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.”

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

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

“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.

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.

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.

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.”

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.

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.

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.