington without suffering outrage for it here. Daw\u00e9e\ntried to secure justice for our tribe in a small matter, and today you\nsee the folly of it.\"\n\nAgain, though she stopped to hear what I might say, I was silent.\n\n\"My child, there is only one source of justice, and I have been praying\nsteadfastly to the Great Spirit to avenge our wrongs,\" she said, seeing\nI did not move my lips.\n\nMy shattered energy was unable to hold longer any faith, and I cried out\ndesperately: \"Mother, don't pray again! The Great Spirit does not care\nif we live or die! Let us not look for good or justice: then we shall\nnot be disappointed!\"\n\n\"Sh! my child, do not talk so madly. There is Taku Iyotan Wasaka,[1] to\nwhich I pray,\" she answered, as she stroked my head again as she used to\ndo when I was a smaller child.\n\n[Footnote 1: An absolute Power.]\n\n\n\n\nIII.\n\nMY MOTHER'S CURSE UPON WHITE SETTLERS.\n\n\nOne black night mother and I sat alone in the dim starlight, in front of\nour wigwam. We were facing the river, as we talked about the shrinking\nlimits of the village. She told me about the poverty-stricken white\nsettlers, who lived in caves dug in the long ravines of the high hills\nacross the river.\n\nA whole tribe of broad-footed white beggars had rushed hither to make\nclaims on those wild lands. Even as she was telling this I spied a small\nglimmering light in the bluffs.\n\n\"That is a white man's lodge where you see the burning fire,\" she said.\nThen, a short distance from it, only a little lower than the first, was\nanother light. As I became accustomed to the night, I saw more and more\ntwinkling lights, here and there, scattered all along the wide black\nmargin of the river.\n\nStill looking toward the distant firelight, my mother continued: \"My\ndaughter, beware of the paleface. It was the cruel paleface who caused\nthe death of your sister and your uncle, my brave brother. It is this\nsame paleface who offers in one palm the holy papers, and with the\nother gives a holy baptism of firewater. He is the hypocrite who reads\nwith one eye, 'Thou shalt not kill,' and with the other gloats upon the\nsufferings of the Indian race.\" Then suddenly discovering a new fire in\nthe bluffs, she exclaimed, \"Well, well, my daughter, there is the light\nof another white rascal!\"\n\nShe sprang to her feet, and, standing firm beside her wigwam, she sent a\ncurse upon those who sat around the hated white man's light. Raising her\nright arm forcibly into line with her eye, she threw her whole might\ninto her doubled fist as she shot it vehemently at the strangers. Long\nshe held her outstretched fingers toward the settler's lodge, as if an\ninvisible power passed from them to the evil at which she aimed.\n\n\n\n\nIV.\n\nRETROSPECTION.\n\n\nLeaving my mother, I returned to the school in the East. As months\npassed over me, I slowly comprehended that the large army of white\nteachers in Indian schools had a larger missionary creed than I had\nsuspected.\n\nIt was one which included self-preservation quite as much as Indian\neducation. When I saw an opium-eater holding a position as teacher of\nIndians, I did not understand what good was expected, until a Christian\nin power replied that this pumpkin-colored creature had a feeble mother\nto support. An inebriate paleface sat stupid in a doctor's chair, while\nIndian patients carried their ailments to untimely graves, because his\nfair wife was dependent upon him for her daily food.\n\nI find it hard to count that white man a teacher who tortured an\nambitious Indian youth by frequently reminding the brave changeling that\nhe was nothing but a \"government pauper.\"\n\nThough I burned with indignation upon discovering on every side\ninstances no less shameful than those I have mentioned, there was no\npresent help. Even the few rare ones who have worked nobly for my race\nwere powerless to choose workmen like themselves. To be sure, a man was\nsent from the Great Father to inspect Indian schools, but what he saw\nwas usually the students' sample work _made_ for exhibition. I was\nnettled by this sly cunning of the workmen who hookwinked the Indian's\npale Father at Washington.\n\nMy illness, which prevented the conclusion of my college course,\ntogether with my mother's stories of the encroaching frontier settlers,\nleft me in no mood to strain my eyes in searching for latent good in my\nwhite co-workers.\n\nAt this stage of my own evolution, I was ready to curse men of small\ncapacity for being the dwarfs their God had made them. In the process of\nmy education I had lost all consciousness of the nature world about me.\nThus, when a hidden rage took me to the small white-walled prison which\nI then called my room, I unknowingly turned away from my one salvation.\n\nAlone in my room, I sat like the petrified Indian woman of whom my\nmother used to tell me. I wished my heart's burdens would turn me to\nunfeeling stone. But alive, in my tomb, I was destitute!\n\nFor the white man's papers I had given up my faith in the Great Spirit.\nFor these same papers I had forgotten the healing in trees and brooks.\nOn account of my mother's simple view of life, and my lack of any, I\ngave her up, also. I made no friends among the race of people I loathed.\nLike a slender tree, I had been uprooted from my mother, nature, and\nGod. I was shorn of my branches, which had waved in sympathy and love\nfor home and friends. The natural coat of bark which had protected my\noversensitive nature was scraped off to the very quick.\n\nNow a cold bare pole I seemed to be, planted in a strange earth. Still,\nI seemed to hope a day would come when my mute aching head, reared\nupward to the sky, would flash a zigzag lightning across the heavens.\nWith this dream of vent for a long-pent consciousness, I walked again\namid the crowds.\n\nAt last, one weary day in the schoolroom, a new idea presented itself to\nme. It was a new way of solving the problem of my inner self. I liked\nit. Thus I resigned my position as teacher; and now I am in an Eastern\ncity, following the long course of study I have set for myself. Now, as\nI look back upon the recent past, I see it from a distance, as a whole.\nI remember how, from morning till evening, many specimens of civilized\npeoples visited the Indian school. The city folks with canes and\neyeglasses, the countrymen with sunburnt cheeks and clumsy feet, forgot\ntheir relative social ranks in an ignorant curiosity. Both sorts of\nthese Christian palefaces were alike astounded at seeing the children of\nsavage warriors so docile and industrious.\n\nAs answers to their shallow inquiries they received the students' sample\nwork to look upon. Examining the neatly figured pages, and gazing upon\nthe Indian girls and boys bending over their books, the white visitors\nwalked out of the schoolhouse well satisfied: they were educating the\nchildren of the red man! They were paying a liberal fee to the\ngovernment employees in whose able hands lay the small forest of Indian\ntimber.\n\nIn this fashion many have passed idly through the Indian schools during\nthe last decade, afterward to boast of their charity to the North\nAmerican Indian. But few there are who have paused to question whether\nreal life or long-lasting death lies beneath this semblance of\ncivilization.\n\n\n\n\nTHE GREAT SPIRIT\n\n\nWhen the spirit swells my breast I love to roam leisurely among the\ngreen hills; or sometimes, sitting on the brink of the murmuring\nMissouri, I marvel at the great blue overhead. With half-closed eyes I\nwatch the huge cloud shadows in their noiseless play upon the high\nbluffs opposite me, while into my ear ripple the sweet, soft cadences of\nthe river's song. Folded hands lie in my lap, for the time forgot. My\nheart and I lie small upon the earth like a grain of throbbing sand.\nDrifting clouds and tinkling waters, together with the warmth of a\ngenial summer day, bespeak with eloquence the loving Mystery round about\nus. During the idle while I sat upon the sunny river brink, I grew\nsomewhat, though my response be not so clearly manifest as in the green\ngrass fringing the edge of the high bluff back of me.\n\nAt length retracing the uncertain footpath scaling the precipitous\nembankment, I seek the level lands where grow the wild prairie flowers.\nAnd they, the lovely little folk, soothe my soul with their perfumed\nbreath.\n\nTheir quaint round faces of varied hue convince the heart which leaps\nwith glad surprise that they, too, are living symbols of omnipotent\nthought. With a child's eager eye I drink in the myriad star shapes\nwrought in luxuriant color upon the green. Beautiful is the spiritual\nessence they embody.\n\nI leave them nodding in the breeze, but take along with me their impress\nupon my heart. I pause to rest me upon a rock embedded on the side of a\nfoothill facing the low river bottom. Here the Stone-Boy, of whom the\nAmerican aborigine tells, frolics about, shooting his baby arrows and\nshouting aloud with glee at the tiny shafts of lightning that flash from\nthe flying arrow-beaks. What an ideal warrior he became, baffling the\nsiege of the pests of all the land till he triumphed over their united\nattack. And here he lay--Inyan our great-great-grandfather, older than\nthe hill he rested on, older than the race of men who love to tell of\nhis wonderful career.\n\nInterwoven with the thread of this Indian legend of the rock, I fain\nwould trace a subtle knowledge of the native folk which enabled them to\nrecognize a kinship to any and all parts of this vast universe. By the\nleading of an ancient trail I move toward the Indian village.\n\nWith the strong, happy sense that both great and small are so surely\nenfolded in His magnitude that, without a miss, each has his allotted\nindividual ground of opportunities, I am buoyant with good nature.\n\nYellow Breast, swaying upon the slender stem of a wild sunflower,\nwarbles a sweet assurance of this as I pass near by. Breaking off the\nclear crystal song, he turns his wee head from side to side eyeing me\nwisely as slowly I plod with moccasined feet. Then again he yields\nhimself to his song of joy. Flit, flit hither and yon, he fills the\nsummer sky with his swift, sweet melody. And truly does it seem his\nvigorous freedom lies more in his little spirit than in his wing.\n\nWith these thoughts I reach the log cabin whither I am strongly drawn by\nthe tie of a child to an aged mother. Out bounds my four-footed friend\nto meet me, frisking about my path with unmistakable delight. Ch\u00e4n is a\nblack shaggy dog, \"a thoroughbred little mongrel\" of whom I am very\nfond. Ch\u00e4n seems to understand many words in Sioux, and will go to her\nmat even when I whisper the word, though generally I think she is guided\nby the tone of the voice. Often she tries to imitate the sliding\ninflection and long-drawn-out voice to the amusement of our guests, but\nher articulation is quite beyond my ear. In both my hands I hold her\nshaggy head and gaze into her large brown eyes. At once the dilated\npupils contract into tiny black dots, as if the roguish spirit within\nwould evade my questioning.\n\nFinally resuming the chair at my desk I feel in keen sympathy with my\nfellow-creatures, for I seem to see clearly again that all are akin. The\nracial lines, which once were bitterly real, now serve nothing more than\nmarking out a living mosaic of human beings. And even here men of the\nsame color are like the ivory keys of one instrument where each\nresembles all the rest, yet varies from them in pitch and quality of\nvoice. And those creatures who are for a time mere echoes of another's\nnote are not unlike the fable of the thin sick man whose distorted\nshadow, dressed like a real creature, came to the old master to make him\nfollow as a shadow. Thus with a compassion for all echoes in human\nguise, I greet the solemn-faced \"native preacher\" whom I find awaiting\nme. I listen with respect for God's creature, though he mouth most\nstrangely the jangling phrases of a bigoted creed.\n\nAs our tribe is one large family, where every person is related to all\nthe others, he addressed me:--\n\n\"Cousin, I came from the morning church service to talk with you.\"\n\n\"Yes?\" I said interrogatively, as he paused for some word from me.\n\nShifting uneasily about in the straight-backed chair he sat upon, he\nbegan: \"Every holy day (Sunday) I look about our little God's house, and\nnot seeing you there, I am disappointed. This is why I come today.\nCousin, as I watch you from afar, I see no unbecoming behavior and hear\nonly good reports of you, which all the more burns me with the wish that\nyou were a church member. Cousin, I was taught long years ago by kind\nmissionaries to read the holy book. These godly men taught me also the\nfolly of our old beliefs.\n\n\"There is one God who gives reward or punishment to the race of dead\nmen. In the upper region the Christian dead are gathered in unceasing\nsong and prayer. In the deep pit below, the sinful ones dance in\ntorturing flames.\n\n\"Think upon these things, my cousin, and choose now to avoid the\nafter-doom of hell fire!\" Then followed a long silence in which he\nclasped tighter and unclasped again his interlocked fingers.\n\nLike instantaneous lightning flashes came pictures of my own mother's\nmaking, for she, too, is now a follower of the new superstition.\n\n\"Knocking out the chinking of our log cabin, some evil hand thrust in a\nburning taper of braided dry grass, but failed of his intent, for the\nfire died out and the half-burned brand fell inward to the floor.\nDirectly above it, on a shelf, lay the holy book. This is what we found\nafter our return from a several days' visit. Surely some great power is\nhid in the sacred book!\"\n\nBrushing away from my eyes many like pictures, I offered midday meal to\nthe converted Indian sitting wordless and with downcast face. No sooner\nhad he risen from the table with \"Cousin, I have relished it,\" than the\nchurch bell rang.\n\nThither he hurried forth with his afternoon sermon. I watched him as he\nhastened along, his eyes bent fast upon the dusty road till he\ndisappeared at the end of a quarter of a mile.\n\nThe little incident recalled to mind the copy of a missionary paper\nbrought to my notice a few days ago, in which a \"Christian\" pugilist\ncommented upon a recent article of mine, grossly perverting the spirit\nof my pen. Still I would not forget that the pale-faced missionary and\nthe hoodooed aborigine are both God's creatures, though small indeed\ntheir own conceptions of Infinite Love. A wee child toddling in a wonder\nworld, I prefer to their dogma my excursions into the natural gardens\nwhere the voice of the Great Spirit is heard in the twittering of birds,\nthe rippling of mighty waters, and the sweet breathing of flowers.\n\nHere, in a fleeting quiet, I am awakened by the fluttering robe of the\nGreat Spirit. To my innermost consciousness the phenomenal universe is a\nroyal mantle, vibrating with His divine breath. Caught in its flowing\nfringes are the spangles and oscillating brilliants of sun, moon, and\nstars.\n\n\n\n\nTHE SOFT-HEARTED SIOUX\n\nI.\n\n\nBeside the open fire I sat within our tepee. With my red blanket wrapped\ntightly about my crossed legs, I was thinking of the coming season, my\nsixteenth winter. On either side of the wigwam were my parents. My\nfather was whistling a tune between his teeth while polishing with his\nbare hand a red stone pipe he had recently carved. Almost in front of\nme, beyond the center fire, my old grandmother sat near the entranceway.\n\nShe turned her face toward her right and addressed most of her words to\nmy mother. Now and then she spoke to me, but never did she allow her\neyes to rest upon her daughter's husband, my father. It was only upon\nrare occasions that my grandmother said anything to him. Thus his ears\nwere open and ready to catch the smallest wish she might express.\nSometimes when my grandmother had been saying things which pleased him,\nmy father used to comment upon them. At other times, when he could not\napprove of what was spoken, he used to work or smoke silently.\n\nOn this night my old grandmother began her talk about me. Filling the\nbowl of her red stone pipe with dry willow bark, she looked across at\nme.\n\n\"My grandchild, you are tall and are no longer a little boy.\" Narrowing\nher old eyes, she asked, \"My grandchild, when are you going to bring\nhere a handsome young woman?\" I stared into the fire rather than meet\nher gaze. Waiting for my answer, she stooped forward and through the\nlong stem drew a flame into the red stone pipe.\n\nI smiled while my eyes were still fixed upon the bright fire, but I said\nnothing in reply. Turning to my mother, she offered her the pipe. I\nglanced at my grandmother. The loose buckskin sleeve fell off at her\nelbow and showed a wrist covered with silver bracelets. Holding up the\nfingers of her left hand, she named off the desirable young women of our\nvillage.\n\n\"Which one, my grandchild, which one?\" she questioned.\n\n\"Hoh!\" I said, pulling at my blanket in confusion. \"Not yet!\" Here my\nmother passed the pipe over the fire to my father. Then she, too, began\nspeaking of what I should do.\n\n\"My son, be always active. Do not dislike a long hunt. Learn to provide\nmuch buffalo meat and many buckskins before you bring home a wife.\"\nPresently my father gave the pipe to my grandmother, and he took his\nturn in the exhortations.\n\n\"Ho, my son, I have been counting in my heart the bravest warriors of\nour people. There is not one of them who won his title in his sixteenth\nwinter. My son, it is a great thing for some brave of sixteen winters to\ndo.\"\n\nNot a word had I to give in answer. I knew well the fame of my warrior\nfather. He had earned the right of speaking such words, though even he\nhimself was a brave only at my age. Refusing to smoke my grandmother's\npipe because my heart was too much stirred by their words, and sorely\ntroubled with a fear lest I should disappoint them, I arose to go.\nDrawing my blanket over my shoulders, I said, as I stepped toward the\nentranceway: \"I go to hobble my pony. It is now late in the night.\"\n\n\n\n\nII.\n\n\nNine winters' snows had buried deep that night when my old grandmother,\ntogether with my father and mother, designed my future with the glow of\na camp fire upon it.\n\nYet I did not grow up the warrior, huntsman, and husband I was to have\nbeen. At the mission school I learned it was wrong to kill. Nine winters\nI hunted for the soft heart of Christ, and prayed for the huntsmen who\nchased the buffalo on the plains.\n\nIn the autumn of the tenth year I was sent back to my tribe to preach\nChristianity to them. With the white man's Bible in my hand, and the\nwhite man's tender heart in my breast, I returned to my own people.\n\nWearing a foreigner's dress, I walked, a stranger, into my father's\nvillage.\n\nAsking my way, for I had not forgotten my native tongue, an old man led\nme toward the tepee where my father lay. From my old companion I learned\nthat my father had been sick many moons. As we drew near the tepee, I\nheard the chanting of a medicine-man within it. At once I wished to\nenter in and drive from my home the sorcerer of the plains, but the old\nwarrior checked me. \"Ho, wait outside until the medicine-man leaves your\nfather,\" he said. While talking he scanned me from head to feet. Then he\nretraced his steps toward the heart of the camping-ground.\n\nMy father's dwelling was on the outer limits of the round-faced village.\nWith every heartthrob I grew more impatient to enter the wigwam.\n\nWhile I turned the leaves of my Bible with nervous fingers, the\nmedicine-man came forth from the dwelling and walked hurriedly away. His\nhead and face were closely covered with the loose robe which draped his\nentire figure.\n\nHe was tall and large. His long strides I have never forgot. They seemed\nto me then the uncanny gait of eternal death. Quickly pocketing my\nBible, I went into the tepee.\n\nUpon a mat lay my father, with furrowed face and gray hair. His eyes and\ncheeks were sunken far into his head. His sallow skin lay thin upon his\npinched nose and high cheekbones. Stooping over him, I took his fevered\nhand. \"How, Ate?\" I greeted him. A light flashed from his listless eyes\nand his dried lips parted. \"My son!\" he murmured, in a feeble voice.\nThen again the wave of joy and recognition receded. He closed his eyes,\nand his hand dropped from my open palm to the ground.\n\nLooking about, I saw an old woman sitting with bowed head. Shaking hands\nwith her, I recognized my mother. I sat down between my father and\nmother as I used to do, but I did not feel at home. The place where my\nold grandmother used to sit was now unoccupied. With my mother I bowed\nmy head. Alike our throats were choked and tears were streaming from our\neyes; but far apart in spirit our ideas and faiths separated us. My\ngrief was for the soul unsaved; and I thought my mother wept to see a\nbrave man's body broken by sickness.\n\nUseless was my attempt to change the faith in the medicine-man to that\nabstract power named God. Then one day I became righteously mad with\nanger that the medicine-man should thus ensnare my father's soul. And\nwhen he came to chant his sacred songs I pointed toward the door and\nbade him go! The man's eyes glared upon me for an instant. Slowly\ngathering his robe about him, he turned his back upon the sick man and\nstepped out of our wigwam. \"Ha, ha, ha! my son, I can not live without\nthe medicine-man!\" I heard my father cry when the sacred man was gone.\n\n\n\n\nIII.\n\n\nOn a bright day, when the winged seeds of the prairie-grass were flying\nhither and thither, I walked solemnly toward the centre of the\ncamping-ground. My heart beat hard and irregularly at my side. Tighter I\ngrasped the sacred book I carried under my arm. Now was the beginning of\nlife's work.\n\nThough I knew it would be hard, I did not once feel that failure was to\nbe my reward. As I stepped unevenly on the rolling ground, I thought of\nthe warriors soon to wash off their war-paints and follow me.\n\nAt length I reached the place where the people had assembled to hear me\npreach. In a large circle men and women sat upon the dry red grass.\nWithin the ring I stood, with the white man's Bible in my hand. I tried\nto tell them of the soft heart of Christ.\n\nIn silence the vast circle of bareheaded warriors sat under an afternoon\nsun. At last, wiping the wet from my brow, I took my place in the ring.\nThe hush of the assembly filled me with great hope.\n\nI was turning my thoughts upward to the sky in gratitude, when a stir\ncalled me to earth again.\n\nA tall, strong man arose. His loose robe hung in folds over his right\nshoulder. A pair of snapping black eyes fastened themselves like the\npoisonous fangs of a serpent upon me. He was the medicine-man. A tremor\nplayed about my heart and a chill cooled the fire in my veins.\n\nScornfully he pointed a long forefinger in my direction and asked:\n\n\"What loyal son is he who, returning to his father's people, wears a\nforeigner's dress?\" He paused a moment, and then continued: \"The dress\nof that foreigner of whom a story says he bound a native of our land,\nand heaping dry sticks around him, kindled a fire at his feet!\" Waving\nhis hand toward me, he exclaimed, \"Here is the traitor to his people!\"\n\nI was helpless. Before the eyes of the crowd the cunning magician turned\nmy honest heart into a vile nest of treachery. Alas! the people frowned\nas they looked upon me.\n\n\"Listen!\" he went on. \"Which one of you who have eyed the young man can\nsee through his bosom and warn the people of the nest of young snakes\nhatching there? Whose ear was so acute that he caught the hissing of\nsnakes whenever the young man opened his mouth? This one has not only\nproven false to you, but even to the Great Spirit who made him. He is a\nfool! Why do you sit here giving ear to a foolish man who could not\ndefend his people because he fears to kill, who could not bring venison\nto renew the life of his sick father? With his prayers, let him drive\naway the enemy! With his soft heart, let him keep off starvation! We\nshall go elsewhere to dwell upon an untainted ground.\"\n\nWith this he disbanded the people. When the sun lowered in the west and\nthe winds were quiet, the village of cone-shaped tepees was gone. The\nmedicine-man had won the hearts of the people.\n\nOnly my father's dwelling was left to mark the fighting-ground.\n\n\n\n\nIV.\n\n\nFrom a long night at my father's bedside I came out to look upon the\nmorning. The yellow sun hung equally between the snow-covered land and\nthe cloudless blue sky. The light of the new day was cold. The strong\nbreath of winter crusted the snow and fitted crystal shells over the\nrivers and lakes. As I stood in front of the tepee, thinking of the vast\nprairies which separated us from our tribe, and wondering if the high\nsky likewise separated the soft-hearted Son of God from us, the icy\nblast from the North blew through my hair and skull. My neglected hair\nhad grown long and fell upon my neck.\n\nMy father had not risen from his bed since the day the medicine-man led\nthe people away. Though I read from the Bible and prayed beside him upon\nmy knees, my father would not listen. Yet I believed my prayers were not\nunheeded in heaven.\n\n\"Ha, ha, ha! my son,\" my father groaned upon the first snowfall. \"My\nson, our food is gone. There is no one to bring me meat! My son, your\nsoft heart has unfitted you for everything!\" Then covering his face\nwith the buffalo-robe, he said no more. Now while I stood out in that\ncold winter morning, I was starving. For two days I had not seen any\nfood. But my own cold and hunger did not harass my soul as did the\nwhining cry of the sick old man.\n\nStepping again into the tepee, I untied my snow-shoes, which were\nfastened to the tent-poles.\n\nMy poor mother, watching by the sick one, and faithfully heaping wood\nupon the centre fire, spoke to me:\n\n\"My son, do not fail again to bring your father meat, or he will starve\nto death.\"\n\n\"How, Ina,\" I answered, sorrowfully. From the tepee I started forth\nagain to hunt food for my aged parents. All day I tracked the white\nlevel lands in vain. Nowhere, nowhere were there any other footprints\nbut my own! In the evening of this third fast-day I came back without\nmeat. Only a bundle of sticks for the fire I brought on my back.\nDropping the wood outside, I lifted the door-flap and set one foot\nwithin the tepee.\n\nThere I grew dizzy and numb. My eyes swam in tears. Before me lay my\nold gray-haired father sobbing like a child. In his horny hands he\nclutched the buffalo-robe, and with his teeth he was gnawing off the\nedges. Chewing the dry stiff hair and buffalo-skin, my father's eyes\nsought my hands. Upon seeing them empty, he cried out:\n\n\"My son, your soft heart will let me starve before you bring me meat!\nTwo hills eastward stand a herd of cattle. Yet you will see me die\nbefore you bring me food!\"\n\nLeaving my mother lying with covered head upon her mat, I rushed out\ninto the night.\n\nWith a strange warmth in my heart and swiftness in my feet, I climbed\nover the first hill, and soon the second one. The moonlight upon the\nwhite country showed me a clear path to the white man's cattle. With my\nhand upon the knife in my belt, I leaned heavily against the fence while\ncounting the herd.\n\nTwenty in all I numbered. From among them I chose the best-fattened\ncreature. Leaping over the fence, I plunged my knife into it.\n\nMy long knife was sharp, and my hands, no more fearful and slow, slashed\noff choice chunks of warm flesh. Bending under the meat I had taken for\nmy starving father, I hurried across the prairie.\n\nToward home I fairly ran with the life-giving food I carried upon my\nback. Hardly had I climbed the second hill when I heard sounds coming\nafter me. Faster and faster I ran with my load for my father, but the\nsounds were gaining upon me. I heard the clicking of snowshoes and the\nsqueaking of the leather straps at my heels; yet I did not turn to see\nwhat pursued me, for I was intent upon reaching my father. Suddenly like\nthunder an angry voice shouted curses and threats into my ear! A rough\nhand wrenched my shoulder and took the meat from me! I stopped\nstruggling to run. A deafening whir filled my head. The moon and stars\nbegan to move. Now the white prairie was sky, and the stars lay under my\nfeet. Now again they were turning. At last the starry blue rose up into\nplace. The noise in my ears was still. A great quiet filled the air. In\nmy hand I found my long knife dripping with blood. At my feet a man's\nfigure lay prone in blood-red snow. The horrible scene about me seemed a\ntrick of my senses, for I could not understand it was real. Looking\nlong upon the blood-stained snow, the load of meat for my starving\nfather reached my recognition at last. Quickly I tossed it over my\nshoulder and started again homeward.\n\nTired and haunted I reached the door of the wigwam. Carrying the food\nbefore me, I entered with it into the tepee.\n\n\"Father, here is food!\" I cried, as I dropped the meat near my mother.\nNo answer came. Turning about, I beheld my gray-haired father dead! I\nsaw by the unsteady firelight an old gray-haired skeleton lying rigid\nand stiff.\n\nOut into the open I started, but the snow at my feet became bloody.\n\n\n\n\nV.\n\n\nOn the day after my father's death, having led my mother to the camp of\nthe medicineman, I gave myself up to those who were searching for the\nmurderer of the paleface.\n\nThey bound me hand and foot. Here in this cell I was placed four days\nago.\n\nThe shrieking winter winds have followed me hither. Rattling the bars,\nthey howl unceasingly: \"Your soft heart! your soft heart will see me die\nbefore you bring me food!\" Hark! something is clanking the chain on the\ndoor. It is being opened. From the dark night without a black figure\ncrosses the threshold. * * * It is the guard. He comes to warn me of my\nfate. He tells me that tomorrow I must die. In his stern face I laugh\naloud. I do not fear death.\n\nYet I wonder who shall come to welcome me in the realm of strange sight.\nWill the loving Jesus grant me pardon and give my soul a soothing sleep?\nor will my warrior father greet me and receive me as his son? Will my\nspirit fly upward to a happy heaven? or shall I sink into the\nbottomless pit, an outcast from a God of infinite love?\n\nSoon, soon I shall know, for now I see the east is growing red. My heart\nis strong. My face is calm. My eyes are dry and eager for new scenes. My\nhands hang quietly at my side. Serene and brave, my soul awaits the men\nto perch me on the gallows for another flight. I go.\n\n\n\n\nTHE TRIAL PATH\n\n\nIt was an autumn night on the plain. The smoke-lapels of the cone-shaped\ntepee flapped gently in the breeze. From the low night sky, with its\nmyriad fire points, a large bright star peeped in at the smoke-hole of\nthe wigwam between its fluttering lapels, down upon two Dakotas talking\nin the dark. The mellow stream from the star above, a maid of twenty\nsummers, on a bed of sweetgrass, drank in with her wakeful eyes. On the\nopposite side of the tepee, beyond the centre fireplace, the grandmother\nspread her rug. Though once she had lain down, the telling of a story\nhas aroused her to a sitting posture.\n\nHer eyes are tight closed. With a thin palm she strokes her wind-shorn\nhair.\n\n\"Yes, my grandchild, the legend says the large bright stars are wise old\nwarriors, and the small dim ones are handsome young braves,\" she\nreiterates, in a high, tremulous voice.\n\n\"Then this one peeping in at the smoke-hole yonder is my dear old\ngrandfather,\" muses the young woman, in long-drawn-out words.\n\nHer soft rich voice floats through the darkness within the tepee, over\nthe cold ashes heaped on the centre fire, and passes into the ear of the\ntoothless old woman, who sits dumb in silent reverie. Thence it flies on\nswifter wing over many winter snows, till at last it cleaves the warm\nlight atmosphere of her grandfather's youth. From there her grandmother\nmade answer:\n\n\"Listen! I am young again. It is the day of your grandfather's death.\nThe elder one, I mean, for there were two of them. They were like twins,\nthough they were not brothers. They were friends, inseparable! All\nthings, good and bad, they shared together, save one, which made them\nmad. In that heated frenzy the younger man slew his most intimate\nfriend. He killed his elder brother, for long had their affection made\nthem kin.\"\n\nThe voice of the old woman broke. Swaying her stooped shoulders to and\nfro as she sat upon her feet, she muttered vain exclamations beneath her\nbreath. Her eyes, closed tight against the night, beheld behind them the\nlight of bygone days. They saw again a rolling black cloud spread itself\nover the land. Her ear heard the deep rumbling of a tempest in the\nwest. She bent low a cowering head, while angry thunder-birds shrieked\nacross the sky. \"Hey\u00e3! hey\u00e3!\" (No! no!) groaned the toothless\ngrandmother at the fury she had awakened. But the glorious peace\nafterward, when yellow sunshine made the people glad, now lured her\nmemory onward through the storm.\n\n\"How fast, how loud my heart beats as I listen to the messenger's\nhorrible tale!\" she ejaculates. \"From the fresh grave of the murdered\nman he hurried to our wigwam. Deliberately crossing his bare shins, he\nsat down unbidden beside my father, smoking a long-stemmed pipe. He had\nscarce caught his breath when, panting, he began:\n\n\"'He was an only son, and a much-adored brother.'\n\n\"With wild, suspecting eyes he glanced at me as if I were in league with\nthe man-killer, my lover. My father, exhaling sweet-scented smoke,\nassented--'How,' Then interrupting the 'Eya' on the lips of the\nround-eyed talebearer, he asked, 'My friend, will you smoke?' He took\nthe pipe by its red-stone bowl, and pointed the long slender stem\ntoward the man. 'Yes, yes, my friend,' replied he, and reached out a\nlong brown arm.\n\n\"For many heart-throbs he puffed out the blue smoke, which hung like a\ncloud between us. But even through the smoke-mist I saw his sharp black\neyes glittering toward me. I longed to ask what doom awaited the young\nmurderer, but dared not open my lips, lest I burst forth into screams\ninstead. My father plied the question. Returning the pipe, the man\nreplied: 'Oh, the chieftain and his chosen men have had counsel\ntogether. They have agreed it is not safe to allow a man-killer loose in\nour midst. He who kills one of our tribe is an enemy, and must suffer\nthe fate of a foe.'\n\n\"My temples throbbed like a pair of hearts!\n\n\"While I listened, a crier passed by my father's tepee. Mounted, and\nswaying with his pony's steps, he proclaimed in a loud voice these words\n(hark! I hear them now!): \"Ho-po! Give ear, all you people. A terrible\ndeed is done. Two friends--ay, brothers in heart--have quarreled\ntogether. Now one lies buried on the hill, while the other sits, a\ndreaded man-killer, within his dwelling.\" Says our chieftain: \"He who\nkills one of our tribe commits the offense of an enemy. As such he must\nbe tried. Let the father of the dead man choose the mode of torture or\ntaking of life. He has suffered livid pain, and he alone can judge how\ngreat the punishment must be to avenge his wrong.\" It is done.\n\n\"'Come, every one, to witness the judgment of a father upon him who was\nonce his son's best friend. A wild pony is now lassoed. The man-killer\nmust mount and ride the ranting beast. Stand you all in two parallel\nlines from the centre tepee of the bereaved family to the wigwam\nopposite in the great outer ring. Between you, in the wide space, is the\ngiven trial-way. From the outer circle the rider must mount and guide\nhis pony toward the centre tepee. If, having gone the entire distance,\nthe man-killer gains the centre tepee still sitting on the pony's back,\nhis life is spared and pardon given. But should he fall, then he himself\nhas chosen death.'\n\n\"The crier's words now cease. A lull holds the village breathless. Then\nhurrying feet tear along, swish, swish, through the tall grass. Sobbing\nwomen hasten toward the trialway. The muffled groan of the round\ncamp-ground is unbearable. With my face hid in the folds of my blanket,\nI run with the crowd toward the open place in the outer circle of our\nvillage. In a moment the two long files of solemn-faced people mark the\npath of the public trial. Ah! I see strong men trying to lead the\nlassoed pony, pitching and rearing, with white foam flying from his\nmouth. I choke with pain as I recognize my handsome lover desolately\nalone, striding with set face toward the lassoed pony. 'Do not fall!\nChoose life and me!' I cry in my breast, but over my lips I hold my\nthick blanket.\n\n\"In an instant he has leaped astride the frightened beast, and the men\nhave let go their hold. Like an arrow sprung from a strong bow, the\npony, with extended nostrils, plunges halfway to the centre tepee. With\nall his might the rider draws the strong reins in. The pony halts with\nwooden legs. The rider is thrown forward by force, but does not fall.\nNow the maddened creature pitches, with flying heels. The line of men\nand women sways outward. Now it is back in place, safe from the kicking,\nsnorting thing.\n\n\"The pony is fierce, with its large black eyes bulging out of their\nsockets. With humped back and nose to the ground, it leaps into the air.\nI shut my eyes. I can not see him fall.\n\n\"A loud shout goes up from the hoarse throats of men and women. I look.\nSo! The wild horse is conquered. My lover dismounts at the doorway of\nthe centre wigwam. The pony, wet with sweat and shaking with exhaustion,\nstands like a guilty dog at his master's side. Here at the entranceway\nof the tepee sit the bereaved father, mother, and sister. The old\nwarrior father rises. Stepping forward two long strides, he grasps the\nhand of the murderer of his only son. Holding it so the people can see,\nhe cries, with compassionate voice, 'My son!' A murmur of surprise\nsweeps like a puff of sudden wind along the lines.\n\n\"The mother, with swollen eyes, with her hair cut square with her\nshoulders, now rises. Hurrying to the young man, she takes his right\nhand. 'My son!' she greets him. But on the second word her voice shook,\nand she turned away in sobs.\n\n\"The young people rivet their eyes upon the young woman. She does not\nstir. With bowed head, she sits motionless. The old warrior speaks to\nher. 'Shake hands with the young brave, my little daughter. He was your\nbrother's friend for many years. Now he must be both friend and brother\nto you,'\n\n\"Hereupon the girl rises. Slowly reaching out her slender hand, she\ncries, with twitching lips, 'My brother!' The trial ends.\"\n\n\"Grandmother!\" exploded the girl on the bed of sweet-grass. \"Is this\ntrue?\"\n\n\"Tosh!\" answered the grandmother, with a warmth in her voice. \"It is all\ntrue. During the fifteen winters of our wedded life many ponies passed\nfrom our hands, but this little winner, Ohiyesa, was a constant member\nof our family. At length, on that sad day your grandfather died, Ohiyesa\nwas killed at the grave.\"\n\nThough the various groups of stars which move across the sky, marking\nthe passing of time, told how the night was in its zenith, the old\nDakota woman ventured an explanation of the burial ceremony.\n\n\"My grandchild, I have scarce ever breathed the sacred knowledge in my\nheart. Tonight I must tell you one of them. Surely you are old enough\nto understand.\n\n\"Our wise medicine-man said I did well to hasten Ohiyesa after his\nmaster. Perchance on the journey along the ghostpath your grandfather\nwill weary, and in his heart wish for his pony. The creature, already\nbound on the spirit-trail, will be drawn by that subtle wish. Together\nmaster and beast will enter the next camp-ground.\"\n\nThe woman ceased her talking. But only the deep breathing of the girl\nbroke the quiet, for now the night wind had lulled itself to sleep.\n\n\"Hinnu! hinnu! Asleep! I have been talking in the dark, unheard. I did\nwish the girl would plant in her heart this sacred tale,\" muttered she,\nin a querulous voice.\n\nNestling into her bed of sweet-scented grass, she dozed away into\nanother dream. Still the guardian star in the night sky beamed\ncompassionately down upon the little tepee on the plain.\n\n\n\n\nA WARRIOR'S DAUGHTER\n\n\nIn the afternoon shadow of a large tepee, with red-painted smoke lapels,\nsat a warrior father with crossed shins. His head was so poised that his\neye swept easily the vast level land to the eastern horizon line.\n\nHe was the chieftain's bravest warrior. He had won by heroic deeds the\nprivilege of staking his wigwam within the great circle of tepees.\n\nHe was also one of the most generous gift givers to the toothless old\npeople. For this he was entitled to the red-painted smoke lapels on his\ncone-shaped dwelling. He was proud of his honors. He never wearied of\nrehearsing nightly his own brave deeds. Though by wigwam fires he prated\nmuch of his high rank and widespread fame, his great joy was a wee\nblack-eyed daughter of eight sturdy winters. Thus as he sat upon the\nsoft grass, with his wife at his side, bent over her bead work, he was\nsinging a dance song, and beat lightly the rhythm with his slender\nhands.\n\nHis shrewd eyes softened with pleasure as he watched the easy movements\nof the small body dancing on the green before him.\n\nTusee is taking her first dancing lesson. Her tightly-braided hair\ncurves over both brown ears like a pair of crooked little horns which\nglisten in the summer sun.\n\nWith her snugly moccasined feet close together, and a wee hand at her\nbelt to stay the long string of beads which hang from her bare neck, she\nbends her knees gently to the rhythm of her father's voice.\n\nNow she ventures upon the earnest movement, slightly upward and\nsidewise, in a circle. At length the song drops into a closing cadence,\nand the little woman, clad in beaded deerskin, sits down beside the\nelder one. Like her mother, she sits upon her feet. In a brief moment\nthe warrior repeats the last refrain. Again Tusee springs to her feet\nand dances to the swing of the few final measures.\n\nJust as the dance was finished, an elderly man, with short, thick hair\nloose about his square shoulders, rode into their presence from the\nrear, and leaped lightly from his pony's back. Dropping the rawhide rein\nto the ground, he tossed himself lazily on the grass. \"Hunhe, you have\nreturned soon,\" said the warrior, while extending a hand to his little\ndaughter.\n\nQuickly the child ran to her father's side and cuddled close to him,\nwhile he tenderly placed a strong arm about her. Both father and child,\neyeing the figure on the grass, waited to hear the man's report.\n\n\"It is true,\" began the man, with a stranger's accent. \"This is the\nnight of the dance.\"\n\n\"Hunha!\" muttered the warrior with some surprise.\n\nPropping himself upon his elbows, the man raised his face. His features\nwere of the Southern type. From an enemy's camp he was taken captive\nlong years ago by Tusee's father. But the unusual qualities of the slave\nhad won the Sioux warrior's heart, and for the last three winters the\nman had had his freedom. He was made real man again. His hair was\nallowed to grow. However, he himself had chosen to stay in the warrior's\nfamily.\n\n\"Hunha!\" again ejaculated the warrior father. Then turning to his little\ndaughter, he asked, \"Tusee, do you hear that?\"\n\n\"Yes, father, and I am going to dance tonight!\"\n\nWith these words she bounded out of his arm and frolicked about in glee.\nHereupon the proud mother's voice rang out in a chiding laugh.\n\n\"My child, in honor of your first dance your father must give a generous\ngift. His ponies are wild, and roam beyond the great hill. Pray, what\nhas he fit to offer?\" she questioned, the pair of puzzled eyes fixed\nupon her.\n\n\"A pony from the herd, mother, a fleet-footed pony from the herd!\" Tusee\nshouted with sudden inspiration.\n\nPointing a small forefinger toward the man lying on the grass, she\ncried, \"Uncle, you will go after the pony tomorrow!\" And pleased with\nher solution of the problem, she skipped wildly about. Her childish\nfaith in her elders was not conditioned by a knowledge of human\nlimitations, but thought all things possible to grown-ups.\n\n\"H\u00e4hob!\" exclaimed the mother, with a rising inflection, implying by the\nexpletive that her child's buoyant spirit be not weighted with a denial.\n\nQuickly to the hard request the man replied, \"How! I go if Tusee tells\nme so!\"\n\nThis delighted the little one, whose black eyes brimmed over with light.\nStanding in front of the strong man, she clapped her small, brown hands\nwith joy.\n\n\"That makes me glad! My heart is good! Go, uncle, and bring a handsome\npony!\" she cried. In an instant she would have frisked away, but an\nimpulse held her tilting where she stood. In the man's own tongue, for\nhe had taught her many words and phrases, she exploded, \"Thank you, good\nuncle, thank you!\" then tore away from sheer excess of glee.\n\nThe proud warrior father, smiling and narrowing his eyes, muttered\napproval, \"Howo! Hechetu!\"\n\nLike her mother, Tusee has finely pencilled eyebrows and slightly\nextended nostrils; but in her sturdiness of form she resembles her\nfather.\n\nA loyal daughter, she sits within her tepee making beaded deerskins for\nher father, while he longs to stave off her every suitor as all unworthy\nof his old heart's pride. But Tusee is not alone in her dwelling. Near\nthe entrance-way a young brave is half reclining on a mat. In silence he\nwatches the petals of a wild rose growing on the soft buckskin. Quickly\nthe young woman slips the beads on the silvery sinew thread, and works\nthem into the pretty flower design. Finally, in a low, deep voice, the\nyoung man begins:\n\n\"The sun is far past the zenith. It is now only a man's height above the\nwestern edge of land. I hurried hither to tell you tomorrow I join the\nwar party.\"\n\nHe pauses for reply, but the maid's head drops lower over her deerskin,\nand her lips are more firmly drawn together. He continues:\n\n\"Last night in the moonlight I met your warrior father. He seemed to\nknow I had just stepped forth from your tepee. I fear he did not like\nit, for though I greeted him, he was silent. I halted in his pathway.\nWith what boldness I dared, while my heart was beating hard and fast, I\nasked him for his only daughter.\n\n\"Drawing himself erect to his tallest height, and gathering his loose\nrobe more closely about his proud figure, he flashed a pair of piercing\neyes upon me.\n\n\"'Young man,' said he, with a cold, slow voice that chilled me to the\nmarrow of my bones, 'hear me. Naught but an enemy's scalp-lock, plucked\nfresh with your own hand, will buy Tusee for your wife,' Then he turned\non his heel and stalked away.\"\n\nTusee thrusts her work aside. With earnest eyes she scans her lover's\nface.\n\n\"My father's heart is really kind. He would know if you are brave and\ntrue,\" murmured the daughter, who wished no ill-will between her two\nloved ones.\n\nThen rising to go, the youth holds out a right hand. \"Grasp my hand once\nfirmly before I go, Hoye. Pray tell me, will you wait and watch for my\nreturn?\"\n\nTusee only nods assent, for mere words are vain.\n\nAt early dawn the round camp-ground awakes into song. Men and women sing\nof bravery and of triumph. They inspire the swelling breasts of the\npainted warriors mounted on prancing ponies bedecked with the green\nbranches of trees.\n\nRiding slowly around the great ring of cone-shaped tepees, here and\nthere, a loud-singing warrior swears to avenge a former wrong, and\nthrusts a bare brown arm against the purple east, calling the Great\nSpirit to hear his vow. All having made the circuit, the singing war\nparty gallops away southward.\n\nAstride their ponies laden with food and deerskins, brave elderly women\nfollow after their warriors. Among the foremost rides a young woman in\nelaborately beaded buckskin dress. Proudly mounted, she curbs with the\nsingle rawhide loop a wild-eyed pony.\n\nIt is Tusee on her father's warhorse. Thus the war party of Indian men\nand their faithful women vanish beyond the southern skyline.\n\nA day's journey brings them very near the enemy's borderland. Nightfall\nfinds a pair of twin tepees nestled in a deep ravine. Within one lounge\nthe painted warriors, smoking their pipes and telling weird stories by\nthe firelight, while in the other watchful women crouch uneasily about\ntheir center fire.\n\nBy the first gray light in the east the tepees are banished. They are\ngone. The warriors are in the enemy's camp, breaking dreams with their\ntomahawks. The women are hid away in secret places in the long thicketed\nravine.\n\nThe day is far spent, the red sun is low over the west.\n\nAt length straggling warriors return, one by one, to the deep hollow. In\nthe twilight they number their men. Three are missing. Of these absent\nones two are dead; but the third one, a young man, is a captive to the\nfoe.\n\n\"He-he!\" lament the warriors, taking food in haste.\n\nIn silence each woman, with long strides, hurries to and fro, tying\nlarge bundles on her pony's back. Under cover of night the war party\nmust hasten homeward. Motionless, with bowed head, sits a woman in her\nhiding-place. She grieves for her lover.\n\nIn bitterness of spirit she hears the warriors' murmuring words. With\nset teeth she plans to cheat the hated enemy of their captive. In the\nmeanwhile low signals are given, and the war party, unaware of Tusee's\nabsence, steal quietly away. The soft thud of pony-hoofs grows fainter\nand fainter. The gradual hush of the empty ravine whirrs noisily in the\near of the young woman. Alert for any sound of footfalls nigh, she holds\nher breath to listen. Her right hand rests on a long knife in her belt.\nAh, yes, she knows where her pony is hid, but not yet has she need of\nhim. Satisfied that no danger is nigh, she prowls forth from her place\nof hiding. With a panther's tread and pace she climbs the high ridge\nbeyond the low ravine. From thence she spies the enemy's camp-fires.\n\nRooted to the barren bluff the slender woman's figure stands on the\npinnacle of night, outlined against a starry sky. The cool night breeze\nwafts to her burning ear snatches of song and drum. With desperate hate\nshe bites her teeth.\n\nTusee beckons the stars to witness. With impassioned voice and uplifted\nface she pleads:\n\n\"Great Spirit, speed me to my lover's rescue! Give me swift cunning for\na weapon this night! All-powerful Spirit, grant me my warrior-father's\nheart, strong to slay a foe and mighty to save a friend!\"\n\nIn the midst of the enemy's camp-ground, underneath a temporary\ndance-house, are men and women in gala-day dress. It is late in the\nnight, but the merry warriors bend and bow their nude, painted bodies\nbefore a bright center fire. To the lusty men's voices and the rhythmic\nthrobbing drum, they leap and rebound with feathered headgears waving.\n\nWomen with red-painted cheeks and long, braided hair sit in a large\nhalf-circle against the willow railing. They, too, join in the singing,\nand rise to dance with their victorious warriors.\n\nAmid this circular dance arena stands a prisoner bound to a post,\nhaggard with shame and sorrow. He hangs his disheveled head.\n\nHe stares with unseeing eyes upon the bare earth at his feet. With jeers\nand smirking faces the dancers mock the Dakota captive. Rowdy braves and\nsmall boys hoot and yell in derision.\n\nSilent among the noisy mob, a tall woman, leaning both elbows on the\nround willow railing, peers into the lighted arena. The dancing center\nfire shines bright into her handsome face, intensifying the night in her\ndark eyes. It breaks into myriad points upon her beaded dress. Unmindful\nof the surging throng jostling her at either side, she glares in upon\nthe hateful, scoffing men. Suddenly she turns her head. Tittering maids\nwhisper near her ear:\n\n\"There! There! See him now, sneering in the captive's face. 'Tis he who\nsprang upon the young man and dragged him by his long hair to yonder\npost. See! He is handsome! How gracefully he dances!\"\n\nThe silent young woman looks toward the bound captive. She sees a\nwarrior, scarce older than the captive, flourishing a tomahawk in the\nDakota's face. A burning rage darts forth from her eyes and brands him\nfor a victim of revenge. Her heart mutters within her breast, \"Come, I\nwish to meet you, vile foe, who captured my lover and tortures him now\nwith a living death.\"\n\nHere the singers hush their voices, and the dancers scatter to their\nvarious resting-places along the willow ring. The victor gives a\nreluctant last twirl of his tomahawk, then, like the others, he leaves\nthe center ground. With head and shoulders swaying from side to side, he\ncarries a high-pointing chin toward the willow railing. Sitting down\nupon the ground with crossed legs, he fans himself with an outspread\nturkey wing.\n\nNow and then he stops his haughty blinking to peep out of the corners of\nhis eyes. He hears some one clearing her throat gently. It is\nunmistakably for his ear. The wing-fan swings irregularly to and fro. At\nlength he turns a proud face over a bare shoulder and beholds a handsome\nwoman smiling.\n\n\"Ah, she would speak to a hero!\" thumps his heart wildly.\n\nThe singers raise their voices in unison. The music is irresistible.\nAgain lunges the victor into the open arena. Again he leers into the\ncaptive's face. At every interval between the songs he returns to his\nresting-place. Here the young woman awaits him. As he approaches she\nsmiles boldly into his eyes. He is pleased with her face and her smile.\n\nWaving his wing-fan spasmodically in front of his face, he sits with his\nears pricked up. He catches a low whisper. A hand taps him lightly on\nthe shoulder. The handsome woman speaks to him in his own tongue. \"Come\nout into the night. I wish to tell you who I am.\"\n\nHe must know what sweet words of praise the handsome woman has for him.\nWith both hands he spreads the meshes of the loosely woven willows, and\ncrawls out unnoticed into the dark.\n\nBefore him stands the young woman. Beckoning him with a slender hand,\nshe steps backward, away from the light and the restless throng of\nonlookers. He follows with impatient strides. She quickens her pace. He\nlengthens his strides. Then suddenly the woman turns from him and darts\naway with amazing speed. Clinching his fists and biting his lower lip,\nthe young man runs after the fleeing woman. In his maddened pursuit he\nforgets the dance arena.\n\nBeside a cluster of low bushes the woman halts. The young man, panting\nfor breath and plunging headlong forward, whispers loud, \"Pray tell me,\nare you a woman or an evil spirit to lure me away?\"\n\nTurning on heels firmly planted in the earth, the woman gives a wild\nspring forward, like a panther for its prey. In a husky voice she hissed\nbetween her teeth, \"I am a Dakota woman!\"\n\nFrom her unerring long knife the enemy falls heavily at her feet. The\nGreat Spirit heard Tusee's prayer on the hilltop. He gave her a\nwarrior's strong heart to lessen the foe by one.\n\nA bent old woman's figure, with a bundle like a grandchild slung on her\nback, walks round and round the dance-house. The wearied onlookers are\nleaving in twos and threes. The tired dancers creep out of the willow\nrailing, and some go out at the entrance way, till the singers, too,\nrise from the drum and are trudging drowsily homeward. Within the arena\nthe center fire lies broken in red embers. The night no longer lingers\nabout the willow railing, but, hovering into the dance-house, covers\nhere and there a snoring man whom sleep has overpowered where he sat.\n\nThe captive in his tight-binding rawhide ropes hangs in hopeless\ndespair. Close about him the gloom of night is slowly crouching. Yet the\nlast red, crackling embers cast a faint light upon his long black hair,\nand, shining through the thick mats, caress his wan face with undying\nhope.\n\nStill about the dance-house the old woman prowls. Now the embers are\ngray with ashes.\n\nThe old bent woman appears at the entrance way. With a cautious, groping\nfoot she enters. Whispering between her teeth a lullaby for her sleeping\nchild in her blanket, she searches for something forgotten.\n\nNoisily snored the dreaming men in the darkest parts. As the lisping old\nwoman draws nigh, the captive again opens his eyes.\n\nA forefinger she presses to her lip. The young man arouses himself from\nhis stupor. His senses belie him. Before his wide-open eyes the old bent\nfigure straightens into its youthful stature. Tusee herself is beside\nhim. With a stroke upward and downward she severs the cruel cords with\nher sharp blade. Dropping her blanket from her shoulders, so that it\nhangs from her girdled waist like a skirt, she shakes the large bundle\ninto a light shawl for her lover. Quickly she spreads it over his bare\nback.\n\n\"Come!\" she whispers, and turns to go; but the young man, numb and\nhelpless, staggers nigh to falling.\n\nThe sight of his weakness makes her strong. A mighty power thrills her\nbody. Stooping beneath his outstretched arms grasping at the air for\nsupport, Tusee lifts him upon her broad shoulders. With half-running,\ntriumphant steps she carries him away into the open night.\n\n\n\n\nA DREAM OF HER GRANDFATHER\n\n\nHer grandfather was a Dakota \"medicine man.\" Among the Indians of his\nday he was widely known for his successful healing work. He was one of\nthe leading men of the tribe and came to Washington, D.C., with one of\nthe first delegations relative to affairs concerning the Indian people\nand the United States government.\n\nHis was the first band of the Great Sioux Nation to make treaties with\nthe government in the hope of bringing about an amicable arrangement\nbetween the red and white Americans. The journey to the nation's capital\nwas made almost entirely on pony-back, there being no railroads, and the\nSioux delegation was beset with many hardships on the trail. His visit\nto Washington, in behalf of peace among men, proved to be his last\nearthly mission. From a sudden illness, he died and was buried here.\n\nWhen his small granddaughter grew up she learned the white man's tongue,\nand followed in the footsteps of her grandfather to the very seat of\ngovernment to carry on his humanitarian work. Though her days were\nfilled with problems for welfare work among her people, she had a\nstrange dream one night during her stay in Washington. The dream was\nthis: Returning from an afternoon out, she found a large cedar chest had\nbeen delivered to her home in her absence. She sniffed the sweet perfume\nof the red wood, which reminded her of the breath of the forest,--and\nadmired the box so neatly made, without trimmings. It looked so clean,\nstrong and durable in its native genuineness. With elation, she took the\ntag in her hand and read her name aloud. \"Who sent me this cedar chest?\"\nshe asked, and was told it came from her grandfather.\n\nWondering what gift it could be her grandfather wished now to confer\nupon her, wholly disregarding his death years ago, she was all eagerness\nto open the mystery chest.\n\nShe remembered her childhood days and the stories she loved to hear\nabout the unusual powers of her grandfather,--recalled how she, the wee\ngirl, had coveted the medicine bags, beaded and embroidered in porcupine\nquills, in symbols designed by the great \"medicine man,\" her\ngrandfather. Well did she remember her merited rebuke that such things\nwere never made for relics. Treasures came in due time to those ready to\nreceive them.\n\nIn great expectancy, she lifted the heavy lid of the cedar chest. \"Oh!\"\nshe exclaimed, with a note of disappointment, seeing no beaded Indian\nregalia or trinkets. \"Why does my grandfather send such a light gift in\na heavy, large box?\" She was mystified and much perplexed.\n\nThe gift was a fantastic thing, of texture far more delicate than a\nspider's filmy web. It was a vision! A picture of an Indian camp, not\npainted on canvas nor yet written. It was dream-stuff, suspended in the\nthin air, filling the inclosure of the cedar wood container. As she\nlooked upon it, the picture grew more and more real, exceeding the\nproportions of the chest. It was all so illusive a breath might have\nblown it away; yet there it was, real as life,--a circular camp of white\ncone-shaped tepees, astir with Indian people. The village crier, with\nflowing head-dress of eagle plumes, mounted on a prancing white pony,\nrode within the arena. Indian men, women and children stopped in groups\nand clusters, while bright painted faces peered out of tepee doors, to\nlisten to the chieftain's crier.\n\nAt this point, she, too, heard the full melodious voice. She heard\ndistinctly the Dakota words he proclaimed to the people. \"Be glad!\nRejoice! Look up, and see the new day dawning! Help is near! Hear me,\nevery one.\"\n\nShe caught the glad tidings and was thrilled with new hope for her\npeople.\n\n\n\n\nTHE WIDESPREAD ENIGMA CONCERNING BLUE-STAR WOMAN\n\n\nIt was summer on the western plains. Fields of golden sunflowers facing\neastward, greeted the rising sun. Blue-Star Woman, with windshorn braids\nof white hair over each ear, sat in the shade of her log hut before an\nopen fire. Lonely but unmolested she dwelt here like the ground squirrel\nthat took its abode nearby,--both through the easy tolerance of the land\nowner. The Indian woman held a skillet over the burning embers. A large\nround cake, with long slashes in its center, was baking and crowding the\ncapacity of the frying pan.\n\nIn deep abstraction Blue-Star Woman prepared her morning meal. \"Who am\nI?\" had become the obsessing riddle of her life. She was no longer a\nyoung woman, being in her fifty-third year. In the eyes of the white\nman's law, it was required of her to give proof of her membership in the\nSioux tribe. The unwritten law of heart prompted her naturally to say,\n\"I am a being. I am Blue-Star Woman. A piece of earth is my birthright.\"\n\nIt was taught, for reasons now forgot, that an Indian should never\npronounce his or her name in answer to any inquiry. It was probably a\nmeans of protection in the days of black magic. Be this as it may,\nBlue-Star Woman lived in times when this teaching was disregarded. It\ngained her nothing, however, to pronounce her name to the government\nofficial to whom she applied for her share of tribal land. His\npersistent question was always, \"Who were your parents?\"\n\nBlue-Star Woman was left an orphan at a tender age. She did not remember\nthem. They were long gone to the spirit-land,-and she could not\nunderstand why they should be recalled to earth on her account. It was\nanother one of the old, old teachings of her race that the names of the\ndead should not be idly spoken. It had become a sacrilege to mention\ncarelessly the name of any departed one, especially in matters of\ndisputes over worldy possessions. The unfortunate circumstances of her\nearly childhood, together with the lack of written records of a roving\npeople, placed a formidable barrier between her and her heritage. The\nfact was events of far greater importance to the tribe than her\nreincarnation had passed unrecorded in books. The verbal reports of the\nold-time men and women of the tribe were varied,--some were actually\ncontradictory. Blue-Star Woman was unable to find even a twig of her\nfamily tree.\n\nShe sharpened one end of a long stick and with it speared the fried\nbread when it was browned. Heedless of the hot bread's \"Tsing!\" in a\nhigh treble as it was lifted from the fire, she added it to the six\nothers which had preceded it. It had been many a moon since she had had\na meal of fried bread, for she was too poor to buy at any one time all\nthe necessary ingredients, particularly the fat in which to fry it.\nDuring the breadmaking, the smoke-blackened coffeepot boiled over. The\naroma of freshly made coffee smote her nostrils and roused her from the\ntantalizing memories.\n\nThe day before, friendly spirits, the unseen ones, had guided her\naimless footsteps to her Indian neighbor's house. No sooner had she\nentered than she saw on the table some grocery bundles. \"Iye-que,\nfortunate one!\" she exclaimed as she took the straight-backed chair\noffered her. At once the Indian hostess untied the bundles and measured\nout a cupful of green coffee beans and a pound of lard. She gave them to\nBlue-Star Woman, saying, \"I want to share my good fortune. Take these\nhome with you.\" Thus it was that Blue-Star Woman had come into\nunexpected possession of the materials which now contributed richly to\nher breakfast.\n\nThe generosity of her friend had often saved her from starvation.\nGenerosity is said to be a fault of Indian people, but neither the\nPilgrim Fathers nor Blue-Star Woman ever held it seriously against them.\nBlue-Star Woman was even grateful for this gift of food. She was fond of\ncoffee,-that black drink brought hither by those daring voyagers of long\nago. The coffee habit was one of the signs of her progress in the white\nman's civilization, also had she emerged from the tepee into a log hut,\nanother achievement. She had learned to read the primer and to write her\nname. Little Blue-Star attended school unhindered by a fond mother's\nfears that a foreign teacher might not spare the rod with her darling.\n\nBlue-Star Woman was her individual name. For untold ages the Indian\nrace had not used family names. A new-born child was given a brand-new\nname. Blue-Star Woman was proud to write her name for which she would\nnot be required to substitute another's upon her marriage, as is the\ncustom of civilized peoples.\n\n\"The times are changed now,\" she muttered under her breath. \"My\nindividual name seems to mean nothing.\" Looking out into space, she saw\nthe nodding sunflowers, and they acquiesced with her. Their drying\nleaves reminded her of the near approach of autumn. Then soon, very\nsoon, the ice would freeze along the banks of the muddy river. The day\nof the first ice was her birthday. She would be fifty-four winters old.\nHow futile had been all these winters to secure her a share in tribal\nlands. A weary smile flickered across her face as she sat there on the\nground like a bronze figure of patience and long-suffering.\n\nThe breadmaking was finished. The skillet was set aside to cool. She\npoured the appetizing coffee into her tin cup. With fried bread and\nblack coffee she regaled herself. Again her mind reverted to her\nriddle. \"The missionary preacher said he could not explain the white\nman's law to me. He who reads daily from the Holy Bible, which he tells\nme is God's book, cannot understand mere man's laws. This also puzzles\nme,\" thought she to herself. \"Once a wise leader of our people,\naddressing a president of this country, said: 'I am a man. You are\nanother. The Great Spirit is our witness!' This is simple and easy to\nunderstand, but the times are changed. The white man's laws are\nstrange.\"\n\nBlue-Star Woman broke off a piece of fried bread between a thumb and\nforefinger. She ate it hungrily, and sipped from her cup of fragrant\ncoffee. \"I do not understand the white man's law. It's like walking in\nthe dark. In this darkness, I am growing fearful of everything.\"\n\nOblivious to the world, she had not heard the footfall of two Indian men\nwho now stood before her.\n\nTheir short-cropped hair looked blue-black in contrast to the faded\ncivilian clothes they wore. Their white man's shoes were rusty and\nunpolished. To the unconventional eyes of the old Indian woman, their\ncelluloid collars appeared like shining marks of civilization. Blue-Star\nWoman looked up from the lap of mother earth without rising. \"Hinnu,\nhinnu!\" she ejaculated in undisguised surprise. \"Pray, who are these\nwould-be white men?\" she inquired.\n\nIn one voice and by an assumed relationship the two Indian men addressed\nher. \"Aunt, I shake hands with you.\" Again Blue-Star Woman remarked,\n\"Oh, indeed! these near white men speak my native tongue and shake hands\naccording to our custom.\" Did she guess the truth, she would have known\nthey were simply deluded mortals, deceiving others and themselves most\nof all. Boisterously laughing and making conversation, they each in turn\ngripped her withered hand.\n\nLike a sudden flurry of wind, tossing loose ends of things, they broke\ninto her quiet morning hour and threw her groping thoughts into greater\nchaos. Masking their real errand with long-drawn faces, they feigned a\nconcern for her welfare only. \"We come to ask how you are living. We\nheard you were slowly starving to death. We heard you are one of those\nIndians who have been cheated out of their share in tribal lands by the\ngovernment officials.\"\n\nBlue-Star Woman became intensely interested.\n\n\"You see we are educated in the white man's ways,\" they said with\nprotruding chests. One unconsciously thrust his thumbs into the\narm-holes of his ill-fitting coat and strutted about in his pride. \"We\ncan help you get your land. We want to help our aunt. All old people\nlike you ought to be helped before the younger ones. The old will die\nsoon, and they may never get the benefit of their land unless some one\nlike us helps them to get their rights, without further delay.\"\n\nBlue-Star Woman listened attentively.\n\nMotioning to the mats she spread upon the ground, she said: \"Be seated,\nmy nephews.\" She accepted the relationship assumed for the occasion. \"I\nwill give you some breakfast.\" Quickly she set before them a generous\nhelping of fried bread and cups of coffee. Resuming her own meal, she\ncontinued, \"You are wonderfully kind. It is true, my nephews, that I\nhave grown old trying to secure my share of land. It may not be long\ntill I shall pass under the sod.\"\n\nThe two men responded with \"How, how,\" which meant, \"Go on with your\nstory. We are all ears.\" Blue-Star Woman had not yet detected any\nparticular sharpness about their ears, but by an impulse she looked up\ninto their faces and scrutinized them. They were busily engaged in\neating. Their eyes were fast upon the food on the mat in front of their\ncrossed shins. Inwardly she made a passing observation how, like\nravenous wolves, her nephews devoured their food. Coyotes in midwinter\ncould not have been more starved. Without comment she offered them the\nremaining fried cakes, and between them they took it all. She offered\nthe second helping of coffee, which they accepted without hesitancy.\nFilling their cups, she placed her empty coffeepot on the dead ashes.\n\nTo them she rehearsed her many hardships. It had become a habit now to\ntell her long story of disappointments with all its petty details. It\nwas only another instance of good intentions gone awry. It was a paradox\nupon a land of prophecy that its path to future glory be stained with\nthe blood of its aborigines. Incongruous as it is, the two nephews, with\ntheir white associates, were glad of a condition so profitable to them.\nTheir solicitation for Blue-Star Woman was not at all altruistic. They\nthrived in their grafting business. They and their occupation were the\nby-product of an unwieldly bureaucracy over the nation's wards.\n\n\"Dear aunt, you failed to establish the facts of your identity,\" they\ntold her. Hereupon Blue-Star Woman's countenance fell. It was ever the\nsame old words. It was the old song of the government official she\nloathed to hear. The next remark restored her courage. \"If any one can\ndiscover evidence, it's us! I tell you, aunt, we'll fix it all up for\nyou.\" It was a great relief to the old Indian woman to be thus\nunburdened of her riddle, with a prospect of possessing land. \"There is\none thing you will have to do,--that is, to pay us half of your land and\nmoney when you get them.\" Here was a pause, and Blue-Star Woman answered\nslowly, \"Y-e-s,\" in an uncertain frame of mind.\n\nThe shrewd schemers noted her behavior. \"Wouldn't you rather have a half\nof a crust of bread than none at all?\" they asked. She was duly\nimpressed with the force of their argument. In her heart she agreed, \"A\nlittle something to eat is better than nothing!\" The two men talked in\nregular relays. The flow of smooth words was continuous and so much like\npurring that all the woman's suspicions were put soundly to sleep. \"Look\nhere, aunt, you know very well that prairie fire is met with a\nback-fire.\" Blue-Star Woman, recalling her experiences in fire-fighting,\nquickly responded, \"Yes, oh, yes.\"\n\n\"In just the same way, we fight crooks with crooks. We have clever white\nlawyers working with us. They are the back-fire.\" Then, as if\nremembering some particular incident, they both laughed aloud and said,\n\"Yes, and sometimes they use us as the back-fire! We trade fifty-fifty.\"\n\nBlue-Star Woman sat with her chin in the palm of one hand with elbow\nresting in the other. She rocked herself slightly forward and backward.\nAt length she answered, \"Yes, I will pay you half of my share in tribal\nland and money when I get them. In bygone days, brave young men of the\norder of the White-Horse-Riders sought out the aged, the poor, the\nwidows and orphans to aid them, but they did their good work without\npay. The White-Horse-Riders are gone. The times are changed. I am a poor\nold Indian woman. I need warm clothing before winter begins to blow its\nicicles through us. I need fire wood. I need food. As you have said, a\nlittle help is better than none.\"\n\nHereupon the two pretenders scored another success.\n\nThey rose to their feet. They had eaten up all the fried bread and\ndrained the coffeepot. They shook hands with Blue-Star Woman and\ndeparted. In the quiet that followed their departure she sat munching\nher small piece of bread, which, by a lucky chance, she had taken on her\nplate before the hungry wolves had come. Very slowly she ate the\nfragment of fried bread as if to increase it by diligent mastication. A\nself-condemning sense of guilt disturbed her. In her dire need she had\nbecome involved with tricksters. Her nephews laughingly told her, \"We\nuse crooks, and crooks use us in the skirmish over Indian lands.\"\n\nThe friendly shade of the house shrank away from her and hid itself\nunder the narrow eaves of the dirt covered roof. She shrugged her\nshoulders. The sun high in the sky had witnessed the affair and now\nglared down upon her white head. Gathering upon her arm the mats and\ncooking utensils, she hobbled into her log hut.\n\nUnder the brooding wilderness silence, on the Sioux Indian Reservation,\nthe superintendent summoned together the leading Indian men of the\ntribe. He read a letter which he had received from headquarters in\nWashington, D.C. It announced the enrollment of Blue-Star Woman on their\ntribal roll of members and the approval of allotting land to her.\n\nIt came as a great shock to the tribesmen. Without their knowledge and\nconsent their property was given to a strange woman. They protested in\nvain. The superintendent said, \"I received this letter from Washington.\nI have read it to you for your information. I have fulfilled my duty. I\ncan do no more.\" With these fateful words he dismissed the assembly.\n\nHeavy hearted, Chief High Flier returned to his dwelling. Smoking his\nlong-stemmed pipe he pondered over the case of Blue-Star Woman. The\nIndian's guardian had got into a way of usurping autocratic power in\ndisposing of the wards' property. It was growing intolerable. \"No doubt\nthis Indian woman is entitled to allotment, but where? Certainly not\nhere,\" he thought to himself.\n\nLaying down his pipe, he called his little granddaughter from her play,\n\"You are my interpreter and scribe,\" he said. \"Bring your paper and\npencil.\" A letter was written in the child's sprawling hand, and signed\nby the old chieftain. It read:\n\n\"My Friend:\n\n\"I make letter to you. My heart is sad. Washington give my tribe's land\nto a woman called Blue-Star. We do not know her. We were not asked to\ngive land, but our land is taken from us to give to another Indian. This\nis not right. Lots of little children of my tribe have no land. Why this\nstrange woman get our land which belongs to our children? Go to\nWashington and ask if our treaties tell him to give our property away\nwithout asking us. Tell him I thought we made good treaties on paper,\nbut now our children cry for food. We are too poor. We cannot give even\nto our own little children. Washington is very rich. Washington now\nowns our country. If he wants to help this poor Indian woman, Blue-Star,\nlet him give her some of his land and his money. This is all I will say\nuntil you answer me. I shake hands with you with my heart. The Great\nSpirit hears my words. They are true.\n\n\"Your friend,\n\n\"CHIEF HIGH FLIER.\n\n\"X (his mark).\"\n\nThe letter was addressed to a prominent American woman. A stamp was\ncarefully placed on the envelope.\n\nEarly the next morning, before the dew was off the grass, the\nchieftain's riding pony was caught from the pasture and brought to his\nlog house. It was saddled and bridled by a younger man, his son with\nwhom he made his home. The old chieftain came out, carrying in one hand\nhis long-stemmed pipe and tobacco pouch. His blanket was loosely girdled\nabout his waist. Tightly holding the saddle horn, he placed a moccasined\nfoot carefully into the stirrup and pulled himself up awkwardly into the\nsaddle, muttering to himself, \"Alas, I can no more leap into my saddle.\nI now must crawl about in my helplessness.\" He was past eighty years of\nage, and no longer agile.\n\nHe set upon his ten-mile trip to the only post office for hundreds of\nmiles around. In his shirt pocket, he carried the letter destined, in\ndue season, to reach the heart of American people. His pony, grown old\nin service, jogged along the dusty road. Memories of other days thronged\nthe wayside, and for the lonely rider transformed all the country. Those\ndays were gone when the Indian youths were taught to be truthful,--to be\nmerciful to the poor. Those days were gone when moral cleanliness was a\nchief virtue; when public feasts were given in honor of the virtuous\ngirls and young men of the tribe. Untold mischief is now possible\nthrough these broken ancient laws. The younger generation were not being\nproperly trained in the high virtues. A slowly starving race was growing\nmad, and the pitifully weak sold their lands for a pot of porridge.\n\n\"He, he, he! He, he, he!\" he lamented. \"Small Voice Woman, my own\nrelative is being represented as the mother of this strange\nBlue-Star--the papers were made by two young Indian men who have\nlearned the white man's ways. Why must I be forced to accept the\nmischief of children? My memory is clear. My reputation for veracity is\nwell known.\n\n\"Small Voice Woman lived in my house until her death. She had only one\nchild and it was a _boy_!\" He held his hand over this thumping heart,\nand was reminded of the letter in his pocket. \"This letter,--what will\nhappen when it reaches my good friend?\" he asked himself. The chieftain\nrubbed his dim eyes and groaned, \"If only my good friend knew the folly\nof turning my letter into the hands of bureaucrats! In face of repeated\ndefeat, I am daring once more to send this one letter.\" An inner voice\nsaid in his ear, \"And this one letter will share the same fate of the\nother letters.\"\n\nStartled by the unexpected voice, he jerked upon the bridle reins and\nbrought the drowsy pony to a sudden halt. There was no one near. He\nfound himself a mile from the post office, for the cluster of government\nbuildings, where lived the superintendent, were now in plain sight. His\nthin frame shook with emotion. He could not go there with his letter.\n\nHe dismounted from his pony. His quavering voice chanted a bravery song\nas he gathered dry grasses and the dead stalks of last year's\nsunflowers. He built a fire, and crying aloud, for his sorrow was\ngreater than he could bear, he cast the letter into the flames. The fire\nconsumed it. He sent his message on the wings of fire and he believed\nshe would get it. He yet trusted that help would come to his people\nbefore it was too late. The pony tossed his head in a readiness to go.\nHe knew he was on the return trip and he was glad to travel.\n\nThe wind which blew so gently at dawn was now increased into a gale as\nthe sun approached the zenith. The chieftain, on his way home, sensed a\ncoming storm. He looked upward to the sky and around in every direction.\nBehind him, in the distance, he saw a cloud of dust. He saw several\nhorsemen whipping their ponies and riding at great speed. Occasionally\nhe heard their shouts, as if calling after some one. He slackened his\npony's pace and frequently looked over his shoulder to see who the\nriders were advancing in hot haste upon him. He was growing curious. In\na short time the riders surrounded him. On their coats shone brass\nbuttons, and on their hats were gold cords and tassels. They were Indian\npolice.\n\n\"Wan!\" he exclaimed, finding himself the object of their chase. It was\ntheir foolish ilk who had murdered the great leader, Sitting Bull.\n\"Pray, what is the joke? Why do young men surround an old man quietly\nriding home?\"\n\n\"Uncle,\" said the spokesman, \"we are hirelings, as you know. We are sent\nby the government superintendent to arrest you and take you back with\nus. The superintendent says you are one of the bad Indians, singing war\nsongs and opposing the government all the time; this morning you were\nseen trying to set fire to the government agency.\"\n\n\"Hunhunhe!\" replied the old chief, placing the palm of his hand over his\nmouth agap in astonishment. \"All this is unbelievable!\"\n\nThe policeman took hold of the pony's bridle and turned the reluctant\nlittle beast around. They led it back with them and the old chieftain\nset unresisting in the saddle. High Flier was taken before the\nsuperintendent, who charged him with setting fires to destroy government\nbuildings and found him guilty. Thus Chief High Flier was sent to jail.\nHe had already suffered much during his life. He was the voiceless man\nof America. And now in his old age he was cast into prison. The chagrin\nof it all, together with his utter helplessness to defend his own or his\npeople's human rights, weighed heavily upon his spirit.\n\nThe foul air of the dingy cell nauseated him who loved the open. He sat\nwearily down upon the tattered mattress, which lay on the rough board\nfloor. He drew his robe closely about his tall figure, holding it\npartially over his face, his hands covered within the folds. In profound\ngloom the gray-haired prisoner sat there, without a stir for long hours\nand knew not when the day ended and night began. He sat buried in his\ndesperation. His eyes were closed, but he could not sleep. Bread and\nwater in tin receptacles set upon the floor beside him untouched. He was\nnot hungry. Venturesome mice crept out upon the floor and scampered in\nthe dim starlight streaming through the iron bars of the cell window.\nThey squeaked as they dared each other to run across his moccasined\nfeet, but the chieftain neither saw nor heard them.\n\nA terrific struggle was waged within his being. He fought as he never\nfought before. Tenaciously he hung upon hope for the day of\nsalvation--that hope hoary with age. Defying all odds against him, he\nrefused to surrender faith in good people.\n\nUnderneath his blanket, wrapped so closely about him, stole a luminous\nlight. Before his stricken consciousness appeared a vision. Lo, his good\nfriend, the American woman to whom he had sent his messages by fire, now\nstood there a legion! A vast multitude of women, with uplifted hands,\ngazed upon a huge stone image. Their upturned faces were eager and very\nearnest. The stone figure was that of a woman upon the brink of the\nGreat Waters, facing eastward. The myriad living hands remained uplifted\ntill the stone woman began to show signs of life. Very majestically she\nturned around, and, lo, she smiled upon this great galaxy of American\nwomen. She was the Statue of Liberty! It was she, who, though\nrepresenting human liberty, formerly turned her back upon the American\naborigine. Her face was aglow with compassion. Her eyes swept across the\noutspread continent of America, the home of the red man.\n\nAt this moment her torch flamed brighter and whiter till its radiance\nreached into the obscure and remote places of the land. Her light of\nliberty penetrated Indian reservations. A loud shout of joy rose up from\nthe Indians of the earth, everywhere!\n\nAll too soon the picture was gone. Chief High Flier awoke. He lay\nprostrate on the floor where during the night he had fallen. He rose and\ntook his seat again upon the mattress. Another day was ushered into his\nlife. In his heart lay the secret vision of hope born in the midnight of\nhis sorrows. It enabled him to serve his jail sentence with a mute\ndignity which baffled those who saw him.\n\nFinally came the day of his release. There was rejoicing over all the\nland. The desolate hills that harbored wailing voices nightly now were\nhushed and still. Only gladness filled the air. A crowd gathered around\nthe jail to greet the chieftain. His son stood at the entrance way,\nwhile the guard unlocked the prison door. Serenely quiet, the old\nIndian chief stepped forth. An unseen stone in his path caused him to\nstumble slightly, but his son grasped him by the hand and steadied his\ntottering steps. He led him to a heavy lumber wagon drawn by a small\npony team which he had brought to take him home. The people thronged\nabout him--hundreds shook hands with him and went away singing native\nsongs of joy for the safe return to them of their absent one.\n\nAmong the happy people came Blue-Star Woman's two nephews. Each shook\nthe chieftain's hand. One of them held out an ink pad saying, \"We are\nglad we were able to get you out of jail. We have great influence with\nthe Indian Bureau in Washington, D.C. When you need help, let us know.\nHere press your thumb in this pad.\" His companion took from his pocket a\ndocument prepared for the old chief's signature, and held it on the\nwagon wheel for the thumb mark. The chieftain was taken by surprise. He\nlooked into his son's eyes to know the meaning of these two men. \"It is\nour agreement,\" he explained to his old father. \"I pledged to pay them\nhalf of your land if they got you out of jail.\"\n\nThe old chieftain sighed, but made no comment. Words were vain. He\npressed his indelible thumb mark, his signature it was, upon the deed,\nand drove home with his son.\n\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n\nAMERICA'S INDIAN PROBLEM\n\nThe hospitality of the American aborigine, it is told, saved the early\nsettlers from starvation during the first bleak winters. In\ncommemoration of having been so well received, Newport erected \"a cross\nas a sign of English dominion.\" With sweet words he quieted the\nsuspicions of Chief Powhatan, his friend. He \"told him that the arms (of\nthe cross) represented Powhatan and himself, and the middle their united\nleague.\"\n\nDeSoto and his Spaniards were graciously received by the Indian Princess\nCofachiqui in the South. While on a sight-seeing tour they entered the\nancestral tombs of those Indians. DeSoto \"dipped into the pearls and\ngave his two joined hands full to each cavalier to make rosaries of, he\nsaid, to say prayers for their sins on. We imagine if their prayers were\nin proportion to their sins they must have spent the most of their time\nat their devotions.\"\n\nIt was in this fashion that the old world snatched away the fee in the\nland of the new. It was in this fashion that America was divided\nbetween the powers of Europe and the aborigines were dispossessed of\ntheir country. The barbaric rule of might from which the paleface had\nfled hither for refuge caught up with him again, and in the melee the\nhospitable native suffered \"legal disability.\"\n\nHistory tells that it was from the English and the Spanish our\ngovernment inherited its legal victims, the American Indians, whom to\nthis day we hold as wards and not as citizens of their own freedom\nloving land. A long century of dishonor followed this inheritance of\nsomebody's loot. Now the time is at hand when the American Indian shall\nhave his day in court through the help of the women of America. The\nstain upon America's fair name is to be removed, and the remnant of the\nIndian nation, suffering from malnutrition, is to number among the\ninvited invisible guests at your dinner tables.\n\nIn this undertaking there must be cooperation of head, heart and hand.\nWe serve both our own government and a voiceless people within our\nmidst. We would open the door of American opportunity to the red man and\nencourage him to find his rightful place in our American life. We would\nremove the barriers that hinder his normal development.\n\nWardship is no substitute for American citizenship, therefore we seek\nhis enfranchisement. The many treaties made in good faith with the\nIndian by our government we would like to see equitably settled. By a\nconstructive program we hope to do away with the \"piecemeal legislation\"\naffecting Indians here and there which has proven an exceedingly\nexpensive and disappointing method.\n\nDo you know what _your_ Bureau of Indian Affairs, in Washington, D.C.,\nreally is? How it is organized and how it deals with wards of the\nnation? This is our first study. Let us be informed of facts and then we\nmay formulate our opinions. In the remaining space allowed me I shall\nquote from the report of the Bureau of Municipal Research, in their\ninvestigation of the Indian Bureau, published by them in the September\nissue, 1915, No. 65, \"Municipal Research,\" 261 Broadway, New York City.\nThis report is just as good for our use today as when it was first made,\nfor very little, if any, change has been made in the administration of\nIndian Affairs since then.\n\n\nPREFATORY NOTE.\n\n\"While this report was printed for the information of members of\nCongress, it was not made a part of the report of the Joint Commission\nof Congress, at whose request it was prepared, and is not available for\ndistribution.\"\n\n\nUNPUBLISHED DIGEST OF STATUTORY AND TREATY PROVISIONS GOVERNING INDIAN\nFUNDS.\n\n\"When in 1913 inquiry was made into the accounting and reporting methods\nof the Indian Office by the President's Commission on Economy and\nEfficiency, it was found there was no digest of the provisions of\nstatutes and treaties with Indian tribes governing Indian funds and the\ntrust obligations of the government. Such a digest was therefore\nprepared. It was not completed, however, until after Congress adjourned\nMarch 4, 1913. Then, instead of being published, it found its way into\nthe pigeon-holes in the Interior Department and the Civil Service\nCommission, where the working papers and unpublished reports of the\ncommission were ordered stored. The digest itself would make a document\nof about three hundred pages.\"\n\n\nUNPUBLISHED OUTLINE OF ORGANIZATION.\n\n\"By order of the President, the commission, in cooperation with various\npersons assigned to this work, also prepared at great pains a complete\nanalysis of the organization of every department, office and commission\nof the federal government as of July 1, 1912. This represented a\ncomplete picture of the government as a whole in summary outline; it\nalso represented an accurate picture of every administrative bureau,\noffice, and of every operative or field station, and showed in his\nworking relation each of the 500,000 officers and employes in the public\nservice. The report in typewritten form was one of the working documents\nused in the preparation of the 'budget' submitted by President Taft to\nCongress in February, 1913. The 'budget' was ordered printed by\nCongress, but the cost thereof was to be charged against the President's\nappropriation. There was not enough money remaining in this\nappropriation to warrant the printing of the report on organization. It,\ntherefore, also found repose in a dark closet.\"\n\n\nTOO VOLUMINOUS TO BE MADE PART OF THIS SERIES.\n\n\"Congress alone could make the necessary provision for the publication\nof these materials; the documents are too voluminous to be printed as a\npart of this series, even if official permission were granted. It is\nagain suggested, however, that the data might be made readily accessible\nand available to students by placing in manuscript division of the\nLibrary of Congress one copy of the unpublished reports and working\npapers of the President's Commission on Economy and Efficiency. This\naction was recommended by the commission, but the only official action\ntaken was to order that the materials be placed under lock and key in\nthe Civil Service Commission.\"\n\n\nNEED FOR SPECIAL CARE IN MANAGEMENT.\n\n\"The need for special care in the management of Indian Affairs lies in\nthe fact that in theory of law the Indian has not the rights of a\ncitizen. He has not even the rights of a foreign resident. The Indian\nindividually does not have access to the courts; he can not individually\nappeal to the administrative and judicial branches of the public service\nfor the enforcement of his rights. He himself is considered as a ward of\nthe United States. His property and funds are held in trust. * * * The\nIndian Office is the agency of the government for administering both the\nguardianship of the Indian and the trusteeship of his properties.\"\n\n\nCONDITIONS ADVERSE TO GOOD ADMINISTRATION.\n\n\"The legal status of the Indian and his property is the condition which\nmakes it incumbent on the government to assume the obligation of\nprotector. What is of special interest in this inquiry is to note the\nconditions under which the Indian Office has been required to conduct\nits business. In no other relation are the agents of the government\nunder conditions more adverse to efficient administration. The\ninfluence which make for the infidelity to trusteeship, for subversion\nof properties and funds, for the violation of physical and moral welfare\nhave been powerful. The opportunities and inducements are much greater\nthan those which have operated with ruinous effect on other branches of\npublic service and on the trustees and officers of our great private\ncorporations. In many instances, the integrity of these have been broken\ndown.\"\n\n\nGOVERNMENT MACHINERY INADEQUATE.\n\n\"* * * Behind the sham protection, which operated largely as a blind to\npublicity, have been at all times great wealth in the form of Indian\nfunds to be subverted; valuable lands, mines, oil fields, and other\nnatural resources to be despoiled or appropriated to the use of the\ntrader; and large profits to be made by those dealing with trustees who\nwere animated by motives of gain. This has been the situation in which\nthe Indian Service has been for more than a century--the Indian during\nall this time having his rights and properties to greater or less extent\nneglected; the guardian, the government, in many instances, passive to\nconditions which have contributed to his undoing.\"\n\n\nOPPORTUNITIES STILL PRESENT.\n\n\"And still, due to the increasing value of his remaining estate, there\nis left an inducement to fraud, corruption, and institutional\nincompetence almost beyond the possibility of comprehension. The\nproperties and funds of the Indians today are estimated at not less than\none thousand millions of dollars. There is still a great obligation to\nbe discharged, which must run through many years. The government itself\nowes many millions of dollars for Indian moneys which it has converted\nto its own use, and it is of interest to note that it does not know and\nthe officers do not know what is the present condition of the Indian\nfunds in their keeping.\"\n\n\nPRIMARY DEFECTS.\n\n\"* * * The story of the mismanagement of Indian Affairs is only a\nchapter in the history of the mismanagement of corporate trusts. The\nIndian has been the victim of the same kind of neglect, the same\nabortive processes, the same malpractices as have the life insurance\npolicyholders, the bank depositor, the industrial and transportation\nshareholder. The form of organization of the trusteeship has been one\nwhich does not provide for independent audit and supervision. The\ninstitutional methods and practices have been such that they do not\nprovide either a fact basis for official judgment or publicity of facts\nwhich, if made available, would supply evidence of infidelity. In the\noperation of this machinery, there has not been the means provided for\neffective official scrutiny and the public conscience could not be\nreached.\"\n\n\nAMPLE PRECEDENTS TO BE FOLLOWED.\n\n\"Precedents to be followed are ample. In private corporate trusts that\nhave been mismanaged a basis of appeal has been found only when some\nfavorable circumstance has brought to light conditions so shocking as to\ncause those people who have possessed political power, as a matter of\nself-protection, to demand a thorough reorganization and revision of\nmethods. The same motive has lain back of legislation for the Indian.\nBut the motive to political action has been less effective, for the\nreason that in the past the Indians who have acted in self-protection\nhave either been killed or placed in confinement. All the machinery of\ngovernment has been set to work to repress rather than to provide\nadequate means for justly dealing with a large population which had no\npolitical rights.\"--Edict Magazine.\n\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n\n_This Book should be in every home_\n\nOld Indian Legends\n\n\n25 Seminole Avenue, Forest Hill, L.I., N.Y.,\n\nAugust 25, 1919.\n\nDear Zitkala-Sa:\n\nI thank you for your book on Indian legends. I have read them with\nexquisite pleasure. Like all folk tales they mirror the child life of\nthe world. There is in them a note of wild, strange music.\n\nYou have translated them into our language in a way that will keep them\nalive in the hearts of men. They are so young, so fresh, so full of the\nodors of the virgin forest untrod by the foot of white man! The thoughts\nof your people seem dipped in the colors of the rainbow, palpitant with\nthe play of winds, eerie with the thrill of a spirit-world unseen but\nfelt and feared.\n\nYour tales of birds, beast, tree and spirit can not but hold captive the\nhearts of all children. They will kindle in their young minds that\neternal wonder which creates poetry and keeps life fresh and eager. I\nwish you and your little book of Indian tales all success.\n\nI am always\n\nSincerely your friend,\n\n(Signed) HELEN KELLER.","title":"American Indian Stories","tradition":"folklore-oral-tradition","translated_text":null,"word_count":32282}