AMERICAN INDIAN STORIES

BY

ZITKALA-SA _(Gertrude Bonnin)_

Dakota Sioux Indian

Lecturer; Author of "Old Indian Legends, " "Americanize The FirstAmerican, " and other stories; Member of the Woman's National Foundation, League of American Pen-Women, and the Washington Salon

"_There is no great; there is no small; in the mind that causeth all_"

1921

CONTENTS

Impressions of an Indian Childhood

The School Days of an Indian Girl

An Indian Teacher Among Indians

The Great Spirit

The Soft-Hearted Sioux

The Trial Path

A Warrior's Daughter

A Dream of Her Grandfather

The Widespread Enigma of Blue-Star Woman

America's Indian Problem

IMPRESSIONS OF AN INDIAN CHILDHOOD

I. 

MY MOTHER. 

A wigwam of weather-stained canvas stood at the base of some irregularlyascending hills. A footpath wound its way gently down the sloping landtill it reached the broad river bottom; creeping through the long swampgrasses that bent over it on either side, it came out on the edge of theMissouri. 

Here, morning, noon, and evening, my mother came to draw water from themuddy stream for our household use. Always, when my mother started forthe river, I stopped my play to run along with her. She was only ofmedium height. Often she was sad and silent, at which times her fullarched lips were compressed into hard and bitter lines, and shadows fellunder her black eyes. Then I clung to her hand and begged to know whatmade the tears fall. 

"Hush; my little daughter must never talk about my tears"; and smilingthrough them, she patted my head and said, "Now let me see how fast youcan run today. " Whereupon I tore away at my highest possible speed, withmy long black hair blowing in the breeze. 

I was a wild little girl of seven. Loosely clad in a slip of brownbuckskin, and light-footed with a pair of soft moccasins on my feet, Iwas as free as the wind that blew my hair, and no less spirited than abounding deer. These were my mother's pride, --my wild freedom andoverflowing spirits. She taught me no fear save that of intruding myselfupon others. 

Having gone many paces ahead I stopped, panting for breath, and laughingwith glee as my mother watched my every movement. I was not whollyconscious of myself, but was more keenly alive to the fire within. Itwas as if I were the activity, and my hands and feet were onlyexperiments for my spirit to work upon. 

Returning from the river, I tugged beside my mother, with my hand uponthe bucket I believed I was carrying. One time, on such a return, Iremember a bit of conversation we had. My grown-up cousin, Warca-Ziwin(Sunflower), who was then seventeen, always went to the river alone forwater for her mother. Their wigwam was not far from ours; and I saw herdaily going to and from the river. I admired my cousin greatly. So Isaid: "Mother, when I am tall as my cousin Warca-Ziwin, you shall nothave to come for water. I will do it for you. "

With a strange tremor in her voice which I could not understand, sheanswered, "If the paleface does not take away from us the river wedrink. "

"Mother, who is this bad paleface?" I asked. 

"My little daughter, he is a sham, --a sickly sham! The bronzed Dakota isthe only real man. "

I looked up into my mother's face while she spoke; and seeing her biteher lips, I knew she was unhappy. This aroused revenge in my small soul. Stamping my foot on the earth, I cried aloud, "I hate the paleface thatmakes my mother cry!"

Setting the pail of water on the ground, my mother stooped, andstretching her left hand out on the level with my eyes, she placed herother arm about me; she pointed to the hill where my uncle and my onlysister lay buried. 

"There is what the paleface has done! Since then your father too hasbeen buried in a hill nearer the rising sun. We were once very happy. But the paleface has stolen our lands and driven us hither. Havingdefrauded us of our land, the paleface forced us away. 

"Well, it happened on the day we moved camp that your sister and unclewere both very sick. Many others were ailing, but there seemed to be nohelp. We traveled many days and nights; not in the grand, happy way thatwe moved camp when I was a little girl, but we were driven, my child, driven like a herd of buffalo. With every step, your sister, who was notas large as you are now, shrieked with the painful jar until she washoarse with crying. She grew more and more feverish. Her little handsand cheeks were burning hot. Her little lips were parched and dry, butshe would not drink the water I gave her. Then I discovered that herthroat was swollen and red. My poor child, how I cried with her becausethe Great Spirit had forgotten us!

"At last, when we reached this western country, on the first weary nightyour sister died. And soon your uncle died also, leaving a widow and anorphan daughter, your cousin Warca-Ziwin. Both your sister and unclemight have been happy with us today, had it not been for the heartlesspaleface. "

My mother was silent the rest of the way to our wigwam. Though I saw notears in her eyes, I knew that was because I was with her. She seldomwept before me. 

II. 

THE LEGENDS. 

During the summer days my mother built her fire in the shadow of ourwigwam. 

In the early morning our simple breakfast was spread upon the grass westof our tepee. At the farthest point of the shade my mother sat besideher fire, toasting a savory piece of dried meat. Near her, I sat upon myfeet, eating my dried meat with unleavened bread, and drinking strongblack coffee. 

The morning meal was our quiet hour, when we two were entirely alone. Atnoon, several who chanced to be passing by stopped to rest, and to shareour luncheon with us, for they were sure of our hospitality. 

My uncle, whose death my mother ever lamented, was one of our nation'sbravest warriors. His name was on the lips of old men when talking ofthe proud feats of valor; and it was mentioned by younger men, too, inconnection with deeds of gallantry. Old women praised him for hiskindness toward them; young women held him up as an ideal to theirsweethearts. Every one loved him, and my mother worshiped his memory. Thus it happened that even strangers were sure of welcome in our lodge, if they but asked a favor in my uncle's name. 

Though I heard many strange experiences related by these wayfarers, Iloved best the evening meal, for that was the time old legends weretold. I was always glad when the sun hung low in the west, for then mymother sent me to invite the neighboring old men and women to eat supperwith us. Running all the way to the wigwams, I halted shyly at theentrances. Sometimes I stood long moments without saying a word. It wasnot any fear that made me so dumb when out upon such a happy errand; norwas it that I wished to withhold the invitation, for it was all I coulddo to observe this very proper silence. But it was a sensing of theatmosphere, to assure myself that I should not hinder other plans. Mymother used to say to me, as I was almost bounding away for the oldpeople: "Wait a moment before you invite any one. If other plans arebeing discussed, do not interfere, but go elsewhere. "

The old folks knew the meaning of my pauses; and often they coaxed myconfidence by asking, "What do you seek, little granddaughter?"

"My mother says you are to come to our tepee this evening, " I instantlyexploded, and breathed the freer afterwards. 

"Yes, yes, gladly, gladly I shall come!" each replied. Rising at onceand carrying their blankets across one shoulder, they flocked leisurelyfrom their various wigwams toward our dwelling. 

My mission done, I ran back, skipping and jumping with delight. All outof breath, I told my mother almost the exact words of the answers to myinvitation. Frequently she asked, "What were they doing when you enteredtheir tepee?" This taught me to remember all I saw at a single glance. Often I told my mother my impressions without being questioned. 

While in the neighboring wigwams sometimes an old Indian woman asked me, "What is your mother doing?" Unless my mother had cautioned me not totell, I generally answered her questions without reserve. 

At the arrival of our guests I sat close to my mother, and did notleave her side without first asking her consent. I ate my supper inquiet, listening patiently to the talk of the old people, wishing allthe time that they would begin the stories I loved best. At last, when Icould not wait any longer, I whispered in my mother's ear, "Ask them totell an Iktomi story, mother. "

Soothing my impatience, my mother said aloud, "My little daughter isanxious to hear your legends. " By this time all were through eating, andthe evening was fast deepening into twilight. 

As each in turn began to tell a legend, I pillowed my head in mymother's lap; and lying flat upon my back, I watched the stars as theypeeped down upon me, one by one. The increasing interest of the talearoused me, and I sat up eagerly listening to every word. The old womenmade funny remarks, and laughed so heartily that I could not helpjoining them. 

The distant howling of a pack of wolves or the hooting of an owl in theriver bottom frightened me, and I nestled into my mother's lap. Sheadded some dry sticks to the open fire, and the bright flames leaped upinto the faces of the old folks as they sat around in a great circle. 

On such an evening, I remember the glare of the fire shone on a tattooedstar upon the brow of the old warrior who was telling a story. I watchedhim curiously as he made his unconscious gestures. The blue star uponhis bronzed forehead was a puzzle to me. Looking about, I saw twoparallel lines on the chin of one of the old women. The rest had none. Iexamined my mother's face, but found no sign there. 

After the warrior's story was finished, I asked the old woman themeaning of the blue lines on her chin, looking all the while out of thecorners of my eyes at the warrior with the star on his forehead. I was alittle afraid that he would rebuke me for my boldness. 

Here the old woman began: "Why, my grandchild, they are signs, --secretsigns I dare not tell you. I shall, however, tell you a wonderful storyabout a woman who had a cross tattooed upon each of her cheeks. "

It was a long story of a woman whose magic power lay hidden behind themarks upon her face. I fell asleep before the story was completed. 

Ever after that night I felt suspicious of tattooed people. Wherever Isaw one I glanced furtively at the mark and round about it, wonderingwhat terrible magic power was covered there. 

It was rarely that such a fearful story as this one was told by the campfire. Its impression was so acute that the picture still remains vividlyclear and pronounced. 

III. 

THE BEADWORK. 

Soon after breakfast mother sometimes began her beadwork. On a bright, clear day, she pulled out the wooden pegs that pinned the skirt of ourwigwam to the ground, and rolled the canvas part way up on its frame ofslender poles. Then the cool morning breezes swept freely through ourdwelling, now and then wafting the perfume of sweet grasses from newlyburnt prairie. 

Untying the long tasseled strings that bound a small brown buckskin bag, my mother spread upon a mat beside her bunches of colored beads, just asan artist arranges the paints upon his palette. On a lapboard shesmoothed out a double sheet of soft white buckskin; and drawing from abeaded case that hung on the left of her wide belt a long, narrow blade, she trimmed the buckskin into shape. Often she worked upon smallmoccasins for her small daughter. Then I became intensely interested inher designing. With a proud, beaming face, I watched her work. Inimagination, I saw myself walking in a new pair of snugly fittingmoccasins. I felt the envious eyes of my playmates upon the pretty redbeads decorating my feet. 

Close beside my mother I sat on a rug, with a scrap of buckskin in onehand and an awl in the other. This was the beginning of my practicalobservation lessons in the art of beadwork. From a skein of finelytwisted threads of silvery sinews my mother pulled out a single one. With an awl she pierced the buckskin, and skillfully threaded it withthe white sinew. Picking up the tiny beads one by one, she strung themwith the point of her thread, always twisting it carefully after everystitch. 

It took many trials before I learned how to knot my sinew thread on thepoint of my finger, as I saw her do. Then the next difficulty was inkeeping my thread stiffly twisted, so that I could easily string mybeads upon it. My mother required of me original designs for my lessonsin beading. At first I frequently ensnared many a sunny hour intoworking a long design. Soon I learned from self-inflicted punishment torefrain from drawing complex patterns, for I had to finish whatever Ibegan. 

After some experience I usually drew easy and simple crosses andsquares. These were some of the set forms. My original designs were notalways symmetrical nor sufficiently characteristic, two faults withwhich my mother had little patience. The quietness of her oversight mademe feel strongly responsible and dependent upon my own judgment. Shetreated me as a dignified little individual as long as I was on my goodbehavior; and how humiliated I was when some boldness of mine drew fortha rebuke from her!

In the choice of colors she left me to my own taste. I was pleased withan outline of yellow upon a background of dark blue, or a combination ofred and myrtle-green. There was another of red with a bluish-gray thatwas more conventionally used. When I became a little familiar withdesigning and the various pleasing combinations of color, a harderlesson was given me. It was the sewing on, instead of beads, some tintedporcupine quills, moistened and flattened between the nails of the thumband forefinger. My mother cut off the prickly ends and burned them atonce in the centre fire. These sharp points were poisonous, and workedinto the flesh wherever they lodged. For this reason, my mother said, Ishould not do much alone in quills until I was as tall as my cousinWarca-Ziwin. 

Always after these confining lessons I was wild with surplus spirits, and found joyous relief in running loose in the open again. Many asummer afternoon a party of four or five of my playmates roamed over thehills with me. We each carried a light sharpened rod about four feetlong, with which we pried up certain sweet roots. When we had eaten allthe choice roots we chanced upon, we shouldered our rods and strayed offinto patches of a stalky plant under whose yellow blossoms we foundlittle crystal drops of gum. Drop by drop we gathered this nature'srock-candy, until each of us could boast of a lump the size of a smallbird's egg. Soon satiated with its woody flavor, we tossed away our gum, to return again to the sweet roots. 

I remember well how we used to exchange our necklaces, beaded belts, andsometimes even our moccasins. We pretended to offer them as gifts to oneanother. We delighted in impersonating our own mothers. We talked ofthings we had heard them say in their conversations. We imitated theirvarious manners, even to the inflection of their voices. In the lap ofthe prairie we seated ourselves upon our feet, and leaning our paintedcheeks in the palms of our hands, we rested our elbows on our knees, andbent forward as old women were most accustomed to do. 

While one was telling of some heroic deed recently done by a nearrelative, the rest of us listened attentively, and exclaimed inundertones, "Han! han!" (yes! yes!) whenever the speaker paused forbreath, or sometimes for our sympathy. As the discourse became morethrilling, according to our ideas, we raised our voices in theseinterjections. In these impersonations our parents were led to say onlythose things that were in common favor. 

No matter how exciting a tale we might be rehearsing, the mere shiftingof a cloud shadow in the landscape near by was sufficient to change ourimpulses; and soon we were all chasing the great shadows that playedamong the hills. We shouted and whooped in the chase; laughing andcalling to one another, we were like little sportive nymphs on thatDakota sea of rolling green. 

On one occasion I forgot the cloud shadow in a strange notion to catchup with my own shadow. Standing straight and still, I began to glideafter it, putting out one foot cautiously. When, with the greatest care, I set my foot in advance of myself, my shadow crept onward too. Thenagain I tried it; this time with the other foot. Still again my shadowescaped me. I began to run; and away flew my shadow, always just a stepbeyond me. Faster and faster I ran, setting my teeth and clenching myfists, determined to overtake my own fleet shadow. But ever swifter itglided before me, while I was growing breathless and hot. Slackening myspeed, I was greatly vexed that my shadow should check its pace also. Daring it to the utmost, as I thought, I sat down upon a rock imbeddedin the hillside. 

So! my shadow had the impudence to sit down beside me!

Now my comrades caught up with me, and began to ask why I was runningaway so fast. 

"Oh, I was chasing my shadow! Didn't you ever do that?" I inquired, surprised that they should not understand. 

They planted their moccasined feet firmly upon my shadow to stay it, andI arose. Again my shadow slipped away, and moved as often as I did. Thenwe gave up trying to catch my shadow. 

Before this peculiar experience I have no distinct memory of havingrecognized any vital bond between myself and my own shadow. I never gaveit an afterthought. 

Returning our borrowed belts and trinkets, we rambled homeward. Thatevening, as on other evenings, I went to sleep over my legends. 

IV. 

THE COFFEE-MAKING. 

One summer afternoon my mother left me alone in our wigwam while shewent across the way to my aunt's dwelling. 

I did not much like to stay alone in our tepee for I feared a tall, broad-shouldered crazy man, some forty years old, who walked loose amongthe hills. Wiyaka-Napbina (Wearer of a Feather Necklace) was harmless, and whenever he came into a wigwam he was driven there by extremehunger. He went nude except for the half of a red blanket he girdledaround his waist. In one tawny arm he used to carry a heavy bunch ofwild sunflowers that he gathered in his aimless ramblings. His blackhair was matted by the winds, and scorched into a dry red by theconstant summer sun. As he took great strides, placing one brown barefoot directly in front of the other, he swung his long lean arm to andfro. 

Frequently he paused in his walk and gazed far backward, shading hiseyes with his hand. He was under the belief that an evil spirit washaunting his steps. This was what my mother told me once, when Isneered at such a silly big man. I was brave when my mother was near by, and Wiyaka-Napbina walking farther and farther away. 

"Pity the man, my child. I knew him when he was a brave and handsomeyouth. He was overtaken by a malicious spirit among the hills, one day, when he went hither and thither after his ponies. Since then he can notstay away from the hills, " she said. 

I felt so sorry for the man in his misfortune that I prayed to the GreatSpirit to restore him. But though I pitied him at a distance, I wasstill afraid of him when he appeared near our wigwam. 

Thus, when my mother left me by myself that afternoon I sat in a fearfulmood within our tepee. I recalled all I had ever heard aboutWiyaka-Napbina; and I tried to assure myself that though he might passnear by, he would not come to our wigwam because there was no littlegirl around our grounds. 

Just then, from without a hand lifted the canvas covering of theentrance; the shadow of a man fell within the wigwam, and a largeroughly moccasined foot was planted inside. 

For a moment I did not dare to breathe or stir, for I thought that couldbe no other than Wiyaka-Napbina. The next instant I sighed aloud inrelief. It was an old grandfather who had often told me Iktomi legends. 

"Where is your mother, my little grandchild?" were his first words. 

"My mother is soon coming back from my aunt's tepee, " I replied. 

"Then I shall wait awhile for her return, " he said, crossing his feetand seating himself upon a mat. 

At once I began to play the part of a generous hostess. I turned to mymother's coffeepot. 

Lifting the lid, I found nothing but coffee grounds in the bottom. I setthe pot on a heap of cold ashes in the centre, and filled it half fullof warm Missouri River water. During this performance I felt consciousof being watched. Then breaking off a small piece of our unleavenedbread, I placed it in a bowl. Turning soon to the coffeepot, which wouldnever have boiled on a dead fire had I waited forever, I poured out acup of worse than muddy warm water. Carrying the bowl in one hand andcup in the other, I handed the light luncheon to the old warrior. Ioffered them to him with the air of bestowing generous hospitality. 

"How! how!" he said, and placed the dishes on the ground in front of hiscrossed feet. He nibbled at the bread and sipped from the cup. I satback against a pole watching him. I was proud to have succeeded so wellin serving refreshments to a guest all by myself. Before the old warriorhad finished eating, my mother entered. Immediately she wondered where Ihad found coffee, for she knew I had never made any, and that she hadleft the coffeepot empty. Answering the question in my mother's eyes, the warrior remarked, "My granddaughter made coffee on a heap of deadashes, and served me the moment I came. "

They both laughed, and mother said, "Wait a little longer, and I shallbuild a fire. " She meant to make some real coffee. But neither she northe warrior, whom the law of our custom had compelled to partake of myinsipid hospitality, said anything to embarrass me. They treated mybest judgment, poor as it was, with the utmost respect. It was not tilllong years afterward that I learned how ridiculous a thing I had done. 

V. 

THE DEAD MAN'S PLUM BUSH. 

One autumn afternoon many people came streaming toward the dwelling ofour near neighbor. With painted faces, and wearing broad white bosoms ofelk's teeth, they hurried down the narrow footpath to Haraka Wambdi'swigwam. Young mothers held their children by the hand, and half pulledthem along in their haste. They overtook and passed by the bent oldgrandmothers who were trudging along with crooked canes toward thecentre of excitement. Most of the young braves galloped hither on theirponies. Toothless warriors, like the old women, came more slowly, thoughmounted on lively ponies. They sat proudly erect on their horses. Theywore their eagle plumes, and waved their various trophies of formerwars. 

In front of the wigwam a great fire was built, and several large blackkettles of venison were suspended over it. The crowd were seated aboutit on the grass in a great circle. Behind them some of the braves stoodleaning against the necks of their ponies, their tall figures draped inloose robes which were well drawn over their eyes. 

Young girls, with their faces glowing like bright red autumn leaves, their glossy braids falling over each ear, sat coquettishly beside theirchaperons. It was a custom for young Indian women to invite some olderrelative to escort them to the public feasts. Though it was not an ironlaw, it was generally observed. 

Haraka Wambdi was a strong young brave, who had just returned from hisfirst battle, a warrior. His near relatives, to celebrate his new rank, were spreading a feast to which the whole of the Indian village wasinvited. 

Holding my pretty striped blanket in readiness to throw over myshoulders, I grew more and more restless as I watched the gay throngassembling. My mother was busily broiling a wild duck that my aunt hadthat morning brought over. 

"Mother, mother, why do you stop to cook a small meal when we areinvited to a feast?" I asked, with a snarl in my voice. 

"My child, learn to wait. On our way to the celebration we are going tostop at Chanyu's wigwam. His aged mother-in-law is lying very ill, andI think she would like a taste of this small game. "

Having once seen the suffering on the thin, pinched features of thisdying woman, I felt a momentary shame that I had not remembered herbefore. 

On our way I ran ahead of my mother and was reaching out my hand to picksome purple plums that grew on a small bush, when I was checked by a low"Sh!" from my mother. 

"Why, mother, I want to taste the plums!" I exclaimed, as I dropped myhand to my side in disappointment. 

"Never pluck a single plum from this brush, my child, for its roots arewrapped around an Indian's skeleton. A brave is buried here. While helived he was so fond of playing the game of striped plum seeds that, athis death, his set of plum seeds were buried in his hands. From themsprang up this little bush. "

Eyeing the forbidden fruit, I trod lightly on the sacred ground, anddared to speak only in whispers until we had gone many paces from it. After that time I halted in my ramblings whenever I came in sight of theplum bush. I grew sober with awe, and was alert to hear along-drawn-out whistle rise from the roots of it. Though I had neverheard with my own ears this strange whistle of departed spirits, yet Ihad listened so frequently to hear the old folks describe it that I knewI should recognize it at once. 

The lasting impression of that day, as I recall it now, is what mymother told me about the dead man's plum bush. 

VI. 

THE GROUND SQUIRREL. 

In the busy autumn days my cousin Warca-Ziwin's mother came to ourwigwam to help my mother preserve foods for our winter use. I was veryfond of my aunt, because she was not so quiet as my mother. Though shewas older, she was more jovial and less reserved. She was slender andremarkably erect. While my mother's hair was heavy and black, my aunthad unusually thin locks. 

Ever since I knew her she wore a string of large blue beads around herneck, --beads that were precious because my uncle had given them to herwhen she was a younger woman. She had a peculiar swing in her gait, caused by a long stride rarely natural to so slight a figure. It wasduring my aunt's visit with us that my mother forgot her accustomedquietness, often laughing heartily at some of my aunt's witty remarks. 

I loved my aunt threefold: for her hearty laughter, for the cheerfulnessshe caused my mother, and most of all for the times she dried my tearsand held me in her lap, when my mother had reproved me. 

Early in the cool mornings, just as the yellow rim of the sun rose abovethe hills, we were up and eating our breakfast. We awoke so early thatwe saw the sacred hour when a misty smoke hung over a pit surrounded byan impassable sinking mire. This strange smoke appeared every morning, both winter and summer; but most visibly in midwinter it roseimmediately above the marshy spot. By the time the full face of the sunappeared above the eastern horizon, the smoke vanished. Even very oldmen, who had known this country the longest, said that the smoke fromthis pit had never failed a single day to rise heavenward. 

As I frolicked about our dwelling I used to stop suddenly, and with afearful awe watch the smoking of the unknown fires. While the vapor wasvisible I was afraid to go very far from our wigwam unless I went withmy mother. 

From a field in the fertile river bottom my mother and aunt gathered anabundant supply of corn. Near our tepee they spread a large canvas uponthe grass, and dried their sweet corn in it. I was left to watch thecorn, that nothing should disturb it. I played around it with dolls madeof ears of corn. I braided their soft fine silk for hair, and gave themblankets as various as the scraps I found in my mother's workbag. 

There was a little stranger with a black-and-yellow-striped coat thatused to come to the drying corn. It was a little ground squirrel, whowas so fearless of me that he came to one corner of the canvas andcarried away as much of the sweet corn as he could hold. I wanted verymuch to catch him and rub his pretty fur back, but my mother said hewould be so frightened if I caught him that he would bite my fingers. SoI was as content as he to keep the corn between us. Every morning hecame for more corn. Some evenings I have seen him creeping about ourgrounds; and when I gave a sudden whoop of recognition he ran quicklyout of sight. 

When mother had dried all the corn she wished, then she sliced greatpumpkins into thin rings; and these she doubled and linked togetherinto long chains. She hung them on a pole that stretched between twoforked posts. The wind and sun soon thoroughly dried the chains ofpumpkin. Then she packed them away in a case of thick and stiffbuckskin. 

In the sun and wind she also dried many wild fruits, --cherries, berries, and plums. But chiefest among my early recollections of autumn is thatone of the corn drying and the ground squirrel. 

I have few memories of winter days at this period of my life, thoughmany of the summer. There is one only which I can recall. 

Some missionaries gave me a little bag of marbles. They were all sizesand colors. Among them were some of colored glass. Walking with mymother to the river, on a late winter day, we found great chunks of icepiled all along the bank. The ice on the river was floating in hugepieces. As I stood beside one large block, I noticed for the first timethe colors of the rainbow in the crystal ice. Immediately I thought ofmy glass marbles at home. With my bare fingers I tried to pick out someof the colors, for they seemed so near the surface. But my fingersbegan to sting with the intense cold, and I had to bite them hard tokeep from crying. 

From that day on, for many a moon, I believed that glass marbles hadriver ice inside of them. 

VII. 

THE BIG RED APPLES. 

The first turning away from the easy, natural flow of my life occurredin an early spring. It was in my eighth year; in the month of March, Iafterward learned. At this age I knew but one language, and that was mymother's native tongue. 

From some of my playmates I heard that two paleface missionaries were inour village. They were from that class of white men who wore big hatsand carried large hearts, they said. Running direct to my mother, Ibegan to question her why these two strangers were among us. She toldme, after I had teased much, that they had come to take away Indian boysand girls to the East. My mother did not seem to want me to talk aboutthem. But in a day or two, I gleaned many wonderful stories from myplayfellows concerning the strangers. 

"Mother, my friend Judéwin is going home with the missionaries. She isgoing to a more beautiful country than ours; the palefaces told herso!" I said wistfully, wishing in my heart that I too might go. 

Mother sat in a chair, and I was hanging on her knee. Within the lasttwo seasons my big brother Dawée had returned from a three years'education in the East, and his coming back influenced my mother to takea farther step from her native way of living. First it was a change fromthe buffalo skin to the white man's canvas that covered our wigwam. Nowshe had given up her wigwam of slender poles, to live, a foreigner, in ahome of clumsy logs. 

"Yes, my child, several others besides Judéwin are going away with thepalefaces. Your brother said the missionaries had inquired about hislittle sister, " she said, watching my face very closely. 

My heart thumped so hard against my breast, I wondered if she could hearit. 

"Did he tell them to take me, mother?" I asked, fearing lest Dawée hadforbidden the palefaces to see me, and that my hope of going to theWonderland would be entirely blighted. 

With a sad, slow smile, she answered: "There! I knew you were wishing togo, because Judéwin has filled your ears with the white man's lies. Don't believe a word they say! Their words are sweet, but, my child, their deeds are bitter. You will cry for me, but they will not evensoothe you. Stay with me, my little one! Your brother Dawée says thatgoing East, away from your mother, is too hard an experience for hisbaby sister. "

Thus my mother discouraged my curiosity about the lands beyond oureastern horizon; for it was not yet an ambition for Letters that wasstirring me. But on the following day the missionaries did come to ourvery house. I spied them coming up the footpath leading to our cottage. A third man was with them, but he was not my brother Dawée. It wasanother, a young interpreter, a paleface who had a smattering of theIndian language. I was ready to run out to meet them, but I did not dareto displease my mother. With great glee, I jumped up and down on ourground floor. I begged my mother to open the door, that they would besure to come to us. Alas! They came, they saw, and they conquered!

Judéwin had told me of the great tree where grew red, red apples; andhow we could reach out our hands and pick all the red apples we couldeat. I had never seen apple trees. I had never tasted more than a dozenred apples in my life; and when I heard of the orchards of the East, Iwas eager to roam among them. The missionaries smiled into my eyes andpatted my head. I wondered how mother could say such hard words againsthim. 

"Mother, ask them if little girls may have all the red apples they want, when they go East, " I whispered aloud, in my excitement. 

The interpreter heard me, and answered: "Yes, little girl, the nice redapples are for those who pick them; and you will have a ride on the ironhorse if you go with these good people. "

I had never seen a train, and he knew it. 

"Mother, I am going East! I like big red apples, and I want to ride onthe iron horse! Mother, say yes!" I pleaded. 

My mother said nothing. The missionaries waited in silence; and my eyesbegan to blur with tears, though I struggled to choke them back. Thecorners of my mouth twitched, and my mother saw me. 

"I am not ready to give you any word, " she said to them. "Tomorrow Ishall send you my answer by my son. "

With this they left us. Alone with my mother, I yielded to my tears, andcried aloud, shaking my head so as not to hear what she was saying tome. This was the first time I had ever been so unwilling to give up myown desire that I refused to hearken to my mother's voice. 

There was a solemn silence in our home that night. Before I went to bedI begged the Great Spirit to make my mother willing I should go with themissionaries. 

The next morning came, and my mother called me to her side. "Mydaughter, do you still persist in wishing to leave your mother?" sheasked. 

"Oh, mother, it is not that I wish to leave you, but I want to see thewonderful Eastern land, " I answered. 

My dear old aunt came to our house that morning, and I heard her say, "Let her try it. "

I hoped that, as usual, my aunt was pleading on my side. My brotherDawée came for mother's decision. I dropped my play, and crept close tomy aunt. 

"Yes, Dawée, my daughter, though she does not understand what it allmeans, is anxious to go. She will need an education when she is grown, for then there will be fewer real Dakotas, and many more palefaces. Thistearing her away, so young, from her mother is necessary, if I wouldhave her an educated woman. The palefaces, who owe us a large debt forstolen lands, have begun to pay a tardy justice in offering someeducation to our children. But I know my daughter must suffer keenly inthis experiment. For her sake, I dread to tell you my reply to themissionaries. Go, tell them that they may take my little daughter, andthat the Great Spirit shall not fail to reward them according to theirhearts. "

Wrapped in my heavy blanket, I walked with my mother to the carriagethat was soon to take us to the iron horse. I was happy. I met myplaymates, who were also wearing their best thick blankets. We showedone another our new beaded moccasins, and the width of the belts thatgirdled our new dresses. Soon we were being drawn rapidly away by thewhite man's horses. When I saw the lonely figure of my mother vanish inthe distance, a sense of regret settled heavily upon me. I feltsuddenly weak, as if I might fall limp to the ground. I was in the handsof strangers whom my mother did not fully trust. I no longer felt freeto be myself, or to voice my own feelings. The tears trickled down mycheeks, and I buried my face in the folds of my blanket. Now the firststep, parting me from my mother, was taken, and all my belated tearsavailed nothing. 

Having driven thirty miles to the ferryboat, we crossed the Missouri inthe evening. Then riding again a few miles eastward, we stopped before amassive brick building. I looked at it in amazement, and with a vaguemisgiving, for in our village I had never seen so large a house. Trembling with fear and distrust of the palefaces, my teeth chatteringfrom the chilly ride, I crept noiselessly in my soft moccasins along thenarrow hall, keeping very close to the bare wall. I was as frightenedand bewildered as the captured young of a wild creature. 

THE SCHOOL DAYS OF AN INDIAN GIRL

I. 

THE LAND OF RED APPLES. 

There were eight in our party of bronzed children who were going Eastwith the missionaries. Among us were three young braves, two tall girls, and we three little ones, Judéwin, Thowin, and I. 

We had been very impatient to start on our journey to the Red AppleCountry, which, we were told, lay a little beyond the great circularhorizon of the Western prairie. Under a sky of rosy apples we dreamt ofroaming as freely and happily as we had chased the cloud shadows on theDakota plains. We had anticipated much pleasure from a ride on the ironhorse, but the throngs of staring palefaces disturbed and troubled us. 

On the train, fair women, with tottering babies on each arm, stoppedtheir haste and scrutinized the children of absent mothers. Large men, with heavy bundles in their hands, halted near by, and riveted theirglassy blue eyes upon us. 

I sank deep into the corner of my seat, for I resented being watched. Directly in front of me, children who were no larger than I hungthemselves upon the backs of their seats, with their bold white facestoward me. Sometimes they took their forefingers out of their mouths andpointed at my moccasined feet. Their mothers, instead of reproving suchrude curiosity, looked closely at me, and attracted their children'sfurther notice to my blanket. This embarrassed me, and kept meconstantly on the verge of tears. 

I sat perfectly still, with my eyes downcast, daring only now and thento shoot long glances around me. Chancing to turn to the window at myside, I was quite breathless upon seeing one familiar object. It was thetelegraph pole which strode by at short paces. Very near my mother'sdwelling, along the edge of a road thickly bordered with wildsunflowers, some poles like these had been planted by white men. Often Ihad stopped, on my way down the road, to hold my ear against the pole, and, hearing its low moaning, I used to wonder what the paleface haddone to hurt it. Now I sat watching for each pole that glided by to bethe last one. 

In this way I had forgotten my uncomfortable surroundings, when I heardone of my comrades call out my name. I saw the missionary standing verynear, tossing candies and gums into our midst. This amused us all, andwe tried to see who could catch the most of the sweetmeats. 

Though we rode several days inside of the iron horse, I do not recall asingle thing about our luncheons. 

It was night when we reached the school grounds. The lights from thewindows of the large buildings fell upon some of the icicled trees thatstood beneath them. We were led toward an open door, where thebrightness of the lights within flooded out over the heads of theexcited palefaces who blocked our way. My body trembled more from fearthan from the snow I trod upon. 

Entering the house, I stood close against the wall. The strong glaringlight in the large whitewashed room dazzled my eyes. The noisy hurryingof hard shoes upon a bare wooden floor increased the whirring in myears. My only safety seemed to be in keeping next to the wall. As I waswondering in which direction to escape from all this confusion, two warmhands grasped me firmly, and in the same moment I was tossed high inmidair. A rosy-cheeked paleface woman caught me in her arms. I was bothfrightened and insulted by such trifling. I stared into her eyes, wishing her to let me stand on my own feet, but she jumped me up anddown with increasing enthusiasm. My mother had never made a plaything ofher wee daughter. Remembering this I began to cry aloud. 

They misunderstood the cause of my tears, and placed me at a white tableloaded with food. There our party were united again. As I did not hushmy crying, one of the older ones whispered to me, "Wait until you arealone in the night. "

It was very little I could swallow besides my sobs, that evening. 

"Oh, I want my mother and my brother Dawée! I want to go to my aunt!" Ipleaded; but the ears of the palefaces could not hear me. 

From the table we were taken along an upward incline of wooden boxes, which I learned afterward to call a stairway. At the top was a quiethall, dimly lighted. Many narrow beds were in one straight line down theentire length of the wall. In them lay sleeping brown faces, whichpeeped just out of the coverings. I was tucked into bed with one of thetall girls, because she talked to me in my mother tongue and seemed tosoothe me. 

I had arrived in the wonderful land of rosy skies, but I was not happy, as I had thought I should be. My long travel and the bewildering sightshad exhausted me. I fell asleep, heaving deep, tired sobs. My tears wereleft to dry themselves in streaks, because neither my aunt nor my motherwas near to wipe them away. 

II. 

THE CUTTING OF MY LONG HAIR. 

The first day in the land of apples was a bitter-cold one; for the snowstill covered the ground, and the trees were bare. A large bell rang forbreakfast, its loud metallic voice crashing through the belfry overheadand into our sensitive ears. The annoying clatter of shoes on barefloors gave us no peace. The constant clash of harsh noises, with anundercurrent of many voices murmuring an unknown tongue, made a bedlamwithin which I was securely tied. And though my spirit tore itself instruggling for its lost freedom, all was useless. 

A paleface woman, with white hair, came up after us. We were placed in aline of girls who were marching into the dining room. These were Indiangirls, in stiff shoes and closely clinging dresses. The small girls woresleeved aprons and shingled hair. As I walked noiselessly in my softmoccasins, I felt like sinking to the floor, for my blanket had beenstripped from my shoulders. I looked hard at the Indian girls, whoseemed not to care that they were even more immodestly dressed than I, in their tightly fitting clothes. While we marched in, the boys enteredat an opposite door. I watched for the three young braves who came inour party. I spied them in the rear ranks, looking as uncomfortable as Ifelt. A small bell was tapped, and each of the pupils drew a chair fromunder the table. Supposing this act meant they were to be seated, Ipulled out mine and at once slipped into it from one side. But when Iturned my head, I saw that I was the only one seated, and all the restat our table remained standing. Just as I began to rise, looking shylyaround to see how chairs were to be used, a second bell was sounded. Allwere seated at last, and I had to crawl back into my chair again. Iheard a man's voice at one end of the hall, and I looked around to seehim. But all the others hung their heads over their plates. As I glancedat the long chain of tables, I caught the eyes of a paleface woman uponme. Immediately I dropped my eyes, wondering why I was so keenly watchedby the strange woman. The man ceased his mutterings, and then a thirdbell was tapped. Every one picked up his knife and fork and beganeating. I began crying instead, for by this time I was afraid to ventureanything more. 

But this eating by formula was not the hardest trial in that first day. Late in the morning, my friend Judéwin gave me a terrible warning. Judéwin knew a few words of English; and she had overheard the palefacewoman talk about cutting our long, heavy hair. Our mothers had taught usthat only unskilled warriors who were captured had their hair shingledby the enemy. Among our people, short hair was worn by mourners, andshingled hair by cowards!

We discussed our fate some moments, and when Judéwin said, "We have tosubmit, because they are strong, " I rebelled. 

"No, I will not submit! I will struggle first!" I answered. 

I watched my chance, and when no one noticed, I disappeared. I crept upthe stairs as quietly as I could in my squeaking shoes, --my moccasinshad been exchanged for shoes. Along the hall I passed, without knowingwhither I was going. Turning aside to an open door, I found a large roomwith three white beds in it. The windows were covered with dark greencurtains, which made the room very dim. Thankful that no one was there, I directed my steps toward the corner farthest from the door. On myhands and knees I crawled under the bed, and cuddled myself in the darkcorner. 

From my hiding place I peered out, shuddering with fear whenever I heardfootsteps near by. Though in the hall loud voices were calling my name, and I knew that even Judéwin was searching for me, I did not open mymouth to answer. Then the steps were quickened and the voices becameexcited. The sounds came nearer and nearer. Women and girls entered theroom. I held my breath and watched them open closet doors and peepbehind large trunks. Some one threw up the curtains, and the room wasfilled with sudden light. What caused them to stoop and look under thebed I do not know. I remember being dragged out, though I resisted bykicking and scratching wildly. In spite of myself, I was carrieddownstairs and tied fast in a chair. 

I cried aloud, shaking my head all the while until I felt the coldblades of the scissors against my neck, and heard them gnaw off one ofmy thick braids. Then I lost my spirit. Since the day I was taken frommy mother I had suffered extreme indignities. People had stared at me. Ihad been tossed about in the air like a wooden puppet. And now my longhair was shingled like a coward's! In my anguish I moaned for my mother, but no one came to comfort me. Not a soul reasoned quietly with me, asmy own mother used to do; for now I was only one of many little animalsdriven by a herder. 

III. 

THE SNOW EPISODE. 

A short time after our arrival we three Dakotas were playing in thesnowdrift. We were all still deaf to the English language, exceptingJudéwin, who always heard such puzzling things. One morning we learnedthrough her ears that we were forbidden to fall lengthwise in the snow, as we had been doing, to see our own impressions. However, before manyhours we had forgotten the order, and were having great sport in thesnow, when a shrill voice called us. Looking up, we saw an imperativehand beckoning us into the house. We shook the snow off ourselves, andstarted toward the woman as slowly as we dared. 

Judéwin said: "Now the paleface is angry with us. She is going to punishus for falling into the snow. If she looks straight into your eyes andtalks loudly, you must wait until she stops. Then, after a tiny pause, say, 'No. '" The rest of the way we practiced upon the little word "no. "

As it happened, Thowin was summoned to judgment first. The door shutbehind her with a click. 

Judéwin and I stood silently listening at the keyhole. The palefacewoman talked in very severe tones. Her words fell from her lips likecrackling embers, and her inflection ran up like the small end of aswitch. I understood her voice better than the things she was saying. Iwas certain we had made her very impatient with us. Judéwin heard enoughof the words to realize all too late that she had taught us the wrongreply. 

"Oh, poor Thowin!" she gasped, as she put both hands over her ears. 

Just then I heard Thowin's tremulous answer, "No. "

With an angry exclamation, the woman gave her a hard spanking. Then shestopped to say something. Judéwin said it was this: "Are you going toobey my word the next time?"

Thowin answered again with the only word at her command, "No. "

This time the woman meant her blows to smart, for the poor frightenedgirl shrieked at the top of her voice. In the midst of the whipping theblows ceased abruptly, and the woman asked another question: "Are yougoing to fall in the snow again?"

Thowin gave her bad passwood another trial. We heard her say feebly, "No! No!"

With this the woman hid away her half-worn slipper, and led the childout, stroking her black shorn head. Perhaps it occurred to her thatbrute force is not the solution for such a problem. She did nothing toJudéwin nor to me. She only returned to us our unhappy comrade, and leftus alone in the room. 

During the first two or three seasons misunderstandings as ridiculous asthis one of the snow episode frequently took place, bringingunjustifiable frights and punishments into our little lives. 

Within a year I was able to express myself somewhat in broken English. As soon as I comprehended a part of what was said and done, amischievous spirit of revenge possessed me. One day I was called in frommy play for some misconduct. I had disregarded a rule which seemed to mevery needlessly binding. I was sent into the kitchen to mash the turnipsfor dinner. It was noon, and steaming dishes were hastily carried intothe dining-room. I hated turnips, and their odor which came from thebrown jar was offensive to me. With fire in my heart, I took the woodentool that the paleface woman held out to me. I stood upon a step, and, grasping the handle with both hands, I bent in hot rage over theturnips. I worked my vengeance upon them. All were so busily occupiedthat no one noticed me. I saw that the turnips were in a pulp, and thatfurther beating could not improve them; but the order was, "Mash theseturnips, " and mash them I would! I renewed my energy; and as I sent themasher into the bottom of the jar, I felt a satisfying sensation thatthe weight of my body had gone into it. 

Just here a paleface woman came up to my table. As she looked into thejar, she shoved my hands roughly aside. I stood fearless and angry. Sheplaced her red hands upon the rim of the jar. Then she gave one lift andstride away from the table. But lo! the pulpy contents fell through thecrumbled bottom to the floor I She spared me no scolding phrases that Ihad earned. I did not heed them. I felt triumphant in my revenge, thoughdeep within me I was a wee bit sorry to have broken the jar. 

As I sat eating my dinner, and saw that no turnips were served, Iwhooped in my heart for having once asserted the rebellion within me. 

IV. 

THE DEVIL. 

Among the legends the old warriors used to tell me were many stories ofevil spirits. But I was taught to fear them no more than those whostalked about in material guise. I never knew there was an insolentchieftain among the bad spirits, who dared to array his forces againstthe Great Spirit, until I heard this white man's legend from a palefacewoman. 

Out of a large book she showed me a picture of the white man's devil. Ilooked in horror upon the strong claws that grew out of his fur-coveredfingers. His feet were like his hands. Trailing at his heels was a scalytail tipped with a serpent's open jaws. His face was a patchwork: he hadbearded cheeks, like some I had seen palefaces wear; his nose was aneagle's bill, and his sharp-pointed ears were pricked up like those of asly fox. Above them a pair of cow's horns curved upward. I trembled withawe, and my heart throbbed in my throat, as I looked at the king of evilspirits. Then I heard the paleface woman say that this terrible creatureroamed loose in the world, and that little girls who disobeyed schoolregulations were to be tortured by him. 

That night I dreamt about this evil divinity. Once again I seemed to bein my mother's cottage. An Indian woman had come to visit my mother. Onopposite sides of the kitchen stove, which stood in the center of thesmall house, my mother and her guest were seated in straight-backedchairs. I played with a train of empty spools hitched together on astring. It was night, and the wick burned feebly. Suddenly I heard someone turn our door-knob from without. 

My mother and the woman hushed their talk, and both looked toward thedoor. It opened gradually. I waited behind the stove. The hingessqueaked as the door was slowly, very slowly pushed inward. 

Then in rushed the devil! He was tall! He looked exactly like thepicture I had seen of him in the white man's papers. He did not speak tomy mother, because he did not know the Indian language, but hisglittering yellow eyes were fastened upon me. He took long stridesaround the stove, passing behind the woman's chair. I threw down myspools, and ran to my mother. He did not fear her, but followed closelyafter me. Then I ran round and round the stove, crying aloud for help. But my mother and the woman seemed not to know my danger. They satstill, looking quietly upon the devil's chase after me. At last I grewdizzy. My head revolved as on a hidden pivot. My knees became numb, anddoubled under my weight like a pair of knife blades without a spring. Beside my mother's chair I fell in a heap. Just as the devil stoopedover me with outstretched claws my mother awoke from her quietindifference, and lifted me on her lap. Whereupon the devil vanished, and I was awake. 

On the following morning I took my revenge upon the devil. Stealing intothe room where a wall of shelves was filled with books, I drew forth TheStories of the Bible. With a broken slate pencil I carried in my apronpocket, I began by scratching out his wicked eyes. A few moments later, when I was ready to leave the room, there was a ragged hole in the pagewhere the picture of the devil had once been. 

V. 

IRON ROUTINE

A loud-clamoring bell awakened us at half-past six in the cold wintermornings. From happy dreams of Western rolling lands and unlassoedfreedom we tumbled out upon chilly bare floors back again into apaleface day. We had short time to jump into our shoes and clothes, andwet our eyes with icy water, before a small hand bell was vigorouslyrung for roll call. 

There were too many drowsy children and too numerous orders for the dayto waste a moment in any apology to nature for giving her children sucha shock in the early morning. We rushed downstairs, bounding over twohigh steps at a time, to land in the assembly room. 

A paleface woman, with a yellow-covered roll book open on her arm and agnawed pencil in her hand, appeared at the door. Her small, tired facewas coldly lighted with a pair of large gray eyes. 

She stood still in a halo of authority, while over the rim of herspectacles her eyes pried nervously about the room. Having glanced ather long list of names and called out the first one, she tossed up herchin and peered through the crystals of her spectacles to make sure ofthe answer "Here. "

Relentlessly her pencil black-marked our daily records if we were notpresent to respond to our names, and no chum of ours had done itsuccessfully for us. No matter if a dull headache or the painful coughof slow consumption had delayed the absentee, there was only time enoughto mark the tardiness. It was next to impossible to leave the ironroutine after the civilizing machine had once begun its day's buzzing;and as it was inbred in me to suffer in silence rather than to appeal tothe ears of one whose open eyes could not see my pain, I have many timestrudged in the day's harness heavy-footed, like a dumb sick brute. 

Once I lost a dear classmate. I remember well how she used to mope alongat my side, until one morning she could not raise her head from herpillow. At her deathbed I stood weeping, as the paleface woman sat nearher moistening the dry lips. Among the folds of the bedclothes I sawthe open pages of the white man's Bible. The dying Indian girl talkeddisconnectedly of Jesus the Christ and the paleface who was cooling herswollen hands and feet. 

I grew bitter, and censured the woman for cruel neglect of our physicalills. I despised the pencils that moved automatically, and the oneteaspoon which dealt out, from a large bottle, healing to a row ofvariously ailing Indian children. I blamed the hard-working, well-meaning, ignorant woman who was inculcating in our hearts hersuperstitious ideas. Though I was sullen in all my little troubles, assoon as I felt better I was ready again to smile upon the cruel woman. Within a week I was again actively testing the chains which tightlybound my individuality like a mummy for burial. 

The melancholy of those black days has left so long a shadow that itdarkens the path of years that have since gone by. These sad memoriesrise above those of smoothly grinding school days. Perhaps my Indiannature is the moaning wind which stirs them now for their presentrecord. But, however tempestuous this is within me, it comes out as thelow voice of a curiously colored seashell, which is only for those earsthat are bent with compassion to hear it. 

VI. 

FOUR STRANGE SUMMERS. 

After my first three years of school, I roamed again in the Westerncountry through four strange summers. 

During this time I seemed to hang in the heart of chaos, beyond thetouch or voice of human aid. My brother, being almost ten years mysenior, did not quite understand my feelings. My mother had never goneinside of a schoolhouse, and so she was not capable of comforting herdaughter who could read and write. Even nature seemed to have no placefor me. I was neither a wee girl nor a tall one; neither a wild Indiannor a tame one. This deplorable situation was the effect of my briefcourse in the East, and the unsatisfactory "teenth" in a girl's years. 

It was under these trying conditions that, one bright afternoon, as Isat restless and unhappy in my mother's cabin, I caught the sound of thespirited step of my brother's pony on the road which passed by ourdwelling. Soon I heard the wheels of a light buckboard, and Dawée'sfamiliar "Ho!" to his pony. He alighted upon the bare ground in frontof our house. Tying his pony to one of the projecting corner logs of thelow-roofed cottage, he stepped upon the wooden doorstep. 

I met him there with a hurried greeting, and, as I passed by, he lookeda quiet "What?" into my eyes. 

When he began talking with my mother, I slipped the rope from the pony'sbridle. Seizing the reins and bracing my feet against the dashboard, Iwheeled around in an instant. The pony was ever ready to try his speed. Looking backward, I saw Dawée waving his hand to me. I turned with thecurve in the road and disappeared. I followed the winding road whichcrawled upward between the bases of little hillocks. Deep water-wornditches ran parallel on either side. A strong wind blew against mycheeks and fluttered my sleeves. The pony reached the top of the highesthill, and began an even race on the level lands. There was nothingmoving within that great circular horizon of the Dakota prairies savethe tall grasses, over which the wind blew and rolled off in long, shadowy waves. 

Within this vast wigwam of blue and green I rode reckless andinsignificant. It satisfied my small consciousness to see the white foamfly from the pony's mouth. 

Suddenly, out of the earth a coyote came forth at a swinging trot thatwas taking the cunning thief toward the hills and the village beyond. Upon the moment's impulse, I gave him a long chase and a wholesomefright. As I turned away to go back to the village, the wolf sank downupon his haunches for rest, for it was a hot summer day; and as I droveslowly homeward, I saw his sharp nose still pointed at me, until Ivanished below the margin of the hilltops. 

In a little while I came in sight of my mother's house. Dawée stood inthe yard, laughing at an old warrior who was pointing his forefinger, and again waving his whole hand, toward the hills. With his blanketdrawn over one shoulder, he talked and motioned excitedly. Dawée turnedthe old man by the shoulder and pointed me out to him. 

"Oh, han!" (Oh, yes) the warrior muttered, and went his way. He hadclimbed the top of his favorite barren hill to survey the surroundingprairies, when he spied my chase after the coyote. His keen eyesrecognized the pony and driver. At once uneasy for my safety, he hadcome running to my mother's cabin to give her warning. I did notappreciate his kindly interest, for there was an unrest gnawing at myheart. 

As soon as he went away, I asked Dawée about something else. 

"No, my baby sister, I cannot take you with me to the party tonight, " hereplied. Though I was not far from fifteen, and I felt that before longI should enjoy all the privileges of my tall cousin, Dawée persisted incalling me his baby sister. 

That moonlight night, I cried in my mother's presence when I heard thejolly young people pass by our cottage. They were no more young bravesin blankets and eagle plumes, nor Indian maids with prettily paintedcheeks. They had gone three years to school in the East, and had becomecivilized. The young men wore the white man's coat and trousers, withbright neckties. The girls wore tight muslin dresses, with ribbons atneck and waist. At these gatherings they talked English. I could speakEnglish almost as well as my brother, but I was not properly dressed tobe taken along. I had no hat, no ribbons, and no close-fitting gown. Since my return from school I had thrown away my shoes, and wore againthe soft moccasins. 

While Dawée was busily preparing to go I controlled my tears. But when Iheard him bounding away on his pony, I buried my face in my arms andcried hot tears. 

My mother was troubled by my unhappiness. Coming to my side, she offeredme the only printed matter we had in our home. It was an Indian Bible, given her some years ago by a missionary. She tried to console me. "Here, my child, are the white man's papers. Read a little from them, "she said most piously. 

I took it from her hand, for her sake; but my enraged spirit felt morelike burning the book, which afforded me no help, and was a perfectdelusion to my mother. I did not read it, but laid it unopened on thefloor, where I sat on my feet. The dim yellow light of the braidedmuslin burning in a small vessel of oil flickered and sizzled in theawful silent storm which followed my rejection of the Bible. 

Now my wrath against the fates consumed my tears before they reached myeyes. I sat stony, with a bowed head. My mother threw a shawl over herhead and shoulders, and stepped out into the night. 

After an uncertain solitude, I was suddenly aroused by a loud crypiercing the night. It was my mother's voice wailing among the barrenhills which held the bones of buried warriors. She called aloud for herbrothers' spirits to support her in her helpless misery. My fingers Greyicy cold, as I realized that my unrestrained tears had betrayed mysuffering to her, and she was grieving for me. 

Before she returned, though I knew she was on her way, for she hadceased her weeping, I extinguished the light, and leaned my head on thewindow sill. 

Many schemes of running away from my surroundings hovered about in mymind. A few more moons of such a turmoil drove me away to the easternschool. I rode on the white man's iron steed, thinking it would bring meback to my mother in a few winters, when I should be grown tall, andthere would be congenial friends awaiting me. 

VII. 

INCURRING MY MOTHER'S DISPLEASURE. 

In the second journey to the East I had not come without someprecautions. I had a secret interview with one of our best medicine men, and when I left his wigwam I carried securely in my sleeve a tiny bunchof magic roots. This possession assured me of friends wherever I shouldgo. So absolutely did I believe in its charms that I wore it through allthe school routine for more than a year. Then, before I lost my faith inthe dead roots, I lost the little buckskin bag containing all my goodluck. 

At the close of this second term of three years I was the proud owner ofmy first diploma. The following autumn I ventured upon a college careeragainst my mother's will. 

I had written for her approval, but in her reply I found noencouragement. She called my notice to her neighbors' children, who hadcompleted their education in three years. They had returned to theirhomes, and were then talking English with the frontier settlers. Her fewwords hinted that I had better give up my slow attempt to learn thewhite man's ways, and be content to roam over the prairies and find myliving upon wild roots. I silenced her by deliberate disobedience. 

Thus, homeless and heavy-hearted, I began anew my life among strangers. 

As I hid myself in my little room in the college dormitory, away fromthe scornful and yet curious eyes of the students, I pined for sympathy. Often I wept in secret, wishing I had gone West, to be nourished by mymother's love, instead of remaining among a cold race whose hearts werefrozen hard with prejudice. 

During the fall and winter seasons I scarcely had a real friend, thoughby that time several of my classmates were courteous to me at a safedistance. 

My mother had not yet forgiven my rudeness to her, and I had no momentfor letter-writing. By daylight and lamplight, I spun with reeds andthistles, until my hands were tired from their weaving, the magic designwhich promised me the white man's respect. 

At length, in the spring term, I entered an oratorical contest among thevarious classes. As the day of competition approached, it did not seempossible that the event was so near at hand, but it came. In the chapelthe classes assembled together, with their invited guests. The highplatform was carpeted, and gaily festooned with college colors. A brightwhite light illumined the room, and outlined clearly the great polishedbeams that arched the domed ceiling. The assembled crowds filled the airwith pulsating murmurs. When the hour for speaking arrived all werehushed. But on the wall the old clock which pointed out the tryingmoment ticked calmly on. 

One after another I saw and heard the orators. Still, I could notrealize that they longed for the favorable decision of the judges asmuch as I did. Each contestant received a loud burst of applause, andsome were cheered heartily. Too soon my turn came, and I paused a momentbehind the curtains for a deep breath. After my concluding words, Iheard the same applause that the others had called out. 

Upon my retreating steps, I was astounded to receive from myfellow-students a large bouquet of roses tied with flowing ribbons. With the lovely flowers I fled from the stage. This friendly token wasa rebuke to me for the hard feelings I had borne them. 

Later, the decision of the judges awarded me the first place. Then therewas a mad uproar in the hall, where my classmates sang and shouted myname at the top of their lungs; and the disappointed students howled andbrayed in fearfully dissonant tin trumpets. In this excitement, happystudents rushed forward to offer their congratulations. And I could notconceal a smile when they wished to escort me in a procession to thestudents' parlor, where all were going to calm themselves. Thanking themfor the kind spirit which prompted them to make such a proposition, Iwalked alone with the night to my own little room. 

A few weeks afterward, I appeared as the college representative inanother contest. This time the competition was among orators fromdifferent colleges in our State. It was held at the State capital, inone of the largest opera houses. 

Here again was a strong prejudice against my people. In the evening, asthe great audience filled the house, the student bodies began warringamong themselves. Fortunately, I was spared witnessing any of the noisywrangling before the contest began. The slurs against the Indian thatstained the lips of our opponents were already burning like a dry feverwithin my breast. 

But after the orations were delivered a deeper burn awaited me. There, before that vast ocean of eyes, some college rowdies threw out a largewhite flag, with a drawing of a most forlorn Indian girl on it. Underthis they had printed in bold black letters words that ridiculed thecollege which was represented by a "squaw. " Such worse than barbarianrudeness embittered me. While we waited for the verdict of the judges, Igleamed fiercely upon the throngs of palefaces. My teeth were hard set, as I saw the white flag still floating insolently in the air. 

Then anxiously we watched the man carry toward the stage the envelopecontaining the final decision. 

There were two prizes given, that night, and one of them was mine!

The evil spirit laughed within me when the white flag dropped out ofsight, and the hands which hurled it hung limp in defeat. 

Leaving the crowd as quickly as possible, I was soon in my room. Therest of the night I sat in an armchair and gazed into the cracklingfire. I laughed no more in triumph when thus alone. The little taste ofvictory did not satisfy a hunger in my heart. In my mind I saw my motherfar away on the Western plains, and she was holding a charge against me. 

AN INDIAN TEACHER AMONG INDIANS

I. 

MY FIRST DAY. 

Though an illness left me unable to continue my college course, my pridekept me from returning to my mother. Had she known of my worn condition, she would have said the white man's papers were not worth the freedomand health I had lost by them. Such a rebuke from my mother would havebeen unbearable, and as I felt then it would be far too true to becomfortable. 

Since the winter when I had my first dreams about red apples I had beentraveling slowly toward the morning horizon. There had been no doubtabout the direction in which I wished to go to spend my energies in awork for the Indian race. Thus I had written my mother briefly, sayingmy plan for the year was to teach in an Eastern Indian school. Sendingthis message to her in the West, I started at once eastward. 

Thus I found myself, tired and hot, in a black veiling of car smoke, asI stood wearily on a street corner of an old-fashioned town, waitingfor a car. In a few moments more I should be on the school grounds, where a new work was ready for my inexperienced hands. 

Upon entering the school campus, I was surprised at the thicklyclustered buildings which made it a quaint little village, much moreinteresting than the town itself. The large trees among the houses gavethe place a cool, refreshing shade, and the grass a deeper green. Withinthis large court of grass and trees stood a low green pump. The queerboxlike case had a revolving handle on its side, which clanked andcreaked constantly. 

I made myself known, and was shown to my room, --a small, carpeted room, with ghastly walls and ceiling. The two windows, both on the same side, were curtained with heavy muslin yellowed with age. A clean white bedwas in one corner of the room, and opposite it was a square pine tablecovered with a black woolen blanket. 

Without removing my hat from my head, I seated myself in one of the twostiff-backed chairs that were placed beside the table. For several heartthrobs I sat still looking from ceiling to floor, from wall to wall, trying hard to imagine years of contentment there. Even while I waswondering if my exhausted strength would sustain me through thisundertaking, I heard a heavy tread stop at my door. Opening it, I metthe imposing figure of a stately gray-haired man. With a light straw hatin one hand, and the right hand extended for greeting, he smiled kindlyupon me. For some reason I was awed by his wondrous height and hisstrong square shoulders, which I felt were a finger's length above myhead. 

I was always slight, and my serious illness in the early spring had mademe look rather frail and languid. His quick eye measured my height andbreadth. Then he looked into my face. I imagined that a visible shadowflitted across his countenance as he let my hand fall. I knew he was noother than my employer. 

"Ah ha! so you are the little Indian girl who created the excitementamong the college orators!" he said, more to himself than to me. Ithought I heard a subtle note of disappointment in his voice. Looking infrom where he stood, with one sweeping glance, he asked if I lackedanything for my room. 

After he turned to go, I listened to his step until it grew faint andwas lost in the distance. I was aware that my car-smoked appearance hadnot concealed the lines of pain on my face. 

For a short moment my spirit laughed at my ill fortune, and Ientertained the idea of exerting myself to make an improvement. But as Itossed my hat off a leaden weakness came over me, and I felt as if yearsof weariness lay like water-soaked logs upon me. I threw myself upon thebed, and, closing my eyes, forgot my good intention. 

II. 

A TRIP WESTWARD. 

One sultry month I sat at a desk heaped up with work. Now, as I recallit, I wonder how I could have dared to disregard nature's warning withsuch recklessness. Fortunately, my inheritance of a marvelous enduranceenabled me to bend without breaking. 

Though I had gone to and fro, from my room to the office, in an unhappysilence, I was watched by those around me. On an early morning I wassummoned to the superintendent's office. For a half-hour I listened tohis words, and when I returned to my room I remembered one sentenceabove the rest. It was this: "I am going to turn you loose to pasture!"He was sending me West to gather Indian pupils for the school, and thiswas his way of expressing it. 

I needed nourishment, but the midsummer's travel across the continent tosearch the hot prairies for overconfident parents who would entrusttheir children to strangers was a lean pasturage. However, I dwelt onthe hope of seeing my mother. I tried to reason that a change was arest. Within a couple of days I started toward my mother's home. 

The intense heat and the sticky car smoke that followed my homewardtrail did not noticeably restore my vitality. Hour after hour I gazedupon the country which was receding rapidly from me. I noticed thegradual expansion of the horizon as we emerged out of the forests intothe plains. The great high buildings, whose towers overlooked the densewoodlands, and whose gigantic clusters formed large cities, diminished, together with the groves, until only little log cabins lay snugly in thebosom of the vast prairie. The cloud shadows which drifted about on thewaving yellow of long-dried grasses thrilled me like the meeting of oldfriends. 

At a small station, consisting of a single frame house with a ricketyboard walk around it, I alighted from the iron horse, just thirty milesfrom my mother and my brother Dawée. A strong hot wind seemed determinedto blow my hat off, and return me to olden days when I roamed bareheadedover the hills. After the puffing engine of my train was gone, I stoodon the platform in deep solitude. In the distance I saw the gentlyrolling land leap up into bare hills. At their bases a broad gray roadwas winding itself round about them until it came by the station. Amongthese hills I rode in a light conveyance, with a trusty driver, whoseunkempt flaxen hair hung shaggy about his ears and his leather neck ofreddish tan. From accident or decay he had lost one of his long frontteeth. 

Though I call him a paleface, his cheeks were of a brick red. His moistblue eyes, blurred and bloodshot, twitched involuntarily. For a longtime he had driven through grass and snow from this solitary station tothe Indian village. His weather-stained clothes fitted badly his warpedshoulders. He was stooped, and his protruding chin, with its tuft of dryflax, nodded as monotonously as did the head of his faithful beast. 

All the morning I looked about me, recognizing old familiar sky lines ofrugged bluffs and round-topped hills. By the roadside I caught glimpsesof various plants whose sweet roots were delicacies among my people. When I saw the first cone-shaped wigwam, I could not help uttering anexclamation which caused my driver a sudden jump out of his drowsynodding. 

At noon, as we drove through the eastern edge of the reservation, I grewvery impatient and restless. Constantly I wondered what my mother wouldsay upon seeing her little daughter grown tall. I had not written herthe day of my arrival, thinking I would surprise her. Crossing a ravinethicketed with low shrubs and plum bushes, we approached a large yellowacre of wild sunflowers. Just beyond this nature's garden we drew nearto my mother's cottage. Close by the log cabin stood a littlecanvas-covered wigwam. The driver stopped in front of the open door, andin a long moment my mother appeared at the threshold. 

I had expected her to run out to greet me, but she stood still, all thewhile staring at the weather-beaten man at my side. At length, when herloftiness became unbearable, I called to her, "Mother, why do you stop?"

This seemed to break the evil moment, and she hastened out to hold myhead against her cheek. 

"My daughter, what madness possessed you to bring home such a fellow?"she asked, pointing at the driver, who was fumbling in his pockets forchange while he held the bill I gave him between his jagged teeth. 

"Bring him! Why, no, mother, he has brought me! He is a driver!" Iexclaimed. 

Upon this revelation, my mother threw her arms about me and apologizedfor her mistaken inference. We laughed away the momentary hurt. Then shebuilt a brisk fire on the ground in the tepee, and hung a blackenedcoffeepot on one of the prongs of a forked pole which leaned over theflames. Placing a pan on a heap of red embers, she baked some unleavenedbread. This light luncheon she brought into the cabin, and arranged on atable covered with a checkered oilcloth. 

My mother had never gone to school, and though she meant always to giveup her own customs for such of the white man's ways as pleased her, shemade only compromises. Her two windows, directly opposite each other, she curtained with a pink-flowered print. The naked logs were unstained, and rudely carved with the axe so as to fit into one another. The sodroof was trying to boast of tiny sunflowers, the seeds of which hadprobably been planted by the constant wind. As I leaned my head againstthe logs, I discovered the peculiar odor that I could not forget. Therains had soaked the earth and roof so that the smell of damp clay wasbut the natural breath of such a dwelling. 

"Mother, why is not your house cemented? Do you have no interest in amore comfortable shelter?" I asked, when the apparent inconveniences ofher home seemed to suggest indifference on her part. 

"You forget, my child, that I am now old, and I do not work with beadsany more. Your brother Dawée, too, has lost his position, and we areleft without means to buy even a morsel of food, " she replied. 

Dawée was a government clerk in our reservation when I last heard fromhim. I was surprised upon hearing what my mother said concerning hislack of employment. Seeing the puzzled expression on my face, shecontinued: "Dawée! Oh, has he not told you that the Great Father atWashington sent a white son to take your brother's pen from him? Sincethen Dawée has not been able to make use of the education the Easternschool has given him. "

I found no words with which to answer satisfactorily. I found no reasonwith which to cool my inflamed feelings. 

Dawée was a whole day's journey off on the prairie, and my mother didnot expect him until the next day. We were silent. 

When, at length, I raised my head to hear more clearly the moaning ofthe wind in the corner logs, I noticed the daylight streaming into thedingy room through several places where the logs fitted unevenly. Turning to my mother, I urged her to tell me more about Dawée's trouble, but she only said: "Well, my daughter, this village has been these manywinters a refuge for white robbers. The Indian cannot complain to theGreat Father in Washington without suffering outrage for it here. Dawéetried to secure justice for our tribe in a small matter, and today yousee the folly of it. "

Again, though she stopped to hear what I might say, I was silent. 

"My child, there is only one source of justice, and I have been prayingsteadfastly to the Great Spirit to avenge our wrongs, " she said, seeingI did not move my lips. 

My shattered energy was unable to hold longer any faith, and I cried outdesperately: "Mother, don't pray again! The Great Spirit does not careif we live or die! Let us not look for good or justice: then we shallnot be disappointed!"

"Sh! my child, do not talk so madly. There is Taku Iyotan Wasaka, [1] towhich I pray, " she answered, as she stroked my head again as she used todo when I was a smaller child. 

[Footnote 1: An absolute Power. ]

III. 

MY MOTHER'S CURSE UPON WHITE SETTLERS. 

One black night mother and I sat alone in the dim starlight, in front ofour wigwam. We were facing the river, as we talked about the shrinkinglimits of the village. She told me about the poverty-stricken whitesettlers, who lived in caves dug in the long ravines of the high hillsacross the river. 

A whole tribe of broad-footed white beggars had rushed hither to makeclaims on those wild lands. Even as she was telling this I spied a smallglimmering light in the bluffs. 

"That is a white man's lodge where you see the burning fire, " she said. Then, a short distance from it, only a little lower than the first, wasanother light. As I became accustomed to the night, I saw more and moretwinkling lights, here and there, scattered all along the wide blackmargin of the river. 

Still looking toward the distant firelight, my mother continued: "Mydaughter, beware of the paleface. It was the cruel paleface who causedthe death of your sister and your uncle, my brave brother. It is thissame paleface who offers in one palm the holy papers, and with theother gives a holy baptism of firewater. He is the hypocrite who readswith one eye, 'Thou shalt not kill, ' and with the other gloats upon thesufferings of the Indian race. " Then suddenly discovering a new fire inthe bluffs, she exclaimed, "Well, well, my daughter, there is the lightof another white rascal!"

She sprang to her feet, and, standing firm beside her wigwam, she sent acurse upon those who sat around the hated white man's light. Raising herright arm forcibly into line with her eye, she threw her whole mightinto her doubled fist as she shot it vehemently at the strangers. Longshe held her outstretched fingers toward the settler's lodge, as if aninvisible power passed from them to the evil at which she aimed. 

IV. 

RETROSPECTION. 

Leaving my mother, I returned to the school in the East. As monthspassed over me, I slowly comprehended that the large army of whiteteachers in Indian schools had a larger missionary creed than I hadsuspected. 

It was one which included self-preservation quite as much as Indianeducation. When I saw an opium-eater holding a position as teacher ofIndians, I did not understand what good was expected, until a Christianin power replied that this pumpkin-colored creature had a feeble motherto support. An inebriate paleface sat stupid in a doctor's chair, whileIndian patients carried their ailments to untimely graves, because hisfair wife was dependent upon him for her daily food. 

I find it hard to count that white man a teacher who tortured anambitious Indian youth by frequently reminding the brave changeling thathe was nothing but a "government pauper. "

Though I burned with indignation upon discovering on every sideinstances no less shameful than those I have mentioned, there was nopresent help. Even the few rare ones who have worked nobly for my racewere powerless to choose workmen like themselves. To be sure, a man wassent from the Great Father to inspect Indian schools, but what he sawwas usually the students' sample work _made_ for exhibition. I wasnettled by this sly cunning of the workmen who hookwinked the Indian'spale Father at Washington. 

My illness, which prevented the conclusion of my college course, together with my mother's stories of the encroaching frontier settlers, left me in no mood to strain my eyes in searching for latent good in mywhite co-workers. 

At this stage of my own evolution, I was ready to curse men of smallcapacity for being the dwarfs their God had made them. In the process ofmy education I had lost all consciousness of the nature world about me. Thus, when a hidden rage took me to the small white-walled prison whichI then called my room, I unknowingly turned away from my one salvation. 

Alone in my room, I sat like the petrified Indian woman of whom mymother used to tell me. I wished my heart's burdens would turn me tounfeeling stone. But alive, in my tomb, I was destitute!

For the white man's papers I had given up my faith in the Great Spirit. For these same papers I had forgotten the healing in trees and brooks. On account of my mother's simple view of life, and my lack of any, Igave her up, also. I made no friends among the race of people I loathed. Like a slender tree, I had been uprooted from my mother, nature, andGod. I was shorn of my branches, which had waved in sympathy and lovefor home and friends. The natural coat of bark which had protected myoversensitive nature was scraped off to the very quick. 

Now a cold bare pole I seemed to be, planted in a strange earth. Still, I seemed to hope a day would come when my mute aching head, rearedupward to the sky, would flash a zigzag lightning across the heavens. With this dream of vent for a long-pent consciousness, I walked againamid the crowds. 

At last, one weary day in the schoolroom, a new idea presented itself tome. It was a new way of solving the problem of my inner self. I likedit. Thus I resigned my position as teacher; and now I am in an Easterncity, following the long course of study I have set for myself. Now, asI look back upon the recent past, I see it from a distance, as a whole. I remember how, from morning till evening, many specimens of civilizedpeoples visited the Indian school. The city folks with canes andeyeglasses, the countrymen with sunburnt cheeks and clumsy feet, forgottheir relative social ranks in an ignorant curiosity. Both sorts ofthese Christian palefaces were alike astounded at seeing the children ofsavage warriors so docile and industrious. 

As answers to their shallow inquiries they received the students' samplework to look upon. Examining the neatly figured pages, and gazing uponthe Indian girls and boys bending over their books, the white visitorswalked out of the schoolhouse well satisfied: they were educating thechildren of the red man! They were paying a liberal fee to thegovernment employees in whose able hands lay the small forest of Indiantimber. 

In this fashion many have passed idly through the Indian schools duringthe last decade, afterward to boast of their charity to the NorthAmerican Indian. But few there are who have paused to question whetherreal life or long-lasting death lies beneath this semblance ofcivilization. 

THE GREAT SPIRIT

When the spirit swells my breast I love to roam leisurely among thegreen hills; or sometimes, sitting on the brink of the murmuringMissouri, I marvel at the great blue overhead. With half-closed eyes Iwatch the huge cloud shadows in their noiseless play upon the highbluffs opposite me, while into my ear ripple the sweet, soft cadences ofthe river's song. Folded hands lie in my lap, for the time forgot. Myheart and I lie small upon the earth like a grain of throbbing sand. Drifting clouds and tinkling waters, together with the warmth of agenial summer day, bespeak with eloquence the loving Mystery round aboutus. During the idle while I sat upon the sunny river brink, I grewsomewhat, though my response be not so clearly manifest as in the greengrass fringing the edge of the high bluff back of me. 

At length retracing the uncertain footpath scaling the precipitousembankment, I seek the level lands where grow the wild prairie flowers. And they, the lovely little folk, soothe my soul with their perfumedbreath. 

Their quaint round faces of varied hue convince the heart which leapswith glad surprise that they, too, are living symbols of omnipotentthought. With a child's eager eye I drink in the myriad star shapeswrought in luxuriant color upon the green. Beautiful is the spiritualessence they embody. 

I leave them nodding in the breeze, but take along with me their impressupon my heart. I pause to rest me upon a rock embedded on the side of afoothill facing the low river bottom. Here the Stone-Boy, of whom theAmerican aborigine tells, frolics about, shooting his baby arrows andshouting aloud with glee at the tiny shafts of lightning that flash fromthe flying arrow-beaks. What an ideal warrior he became, baffling thesiege of the pests of all the land till he triumphed over their unitedattack. And here he lay--Inyan our great-great-grandfather, older thanthe hill he rested on, older than the race of men who love to tell ofhis wonderful career. 

Interwoven with the thread of this Indian legend of the rock, I fainwould trace a subtle knowledge of the native folk which enabled them torecognize a kinship to any and all parts of this vast universe. By theleading of an ancient trail I move toward the Indian village. 

With the strong, happy sense that both great and small are so surelyenfolded in His magnitude that, without a miss, each has his allottedindividual ground of opportunities, I am buoyant with good nature. 

Yellow Breast, swaying upon the slender stem of a wild sunflower, warbles a sweet assurance of this as I pass near by. Breaking off theclear crystal song, he turns his wee head from side to side eyeing mewisely as slowly I plod with moccasined feet. Then again he yieldshimself to his song of joy. Flit, flit hither and yon, he fills thesummer sky with his swift, sweet melody. And truly does it seem hisvigorous freedom lies more in his little spirit than in his wing. 

With these thoughts I reach the log cabin whither I am strongly drawn bythe tie of a child to an aged mother. Out bounds my four-footed friendto meet me, frisking about my path with unmistakable delight. Chän is ablack shaggy dog, "a thoroughbred little mongrel" of whom I am veryfond. Chän seems to understand many words in Sioux, and will go to hermat even when I whisper the word, though generally I think she is guidedby the tone of the voice. Often she tries to imitate the slidinginflection and long-drawn-out voice to the amusement of our guests, buther articulation is quite beyond my ear. In both my hands I hold hershaggy head and gaze into her large brown eyes. At once the dilatedpupils contract into tiny black dots, as if the roguish spirit withinwould evade my questioning. 

Finally resuming the chair at my desk I feel in keen sympathy with myfellow-creatures, for I seem to see clearly again that all are akin. Theracial lines, which once were bitterly real, now serve nothing more thanmarking out a living mosaic of human beings. And even here men of thesame color are like the ivory keys of one instrument where eachresembles all the rest, yet varies from them in pitch and quality ofvoice. And those creatures who are for a time mere echoes of another'snote are not unlike the fable of the thin sick man whose distortedshadow, dressed like a real creature, came to the old master to make himfollow as a shadow. Thus with a compassion for all echoes in humanguise, I greet the solemn-faced "native preacher" whom I find awaitingme. I listen with respect for God's creature, though he mouth moststrangely the jangling phrases of a bigoted creed. 

As our tribe is one large family, where every person is related to allthe others, he addressed me:--

"Cousin, I came from the morning church service to talk with you. "

"Yes?" I said interrogatively, as he paused for some word from me. 

Shifting uneasily about in the straight-backed chair he sat upon, hebegan: "Every holy day (Sunday) I look about our little God's house, andnot seeing you there, I am disappointed. This is why I come today. Cousin, as I watch you from afar, I see no unbecoming behavior and hearonly good reports of you, which all the more burns me with the wish thatyou were a church member. Cousin, I was taught long years ago by kindmissionaries to read the holy book. These godly men taught me also thefolly of our old beliefs. 

"There is one God who gives reward or punishment to the race of deadmen. In the upper region the Christian dead are gathered in unceasingsong and prayer. In the deep pit below, the sinful ones dance intorturing flames. 

"Think upon these things, my cousin, and choose now to avoid theafter-doom of hell fire!" Then followed a long silence in which heclasped tighter and unclasped again his interlocked fingers. 

Like instantaneous lightning flashes came pictures of my own mother'smaking, for she, too, is now a follower of the new superstition. 

"Knocking out the chinking of our log cabin, some evil hand thrust in aburning taper of braided dry grass, but failed of his intent, for thefire died out and the half-burned brand fell inward to the floor. Directly above it, on a shelf, lay the holy book. This is what we foundafter our return from a several days' visit. Surely some great power ishid in the sacred book!"

Brushing away from my eyes many like pictures, I offered midday meal tothe converted Indian sitting wordless and with downcast face. No soonerhad he risen from the table with "Cousin, I have relished it, " than thechurch bell rang. 

Thither he hurried forth with his afternoon sermon. I watched him as hehastened along, his eyes bent fast upon the dusty road till hedisappeared at the end of a quarter of a mile. 

The little incident recalled to mind the copy of a missionary paperbrought to my notice a few days ago, in which a "Christian" pugilistcommented upon a recent article of mine, grossly perverting the spiritof my pen. Still I would not forget that the pale-faced missionary andthe hoodooed aborigine are both God's creatures, though small indeedtheir own conceptions of Infinite Love. A wee child toddling in a wonderworld, I prefer to their dogma my excursions into the natural gardenswhere the voice of the Great Spirit is heard in the twittering of birds, the rippling of mighty waters, and the sweet breathing of flowers. 

Here, in a fleeting quiet, I am awakened by the fluttering robe of theGreat Spirit. To my innermost consciousness the phenomenal universe is aroyal mantle, vibrating with His divine breath. Caught in its flowingfringes are the spangles and oscillating brilliants of sun, moon, andstars. 

THE SOFT-HEARTED SIOUX

I. 

Beside the open fire I sat within our tepee. With my red blanket wrappedtightly about my crossed legs, I was thinking of the coming season, mysixteenth winter. On either side of the wigwam were my parents. Myfather was whistling a tune between his teeth while polishing with hisbare hand a red stone pipe he had recently carved. Almost in front ofme, beyond the center fire, my old grandmother sat near the entranceway. 

She turned her face toward her right and addressed most of her words tomy mother. Now and then she spoke to me, but never did she allow hereyes to rest upon her daughter's husband, my father. It was only uponrare occasions that my grandmother said anything to him. Thus his earswere open and ready to catch the smallest wish she might express. Sometimes when my grandmother had been saying things which pleased him, my father used to comment upon them. At other times, when he could notapprove of what was spoken, he used to work or smoke silently. 

On this night my old grandmother began her talk about me. Filling thebowl of her red stone pipe with dry willow bark, she looked across atme. 

"My grandchild, you are tall and are no longer a little boy. " Narrowingher old eyes, she asked, "My grandchild, when are you going to bringhere a handsome young woman?" I stared into the fire rather than meether gaze. Waiting for my answer, she stooped forward and through thelong stem drew a flame into the red stone pipe. 

I smiled while my eyes were still fixed upon the bright fire, but I saidnothing in reply. Turning to my mother, she offered her the pipe. Iglanced at my grandmother. The loose buckskin sleeve fell off at herelbow and showed a wrist covered with silver bracelets. Holding up thefingers of her left hand, she named off the desirable young women of ourvillage. 

"Which one, my grandchild, which one?" she questioned. 

"Hoh!" I said, pulling at my blanket in confusion. "Not yet!" Here mymother passed the pipe over the fire to my father. Then she, too, beganspeaking of what I should do. 

"My son, be always active. Do not dislike a long hunt. Learn to providemuch buffalo meat and many buckskins before you bring home a wife. "Presently my father gave the pipe to my grandmother, and he took histurn in the exhortations. 

"Ho, my son, I have been counting in my heart the bravest warriors ofour people. There is not one of them who won his title in his sixteenthwinter. My son, it is a great thing for some brave of sixteen winters todo. "

Not a word had I to give in answer. I knew well the fame of my warriorfather. He had earned the right of speaking such words, though even hehimself was a brave only at my age. Refusing to smoke my grandmother'spipe because my heart was too much stirred by their words, and sorelytroubled with a fear lest I should disappoint them, I arose to go. Drawing my blanket over my shoulders, I said, as I stepped toward theentranceway: "I go to hobble my pony. It is now late in the night. "

II. 

Nine winters' snows had buried deep that night when my old grandmother, together with my father and mother, designed my future with the glow ofa camp fire upon it. 

Yet I did not grow up the warrior, huntsman, and husband I was to havebeen. At the mission school I learned it was wrong to kill. Nine wintersI hunted for the soft heart of Christ, and prayed for the huntsmen whochased the buffalo on the plains. 

In the autumn of the tenth year I was sent back to my tribe to preachChristianity to them. With the white man's Bible in my hand, and thewhite man's tender heart in my breast, I returned to my own people. 

Wearing a foreigner's dress, I walked, a stranger, into my father'svillage. 

Asking my way, for I had not forgotten my native tongue, an old man ledme toward the tepee where my father lay. From my old companion I learnedthat my father had been sick many moons. As we drew near the tepee, Iheard the chanting of a medicine-man within it. At once I wished toenter in and drive from my home the sorcerer of the plains, but the oldwarrior checked me. "Ho, wait outside until the medicine-man leaves yourfather, " he said. While talking he scanned me from head to feet. Then heretraced his steps toward the heart of the camping-ground. 

My father's dwelling was on the outer limits of the round-faced village. With every heartthrob I grew more impatient to enter the wigwam. 

While I turned the leaves of my Bible with nervous fingers, themedicine-man came forth from the dwelling and walked hurriedly away. Hishead and face were closely covered with the loose robe which draped hisentire figure. 

He was tall and large. His long strides I have never forgot. They seemedto me then the uncanny gait of eternal death. Quickly pocketing myBible, I went into the tepee. 

Upon a mat lay my father, with furrowed face and gray hair. His eyes andcheeks were sunken far into his head. His sallow skin lay thin upon hispinched nose and high cheekbones. Stooping over him, I took his feveredhand. "How, Ate?" I greeted him. A light flashed from his listless eyesand his dried lips parted. "My son!" he murmured, in a feeble voice. Then again the wave of joy and recognition receded. He closed his eyes, and his hand dropped from my open palm to the ground. 

Looking about, I saw an old woman sitting with bowed head. Shaking handswith her, I recognized my mother. I sat down between my father andmother as I used to do, but I did not feel at home. The place where myold grandmother used to sit was now unoccupied. With my mother I bowedmy head. Alike our throats were choked and tears were streaming from oureyes; but far apart in spirit our ideas and faiths separated us. Mygrief was for the soul unsaved; and I thought my mother wept to see abrave man's body broken by sickness. 

Useless was my attempt to change the faith in the medicine-man to thatabstract power named God. Then one day I became righteously mad withanger that the medicine-man should thus ensnare my father's soul. Andwhen he came to chant his sacred songs I pointed toward the door andbade him go! The man's eyes glared upon me for an instant. Slowlygathering his robe about him, he turned his back upon the sick man andstepped out of our wigwam. "Ha, ha, ha! my son, I can not live withoutthe medicine-man!" I heard my father cry when the sacred man was gone. 

III. 

On a bright day, when the winged seeds of the prairie-grass were flyinghither and thither, I walked solemnly toward the centre of thecamping-ground. My heart beat hard and irregularly at my side. Tighter Igrasped the sacred book I carried under my arm. Now was the beginning oflife's work. 

Though I knew it would be hard, I did not once feel that failure was tobe my reward. As I stepped unevenly on the rolling ground, I thought ofthe warriors soon to wash off their war-paints and follow me. 

At length I reached the place where the people had assembled to hear mepreach. In a large circle men and women sat upon the dry red grass. Within the ring I stood, with the white man's Bible in my hand. I triedto tell them of the soft heart of Christ. 

In silence the vast circle of bareheaded warriors sat under an afternoonsun. At last, wiping the wet from my brow, I took my place in the ring. The hush of the assembly filled me with great hope. 

I was turning my thoughts upward to the sky in gratitude, when a stircalled me to earth again. 

A tall, strong man arose. His loose robe hung in folds over his rightshoulder. A pair of snapping black eyes fastened themselves like thepoisonous fangs of a serpent upon me. He was the medicine-man. A tremorplayed about my heart and a chill cooled the fire in my veins. 

Scornfully he pointed a long forefinger in my direction and asked:

"What loyal son is he who, returning to his father's people, wears aforeigner's dress?" He paused a moment, and then continued: "The dressof that foreigner of whom a story says he bound a native of our land, and heaping dry sticks around him, kindled a fire at his feet!" Wavinghis hand toward me, he exclaimed, "Here is the traitor to his people!"

I was helpless. Before the eyes of the crowd the cunning magician turnedmy honest heart into a vile nest of treachery. Alas! the people frownedas they looked upon me. 

"Listen!" he went on. "Which one of you who have eyed the young man cansee through his bosom and warn the people of the nest of young snakeshatching there? Whose ear was so acute that he caught the hissing ofsnakes whenever the young man opened his mouth? This one has not onlyproven false to you, but even to the Great Spirit who made him. He is afool! Why do you sit here giving ear to a foolish man who could notdefend his people because he fears to kill, who could not bring venisonto renew the life of his sick father? With his prayers, let him driveaway the enemy! With his soft heart, let him keep off starvation! Weshall go elsewhere to dwell upon an untainted ground. "

With this he disbanded the people. When the sun lowered in the west andthe winds were quiet, the village of cone-shaped tepees was gone. Themedicine-man had won the hearts of the people. 

Only my father's dwelling was left to mark the fighting-ground. 

IV. 

From a long night at my father's bedside I came out to look upon themorning. The yellow sun hung equally between the snow-covered land andthe cloudless blue sky. The light of the new day was cold. The strongbreath of winter crusted the snow and fitted crystal shells over therivers and lakes. As I stood in front of the tepee, thinking of the vastprairies which separated us from our tribe, and wondering if the highsky likewise separated the soft-hearted Son of God from us, the icyblast from the North blew through my hair and skull. My neglected hairhad grown long and fell upon my neck. 

My father had not risen from his bed since the day the medicine-man ledthe people away. Though I read from the Bible and prayed beside him uponmy knees, my father would not listen. Yet I believed my prayers were notunheeded in heaven. 

"Ha, ha, ha! my son, " my father groaned upon the first snowfall. "Myson, our food is gone. There is no one to bring me meat! My son, yoursoft heart has unfitted you for everything!" Then covering his facewith the buffalo-robe, he said no more. Now while I stood out in thatcold winter morning, I was starving. For two days I had not seen anyfood. But my own cold and hunger did not harass my soul as did thewhining cry of the sick old man. 

Stepping again into the tepee, I untied my snow-shoes, which werefastened to the tent-poles. 

My poor mother, watching by the sick one, and faithfully heaping woodupon the centre fire, spoke to me:

"My son, do not fail again to bring your father meat, or he will starveto death. "

"How, Ina, " I answered, sorrowfully. From the tepee I started forthagain to hunt food for my aged parents. All day I tracked the whitelevel lands in vain. Nowhere, nowhere were there any other footprintsbut my own! In the evening of this third fast-day I came back withoutmeat. Only a bundle of sticks for the fire I brought on my back. Dropping the wood outside, I lifted the door-flap and set one footwithin the tepee. 

There I grew dizzy and numb. My eyes swam in tears. Before me lay myold gray-haired father sobbing like a child. In his horny hands heclutched the buffalo-robe, and with his teeth he was gnawing off theedges. Chewing the dry stiff hair and buffalo-skin, my father's eyessought my hands. Upon seeing them empty, he cried out:

"My son, your soft heart will let me starve before you bring me meat!Two hills eastward stand a herd of cattle. Yet you will see me diebefore you bring me food!"

Leaving my mother lying with covered head upon her mat, I rushed outinto the night. 

With a strange warmth in my heart and swiftness in my feet, I climbedover the first hill, and soon the second one. The moonlight upon thewhite country showed me a clear path to the white man's cattle. With myhand upon the knife in my belt, I leaned heavily against the fence whilecounting the herd. 

Twenty in all I numbered. From among them I chose the best-fattenedcreature. Leaping over the fence, I plunged my knife into it. 

My long knife was sharp, and my hands, no more fearful and slow, slashedoff choice chunks of warm flesh. Bending under the meat I had taken formy starving father, I hurried across the prairie. 

Toward home I fairly ran with the life-giving food I carried upon myback. Hardly had I climbed the second hill when I heard sounds comingafter me. Faster and faster I ran with my load for my father, but thesounds were gaining upon me. I heard the clicking of snowshoes and thesqueaking of the leather straps at my heels; yet I did not turn to seewhat pursued me, for I was intent upon reaching my father. Suddenly likethunder an angry voice shouted curses and threats into my ear! A roughhand wrenched my shoulder and took the meat from me! I stoppedstruggling to run. A deafening whir filled my head. The moon and starsbegan to move. Now the white prairie was sky, and the stars lay under myfeet. Now again they were turning. At last the starry blue rose up intoplace. The noise in my ears was still. A great quiet filled the air. Inmy hand I found my long knife dripping with blood. At my feet a man'sfigure lay prone in blood-red snow. The horrible scene about me seemed atrick of my senses, for I could not understand it was real. Lookinglong upon the blood-stained snow, the load of meat for my starvingfather reached my recognition at last. Quickly I tossed it over myshoulder and started again homeward. 

Tired and haunted I reached the door of the wigwam. Carrying the foodbefore me, I entered with it into the tepee. 

"Father, here is food!" I cried, as I dropped the meat near my mother. No answer came. Turning about, I beheld my gray-haired father dead! Isaw by the unsteady firelight an old gray-haired skeleton lying rigidand stiff. 

Out into the open I started, but the snow at my feet became bloody. 

V. 

On the day after my father's death, having led my mother to the camp ofthe medicineman, I gave myself up to those who were searching for themurderer of the paleface. 

They bound me hand and foot. Here in this cell I was placed four daysago. 

The shrieking winter winds have followed me hither. Rattling the bars, they howl unceasingly: "Your soft heart! your soft heart will see me diebefore you bring me food!" Hark! something is clanking the chain on thedoor. It is being opened. From the dark night without a black figurecrosses the threshold. * * * It is the guard. He comes to warn me of myfate. He tells me that tomorrow I must die. In his stern face I laughaloud. I do not fear death. 

Yet I wonder who shall come to welcome me in the realm of strange sight. Will the loving Jesus grant me pardon and give my soul a soothing sleep?or will my warrior father greet me and receive me as his son? Will myspirit fly upward to a happy heaven? or shall I sink into thebottomless pit, an outcast from a God of infinite love?

Soon, soon I shall know, for now I see the east is growing red. My heartis strong. My face is calm. My eyes are dry and eager for new scenes. Myhands hang quietly at my side. Serene and brave, my soul awaits the mento perch me on the gallows for another flight. I go. 

THE TRIAL PATH

It was an autumn night on the plain. The smoke-lapels of the cone-shapedtepee flapped gently in the breeze. From the low night sky, with itsmyriad fire points, a large bright star peeped in at the smoke-hole ofthe wigwam between its fluttering lapels, down upon two Dakotas talkingin the dark. The mellow stream from the star above, a maid of twentysummers, on a bed of sweetgrass, drank in with her wakeful eyes. On theopposite side of the tepee, beyond the centre fireplace, the grandmotherspread her rug. Though once she had lain down, the telling of a storyhas aroused her to a sitting posture. 

Her eyes are tight closed. With a thin palm she strokes her wind-shornhair. 

"Yes, my grandchild, the legend says the large bright stars are wise oldwarriors, and the small dim ones are handsome young braves, " shereiterates, in a high, tremulous voice. 

"Then this one peeping in at the smoke-hole yonder is my dear oldgrandfather, " muses the young woman, in long-drawn-out words. 

Her soft rich voice floats through the darkness within the tepee, overthe cold ashes heaped on the centre fire, and passes into the ear of thetoothless old woman, who sits dumb in silent reverie. Thence it flies onswifter wing over many winter snows, till at last it cleaves the warmlight atmosphere of her grandfather's youth. From there her grandmothermade answer:

"Listen! I am young again. It is the day of your grandfather's death. The elder one, I mean, for there were two of them. They were like twins, though they were not brothers. They were friends, inseparable! Allthings, good and bad, they shared together, save one, which made themmad. In that heated frenzy the younger man slew his most intimatefriend. He killed his elder brother, for long had their affection madethem kin. "

The voice of the old woman broke. Swaying her stooped shoulders to andfro as she sat upon her feet, she muttered vain exclamations beneath herbreath. Her eyes, closed tight against the night, beheld behind them thelight of bygone days. They saw again a rolling black cloud spread itselfover the land. Her ear heard the deep rumbling of a tempest in thewest. She bent low a cowering head, while angry thunder-birds shriekedacross the sky. "Heyã! heyã!" (No! no!) groaned the toothlessgrandmother at the fury she had awakened. But the glorious peaceafterward, when yellow sunshine made the people glad, now lured hermemory onward through the storm. 

"How fast, how loud my heart beats as I listen to the messenger'shorrible tale!" she ejaculates. "From the fresh grave of the murderedman he hurried to our wigwam. Deliberately crossing his bare shins, hesat down unbidden beside my father, smoking a long-stemmed pipe. He hadscarce caught his breath when, panting, he began:

"'He was an only son, and a much-adored brother. '

"With wild, suspecting eyes he glanced at me as if I were in league withthe man-killer, my lover. My father, exhaling sweet-scented smoke, assented--'How, ' Then interrupting the 'Eya' on the lips of theround-eyed talebearer, he asked, 'My friend, will you smoke?' He tookthe pipe by its red-stone bowl, and pointed the long slender stemtoward the man. 'Yes, yes, my friend, ' replied he, and reached out along brown arm. 

"For many heart-throbs he puffed out the blue smoke, which hung like acloud between us. But even through the smoke-mist I saw his sharp blackeyes glittering toward me. I longed to ask what doom awaited the youngmurderer, but dared not open my lips, lest I burst forth into screamsinstead. My father plied the question. Returning the pipe, the manreplied: 'Oh, the chieftain and his chosen men have had counseltogether. They have agreed it is not safe to allow a man-killer loose inour midst. He who kills one of our tribe is an enemy, and must sufferthe fate of a foe. '

"My temples throbbed like a pair of hearts!

"While I listened, a crier passed by my father's tepee. Mounted, andswaying with his pony's steps, he proclaimed in a loud voice these words(hark! I hear them now!): "Ho-po! Give ear, all you people. A terribledeed is done. Two friends--ay, brothers in heart--have quarreledtogether. Now one lies buried on the hill, while the other sits, adreaded man-killer, within his dwelling. " Says our chieftain: "He whokills one of our tribe commits the offense of an enemy. As such he mustbe tried. Let the father of the dead man choose the mode of torture ortaking of life. He has suffered livid pain, and he alone can judge howgreat the punishment must be to avenge his wrong. " It is done. 

"'Come, every one, to witness the judgment of a father upon him who wasonce his son's best friend. A wild pony is now lassoed. The man-killermust mount and ride the ranting beast. Stand you all in two parallellines from the centre tepee of the bereaved family to the wigwamopposite in the great outer ring. Between you, in the wide space, is thegiven trial-way. From the outer circle the rider must mount and guidehis pony toward the centre tepee. If, having gone the entire distance, the man-killer gains the centre tepee still sitting on the pony's back, his life is spared and pardon given. But should he fall, then he himselfhas chosen death. '

"The crier's words now cease. A lull holds the village breathless. Thenhurrying feet tear along, swish, swish, through the tall grass. Sobbingwomen hasten toward the trialway. The muffled groan of the roundcamp-ground is unbearable. With my face hid in the folds of my blanket, I run with the crowd toward the open place in the outer circle of ourvillage. In a moment the two long files of solemn-faced people mark thepath of the public trial. Ah! I see strong men trying to lead thelassoed pony, pitching and rearing, with white foam flying from hismouth. I choke with pain as I recognize my handsome lover desolatelyalone, striding with set face toward the lassoed pony. 'Do not fall!Choose life and me!' I cry in my breast, but over my lips I hold mythick blanket. 

"In an instant he has leaped astride the frightened beast, and the menhave let go their hold. Like an arrow sprung from a strong bow, thepony, with extended nostrils, plunges halfway to the centre tepee. Withall his might the rider draws the strong reins in. The pony halts withwooden legs. The rider is thrown forward by force, but does not fall. Now the maddened creature pitches, with flying heels. The line of menand women sways outward. Now it is back in place, safe from the kicking, snorting thing. 

"The pony is fierce, with its large black eyes bulging out of theirsockets. With humped back and nose to the ground, it leaps into the air. I shut my eyes. I can not see him fall. 

"A loud shout goes up from the hoarse throats of men and women. I look. So! The wild horse is conquered. My lover dismounts at the doorway ofthe centre wigwam. The pony, wet with sweat and shaking with exhaustion, stands like a guilty dog at his master's side. Here at the entrancewayof the tepee sit the bereaved father, mother, and sister. The oldwarrior father rises. Stepping forward two long strides, he grasps thehand of the murderer of his only son. Holding it so the people can see, he cries, with compassionate voice, 'My son!' A murmur of surprisesweeps like a puff of sudden wind along the lines. 

"The mother, with swollen eyes, with her hair cut square with hershoulders, now rises. Hurrying to the young man, she takes his righthand. 'My son!' she greets him. But on the second word her voice shook, and she turned away in sobs. 

"The young people rivet their eyes upon the young woman. She does notstir. With bowed head, she sits motionless. The old warrior speaks toher. 'Shake hands with the young brave, my little daughter. He was yourbrother's friend for many years. Now he must be both friend and brotherto you, '

"Hereupon the girl rises. Slowly reaching out her slender hand, shecries, with twitching lips, 'My brother!' The trial ends. "

"Grandmother!" exploded the girl on the bed of sweet-grass. "Is thistrue?"

"Tosh!" answered the grandmother, with a warmth in her voice. "It is alltrue. During the fifteen winters of our wedded life many ponies passedfrom our hands, but this little winner, Ohiyesa, was a constant memberof our family. At length, on that sad day your grandfather died, Ohiyesawas killed at the grave. "

Though the various groups of stars which move across the sky, markingthe passing of time, told how the night was in its zenith, the oldDakota woman ventured an explanation of the burial ceremony. 

"My grandchild, I have scarce ever breathed the sacred knowledge in myheart. Tonight I must tell you one of them. Surely you are old enoughto understand. 

"Our wise medicine-man said I did well to hasten Ohiyesa after hismaster. Perchance on the journey along the ghostpath your grandfatherwill weary, and in his heart wish for his pony. The creature, alreadybound on the spirit-trail, will be drawn by that subtle wish. Togethermaster and beast will enter the next camp-ground. "

The woman ceased her talking. But only the deep breathing of the girlbroke the quiet, for now the night wind had lulled itself to sleep. 

"Hinnu! hinnu! Asleep! I have been talking in the dark, unheard. I didwish the girl would plant in her heart this sacred tale, " muttered she, in a querulous voice. 

Nestling into her bed of sweet-scented grass, she dozed away intoanother dream. Still the guardian star in the night sky beamedcompassionately down upon the little tepee on the plain. 

A WARRIOR'S DAUGHTER

In the afternoon shadow of a large tepee, with red-painted smoke lapels, sat a warrior father with crossed shins. His head was so poised that hiseye swept easily the vast level land to the eastern horizon line. 

He was the chieftain's bravest warrior. He had won by heroic deeds theprivilege of staking his wigwam within the great circle of tepees. 

He was also one of the most generous gift givers to the toothless oldpeople. For this he was entitled to the red-painted smoke lapels on hiscone-shaped dwelling. He was proud of his honors. He never wearied ofrehearsing nightly his own brave deeds. Though by wigwam fires he pratedmuch of his high rank and widespread fame, his great joy was a weeblack-eyed daughter of eight sturdy winters. Thus as he sat upon thesoft grass, with his wife at his side, bent over her bead work, he wassinging a dance song, and beat lightly the rhythm with his slenderhands. 

His shrewd eyes softened with pleasure as he watched the easy movementsof the small body dancing on the green before him. 

Tusee is taking her first dancing lesson. Her tightly-braided haircurves over both brown ears like a pair of crooked little horns whichglisten in the summer sun. 

With her snugly moccasined feet close together, and a wee hand at herbelt to stay the long string of beads which hang from her bare neck, shebends her knees gently to the rhythm of her father's voice. 

Now she ventures upon the earnest movement, slightly upward andsidewise, in a circle. At length the song drops into a closing cadence, and the little woman, clad in beaded deerskin, sits down beside theelder one. Like her mother, she sits upon her feet. In a brief momentthe warrior repeats the last refrain. Again Tusee springs to her feetand dances to the swing of the few final measures. 

Just as the dance was finished, an elderly man, with short, thick hairloose about his square shoulders, rode into their presence from therear, and leaped lightly from his pony's back. Dropping the rawhide reinto the ground, he tossed himself lazily on the grass. "Hunhe, you havereturned soon, " said the warrior, while extending a hand to his littledaughter. 

Quickly the child ran to her father's side and cuddled close to him, while he tenderly placed a strong arm about her. Both father and child, eyeing the figure on the grass, waited to hear the man's report. 

"It is true, " began the man, with a stranger's accent. "This is thenight of the dance. "

"Hunha!" muttered the warrior with some surprise. 

Propping himself upon his elbows, the man raised his face. His featureswere of the Southern type. From an enemy's camp he was taken captivelong years ago by Tusee's father. But the unusual qualities of the slavehad won the Sioux warrior's heart, and for the last three winters theman had had his freedom. He was made real man again. His hair wasallowed to grow. However, he himself had chosen to stay in the warrior'sfamily. 

"Hunha!" again ejaculated the warrior father. Then turning to his littledaughter, he asked, "Tusee, do you hear that?"

"Yes, father, and I am going to dance tonight!"

With these words she bounded out of his arm and frolicked about in glee. Hereupon the proud mother's voice rang out in a chiding laugh. 

"My child, in honor of your first dance your father must give a generousgift. His ponies are wild, and roam beyond the great hill. Pray, whathas he fit to offer?" she questioned, the pair of puzzled eyes fixedupon her. 

"A pony from the herd, mother, a fleet-footed pony from the herd!" Tuseeshouted with sudden inspiration. 

Pointing a small forefinger toward the man lying on the grass, shecried, "Uncle, you will go after the pony tomorrow!" And pleased withher solution of the problem, she skipped wildly about. Her childishfaith in her elders was not conditioned by a knowledge of humanlimitations, but thought all things possible to grown-ups. 

"Hähob!" exclaimed the mother, with a rising inflection, implying by theexpletive that her child's buoyant spirit be not weighted with a denial. 

Quickly to the hard request the man replied, "How! I go if Tusee tellsme so!"

This delighted the little one, whose black eyes brimmed over with light. Standing in front of the strong man, she clapped her small, brown handswith joy. 

"That makes me glad! My heart is good! Go, uncle, and bring a handsomepony!" she cried. In an instant she would have frisked away, but animpulse held her tilting where she stood. In the man's own tongue, forhe had taught her many words and phrases, she exploded, "Thank you, gooduncle, thank you!" then tore away from sheer excess of glee. 

The proud warrior father, smiling and narrowing his eyes, mutteredapproval, "Howo! Hechetu!"

Like her mother, Tusee has finely pencilled eyebrows and slightlyextended nostrils; but in her sturdiness of form she resembles herfather. 

A loyal daughter, she sits within her tepee making beaded deerskins forher father, while he longs to stave off her every suitor as all unworthyof his old heart's pride. But Tusee is not alone in her dwelling. Nearthe entrance-way a young brave is half reclining on a mat. In silence hewatches the petals of a wild rose growing on the soft buckskin. Quicklythe young woman slips the beads on the silvery sinew thread, and worksthem into the pretty flower design. Finally, in a low, deep voice, theyoung man begins:

"The sun is far past the zenith. It is now only a man's height above thewestern edge of land. I hurried hither to tell you tomorrow I join thewar party. "

He pauses for reply, but the maid's head drops lower over her deerskin, and her lips are more firmly drawn together. He continues:

"Last night in the moonlight I met your warrior father. He seemed toknow I had just stepped forth from your tepee. I fear he did not likeit, for though I greeted him, he was silent. I halted in his pathway. With what boldness I dared, while my heart was beating hard and fast, Iasked him for his only daughter. 

"Drawing himself erect to his tallest height, and gathering his looserobe more closely about his proud figure, he flashed a pair of piercingeyes upon me. 

"'Young man, ' said he, with a cold, slow voice that chilled me to themarrow of my bones, 'hear me. Naught but an enemy's scalp-lock, pluckedfresh with your own hand, will buy Tusee for your wife, ' Then he turnedon his heel and stalked away. "

Tusee thrusts her work aside. With earnest eyes she scans her lover'sface. 

"My father's heart is really kind. He would know if you are brave andtrue, " murmured the daughter, who wished no ill-will between her twoloved ones. 

Then rising to go, the youth holds out a right hand. "Grasp my hand oncefirmly before I go, Hoye. Pray tell me, will you wait and watch for myreturn?"

Tusee only nods assent, for mere words are vain. 

At early dawn the round camp-ground awakes into song. Men and women singof bravery and of triumph. They inspire the swelling breasts of thepainted warriors mounted on prancing ponies bedecked with the greenbranches of trees. 

Riding slowly around the great ring of cone-shaped tepees, here andthere, a loud-singing warrior swears to avenge a former wrong, andthrusts a bare brown arm against the purple east, calling the GreatSpirit to hear his vow. All having made the circuit, the singing warparty gallops away southward. 

Astride their ponies laden with food and deerskins, brave elderly womenfollow after their warriors. Among the foremost rides a young woman inelaborately beaded buckskin dress. Proudly mounted, she curbs with thesingle rawhide loop a wild-eyed pony. 

It is Tusee on her father's warhorse. Thus the war party of Indian menand their faithful women vanish beyond the southern skyline. 

A day's journey brings them very near the enemy's borderland. Nightfallfinds a pair of twin tepees nestled in a deep ravine. Within one loungethe painted warriors, smoking their pipes and telling weird stories bythe firelight, while in the other watchful women crouch uneasily abouttheir center fire. 

By the first gray light in the east the tepees are banished. They aregone. The warriors are in the enemy's camp, breaking dreams with theirtomahawks. The women are hid away in secret places in the long thicketedravine. 

The day is far spent, the red sun is low over the west. 

At length straggling warriors return, one by one, to the deep hollow. Inthe twilight they number their men. Three are missing. Of these absentones two are dead; but the third one, a young man, is a captive to thefoe. 

"He-he!" lament the warriors, taking food in haste. 

In silence each woman, with long strides, hurries to and fro, tyinglarge bundles on her pony's back. Under cover of night the war partymust hasten homeward. Motionless, with bowed head, sits a woman in herhiding-place. She grieves for her lover. 

In bitterness of spirit she hears the warriors' murmuring words. Withset teeth she plans to cheat the hated enemy of their captive. In themeanwhile low signals are given, and the war party, unaware of Tusee'sabsence, steal quietly away. The soft thud of pony-hoofs grows fainterand fainter. The gradual hush of the empty ravine whirrs noisily in theear of the young woman. Alert for any sound of footfalls nigh, she holdsher breath to listen. Her right hand rests on a long knife in her belt. Ah, yes, she knows where her pony is hid, but not yet has she need ofhim. Satisfied that no danger is nigh, she prowls forth from her placeof hiding. With a panther's tread and pace she climbs the high ridgebeyond the low ravine. From thence she spies the enemy's camp-fires. 

Rooted to the barren bluff the slender woman's figure stands on thepinnacle of night, outlined against a starry sky. The cool night breezewafts to her burning ear snatches of song and drum. With desperate hateshe bites her teeth. 

Tusee beckons the stars to witness. With impassioned voice and upliftedface she pleads:

"Great Spirit, speed me to my lover's rescue! Give me swift cunning fora weapon this night! All-powerful Spirit, grant me my warrior-father'sheart, strong to slay a foe and mighty to save a friend!"

In the midst of the enemy's camp-ground, underneath a temporarydance-house, are men and women in gala-day dress. It is late in thenight, but the merry warriors bend and bow their nude, painted bodiesbefore a bright center fire. To the lusty men's voices and the rhythmicthrobbing drum, they leap and rebound with feathered headgears waving. 

Women with red-painted cheeks and long, braided hair sit in a largehalf-circle against the willow railing. They, too, join in the singing, and rise to dance with their victorious warriors. 

Amid this circular dance arena stands a prisoner bound to a post, haggard with shame and sorrow. He hangs his disheveled head. 

He stares with unseeing eyes upon the bare earth at his feet. With jeersand smirking faces the dancers mock the Dakota captive. Rowdy braves andsmall boys hoot and yell in derision. 

Silent among the noisy mob, a tall woman, leaning both elbows on theround willow railing, peers into the lighted arena. The dancing centerfire shines bright into her handsome face, intensifying the night in herdark eyes. It breaks into myriad points upon her beaded dress. Unmindfulof the surging throng jostling her at either side, she glares in uponthe hateful, scoffing men. Suddenly she turns her head. Tittering maidswhisper near her ear:

"There! There! See him now, sneering in the captive's face. 'Tis he whosprang upon the young man and dragged him by his long hair to yonderpost. See! He is handsome! How gracefully he dances!"

The silent young woman looks toward the bound captive. She sees awarrior, scarce older than the captive, flourishing a tomahawk in theDakota's face. A burning rage darts forth from her eyes and brands himfor a victim of revenge. Her heart mutters within her breast, "Come, Iwish to meet you, vile foe, who captured my lover and tortures him nowwith a living death. "

Here the singers hush their voices, and the dancers scatter to theirvarious resting-places along the willow ring. The victor gives areluctant last twirl of his tomahawk, then, like the others, he leavesthe center ground. With head and shoulders swaying from side to side, hecarries a high-pointing chin toward the willow railing. Sitting downupon the ground with crossed legs, he fans himself with an outspreadturkey wing. 

Now and then he stops his haughty blinking to peep out of the corners ofhis eyes. He hears some one clearing her throat gently. It isunmistakably for his ear. The wing-fan swings irregularly to and fro. Atlength he turns a proud face over a bare shoulder and beholds a handsomewoman smiling. 

"Ah, she would speak to a hero!" thumps his heart wildly. 

The singers raise their voices in unison. The music is irresistible. Again lunges the victor into the open arena. Again he leers into thecaptive's face. At every interval between the songs he returns to hisresting-place. Here the young woman awaits him. As he approaches shesmiles boldly into his eyes. He is pleased with her face and her smile. 

Waving his wing-fan spasmodically in front of his face, he sits with hisears pricked up. He catches a low whisper. A hand taps him lightly onthe shoulder. The handsome woman speaks to him in his own tongue. "Comeout into the night. I wish to tell you who I am. "

He must know what sweet words of praise the handsome woman has for him. With both hands he spreads the meshes of the loosely woven willows, andcrawls out unnoticed into the dark. 

Before him stands the young woman. Beckoning him with a slender hand, she steps backward, away from the light and the restless throng ofonlookers. He follows with impatient strides. She quickens her pace. Helengthens his strides. Then suddenly the woman turns from him and dartsaway with amazing speed. Clinching his fists and biting his lower lip, the young man runs after the fleeing woman. In his maddened pursuit heforgets the dance arena. 

Beside a cluster of low bushes the woman halts. The young man, pantingfor breath and plunging headlong forward, whispers loud, "Pray tell me, are you a woman or an evil spirit to lure me away?"

Turning on heels firmly planted in the earth, the woman gives a wildspring forward, like a panther for its prey. In a husky voice she hissedbetween her teeth, "I am a Dakota woman!"

From her unerring long knife the enemy falls heavily at her feet. TheGreat Spirit heard Tusee's prayer on the hilltop. He gave her awarrior's strong heart to lessen the foe by one. 

A bent old woman's figure, with a bundle like a grandchild slung on herback, walks round and round the dance-house. The wearied onlookers areleaving in twos and threes. The tired dancers creep out of the willowrailing, and some go out at the entrance way, till the singers, too, rise from the drum and are trudging drowsily homeward. Within the arenathe center fire lies broken in red embers. The night no longer lingersabout the willow railing, but, hovering into the dance-house, covershere and there a snoring man whom sleep has overpowered where he sat. 

The captive in his tight-binding rawhide ropes hangs in hopelessdespair. Close about him the gloom of night is slowly crouching. Yet thelast red, crackling embers cast a faint light upon his long black hair, and, shining through the thick mats, caress his wan face with undyinghope. 

Still about the dance-house the old woman prowls. Now the embers aregray with ashes. 

The old bent woman appears at the entrance way. With a cautious, gropingfoot she enters. Whispering between her teeth a lullaby for her sleepingchild in her blanket, she searches for something forgotten. 

Noisily snored the dreaming men in the darkest parts. As the lisping oldwoman draws nigh, the captive again opens his eyes. 

A forefinger she presses to her lip. The young man arouses himself fromhis stupor. His senses belie him. Before his wide-open eyes the old bentfigure straightens into its youthful stature. Tusee herself is besidehim. With a stroke upward and downward she severs the cruel cords withher sharp blade. Dropping her blanket from her shoulders, so that ithangs from her girdled waist like a skirt, she shakes the large bundleinto a light shawl for her lover. Quickly she spreads it over his bareback. 

"Come!" she whispers, and turns to go; but the young man, numb andhelpless, staggers nigh to falling. 

The sight of his weakness makes her strong. A mighty power thrills herbody. Stooping beneath his outstretched arms grasping at the air forsupport, Tusee lifts him upon her broad shoulders. With half-running, triumphant steps she carries him away into the open night. 

A DREAM OF HER GRANDFATHER

Her grandfather was a Dakota "medicine man. " Among the Indians of hisday he was widely known for his successful healing work. He was one ofthe leading men of the tribe and came to Washington, D. C. , with one ofthe first delegations relative to affairs concerning the Indian peopleand the United States government. 

His was the first band of the Great Sioux Nation to make treaties withthe government in the hope of bringing about an amicable arrangementbetween the red and white Americans. The journey to the nation's capitalwas made almost entirely on pony-back, there being no railroads, and theSioux delegation was beset with many hardships on the trail. His visitto Washington, in behalf of peace among men, proved to be his lastearthly mission. From a sudden illness, he died and was buried here. 

When his small granddaughter grew up she learned the white man's tongue, and followed in the footsteps of her grandfather to the very seat ofgovernment to carry on his humanitarian work. Though her days werefilled with problems for welfare work among her people, she had astrange dream one night during her stay in Washington. The dream wasthis: Returning from an afternoon out, she found a large cedar chest hadbeen delivered to her home in her absence. She sniffed the sweet perfumeof the red wood, which reminded her of the breath of the forest, --andadmired the box so neatly made, without trimmings. It looked so clean, strong and durable in its native genuineness. With elation, she took thetag in her hand and read her name aloud. "Who sent me this cedar chest?"she asked, and was told it came from her grandfather. 

Wondering what gift it could be her grandfather wished now to conferupon her, wholly disregarding his death years ago, she was all eagernessto open the mystery chest. 

She remembered her childhood days and the stories she loved to hearabout the unusual powers of her grandfather, --recalled how she, the weegirl, had coveted the medicine bags, beaded and embroidered in porcupinequills, in symbols designed by the great "medicine man, " hergrandfather. Well did she remember her merited rebuke that such thingswere never made for relics. Treasures came in due time to those ready toreceive them. 

In great expectancy, she lifted the heavy lid of the cedar chest. "Oh!"she exclaimed, with a note of disappointment, seeing no beaded Indianregalia or trinkets. "Why does my grandfather send such a light gift ina heavy, large box?" She was mystified and much perplexed. 

The gift was a fantastic thing, of texture far more delicate than aspider's filmy web. It was a vision! A picture of an Indian camp, notpainted on canvas nor yet written. It was dream-stuff, suspended in thethin air, filling the inclosure of the cedar wood container. As shelooked upon it, the picture grew more and more real, exceeding theproportions of the chest. It was all so illusive a breath might haveblown it away; yet there it was, real as life, --a circular camp of whitecone-shaped tepees, astir with Indian people. The village crier, withflowing head-dress of eagle plumes, mounted on a prancing white pony, rode within the arena. Indian men, women and children stopped in groupsand clusters, while bright painted faces peered out of tepee doors, tolisten to the chieftain's crier. 

At this point, she, too, heard the full melodious voice. She hearddistinctly the Dakota words he proclaimed to the people. "Be glad!Rejoice! Look up, and see the new day dawning! Help is near! Hear me, every one. "

She caught the glad tidings and was thrilled with new hope for herpeople. 

THE WIDESPREAD ENIGMA CONCERNING BLUE-STAR WOMAN

It was summer on the western plains. Fields of golden sunflowers facingeastward, greeted the rising sun. Blue-Star Woman, with windshorn braidsof white hair over each ear, sat in the shade of her log hut before anopen fire. Lonely but unmolested she dwelt here like the ground squirrelthat took its abode nearby, --both through the easy tolerance of the landowner. The Indian woman held a skillet over the burning embers. A largeround cake, with long slashes in its center, was baking and crowding thecapacity of the frying pan. 

In deep abstraction Blue-Star Woman prepared her morning meal. "Who amI?" had become the obsessing riddle of her life. She was no longer ayoung woman, being in her fifty-third year. In the eyes of the whiteman's law, it was required of her to give proof of her membership in theSioux tribe. The unwritten law of heart prompted her naturally to say, "I am a being. I am Blue-Star Woman. A piece of earth is my birthright. "

It was taught, for reasons now forgot, that an Indian should neverpronounce his or her name in answer to any inquiry. It was probably ameans of protection in the days of black magic. Be this as it may, Blue-Star Woman lived in times when this teaching was disregarded. Itgained her nothing, however, to pronounce her name to the governmentofficial to whom she applied for her share of tribal land. Hispersistent question was always, "Who were your parents?"

Blue-Star Woman was left an orphan at a tender age. She did not rememberthem. They were long gone to the spirit-land, -and she could notunderstand why they should be recalled to earth on her account. It wasanother one of the old, old teachings of her race that the names of thedead should not be idly spoken. It had become a sacrilege to mentioncarelessly the name of any departed one, especially in matters ofdisputes over worldy possessions. The unfortunate circumstances of herearly childhood, together with the lack of written records of a rovingpeople, placed a formidable barrier between her and her heritage. Thefact was events of far greater importance to the tribe than herreincarnation had passed unrecorded in books. The verbal reports of theold-time men and women of the tribe were varied, --some were actuallycontradictory. Blue-Star Woman was unable to find even a twig of herfamily tree. 

She sharpened one end of a long stick and with it speared the friedbread when it was browned. Heedless of the hot bread's "Tsing!" in ahigh treble as it was lifted from the fire, she added it to the sixothers which had preceded it. It had been many a moon since she had hada meal of fried bread, for she was too poor to buy at any one time allthe necessary ingredients, particularly the fat in which to fry it. During the breadmaking, the smoke-blackened coffeepot boiled over. Thearoma of freshly made coffee smote her nostrils and roused her from thetantalizing memories. 

The day before, friendly spirits, the unseen ones, had guided heraimless footsteps to her Indian neighbor's house. No sooner had sheentered than she saw on the table some grocery bundles. "Iye-que, fortunate one!" she exclaimed as she took the straight-backed chairoffered her. At once the Indian hostess untied the bundles and measuredout a cupful of green coffee beans and a pound of lard. She gave them toBlue-Star Woman, saying, "I want to share my good fortune. Take thesehome with you. " Thus it was that Blue-Star Woman had come intounexpected possession of the materials which now contributed richly toher breakfast. 

The generosity of her friend had often saved her from starvation. Generosity is said to be a fault of Indian people, but neither thePilgrim Fathers nor Blue-Star Woman ever held it seriously against them. Blue-Star Woman was even grateful for this gift of food. She was fond ofcoffee, -that black drink brought hither by those daring voyagers of longago. The coffee habit was one of the signs of her progress in the whiteman's civilization, also had she emerged from the tepee into a log hut, another achievement. She had learned to read the primer and to write hername. Little Blue-Star attended school unhindered by a fond mother'sfears that a foreign teacher might not spare the rod with her darling. 

Blue-Star Woman was her individual name. For untold ages the Indianrace had not used family names. A new-born child was given a brand-newname. Blue-Star Woman was proud to write her name for which she wouldnot be required to substitute another's upon her marriage, as is thecustom of civilized peoples. 

"The times are changed now, " she muttered under her breath. "Myindividual name seems to mean nothing. " Looking out into space, she sawthe nodding sunflowers, and they acquiesced with her. Their dryingleaves reminded her of the near approach of autumn. Then soon, verysoon, the ice would freeze along the banks of the muddy river. The dayof the first ice was her birthday. She would be fifty-four winters old. How futile had been all these winters to secure her a share in triballands. A weary smile flickered across her face as she sat there on theground like a bronze figure of patience and long-suffering. 

The breadmaking was finished. The skillet was set aside to cool. Shepoured the appetizing coffee into her tin cup. With fried bread andblack coffee she regaled herself. Again her mind reverted to herriddle. "The missionary preacher said he could not explain the whiteman's law to me. He who reads daily from the Holy Bible, which he tellsme is God's book, cannot understand mere man's laws. This also puzzlesme, " thought she to herself. "Once a wise leader of our people, addressing a president of this country, said: 'I am a man. You areanother. The Great Spirit is our witness!' This is simple and easy tounderstand, but the times are changed. The white man's laws arestrange. "

Blue-Star Woman broke off a piece of fried bread between a thumb andforefinger. She ate it hungrily, and sipped from her cup of fragrantcoffee. "I do not understand the white man's law. It's like walking inthe dark. In this darkness, I am growing fearful of everything. "

Oblivious to the world, she had not heard the footfall of two Indian menwho now stood before her. 

Their short-cropped hair looked blue-black in contrast to the fadedcivilian clothes they wore. Their white man's shoes were rusty andunpolished. To the unconventional eyes of the old Indian woman, theircelluloid collars appeared like shining marks of civilization. Blue-StarWoman looked up from the lap of mother earth without rising. "Hinnu, hinnu!" she ejaculated in undisguised surprise. "Pray, who are thesewould-be white men?" she inquired. 

In one voice and by an assumed relationship the two Indian men addressedher. "Aunt, I shake hands with you. " Again Blue-Star Woman remarked, "Oh, indeed! these near white men speak my native tongue and shake handsaccording to our custom. " Did she guess the truth, she would have knownthey were simply deluded mortals, deceiving others and themselves mostof all. Boisterously laughing and making conversation, they each in turngripped her withered hand. 

Like a sudden flurry of wind, tossing loose ends of things, they brokeinto her quiet morning hour and threw her groping thoughts into greaterchaos. Masking their real errand with long-drawn faces, they feigned aconcern for her welfare only. "We come to ask how you are living. Weheard you were slowly starving to death. We heard you are one of thoseIndians who have been cheated out of their share in tribal lands by thegovernment officials. "

Blue-Star Woman became intensely interested. 

"You see we are educated in the white man's ways, " they said withprotruding chests. One unconsciously thrust his thumbs into thearm-holes of his ill-fitting coat and strutted about in his pride. "Wecan help you get your land. We want to help our aunt. All old peoplelike you ought to be helped before the younger ones. The old will diesoon, and they may never get the benefit of their land unless some onelike us helps them to get their rights, without further delay. "

Blue-Star Woman listened attentively. 

Motioning to the mats she spread upon the ground, she said: "Be seated, my nephews. " She accepted the relationship assumed for the occasion. "Iwill give you some breakfast. " Quickly she set before them a generoushelping of fried bread and cups of coffee. Resuming her own meal, shecontinued, "You are wonderfully kind. It is true, my nephews, that Ihave grown old trying to secure my share of land. It may not be longtill I shall pass under the sod. "

The two men responded with "How, how, " which meant, "Go on with yourstory. We are all ears. " Blue-Star Woman had not yet detected anyparticular sharpness about their ears, but by an impulse she looked upinto their faces and scrutinized them. They were busily engaged ineating. Their eyes were fast upon the food on the mat in front of theircrossed shins. Inwardly she made a passing observation how, likeravenous wolves, her nephews devoured their food. Coyotes in midwintercould not have been more starved. Without comment she offered them theremaining fried cakes, and between them they took it all. She offeredthe second helping of coffee, which they accepted without hesitancy. Filling their cups, she placed her empty coffeepot on the dead ashes. 

To them she rehearsed her many hardships. It had become a habit now totell her long story of disappointments with all its petty details. Itwas only another instance of good intentions gone awry. It was a paradoxupon a land of prophecy that its path to future glory be stained withthe blood of its aborigines. Incongruous as it is, the two nephews, withtheir white associates, were glad of a condition so profitable to them. Their solicitation for Blue-Star Woman was not at all altruistic. Theythrived in their grafting business. They and their occupation were theby-product of an unwieldly bureaucracy over the nation's wards. 

"Dear aunt, you failed to establish the facts of your identity, " theytold her. Hereupon Blue-Star Woman's countenance fell. It was ever thesame old words. It was the old song of the government official sheloathed to hear. The next remark restored her courage. "If any one candiscover evidence, it's us! I tell you, aunt, we'll fix it all up foryou. " It was a great relief to the old Indian woman to be thusunburdened of her riddle, with a prospect of possessing land. "There isone thing you will have to do, --that is, to pay us half of your land andmoney when you get them. " Here was a pause, and Blue-Star Woman answeredslowly, "Y-e-s, " in an uncertain frame of mind. 

The shrewd schemers noted her behavior. "Wouldn't you rather have a halfof a crust of bread than none at all?" they asked. She was dulyimpressed with the force of their argument. In her heart she agreed, "Alittle something to eat is better than nothing!" The two men talked inregular relays. The flow of smooth words was continuous and so much likepurring that all the woman's suspicions were put soundly to sleep. "Lookhere, aunt, you know very well that prairie fire is met with aback-fire. " Blue-Star Woman, recalling her experiences in fire-fighting, quickly responded, "Yes, oh, yes. "

"In just the same way, we fight crooks with crooks. We have clever whitelawyers working with us. They are the back-fire. " Then, as ifremembering some particular incident, they both laughed aloud and said, "Yes, and sometimes they use us as the back-fire! We trade fifty-fifty. "

Blue-Star Woman sat with her chin in the palm of one hand with elbowresting in the other. She rocked herself slightly forward and backward. At length she answered, "Yes, I will pay you half of my share in triballand and money when I get them. In bygone days, brave young men of theorder of the White-Horse-Riders sought out the aged, the poor, thewidows and orphans to aid them, but they did their good work withoutpay. The White-Horse-Riders are gone. The times are changed. I am a poorold Indian woman. I need warm clothing before winter begins to blow itsicicles through us. I need fire wood. I need food. As you have said, alittle help is better than none. "

Hereupon the two pretenders scored another success. 

They rose to their feet. They had eaten up all the fried bread anddrained the coffeepot. They shook hands with Blue-Star Woman anddeparted. In the quiet that followed their departure she sat munchingher small piece of bread, which, by a lucky chance, she had taken on herplate before the hungry wolves had come. Very slowly she ate thefragment of fried bread as if to increase it by diligent mastication. Aself-condemning sense of guilt disturbed her. In her dire need she hadbecome involved with tricksters. Her nephews laughingly told her, "Weuse crooks, and crooks use us in the skirmish over Indian lands. "

The friendly shade of the house shrank away from her and hid itselfunder the narrow eaves of the dirt covered roof. She shrugged hershoulders. The sun high in the sky had witnessed the affair and nowglared down upon her white head. Gathering upon her arm the mats andcooking utensils, she hobbled into her log hut. 

Under the brooding wilderness silence, on the Sioux Indian Reservation, the superintendent summoned together the leading Indian men of thetribe. He read a letter which he had received from headquarters inWashington, D. C. It announced the enrollment of Blue-Star Woman on theirtribal roll of members and the approval of allotting land to her. 

It came as a great shock to the tribesmen. Without their knowledge andconsent their property was given to a strange woman. They protested invain. The superintendent said, "I received this letter from Washington. I have read it to you for your information. I have fulfilled my duty. Ican do no more. " With these fateful words he dismissed the assembly. 

Heavy hearted, Chief High Flier returned to his dwelling. Smoking hislong-stemmed pipe he pondered over the case of Blue-Star Woman. TheIndian's guardian had got into a way of usurping autocratic power indisposing of the wards' property. It was growing intolerable. "No doubtthis Indian woman is entitled to allotment, but where? Certainly nothere, " he thought to himself. 

Laying down his pipe, he called his little granddaughter from her play, "You are my interpreter and scribe, " he said. "Bring your paper andpencil. " A letter was written in the child's sprawling hand, and signedby the old chieftain. It read:

"My Friend:

"I make letter to you. My heart is sad. Washington give my tribe's landto a woman called Blue-Star. We do not know her. We were not asked togive land, but our land is taken from us to give to another Indian. Thisis not right. Lots of little children of my tribe have no land. Why thisstrange woman get our land which belongs to our children? Go toWashington and ask if our treaties tell him to give our property awaywithout asking us. Tell him I thought we made good treaties on paper, but now our children cry for food. We are too poor. We cannot give evento our own little children. Washington is very rich. Washington nowowns our country. If he wants to help this poor Indian woman, Blue-Star, let him give her some of his land and his money. This is all I will sayuntil you answer me. I shake hands with you with my heart. The GreatSpirit hears my words. They are true. 

"Your friend, "CHIEF HIGH FLIER. 

"X (his mark). "

The letter was addressed to a prominent American woman. A stamp wascarefully placed on the envelope. 

Early the next morning, before the dew was off the grass, thechieftain's riding pony was caught from the pasture and brought to hislog house. It was saddled and bridled by a younger man, his son withwhom he made his home. The old chieftain came out, carrying in one handhis long-stemmed pipe and tobacco pouch. His blanket was loosely girdledabout his waist. Tightly holding the saddle horn, he placed a moccasinedfoot carefully into the stirrup and pulled himself up awkwardly into thesaddle, muttering to himself, "Alas, I can no more leap into my saddle. I now must crawl about in my helplessness. " He was past eighty years ofage, and no longer agile. 

He set upon his ten-mile trip to the only post office for hundreds ofmiles around. In his shirt pocket, he carried the letter destined, indue season, to reach the heart of American people. His pony, grown oldin service, jogged along the dusty road. Memories of other days throngedthe wayside, and for the lonely rider transformed all the country. Thosedays were gone when the Indian youths were taught to be truthful, --to bemerciful to the poor. Those days were gone when moral cleanliness was achief virtue; when public feasts were given in honor of the virtuousgirls and young men of the tribe. Untold mischief is now possiblethrough these broken ancient laws. The younger generation were not beingproperly trained in the high virtues. A slowly starving race was growingmad, and the pitifully weak sold their lands for a pot of porridge. 

"He, he, he! He, he, he!" he lamented. "Small Voice Woman, my ownrelative is being represented as the mother of this strangeBlue-Star--the papers were made by two young Indian men who havelearned the white man's ways. Why must I be forced to accept themischief of children? My memory is clear. My reputation for veracity iswell known. 

"Small Voice Woman lived in my house until her death. She had only onechild and it was a _boy_!" He held his hand over this thumping heart, and was reminded of the letter in his pocket. "This letter, --what willhappen when it reaches my good friend?" he asked himself. The chieftainrubbed his dim eyes and groaned, "If only my good friend knew the follyof turning my letter into the hands of bureaucrats! In face of repeateddefeat, I am daring once more to send this one letter. " An inner voicesaid in his ear, "And this one letter will share the same fate of theother letters. "

Startled by the unexpected voice, he jerked upon the bridle reins andbrought the drowsy pony to a sudden halt. There was no one near. Hefound himself a mile from the post office, for the cluster of governmentbuildings, where lived the superintendent, were now in plain sight. Histhin frame shook with emotion. He could not go there with his letter. 

He dismounted from his pony. His quavering voice chanted a bravery songas he gathered dry grasses and the dead stalks of last year'ssunflowers. He built a fire, and crying aloud, for his sorrow wasgreater than he could bear, he cast the letter into the flames. The fireconsumed it. He sent his message on the wings of fire and he believedshe would get it. He yet trusted that help would come to his peoplebefore it was too late. The pony tossed his head in a readiness to go. He knew he was on the return trip and he was glad to travel. 

The wind which blew so gently at dawn was now increased into a gale asthe sun approached the zenith. The chieftain, on his way home, sensed acoming storm. He looked upward to the sky and around in every direction. Behind him, in the distance, he saw a cloud of dust. He saw severalhorsemen whipping their ponies and riding at great speed. Occasionallyhe heard their shouts, as if calling after some one. He slackened hispony's pace and frequently looked over his shoulder to see who theriders were advancing in hot haste upon him. He was growing curious. Ina short time the riders surrounded him. On their coats shone brassbuttons, and on their hats were gold cords and tassels. They were Indianpolice. 

"Wan!" he exclaimed, finding himself the object of their chase. It wastheir foolish ilk who had murdered the great leader, Sitting Bull. "Pray, what is the joke? Why do young men surround an old man quietlyriding home?"

"Uncle, " said the spokesman, "we are hirelings, as you know. We are sentby the government superintendent to arrest you and take you back withus. The superintendent says you are one of the bad Indians, singing warsongs and opposing the government all the time; this morning you wereseen trying to set fire to the government agency. "

"Hunhunhe!" replied the old chief, placing the palm of his hand over hismouth agap in astonishment. "All this is unbelievable!"

The policeman took hold of the pony's bridle and turned the reluctantlittle beast around. They led it back with them and the old chieftainset unresisting in the saddle. High Flier was taken before thesuperintendent, who charged him with setting fires to destroy governmentbuildings and found him guilty. Thus Chief High Flier was sent to jail. He had already suffered much during his life. He was the voiceless manof America. And now in his old age he was cast into prison. The chagrinof it all, together with his utter helplessness to defend his own or hispeople's human rights, weighed heavily upon his spirit. 

The foul air of the dingy cell nauseated him who loved the open. He satwearily down upon the tattered mattress, which lay on the rough boardfloor. He drew his robe closely about his tall figure, holding itpartially over his face, his hands covered within the folds. In profoundgloom the gray-haired prisoner sat there, without a stir for long hoursand knew not when the day ended and night began. He sat buried in hisdesperation. His eyes were closed, but he could not sleep. Bread andwater in tin receptacles set upon the floor beside him untouched. He wasnot hungry. Venturesome mice crept out upon the floor and scampered inthe dim starlight streaming through the iron bars of the cell window. They squeaked as they dared each other to run across his moccasinedfeet, but the chieftain neither saw nor heard them. 

A terrific struggle was waged within his being. He fought as he neverfought before. Tenaciously he hung upon hope for the day ofsalvation--that hope hoary with age. Defying all odds against him, herefused to surrender faith in good people. 

Underneath his blanket, wrapped so closely about him, stole a luminouslight. Before his stricken consciousness appeared a vision. Lo, his goodfriend, the American woman to whom he had sent his messages by fire, nowstood there a legion! A vast multitude of women, with uplifted hands, gazed upon a huge stone image. Their upturned faces were eager and veryearnest. The stone figure was that of a woman upon the brink of theGreat Waters, facing eastward. The myriad living hands remained upliftedtill the stone woman began to show signs of life. Very majestically sheturned around, and, lo, she smiled upon this great galaxy of Americanwomen. She was the Statue of Liberty! It was she, who, thoughrepresenting human liberty, formerly turned her back upon the Americanaborigine. Her face was aglow with compassion. Her eyes swept across theoutspread continent of America, the home of the red man. 

At this moment her torch flamed brighter and whiter till its radiancereached into the obscure and remote places of the land. Her light ofliberty penetrated Indian reservations. A loud shout of joy rose up fromthe Indians of the earth, everywhere!

All too soon the picture was gone. Chief High Flier awoke. He layprostrate on the floor where during the night he had fallen. He rose andtook his seat again upon the mattress. Another day was ushered into hislife. In his heart lay the secret vision of hope born in the midnight ofhis sorrows. It enabled him to serve his jail sentence with a mutedignity which baffled those who saw him. 

Finally came the day of his release. There was rejoicing over all theland. The desolate hills that harbored wailing voices nightly now werehushed and still. Only gladness filled the air. A crowd gathered aroundthe jail to greet the chieftain. His son stood at the entrance way, while the guard unlocked the prison door. Serenely quiet, the oldIndian chief stepped forth. An unseen stone in his path caused him tostumble slightly, but his son grasped him by the hand and steadied histottering steps. He led him to a heavy lumber wagon drawn by a smallpony team which he had brought to take him home. The people throngedabout him--hundreds shook hands with him and went away singing nativesongs of joy for the safe return to them of their absent one. 

Among the happy people came Blue-Star Woman's two nephews. Each shookthe chieftain's hand. One of them held out an ink pad saying, "We areglad we were able to get you out of jail. We have great influence withthe Indian Bureau in Washington, D. C. When you need help, let us know. Here press your thumb in this pad. " His companion took from his pocket adocument prepared for the old chief's signature, and held it on thewagon wheel for the thumb mark. The chieftain was taken by surprise. Helooked into his son's eyes to know the meaning of these two men. "It isour agreement, " he explained to his old father. "I pledged to pay themhalf of your land if they got you out of jail. "

The old chieftain sighed, but made no comment. Words were vain. Hepressed his indelible thumb mark, his signature it was, upon the deed, and drove home with his son. 

 * * * * *

AMERICA'S INDIAN PROBLEM

The hospitality of the American aborigine, it is told, saved the earlysettlers from starvation during the first bleak winters. Incommemoration of having been so well received, Newport erected "a crossas a sign of English dominion. " With sweet words he quieted thesuspicions of Chief Powhatan, his friend. He "told him that the arms (ofthe cross) represented Powhatan and himself, and the middle their unitedleague. "

DeSoto and his Spaniards were graciously received by the Indian PrincessCofachiqui in the South. While on a sight-seeing tour they entered theancestral tombs of those Indians. DeSoto "dipped into the pearls andgave his two joined hands full to each cavalier to make rosaries of, hesaid, to say prayers for their sins on. We imagine if their prayers werein proportion to their sins they must have spent the most of their timeat their devotions. "

It was in this fashion that the old world snatched away the fee in theland of the new. It was in this fashion that America was dividedbetween the powers of Europe and the aborigines were dispossessed oftheir country. The barbaric rule of might from which the paleface hadfled hither for refuge caught up with him again, and in the melee thehospitable native suffered "legal disability. "

History tells that it was from the English and the Spanish ourgovernment inherited its legal victims, the American Indians, whom tothis day we hold as wards and not as citizens of their own freedomloving land. A long century of dishonor followed this inheritance ofsomebody's loot. Now the time is at hand when the American Indian shallhave his day in court through the help of the women of America. Thestain upon America's fair name is to be removed, and the remnant of theIndian nation, suffering from malnutrition, is to number among theinvited invisible guests at your dinner tables. 

In this undertaking there must be cooperation of head, heart and hand. We serve both our own government and a voiceless people within ourmidst. We would open the door of American opportunity to the red man andencourage him to find his rightful place in our American life. We wouldremove the barriers that hinder his normal development. 

Wardship is no substitute for American citizenship, therefore we seekhis enfranchisement. The many treaties made in good faith with theIndian by our government we would like to see equitably settled. By aconstructive program we hope to do away with the "piecemeal legislation"affecting Indians here and there which has proven an exceedinglyexpensive and disappointing method. 

Do you know what _your_ Bureau of Indian Affairs, in Washington, D. C. , really is? How it is organized and how it deals with wards of thenation? This is our first study. Let us be informed of facts and then wemay formulate our opinions. In the remaining space allowed me I shallquote from the report of the Bureau of Municipal Research, in theirinvestigation of the Indian Bureau, published by them in the Septemberissue, 1915, No. 65, "Municipal Research, " 261 Broadway, New York City. This report is just as good for our use today as when it was first made, for very little, if any, change has been made in the administration ofIndian Affairs since then. 

PREFATORY NOTE. 

"While this report was printed for the information of members ofCongress, it was not made a part of the report of the Joint Commissionof Congress, at whose request it was prepared, and is not available fordistribution. "

UNPUBLISHED DIGEST OF STATUTORY AND TREATY PROVISIONS GOVERNING INDIANFUNDS. 

"When in 1913 inquiry was made into the accounting and reporting methodsof the Indian Office by the President's Commission on Economy andEfficiency, it was found there was no digest of the provisions ofstatutes and treaties with Indian tribes governing Indian funds and thetrust obligations of the government. Such a digest was thereforeprepared. It was not completed, however, until after Congress adjournedMarch 4, 1913. Then, instead of being published, it found its way intothe pigeon-holes in the Interior Department and the Civil ServiceCommission, where the working papers and unpublished reports of thecommission were ordered stored. The digest itself would make a documentof about three hundred pages. "

UNPUBLISHED OUTLINE OF ORGANIZATION. 

"By order of the President, the commission, in cooperation with variouspersons assigned to this work, also prepared at great pains a completeanalysis of the organization of every department, office and commissionof the federal government as of July 1, 1912. This represented acomplete picture of the government as a whole in summary outline; italso represented an accurate picture of every administrative bureau, office, and of every operative or field station, and showed in hisworking relation each of the 500, 000 officers and employes in the publicservice. The report in typewritten form was one of the working documentsused in the preparation of the 'budget' submitted by President Taft toCongress in February, 1913. The 'budget' was ordered printed byCongress, but the cost thereof was to be charged against the President'sappropriation. There was not enough money remaining in thisappropriation to warrant the printing of the report on organization. It, therefore, also found repose in a dark closet. "

TOO VOLUMINOUS TO BE MADE PART OF THIS SERIES. 

"Congress alone could make the necessary provision for the publicationof these materials; the documents are too voluminous to be printed as apart of this series, even if official permission were granted. It isagain suggested, however, that the data might be made readily accessibleand available to students by placing in manuscript division of theLibrary of Congress one copy of the unpublished reports and workingpapers of the President's Commission on Economy and Efficiency. Thisaction was recommended by the commission, but the only official actiontaken was to order that the materials be placed under lock and key inthe Civil Service Commission. "

NEED FOR SPECIAL CARE IN MANAGEMENT. 

"The need for special care in the management of Indian Affairs lies inthe fact that in theory of law the Indian has not the rights of acitizen. He has not even the rights of a foreign resident. The Indianindividually does not have access to the courts; he can not individuallyappeal to the administrative and judicial branches of the public servicefor the enforcement of his rights. He himself is considered as a ward ofthe United States. His property and funds are held in trust. * * * TheIndian Office is the agency of the government for administering both theguardianship of the Indian and the trusteeship of his properties. "

CONDITIONS ADVERSE TO GOOD ADMINISTRATION. 

"The legal status of the Indian and his property is the condition whichmakes it incumbent on the government to assume the obligation ofprotector. What is of special interest in this inquiry is to note theconditions under which the Indian Office has been required to conductits business. In no other relation are the agents of the governmentunder conditions more adverse to efficient administration. Theinfluence which make for the infidelity to trusteeship, for subversionof properties and funds, for the violation of physical and moral welfarehave been powerful. The opportunities and inducements are much greaterthan those which have operated with ruinous effect on other branches ofpublic service and on the trustees and officers of our great privatecorporations. In many instances, the integrity of these have been brokendown. "

GOVERNMENT MACHINERY INADEQUATE. 

"* * * Behind the sham protection, which operated largely as a blind topublicity, have been at all times great wealth in the form of Indianfunds to be subverted; valuable lands, mines, oil fields, and othernatural resources to be despoiled or appropriated to the use of thetrader; and large profits to be made by those dealing with trustees whowere animated by motives of gain. This has been the situation in whichthe Indian Service has been for more than a century--the Indian duringall this time having his rights and properties to greater or less extentneglected; the guardian, the government, in many instances, passive toconditions which have contributed to his undoing. "

OPPORTUNITIES STILL PRESENT. 

"And still, due to the increasing value of his remaining estate, thereis left an inducement to fraud, corruption, and institutionalincompetence almost beyond the possibility of comprehension. Theproperties and funds of the Indians today are estimated at not less thanone thousand millions of dollars. There is still a great obligation tobe discharged, which must run through many years. The government itselfowes many millions of dollars for Indian moneys which it has convertedto its own use, and it is of interest to note that it does not know andthe officers do not know what is the present condition of the Indianfunds in their keeping. "

PRIMARY DEFECTS. 

"* * * The story of the mismanagement of Indian Affairs is only achapter in the history of the mismanagement of corporate trusts. TheIndian has been the victim of the same kind of neglect, the sameabortive processes, the same malpractices as have the life insurancepolicyholders, the bank depositor, the industrial and transportationshareholder. The form of organization of the trusteeship has been onewhich does not provide for independent audit and supervision. Theinstitutional methods and practices have been such that they do notprovide either a fact basis for official judgment or publicity of factswhich, if made available, would supply evidence of infidelity. In theoperation of this machinery, there has not been the means provided foreffective official scrutiny and the public conscience could not bereached. "

AMPLE PRECEDENTS TO BE FOLLOWED. 

"Precedents to be followed are ample. In private corporate trusts thathave been mismanaged a basis of appeal has been found only when somefavorable circumstance has brought to light conditions so shocking as tocause those people who have possessed political power, as a matter ofself-protection, to demand a thorough reorganization and revision ofmethods. The same motive has lain back of legislation for the Indian. But the motive to political action has been less effective, for thereason that in the past the Indians who have acted in self-protectionhave either been killed or placed in confinement. All the machinery ofgovernment has been set to work to repress rather than to provideadequate means for justly dealing with a large population which had nopolitical rights. "--Edict Magazine. 

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_This Book should be in every home_

Old Indian Legends

25 Seminole Avenue, Forest Hill, L. I. , N. Y. , August 25, 1919. 

Dear Zitkala-Sa:

I thank you for your book on Indian legends. I have read them withexquisite pleasure. Like all folk tales they mirror the child life ofthe world. There is in them a note of wild, strange music. 

You have translated them into our language in a way that will keep themalive in the hearts of men. They are so young, so fresh, so full of theodors of the virgin forest untrod by the foot of white man! The thoughtsof your people seem dipped in the colors of the rainbow, palpitant withthe play of winds, eerie with the thrill of a spirit-world unseen butfelt and feared. 

Your tales of birds, beast, tree and spirit can not but hold captive thehearts of all children. They will kindle in their young minds thateternal wonder which creates poetry and keeps life fresh and eager. Iwish you and your little book of Indian tales all success. 

I am always

Sincerely your friend, (Signed) HELEN KELLER.