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.

“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.

“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!

“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.”

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.

II.

The legends.

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

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.

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.