Impressions of an Indian Childhood

A wigwam of weather-stained canvas stood at the base of some irregularly ascending hills. A footpath wound its way gently down the sloping land till it reached the broad river bottom; creeping through the long swamp grasses that bent over it on either side, it came out on the edge of the Missouri.

A wigwam of weather-stained canvas stood at the foot of some hills that rose unevenly. A footpath wound gently down the slope to the broad river bottom. The path crept through long swamp grasses that bent over it on either side. It emerged at the edge of the Missouri.

Here, morning, noon, and evening, my mother came to draw water from the muddy stream for our household use. Always, when my mother started for the river, I stopped my play to run along with her. She was only of medium height. Often she was sad and silent, at which times her full arched lips were compressed into hard and bitter lines, and shadows fell under her black eyes. Then I clung to her hand and begged to know what made the tears fall.

Here, morning, noon, and evening, my mother came to collect water from the muddy stream for our household. Whenever she headed for the river, I stopped playing and ran along with her. She was only of medium height. Often she was sad and silent. At those times, she pressed her full, curved lips into hard, bitter lines, and shadows fell beneath her black eyes. Then I clung to her hand and begged her to tell me what made her cry.

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

"Hush, my little daughter must never talk about my tears." Smiling through her tears, she patted my head and said, "Now let me see how fast you can run today." So I ran off as fast as I could, with my long black hair blowing in the breeze.

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

I was a wild little girl of seven. I wore a loose brown buckskin dress and moved lightly in soft moccasins. I was as free as the wind that blew my hair, and as spirited as a leaping deer. My mother took pride in my wild freedom and overflowing energy. She taught me to fear nothing except imposing on others.

Having gone many paces ahead I stopped, panting for breath, and laughing with glee as my mother watched my every movement. I was not wholly conscious of myself, but was more keenly alive to the fire within. It was as if I were the activity, and my hands and feet were only experiments for my spirit to work upon.

After going many steps ahead, I stopped, out of breath and laughing with joy as my mother watched every move. I was not fully aware of myself, but I felt the fire within me more keenly. It was as if I were the movement itself, and my hands and feet were only experiments for my spirit.

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

Walking back from the river, I tugged at the bucket beside my mother, believing I was helping carry it. I remember a conversation we had on one of those trips back. My grown-up cousin, Warca-Ziwin (Sunflower), was seventeen then. She always went to the river alone to get water for her mother. Their wigwam was not far from ours, and I saw her going to and from the river every day. I admired my cousin greatly. So I said: "Mother, when I am as tall as my cousin Warca-Ziwin, you won't have to come for water. I will get the water for you."

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

Her voice shook in a strange way I could not understand. She answered, "If the paleface does not take away the river we drink from."

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

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

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

"My little daughter, he is a fake, a sickly fake! The bronzed Dakota is the only real man."

I looked up into my mother's face while she spoke; and seeing her bite her 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 that makes my mother cry!"

I looked up into my mother's face as she spoke. When I saw her bite her lips, I knew she was unhappy. Her unhappiness stirred a desire for revenge in my young heart. I stamped my foot on the ground and shouted, "I hate the paleface that makes my mother cry!"

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

My mother set the pail of water on the ground and bent down. She held her left hand out at my eye level and put her other arm around me. She pointed to the hill where my uncle and my only sister were buried.

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

"That is what the paleface has done! Since then, your father too has been buried in a hill farther east. We were once very happy. But the paleface has stolen our lands and driven us here. After cheating us out of our land, the paleface forced us away.

"Well, it happened on the day we moved camp that your sister and uncle were both very sick. Many others were ailing, but there seemed to be no help. We traveled many days and nights; not in the grand, happy way that we 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 not as large as you are now, shrieked with the painful jar until she was hoarse with crying. She grew more and more feverish. Her little hands and cheeks were burning hot. Her little lips were parched and dry, but she would not drink the water I gave her. Then I discovered that her throat was swollen and red. My poor child, how I cried with her because the Great Spirit had forgotten us!

"Well, on the day we moved camp, your sister and uncle were both very sick. Many others were sick too, but there seemed to be no help. We traveled many days and nights. We did not move camp in the grand, happy way we had when I was a little girl. Instead, we were driven, my child, driven like a herd of buffalo. Your sister was smaller than you are now. With every step, she screamed from the painful jolting until she was hoarse from crying. She grew more and more feverish. Her little hands and cheeks were burning hot. Her little lips were dry and cracked, but she would not drink the water I gave her. Then I discovered that her throat was swollen and red. My poor child, how I cried with her because the Great Spirit had forgotten us!

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

"At last we reached this western country. Your sister died on that first exhausting night. And soon your uncle died too, leaving a widow and an orphan daughter, your cousin Warca-Ziwin. Your sister and uncle might both have been happy with us today if not for the heartless paleface."

My mother was silent the rest of the way to our wigwam. Though I saw no tears in her eyes, I knew that was because I was with her. She seldom wept before me.

My mother stayed silent the rest of the way to our wigwam. Though I saw no tears in her eyes, I knew she held them back because I was with her. She rarely cried in front of me.

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

On summer days, my mother built her fire in the shade of our wigwam.

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

Early in the morning, our simple breakfast was laid out on the grass west of our tepee. At the farthest edge of the shade, my mother sat beside her fire, toasting a tasty piece of dried meat. Near her, I sat on my feet, eating dried meat with unleavened bread and drinking strong black coffee.

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

Breakfast was our quiet time, when the two of us were completely alone. At noon, several people who happened to be passing by stopped to rest and share our lunch. They knew we would welcome them.

My uncle, whose death my mother ever lamented, was one of our nation's bravest warriors. His name was on the lips of old men when talking of the proud feats of valor; and it was mentioned by younger men, too, in connection with deeds of gallantry. Old women praised him for his kindness toward them; young women held him up as an ideal to their sweethearts. 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.

My mother never stopped mourning my uncle’s death. He was one of our nation’s bravest warriors. Old men spoke his name when recalling proud acts of bravery. Younger men also mentioned him when talking about courageous deeds. Old women praised him for his kindness to them. Young women held him up as an example for their sweethearts. Everyone loved him, and my mother worshiped his memory. Because of this, even strangers were sure of a welcome in our lodge if they asked a favor in my uncle’s name.

Though I heard many strange experiences related by these wayfarers, I loved best the evening meal, for that was the time old legends were told. I was always glad when the sun hung low in the west, for then my mother sent me to invite the neighboring old men and women to eat supper with us. Running all the way to the wigwams, I halted shyly at the entrances. Sometimes I stood long moments without saying a word. It was not any fear that made me so dumb when out upon such a happy errand; nor was it that I wished to withhold the invitation, for it was all I could do to observe this very proper silence. But it was a sensing of the atmosphere, to assure myself that I should not hinder other plans. My mother used to say to me, as I was almost bounding away for the old people: "Wait a moment before you invite any one. If other plans are being discussed, do not interfere, but go elsewhere."

Though I heard these travelers tell of many strange experiences, I loved the evening meal best. That was when old legends were told. I was always glad when the sun hung low in the west. Then my mother sent me to invite the neighboring old men and women to eat supper with us. I ran all the way to the wigwams, then stopped shyly at the entrances. Sometimes I stood for long moments without saying a word. Fear did not keep me silent on such a happy errand. Nor did I want to hold back the invitation. In fact, I could barely manage to keep the silence that good manners required. But I was getting a feel for the mood, making sure I would not interrupt other plans. As I was about to dash off to fetch the old people, my mother used to tell me: "Wait a moment before you invite anyone. If other plans are being discussed, do not interrupt, but go elsewhere."

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

The older people understood my pauses. And they often encouraged me to open up by asking, "What are you looking for, little granddaughter?"

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

"My mother says you should come to our tepee this evening," I blurted out at once. I breathed more easily afterward.

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

"Yes, yes, gladly, gladly I'll come!" each replied. They got up at once, each carrying a blanket over one shoulder. Together, they walked at a leisurely pace from their wigwams toward our home.

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

With my task done, I ran back, skipping and jumping with delight. Out of breath, I told my mother almost word for word how people had answered my invitation. She often asked, "What were they doing when you entered their tepee?" Her questions taught me to remember everything I saw at a glance. Often I told my mother my impressions without being asked.

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

While I was visiting neighboring wigwams, an old Indian woman sometimes asked me, "What is your mother doing?" Unless my mother had warned me not to tell, I usually answered her questions freely.

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

When our guests arrived, I sat close to my mother. I did not leave her side without first asking her permission. I ate my supper quietly, listening patiently to the old people talk. All the while, I wished they would begin the stories I loved best. At last, when I could not wait any longer, I whispered in my mother's ear, "Ask them to tell an Iktomi story, mother."

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

To soothe my impatience, my mother said aloud, "My little daughter is eager to hear your legends." By then, everyone had finished eating, and the evening was quickly fading into twilight.

As each in turn began to tell a legend, I pillowed my head in my mother's lap; and lying flat upon my back, I watched the stars as they peeped down upon me, one by one. The increasing interest of the tale aroused me, and I sat up eagerly listening to every word. The old women made funny remarks, and laughed so heartily that I could not help joining them.

As each person took a turn telling a legend, I rested my head in my mother's lap. Lying flat on my back, I watched the stars peek down at me, one by one. As the story grew more interesting, I sat up and eagerly listened to every word. The old women made funny remarks and laughed so hard that I couldn't help laughing with them.

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

The distant howling of a wolf pack or the hooting of an owl in the river bottom frightened me. I nestled into my mother's lap. She added some dry sticks to the open fire. The bright flames leaped up, lighting the faces of the old people sitting in a large circle around the fire.

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

I remember one such evening when the bright firelight shone on a star tattooed on an old warrior's forehead. He was telling a story. I watched him with curiosity as he gestured without thinking. The blue star on his bronzed forehead puzzled me. Looking around, I saw two parallel lines on the chin of one of the old women. The others had none. I looked closely at my mother's face, but found no marks there.

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

After the warrior finished his story, I asked the old woman what the blue lines on her chin meant. All the while, I watched the warrior with the star on his forehead out of the corners of my eyes. I was a little afraid he would scold me for being so bold.

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

Here the old woman began: "Well, my grandchild, they are signs, secret signs whose meaning I dare not tell you. But I will tell you a wonderful story about a woman with a cross tattooed on each cheek."

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

The story was long, about a woman whose magic power was hidden behind the marks on her face. I fell asleep before the story ended.

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

After that night, I was always suspicious of tattooed people. Whenever I saw one, I secretly glanced at and around the tattoo. I wondered what terrible magic power it concealed.

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

A story as frightening as this one was rarely told around the campfire. The story made such a strong impression that its images are still vivid and clear in my mind.

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

Soon after breakfast, mother sometimes began her beadwork. On bright, clear days, she pulled out the wooden pegs that held the bottom of our wigwam to the ground. Then she rolled the canvas partway up its frame of slender poles. The cool morning breezes swept freely through our home. Now and then, they carried the scent of sweet grasses from the newly burned 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 as an artist arranges the paints upon his palette. On a lapboard she smoothed out a double sheet of soft white buckskin; and drawing from a beaded case that hung on the left of her wide belt a long, narrow blade, she trimmed the buckskin into shape. Often she worked upon small moccasins for her small daughter. Then I became intensely interested in her designing. With a proud, beaming face, I watched her work. In imagination, I saw myself walking in a new pair of snugly fitting moccasins. I felt the envious eyes of my playmates upon the pretty red beads decorating my feet.

My mother untied the long, tasseled strings of a small brown buckskin bag. She spread bunches of colored beads on a mat beside her, just as an artist arranges paints on a palette. On a board across her lap, she smoothed out a double sheet of soft white buckskin. She pulled a long, narrow blade from a beaded case hanging on the left side of her wide belt. Then she trimmed the buckskin into shape. Often she made small moccasins for her little daughter. At those times, I became deeply interested in her designs. I watched her work, my face beaming with pride. I imagined myself walking in a new pair of snug-fitting moccasins. I could feel my playmates looking enviously at the pretty red beads decorating my feet.

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

I sat on a rug close beside my mother, holding a scrap of buckskin in one hand. In the other, I held an awl. This was the start of my hands-on lessons in beadwork, learning by watching. My mother pulled a single thread from a bundle of finely twisted, silvery sinew threads. She pierced the buckskin with an awl and skillfully passed the white sinew through the hole. She picked up the tiny beads one by one and strung them on the tip of her thread. After every stitch, she always twisted the thread carefully.

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

It took many tries to learn to knot my sinew thread on my fingertip, as I had seen her do. The next challenge was keeping the thread tightly twisted so I could easily string my beads on it. My mother required me to create original designs for my beading lessons. At first, I often spent many sunny hours working on a long design. Soon I learned to avoid drawing complex patterns because I had to finish whatever I began. I had brought that punishment on myself.

After some experience I usually drew easy and simple crosses and squares. These were some of the set forms. My original designs were not always symmetrical nor sufficiently characteristic, two faults with which my mother had little patience. The quietness of her oversight made me feel strongly responsible and dependent upon my own judgment. She treated me as a dignified little individual as long as I was on my good behavior; and how humiliated I was when some boldness of mine drew forth a rebuke from her!

After some practice, I usually drew easy, simple crosses and squares. These were some of the standard shapes. My own designs were not always symmetrical or distinctive enough. My mother had little patience with these two faults. Her quiet supervision made me feel deeply responsible and left me to rely on my own judgment. She treated me as a little person worthy of respect as long as I behaved well. And how humiliated I felt when something bold I did brought a scolding from her!

In the choice of colors she left me to my own taste. I was pleased with an outline of yellow upon a background of dark blue, or a combination of red and myrtle-green. There was another of red with a bluish-gray that was more conventionally used. When I became a little familiar with designing and the various pleasing combinations of color, a harder lesson was given me. It was the sewing on, instead of beads, some tinted porcupine quills, moistened and flattened between the nails of the thumb and forefinger. My mother cut off the prickly ends and burned them at once in the centre fire. These sharp points were poisonous, and worked into the flesh wherever they lodged. For this reason, my mother said, I should not do much alone in quills until I was as tall as my cousin Warca-Ziwin.

She let me choose the colors to suit my own taste. I liked a yellow outline on a dark blue background, or a combination of red and myrtle-green. Another combination, red and bluish-gray, was more commonly used. Once I knew a little about designing and pleasing color combinations, I was given a harder lesson. I learned to sew on dyed porcupine quills instead of beads. The quills were moistened and flattened between the thumbnail and the nail of the forefinger. My mother cut off the prickly ends and immediately burned them in the central fire. These sharp points were poisonous and worked their way into the flesh wherever they lodged. For this reason, my mother said I should not do much quillwork alone until I was as tall as my cousin Warca-Ziwin.

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

After these restrictive lessons, I was always bursting with energy and found joyful relief in running free outdoors again. On many summer afternoons, four or five of my playmates roamed the hills with me. We each carried a lightweight, sharpened rod about four feet long to pry up certain sweet roots. When we had eaten all the best roots we happened to find, we rested our rods on our shoulders. Then we wandered into patches of tall-stemmed plants with yellow flowers. Beneath the flowers, we found little crystal drops of gum. Drop by drop, we gathered this natural rock candy until each of us could boast of a lump. Each lump was the size of a small bird’s egg. We soon had enough of the gum’s woody flavor, so we tossed the gum away and returned to the sweet roots.

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

I remember well how we used to exchange our necklaces, beaded belts, and sometimes even our moccasins. We pretended to give them to one another as gifts. We loved pretending to be our mothers. We talked about things we had heard our mothers say in conversation. We copied their different ways of acting, even the rise and fall of their voices. Nestled in the prairie, we sat on our feet and rested our painted cheeks in our palms. With our elbows on our knees, we leaned forward as old women usually did.

While one was telling of some heroic deed recently done by a near relative, the rest of us listened attentively, and exclaimed in undertones, "Han! han!" (yes! yes!) whenever the speaker paused for breath, or sometimes for our sympathy. As the discourse became more thrilling, according to our ideas, we raised our voices in these interjections. In these impersonations our parents were led to say only those things that were in common favor.

One of us would tell of a heroic deed a close relative had recently done. The rest of us listened closely and said softly, "Han! han!" (yes! yes!) whenever the speaker paused for breath. Sometimes the speaker paused for our sympathy. As the story grew more exciting to us, we raised our voices when we called out. When we imitated our parents, we made them say only things everyone approved of.

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

No matter how exciting the story we were retelling, a cloud’s shadow moving across the nearby landscape could distract us. Soon we were all chasing the great shadows that played among the hills. We shouted and whooped as we ran, laughing and calling to one another. We were like little playful nymphs on that Dakota sea of rolling green.

On one occasion I forgot the cloud shadow in a strange notion to catch up with my own shadow. Standing straight and still, I began to glide after it, putting out one foot cautiously. When, with the greatest care, I set my foot in advance of myself, my shadow crept onward too. Then again I tried it; this time with the other foot. Still again my shadow escaped me. I began to run; and away flew my shadow, always just a step beyond me. Faster and faster I ran, setting my teeth and clenching my fists, determined to overtake my own fleet shadow. But ever swifter it glided before me, while I was growing breathless and hot. Slackening my speed, 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 imbedded in the hillside.

Once, I forgot the cloud’s shadow when I had the strange idea of catching up with my own shadow. Standing straight and still, I began to glide after my shadow, cautiously putting one foot forward. As I carefully set my foot ahead of me, my shadow crept forward too. Then I tried again, this time with the other foot. Once again, my shadow escaped me. I began to run, and my shadow flew ahead, always just a step beyond me. I ran faster and faster, gritting my teeth and clenching my fists, determined to catch my swift shadow. But my shadow kept gliding faster ahead of me, while I grew hot and breathless. I slowed down and was very annoyed that my shadow slowed down too. Thinking I was challenging my shadow as much as I could, I sat on a rock embedded in the hillside.

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

So! My shadow had the nerve to sit down beside me!

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

Now my companions caught up with me. They began asking why I was running away so fast.

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

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

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

They planted their moccasin-covered feet firmly on my shadow to hold it still, and I stood up. Again my shadow slipped away and moved whenever I did. Then we gave up trying to catch my shadow.

Before this peculiar experience I have no distinct memory of having recognized any vital bond between myself and my own shadow. I never gave it an afterthought.

Before this strange experience, I don't clearly remember recognizing any important connection between myself and my shadow. I never gave my shadow a second thought.

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

After returning the belts and trinkets we had borrowed, we wandered home. That evening, as on other evenings, I fell asleep over my legends.

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

One summer afternoon, my mother left me alone in our wigwam while she went across to my aunt’s home.

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 among the hills. Wiyaka-Napbina (Wearer of a Feather Necklace) was harmless, and whenever he came into a wigwam he was driven there by extreme hunger. He went nude except for the half of a red blanket he girdled around his waist. In one tawny arm he used to carry a heavy bunch of wild sunflowers that he gathered in his aimless ramblings. His black hair was matted by the winds, and scorched into a dry red by the constant summer sun. As he took great strides, placing one brown bare foot directly in front of the other, he swung his long lean arm to and fro.

I did not like staying alone in our tepee because I feared a tall, broad-shouldered crazy man. He was about forty years old and wandered freely among the hills. Wiyaka-Napbina (Wearer of a Feather Necklace) was harmless. Whenever he entered a wigwam, he did so because he was extremely hungry. He wore nothing but half of a red blanket wrapped around his waist. In one tawny arm, he carried a heavy bunch of wild sunflowers gathered during his aimless wanderings. The wind had tangled his black hair, and the constant summer sun had scorched it dry and red. He took long strides, placing one bare brown foot directly in front of the other. As he walked, he swung his long, lean arm back and forth.

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

He often stopped walking and looked far behind him, shading his eyes with his hand. He believed an evil spirit was following him. My mother once told me this when I sneered at such a silly big man. I was brave when my mother was nearby and Wiyaka-Napbina was walking farther and farther away.

"Pity the man, my child. I knew him when he was a brave and handsome youth. 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 not stay away from the hills," she said.

"Pity the man, my child. I knew him when he was a brave and handsome young man. One day, he was searching for his ponies among the hills when a malicious spirit overtook him. Since then, he cannot stay away from the hills," she said.

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

I felt so sorry for the man’s misfortune that I prayed to the Great Spirit to heal him. But although I pitied him from a distance, I was still afraid when he came near our wigwam.

Thus, when my mother left me by myself that afternoon I sat in a fearful mood within our tepee. I recalled all I had ever heard about Wiyaka-Napbina; and I tried to assure myself that though he might pass near by, he would not come to our wigwam because there was no little girl around our grounds.

So when my mother left me alone that afternoon, I sat inside our tepee, afraid. I remembered everything I had ever heard about Wiyaka-Napbina. I tried to reassure myself that, though he might pass nearby, he would not come to our wigwam. There was no little girl around our grounds.

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

Just then, a hand outside lifted the canvas covering the entrance. A man's shadow fell inside the wigwam, and a large foot in a rough moccasin stepped inside.

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

For a moment, I was afraid to breathe or move because I thought it could only be Wiyaka-Napbina. The next moment, I sighed aloud with relief. It was an old grandfather who had often told me Iktomi legends.

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

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

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

“My mother will be back soon from my aunt’s tepee,” I replied.

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

“Then I’ll wait a while for her to return,” he said, crossing his feet and sitting down on a mat.

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

I immediately began to act like a generous hostess. I turned to my mother's coffeepot.

Lifting the lid, I found nothing but coffee grounds in the bottom. I set the pot on a heap of cold ashes in the centre, and filled it half full of warm Missouri River water. During this performance I felt conscious of being watched. Then breaking off a small piece of our unleavened bread, I placed it in a bowl. Turning soon to the coffeepot, which would never have boiled on a dead fire had I waited forever, I poured out a cup of worse than muddy warm water. Carrying the bowl in one hand and cup in the other, I handed the light luncheon to the old warrior. I offered them to him with the air of bestowing generous hospitality.

I lifted the lid and found nothing but coffee grounds at the bottom. I set the pot on a pile of cold ashes in the center and filled it halfway with warm Missouri River water. As I did this, I felt that someone was watching me. Then I broke off a small piece of our unleavened bread and placed it in a bowl. Soon I turned back to the coffeepot. It would never have boiled on a dead fire, even if I had waited forever. I poured out a cup of warm water that was worse than muddy. Carrying the bowl in one hand and the cup in the other, I handed the light lunch to the old warrior. I offered it as though I were showing him generous hospitality.

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

"How! how!" he said, placing the dishes on the ground in front of his crossed feet. He nibbled on the bread and sipped from the cup. I leaned back against a pole and watched him. I was proud that I had served refreshments to a guest so well, all by myself. Before the old warrior finished eating, my mother came in. She immediately wondered where I had found coffee. She knew I had never made any, and that she had left the coffeepot empty. Answering the question in my mother's eyes, the warrior said, "My granddaughter made coffee on a pile of dead ashes and served me as soon as I arrived."

They both laughed, and mother said, "Wait a little longer, and I shall build a fire." She meant to make some real coffee. But neither she nor the warrior, whom the law of our custom had compelled to partake of my insipid hospitality, said anything to embarrass me. They treated my best judgment, poor as it was, with the utmost respect. It was not till long years afterward that I learned how ridiculous a thing I had done.

They both laughed, and mother said, "Wait a little longer, and I'll build a fire." She meant to make some real coffee. Our custom had required the warrior to accept my tasteless offering. But neither he nor mother said anything to embarrass me. They treated my best judgment, poor as it was, with the utmost respect. Only many years later did I learn how ridiculous my attempt had been.

One autumn afternoon many people came streaming toward the dwelling of our near neighbor. With painted faces, and wearing broad white bosoms of elk's teeth, they hurried down the narrow footpath to Haraka Wambdi's wigwam. Young mothers held their children by the hand, and half pulled them along in their haste. They overtook and passed by the bent old grandmothers who were trudging along with crooked canes toward the centre of excitement. Most of the young braves galloped hither on their ponies. Toothless warriors, like the old women, came more slowly, though mounted on lively ponies. They sat proudly erect on their horses. They wore their eagle plumes, and waved their various trophies of former wars.

One autumn afternoon, many people streamed toward the home of our nearby neighbor. Their faces were painted, and they wore broad breastplates of elk teeth. They hurried down the narrow footpath to Haraka Wambdi's wigwam. Young mothers held their children by the hand and half pulled them along in their haste. They passed the bent old grandmothers, who trudged toward the center of the excitement with crooked canes. Most of the young braves galloped there on their ponies. Toothless warriors, like the old women, came more slowly, though they rode lively ponies. They sat proudly upright on their horses. They wore their eagle plumes and waved their various trophies from past wars.

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

A great fire burned in front of the wigwam. Several large black kettles filled with venison hung over it. The crowd sat on the grass in a large circle around the fire. Behind them, some of the braves stood leaning against their ponies’ necks. Their tall figures were draped in loose robes, pulled up over their eyes.

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

Young girls sat flirtatiously beside their chaperones. Their faces glowed like bright red autumn leaves, and their glossy braids fell over each ear. Young Indian women customarily invited an older relative to escort them to public feasts. Though it was not a strict rule, it was generally followed.

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

Haraka Wambdi was a strong young brave who had just returned from his first battle as a warrior. To celebrate his new rank, his close relatives were preparing a feast. They invited the whole Indian village.

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

I held my pretty striped blanket ready to throw over my shoulders. As I watched the cheerful crowd gathering, I grew more and more restless. My mother was busy broiling a wild duck that my aunt had brought over that morning.

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

"Mother, Mother, why are you stopping to cook a small meal when we've been invited to a feast?" I asked, snarling.

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

"My child, learn to wait. On our way to the celebration, we are going to stop at Chanyu's wigwam. His elderly mother-in-law is very sick, and I think she would like a taste of this small game."

Having once seen the suffering on the thin, pinched features of this dying woman, I felt a momentary shame that I had not remembered her before.

When I saw the suffering on the dying woman's thin, pinched face, I felt briefly ashamed that I had not remembered her before.

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

On our way, I ran ahead of my mother. I reached for some purple plums on a small bush, but my mother stopped me with a quiet "Sh!"

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

"But, Mother, I want to taste the plums!" I exclaimed, dropping my hand to my side in disappointment.

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

"Never pick a single plum from this bush, my child, because its roots are wrapped around an Indian's skeleton. A brave is buried here. While he was alive, he loved playing the game of striped plum seeds. When he died, his set of plum seeds was buried in his hands. This little bush grew from those seeds."

Eyeing the forbidden fruit, I trod lightly on the sacred ground, and dared 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 the plum bush. I grew sober with awe, and was alert to hear a long-drawn-out whistle rise from the roots of it. Though I had never heard with my own ears this strange whistle of departed spirits, yet I had listened so frequently to hear the old folks describe it that I knew I should recognize it at once.

Watching the forbidden fruit, I stepped lightly on the sacred ground. I dared to speak only in whispers until we had walked many paces away. After that, whenever I saw the plum bush during my wanderings, I stopped. I grew solemn with awe and listened for a long, drawn-out whistle rising from its roots. I had never heard this strange whistle of departed spirits myself. But I had heard the old folks describe it so often that I knew I would recognize it at once.

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

What I remember most about that day is what my mother told me about the dead man's plum bush.

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

During the busy autumn days, my cousin Warca-Ziwin's mother came to our wigwam. She helped my mother preserve food for winter. I was very fond of my aunt because she was not as quiet as my mother. Though she was older, she was more cheerful and outgoing. She was slender and stood remarkably straight. My mother's hair was thick and black, while my aunt's hair was unusually thin.

Ever since I knew her she wore a string of large blue beads around her neck,—beads that were precious because my uncle had given them to her when 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 was during my aunt's visit with us that my mother forgot her accustomed quietness, often laughing heartily at some of my aunt's witty remarks.

Ever since I knew her, she wore a string of large blue beads around her neck. The beads were precious because my uncle had given them to her when she was younger. She had a distinctive swing in her walk because of her long stride, unusual for someone so slight. During my aunt’s visit, my mother forgot her usual quietness and often laughed heartily at my aunt’s witty remarks.

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

I loved my aunt for three reasons. She laughed heartily and made my mother cheerful. Most of all, when my mother scolded me, my aunt dried my tears and held me in her lap.

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

Early on cool mornings, we were up and eating breakfast as the sun’s yellow rim rose above the hills. We woke early enough to see the sacred hour when misty smoke hung over a pit surrounded by impassable, sinking mud. This strange smoke appeared every morning, in both winter and summer. But it rose directly above the marshy spot most visibly in midwinter. By the time the sun’s full face appeared above the eastern horizon, the smoke vanished. Even the oldest men, who had known this country the longest, said the smoke had never failed to rise heavenward from the pit, not for a single day.

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

As I played around our home, I would suddenly stop and watch the smoke from the unknown fires with fearful awe. While the smoke was visible, I was afraid to go far from our wigwam unless my mother went with me.

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

My mother and aunt gathered plenty of corn from a field in the fertile river bottom. Near our tepee, they spread a large canvas on the grass and dried their sweet corn on it. I was left to watch the corn and make sure nothing disturbed it. I played nearby with dolls made from ears of corn. I braided their soft, fine silk into hair. I gave them blankets made from all kinds of scraps I found in my mother's workbag.

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

A little stranger with a black-and-yellow-striped coat used to visit the drying corn. He was a little ground squirrel, and he was not afraid of me. He came to one corner of the canvas and carried away as much sweet corn as he could hold. I wanted very much to catch him and rub the pretty fur on his back. But my mother said he would be so frightened if I caught him that he would bite my fingers. So I was as content as he was to keep the corn between us. Every morning he came for more corn. Some evenings I saw him creeping around our grounds. When I suddenly whooped to greet him, he quickly ran out of sight.

When mother had dried all the corn she wished, then she sliced great pumpkins into thin rings; and these she doubled and linked together into long chains. She hung them on a pole that stretched between two forked posts. The wind and sun soon thoroughly dried the chains of pumpkin. Then she packed them away in a case of thick and stiff buckskin.

When mother had dried all the corn she wanted, she sliced large pumpkins into thin rings. She folded the rings in half and linked them into long chains. She hung the chains on a pole stretched between two forked posts. The wind and sun soon dried them completely. Then she packed them away in a case made of thick, stiff buckskin.

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

She also dried many wild fruits in the sun and wind, including cherries, berries, and plums. But my strongest early memory of autumn is of the corn drying and the ground squirrel.

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

I have few memories of winter days from this time in my life, though I have many memories of summer. I can recall only one winter day.

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

Some missionaries gave me a little bag of marbles. They came in all sizes and colors. Some were made of colored glass. One day in late winter, I was walking with my mother to the river. We found huge chunks of ice piled along the bank. Huge pieces of ice were floating on the river. As I stood beside one large block, I noticed the colors of the rainbow in the clear ice. I had never noticed them before. Right away, I thought of my glass marbles at home. The colors seemed so close to the surface that I tried to pick some out with my bare fingers. But my fingers began to sting from the intense cold, and I had to bite them hard to keep from crying.

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

From that day on, for many months, I believed that glass marbles had river ice inside them.

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

The first change in the easy, natural flow of my life came in early spring. I was seven years old. I later learned that it was March. At that age, I knew only one language: my mother's native tongue.

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

Some of my playmates told me that two paleface missionaries were in our village. They said the missionaries were the kind of white men who wore big hats and had large hearts. I ran straight to my mother and asked why the two strangers were among us. After I had pestered her for a while, she told me they had come to take Indian boys and girls away to the East. My mother did not seem to want me to talk about them. But over the next day or two, I heard many wonderful stories about the strangers from my playmates.

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

"Mother, my friend Judéwin is going home with the missionaries. She is going to a more beautiful country than ours. The palefaces told her so!" I said longingly, wishing I could go too.

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

Mother sat in a chair, and I clung to her knee. Within the past two seasons, my big brother Dawée had returned from three years of education in the East. His return led my mother to take another step away from her native way of living. First, she had replaced the buffalo skin covering our wigwam with the white man's canvas. Now she had given up her wigwam of slender poles to live as a foreigner in a home of clumsy logs.

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

"Yes, my child, several others besides Judéwin are going away with the palefaces. Your brother said the missionaries had asked about his little sister," she said, watching my face closely.

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

My heart pounded so hard in my chest that I wondered if she could hear it.

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

"Did he tell them to take me, mother?" I asked. I feared that Dawée had forbidden the palefaces to see me. I also feared that my hope of going to the Wonderland would be completely ruined.

With a sad, slow smile, she answered: "There! I knew you were wishing to go, 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 even soothe you. Stay with me, my little one! Your brother Dawée says that going East, away from your mother, is too hard an experience for his baby sister."

With a sad, slow smile, she answered: "There! I knew you wanted to go 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 won't even comfort you. Stay with me, my little one! Your brother Dawée says going East, away from your mother, would be too hard for his baby sister."

Thus my mother discouraged my curiosity about the lands beyond our eastern horizon; for it was not yet an ambition for Letters that was stirring me. But on the following day the missionaries did come to our very 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 was another, a young interpreter, a paleface who had a smattering of the Indian language. I was ready to run out to meet them, but I did not dare to displease my mother. With great glee, I jumped up and down on our ground floor. I begged my mother to open the door, that they would be sure to come to us. Alas! They came, they saw, and they conquered!

That was how my mother discouraged my curiosity about the lands beyond our eastern horizon. I was not yet driven by a desire for learning. But the next day, the missionaries came right to our house. I spotted them coming up the path to our cottage. A third man was with them, but he was not my brother Dawée. He was a young interpreter, a paleface who knew a little of the Indian language. I was ready to run out to meet them, but I did not dare upset my mother. Full of joy, I jumped up and down on the floor. I begged my mother to open the door so the missionaries would be sure 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; and how we could reach out our hands and pick all the red apples we could eat. I had never seen apple trees. I had never tasted more than a dozen red apples in my life; and when I heard of the orchards of the East, I was eager to roam among them. The missionaries smiled into my eyes and patted my head. I wondered how mother could say such hard words against him.

Judéwin had told me about the great tree where red, red apples grew. She said we could reach out and pick all the red apples we could eat. I had never seen apple trees. I had tasted no more than a dozen red apples in my life. When I heard about the orchards of the East, I was eager to wander among them. The missionaries smiled into my eyes and patted my head. I wondered how Mother could say such harsh things about him.

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

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

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

The interpreter heard me and answered: "Yes, little girl, the nice red apples belong to those who pick them. And you can ride the iron horse if you go with these good people."

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

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 on the iron horse! Mother, say yes!" I pleaded.

"Mother, I'm going East! I like big red apples, and I want to ride on the train! Mother, say yes!" I begged.

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

My mother said nothing. The missionaries waited in silence. My eyes filled with tears, though I tried to hold them back. The corners of my mouth twitched, and my mother saw me.

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

"I'm not ready to give you an answer," she said to them. "Tomorrow I'll send you my answer through my son."

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

With that, they left us. Alone with my mother, I gave way to tears and cried aloud. I shook my head so I would not hear what she was saying to me. This was the first time I had been so unwilling to give up what I wanted that I refused to listen to my mother.

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

Our home was solemn and silent that night. Before I went to bed, I begged the Great Spirit to make my mother willing to let me go with the missionaries.

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

The next morning, my mother called me to her side. "My daughter, do you still want to leave me?" she asked.

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

"Oh, mother, I don't want to leave you, but I want to see the wonderful land in the East," I answered.

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

I hoped that, as usual, my aunt was speaking up for me. My brother Dawée came to hear mother's decision. I stopped playing and crept close to my aunt.

"Yes, Dawée, my daughter, though she does not understand what it all means, 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. This tearing her away, so young, from her mother is necessary, if I would have her an educated woman. The palefaces, who owe us a large debt for stolen lands, have begun to pay a tardy justice in offering some education to our children. But I know my daughter must suffer keenly in this experiment. For her sake, I dread to tell you my reply to the missionaries. Go, tell them that they may take my little daughter, and that the Great Spirit shall not fail to reward them according to their hearts."

"Yes, Dawée, my daughter is eager to go, though she does not understand what it all means. She will need an education when she grows up. By then, there will be fewer real Dakotas and many more palefaces. If I want her to be an educated woman, she must be torn away from her mother so young. The palefaces owe us a large debt for stolen lands. By offering some education to our children, they have begun to give us justice that is long overdue. But I know my daughter must suffer deeply in this experiment. For her sake, I dread telling you my answer to the missionaries. Go, tell them they may take my little daughter. Tell them the Great Spirit will surely reward them according to their hearts."

Wrapped in my heavy blanket, I walked with my mother to the carriage that was soon to take us to the iron horse. I was happy. I met my playmates, who were also wearing their best thick blankets. We showed one another our new beaded moccasins, and the width of the belts that girdled our new dresses. Soon we were being drawn rapidly away by the white man's horses. When I saw the lonely figure of my mother vanish in the distance, a sense of regret settled heavily upon me. I felt suddenly weak, as if I might fall limp to the ground. I was in the hands of strangers whom my mother did not fully trust. I no longer felt free to be myself, or to voice my own feelings. The tears trickled down my cheeks, and I buried my face in the folds of my blanket. Now the first step, parting me from my mother, was taken, and all my belated tears availed nothing.

Wrapped in my heavy blanket, I walked with my mother to the carriage that would soon take us to the iron horse. I was happy. I met my playmates, who were also wearing their best thick blankets. We showed one another our new beaded moccasins and the wide belts around our new dresses. Soon the white man's horses were pulling us rapidly away. When I saw my mother's lonely figure disappear in the distance, a heavy sense of regret came over me. I suddenly felt weak, as if I might fall limp to the ground. I was in the hands of strangers whom my mother did not fully trust. I no longer felt free to be myself or express my feelings. Tears trickled down my cheeks, and I buried my face in the folds of my blanket. Now I had taken the first step away from my mother, and all my late tears could do nothing.

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

After driving thirty miles to the ferryboat, we crossed the Missouri that evening. Then we rode a few miles farther east and stopped in front of a huge brick building. I stared at it in amazement, with a vague sense of unease. I had never seen such a large house in our village. I trembled with fear and distrust of the palefaces, and my teeth chattered from the chilly ride. In my soft moccasins, I crept silently along the narrow hall, keeping close to the bare wall. I was as frightened and confused as the captured young of a wild creature.