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Impressions of an Indian Childhood · Native American Stories by Zitkala-Sa

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Speaker 1: Section one of American Indian Stories. This is a LibriVox recording.
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Speaker 1: All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more
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Speaker 1: information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox dot org. American
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Speaker 1: Indian Stories by Zikala Shah Impressions of an Indian childhood.
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Speaker 1: One my mother, a wigwam of weather stained canvas, stood
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Speaker 1: at the base of some irregularly ascending hills. A footpath
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Speaker 1: wound its way gently down the sloping land till it
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Speaker 1: reached the broad river bottom, creeping through the long swamp
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Speaker 1: grasses that bent over it on either side, it came
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Speaker 1: out on the edge of the Missouri Here morning, noon,
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Speaker 1: and evening, my mother came to draw water from the
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Speaker 1: muddy stream for our household use. Always when my mother
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Speaker 1: started for the river, I stopped my play to run
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Speaker 1: along with her. She was only of medium height. Often
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Speaker 1: she was sad and silent, at which times her full
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Speaker 1: arched lips were compressed into hard and bitter lines, and
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Speaker 1: shadows fell under her black eyes. Then I clung to
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Speaker 1: her hand and begged to know what made the tears fall. Hush,
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Speaker 1: my little daughter must never talk about my tears and
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Speaker 1: smiling through them. She patted my head and said, now
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Speaker 1: let me see how fast you can run to day,
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Speaker 1: whereupon I tore away at my highest possible speed, with
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Speaker 1: my long black hair blowing in the breeze. I was
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Speaker 1: a wild little girl of seven, loosely clad in a
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Speaker 1: slip of brown buckskin, and light footed, with a pair
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Speaker 1: of soft moccasins on my feet. I was as free
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Speaker 1: as the wind that blew my hair, and no less
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Speaker 1: spirited than a bounding deer. These were my mother's pride,
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Speaker 1: my wild freedom and overflowing spirits. She taught me no fear,
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Speaker 1: save that of intruding myself upon others. Having gone many
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Speaker 1: paces ahead, I stopped panting for breath and laughing with glee.
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Speaker 1: As my mother watched my every movement. I was not
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Speaker 1: wholly conscious of myself, but was more keenly alive to
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Speaker 1: the fire within. It was as if I were the activity,
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Speaker 1: and my hands and feet were only experiments for my
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Speaker 1: spirit to work. Upon returning from the river, I tugged
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Speaker 1: beside my mother with my hand upon the bucket I
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Speaker 1: believed I was carrying. One time, on such a return,
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Speaker 1: I remember a bit of conversation we had. My grown
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Speaker 1: up cousin Worcha Zeween Sunflower, who was then seventeen, always
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Speaker 1: went to the river alone for water for her mother.
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Speaker 1: Their Wigwam was not far from Mars, and I saw
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Speaker 1: her daily going to and from the river. I admired
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Speaker 1: my cousin greatly, so I said, mother, when I am
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Speaker 1: tall as my cousin Worchaziween, you shall not have to
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Speaker 1: come for water. I will do it for you. With
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Speaker 1: a strange tremor in her voice which I could not understand,
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Speaker 1: she said, if the pale face does not take away
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Speaker 1: from us the river we drink. Mother, who is this
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Speaker 1: bad pale face, I asked, my little daughter. He is
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Speaker 1: a sham, a sickly sham. The bronze Dakota is the
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Speaker 1: only real man. I looked up into my mother's face
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Speaker 1: while she spoke, and seeing her bite her lips, I
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Speaker 1: knew she was unhappy. This aroused revenge in my small soul.
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Speaker 1: Stamping my foot on the earth, I cried aloud, I
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Speaker 1: hate the pale face that makes my mother cry. Setting
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Speaker 1: the pail of water on the ground, my mother stooped
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Speaker 1: and stretching her left hand out on the level with
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Speaker 1: my eyes, she placed her other arm about me She
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Speaker 1: pointed to the hill where my uncle and my only
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Speaker 1: sister lay buried. There is what the pale Face has
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Speaker 1: done since then. Your father, too has been buried in
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Speaker 1: a hill nearer the rising sun. We were once very happy,
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Speaker 1: but the pale Face has stolen our lands and driven
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Speaker 1: us hither. Having defrauded us of our land, the Pale
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Speaker 1: Face forced us away. Well, it happened on the day
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Speaker 1: we moved camp that your sister and uncle were both
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Speaker 1: very sick. Many others were ailing, but there seemed to
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Speaker 1: be no help. We traveled many days and nights, not
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Speaker 1: the grand happy way that we moved camp when I
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Speaker 1: was a little girl. But we were driven, my child,
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Speaker 1: driven like a herd of buffalo. With every step. Your sister,
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Speaker 1: who was not as large as you are now, shrieked
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Speaker 1: with a painful jar until she was hoarse with crying.
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Speaker 1: She grew more and more feverish. Her little hands and
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Speaker 1: cheeks were burning hot, her little lips were parched and dry,
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Speaker 1: but she would not drink the water I gave her.
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Speaker 1: Then I discovered that her throat was swollen and red.
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Speaker 1: My poor child, how I cried with her, because the
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Speaker 1: Great Spirit had forgotten us At last. When we reached
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Speaker 1: this western country. On the first weary night, your sister died,
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Speaker 1: and soon your uncle died, also, leaving a widow and
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Speaker 1: an orphan daughter, your cousin lor Cheziwem. Both your sister
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Speaker 1: and uncle might have been happy with us to day,
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Speaker 1: had it not been for the heartless, pale face. My
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Speaker 1: mother was silent the rest of the way to our Wigwam.
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Speaker 1: Though I saw no tears in her eyes, I knew
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Speaker 1: that was because I was with her. She seldom wept
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Speaker 1: before me. Two the legends. During the summer days, my
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Speaker 1: mother built her fire in the shadow of our Wigwam.
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Speaker 1: In the early morning, our simple breakfast was spread upon
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Speaker 1: the grass west of our teepee. At the farthest point
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Speaker 1: of the shade. My mother sat beside her fire, toasting
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Speaker 1: a savory piece of dried meat. Near her. I sat
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Speaker 1: upon my feet, eating my dried meat with unlovend bread,
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Speaker 1: and drinking strong black coffee. The morning meal was our
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Speaker 1: quiet hour, when we two were entirely alone. At noon,
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Speaker 1: several who chanced to be passing by stopped to rest
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Speaker 1: and to share our luncheon with us, for they were
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Speaker 1: sure of our hospitality. My uncle, whose death. My mother,
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Speaker 1: ever lamented, was one of our nation's bravest warriors. His
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Speaker 1: name was on the lips of old men when talking
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Speaker 1: of the proud feats of valor, and it was mentioned
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Speaker 1: by younger men too in connection with deeds of gallantry.
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Speaker 1: Old women praised him for his kindness towards them. Young
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Speaker 1: women held him up as an ideal to their sweethearts.
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Speaker 1: Every One loved him, and my mother worshiped his memory.
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Speaker 1: Thus it happened that even strangers were sure of welcome
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Speaker 1: in our lodge if they but asked a favor in
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Speaker 1: my uncle's name. Though I heard many strange experiences related
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Speaker 1: by these wayfarers, I loved best the evening meal, for
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Speaker 1: that was the time old legends were told. I was
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Speaker 1: always glad when the sun hung low in the west.
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Speaker 1: For then my mother sent me to invite the neighboring
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Speaker 1: old men and women to eat supper with us. Running
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Speaker 1: all the way to the Wigwams, I halted shyly at
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Speaker 1: the entrances. Sometimes I stood a long moments without saying
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Speaker 1: a word. It was not any fear that made me
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Speaker 1: so dumb when out upon such a happy errand, nor
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Speaker 1: was it that I wished to withhold the invitation, for
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Speaker 1: it was all I could do to observe this very
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Speaker 1: proper silence. But it was a sensing of the atmosphere
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Speaker 1: to assure myself that I should not hinder other plans.
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Speaker 1: My mother used to say to me, as I was
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Speaker 1: almost bounding away for the old people, wait a moment
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Speaker 1: before you invite any one. If any other plans are
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Speaker 1: being discussed, do not interfere, but go elsewhere. The old
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Speaker 1: folks knew the meaning of my pauses, and often they
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Speaker 1: coaxed my confidence by asking, what is it you seek,
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Speaker 1: little granddaughter. My mother says, you are to come to
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Speaker 1: our teepee this evening. I instantly exploded and breathed the
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Speaker 1: freer afterwards. Yes, yes, gladly, gladly, I shall come, each replied,
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Speaker 1: rising at once and carrying their blankets across one shoulder.
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Speaker 1: They flocked leisurely from their various wigwams toward our dwelling.
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Speaker 1: My mission done, I ran back, skipping and jumping with
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Speaker 1: the light. All out of breath. I told my mother
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Speaker 1: almost the exact words of the answers to my invitation.
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Speaker 1: Frequently she asked, what were they doing when you entered
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Speaker 1: their teepee. This taught me to remember all I saw
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Speaker 1: at a single glance. Often I told my mother my
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Speaker 1: impressions without being questioned. While in the neighboring wigwams. Sometimes
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Speaker 1: an old Indian woman asked me what is your mother doing?
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Speaker 1: Unless my mother had me not to tell, I generally
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Speaker 1: answered her questions without reserve. At the arrival of our guests,
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Speaker 1: I sat close to my mother and did not leave
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Speaker 1: her side without first asking her consent. I ate my
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Speaker 1: supper in quiet, listening patiently to the talk of the
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Speaker 1: old people, wishing all the time they would begin the
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Speaker 1: stories I loved best. At last, when I could not
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Speaker 1: wait any longer, I whispered in my mother's ear ask
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Speaker 1: them to tell any tole me story. Mother, soothing my impatience,
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Speaker 1: My mother said aloud, my little daughter is anxious to
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Speaker 1: hear your legends. By this time all were through eating,
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Speaker 1: and the evening was fast deepening into twilight. As each
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Speaker 1: in turn began to tell a legend, I pillowed my
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Speaker 1: head in my mother's lap, and lying flat upon my back,
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Speaker 1: I watched the stars as they peeped down upon me.
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Speaker 1: One by one. The increasing interest of the tale aroused me,
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Speaker 1: and I sat up eagerly, listening to every word. The
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Speaker 1: old woman made funny remarks and laughed so heartily that
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Speaker 1: I could not help joining them. The distant howling of
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Speaker 1: a pack of wolves, or the hooting of an owl
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Speaker 1: in the river bottom frightened me, and I nestled into
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Speaker 1: my mother's lap. She added some dry sticks to the
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Speaker 1: open fire, and the bright flames leaped up into the
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Speaker 1: faces of the old folks as they sat around in
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Speaker 1: a great circle. On such an evening, I remember the
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Speaker 1: glare of the fire shone on a tattooed star upon
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Speaker 1: the brow of the old warrior, who was telling a story.
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Speaker 1: I watched him curiously as he made his unconscious gestures.
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Speaker 1: The blue star upon his bronzed forehead was a puzzle
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Speaker 1: to me. Looking about, I saw two parallel lines on
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Speaker 1: the chin of one of the old women. The rest
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Speaker 1: had none. I examined my mother's face, but found no
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Speaker 1: sign there. After the warrior's story was finished, I asked
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Speaker 1: the old woman the meaning of the blue lines on
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Speaker 1: her chin. Looking all the while out of the corners
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Speaker 1: of my eyes at the warrior with the star on
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Speaker 1: his forehead, I was a little afraid that he would
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Speaker 1: rebuke me for my boldness. Here the old woman began, Why,
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Speaker 1: my grandchild, they are signs secrets I dare not tell you.
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Speaker 1: I shall, however, tell you a wonderful story about a
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Speaker 1: woman who had a cross tattooed upon each of her cheeks.
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Speaker 1: It was a long story of a woman whose magic
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Speaker 1: power lay hidden behind the marks upon her face. I
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Speaker 1: fell asleep before the story was completed. Ever after that night,
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Speaker 1: I felt suspicious of tattooed people. Wherever I saw one,
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Speaker 1: I glanced furtively at the mark and round about it,
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Speaker 1: wondering what terrible magic power was covered there. It was
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Speaker 1: rarely that such a fearful story as this one was
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Speaker 1: told by the campfire. Its impression was so acute that
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Speaker 1: the picture still remains vividly clear and pronounced three. The
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Speaker 1: bead work. Soon after breakfast, Mother sometimes began her beadwork
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Speaker 1: On a bright, clear day. She pulled out the wooden
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Speaker 1: pegs that pinned the skirt of our wigwam to the
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Speaker 1: ground and rolled the canvas part way up on its
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Speaker 1: frame of slender poles. Then the cool morning breezes swept
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Speaker 1: freely through our dwelling, now and then, wafting the purse
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Speaker 1: fume of sweet grasses from newly burnt prairie. Untying the
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Speaker 1: long tasseled strings that bound a small brown buckskin bag,
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Speaker 1: my mother spread upon a mat beside her bunches of
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Speaker 1: colored beads. Just as an artist arranges the paints upon
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Speaker 1: his pallet on a lap board, she smoothed out a
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Speaker 1: double sheet of soft white buckskin, and, drawing from a
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Speaker 1: beaded case that hung on the left of her wide belt,
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Speaker 1: a long narrow blade, she trimmed the buckskin into shape.
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Speaker 1: Often she worked upon small moccasins for her small daughter.
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Speaker 1: Then I became intensely interested in her designing. With a proud,
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Speaker 1: beaming face, I watched her work in imagination. I saw
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Speaker 1: myself walking in a new pair of snugly fitting moccasins.
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Speaker 1: I felt the envious eyes of my playmates upon the
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Speaker 1: pretty red beads decorating my feet. Close beside my mother,
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Speaker 1: I saw on a rug with a scrap of buckskin
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Speaker 1: in one hand and an awl in the other. This
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Speaker 1: was the beginning of my practical observation lessons in the
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Speaker 1: art of beadwork. From this gain of finely twisted threads
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Speaker 1: of silvery sinews, my mother pulled out a single one
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Speaker 1: with an all She pierced the buckskin and skillfully threaded
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Speaker 1: it with the white sinew. Picking up the tiny beads
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Speaker 1: one by one, she strung them with the point of
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Speaker 1: her thread, always twisting it carefully after every stitch. It
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Speaker 1: took many trials before I learned how to not my
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Speaker 1: sinew thread on the point of my finger as I
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Speaker 1: saw her do. Then the next difficulty was in keeping
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Speaker 1: my thread stiffly twisted so that I could easily string
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Speaker 1: my beads upon it. My mother required of me original
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Speaker 1: designs for my lessons in beating. At first, I frequently
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Speaker 1: ensnared many a sunny hour into working a long design.
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Speaker 1: Soon I learned, from self inflicted punishment to refrain from
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Speaker 1: drawing complex patterns, for I had to finish whatever I began.
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Speaker 1: After some experience, I usually drew easy and simple crosses
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Speaker 1: and squares. These were some of the sat forms. My
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Speaker 1: original designs were not always symmetrical nor sufficiently characteristic to
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Speaker 1: fall with which my mother had a little patience. The
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Speaker 1: quietness of her oversight made me feel strongly responsible and
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Speaker 1: dependent upon my own judgment. She treated me as a
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Speaker 1: dignified little individual. As long as I was on my
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Speaker 1: good behavior, and how humiliated I was when some boldness
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Speaker 1: of mine drew forth a rebuke from her. In the
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Speaker 1: choice of colors, she left me to my own taste.
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Speaker 1: I was pleased with an outline of yellow upon a
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Speaker 1: background of dark blue, or a combination of red and
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Speaker 1: myrtle green. There was another of red with a bluish
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Speaker 1: gray that was more conventionally used. When I became a
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Speaker 1: little familiar with designing and the various pleasing combinations of color,
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Speaker 1: a harder lesson was given me. It was the sewing on.
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Speaker 1: Instead of beads, some tinted porcupine quills moistened and flattened
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Speaker 1: between the nails of the thumb and forefinger. My mother
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Speaker 1: cut off the prickly ends and burned them at once
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Speaker 1: in the center fire. These sharp points were poisonous and
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Speaker 1: worked into the flesh wherever they lodged. For this reason,
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Speaker 1: my mother said I should not do much alone in
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Speaker 1: quills until I was as tall as my cousin were chaziween. Always,
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Speaker 1: after these confining lessons, I was wild with surplus spirits
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Speaker 1: and found joyous relief in running loose in the open again.
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Speaker 1: Many a summer afternoon, a party of four or five
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Speaker 1: of my playmates roamed over the hills with me. We
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Speaker 1: each carried a light sharpened rod about four feet long,
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Speaker 1: with which we pried up certain sweet roots. When we
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Speaker 1: had eaten all the choice roots we chanced upon, we
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Speaker 1: shouldered our rods and straight off into patches of a
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Speaker 1: stocky plant, under whose yellow blossoms we found little crystal
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Speaker 1: drops of gum. Drop by drop, we gathered this nature's
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Speaker 1: rock candy, until each of us could boast of a
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Speaker 1: lump the size of a small bird's egg. Soon satiated
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Speaker 1: with its woody flavor, we tossed away our gum to
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Speaker 1: return again to the sweet roots. I remember well how
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Speaker 1: we used to exchange our necklaces, beaded belts, and sometimes
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Speaker 1: even our moccasins. We pretended to offer them as gifts
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Speaker 1: to one another. We delighted in impersonating our own mother.
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Speaker 1: We talked of things we had heard them say in
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Speaker 1: their conversations. We imitated their various manners, even to the
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Speaker 1: inflection of their voices. In the lap of the prairie,
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Speaker 1: we seated ourselves upon our feet and leaning our painted
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Speaker 1: cheeks in the palms of our hands. We rested our
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Speaker 1: elbows on our knees, and bent forward, as old women
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Speaker 1: were most accustomed to do. While one was telling of
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Speaker 1: some heroic in deed recently done by a near relative.
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Speaker 1: The rest of us listened attentively and exclaimed in undertones han, han, yes, yes,
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Speaker 1: whenever the speaker paused for breath, or sometimes for our sympathy.
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Speaker 1: As the discourse became more thrilling. According to our ideas,
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Speaker 1: we raised our voices in these interjections, In these impersonations,
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Speaker 1: our parents were led to say only those things that
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Speaker 1: were in common favor. No matter how exciting a tale
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Speaker 1: we might be rehearsing, the mere shifting of a cloud
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Speaker 1: shadow in the landscape nearby was sufficient to change our impulses,
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Speaker 1: and soon we were all chasing the great shadows that
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Speaker 1: played among the hills. We shouted and whooped in the chase,
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Speaker 1: laughing and calling to one another. We were like little
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Speaker 1: sportive nymphs on that Dakota sea of rolling green. On
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Speaker 1: one occasion, I forgot the cloud shadow and a strange
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Speaker 1: notion to catch up with my own shadow. Standing straight
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Speaker 1: and still, I began to glide after it, putting out
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Speaker 1: one foot cautiously. When with the greatest care I set
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Speaker 1: my foot in advance of myself, my shadow crept forward too.
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Speaker 1: Then again I tried it, this time with the other foot. Still, again,
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Speaker 1: my shadow escaped me. I began to run and away
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Speaker 1: flew my shadow, always just a step beyond me. Faster
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Speaker 1: and faster, I ran, setting my teeth and clenching my fists,
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Speaker 1: determined to overtake my own fleet shadow, but ever swifter,
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Speaker 1: it glided before me while I was growing breathless and hot,
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Speaker 1: slackening my speed, I was greatly vexed that my shadow
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Speaker 1: should check its pace, also daring it to the utmost
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Speaker 1: as I thought, I sat down upon a rock embedded
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Speaker 1: in the hillside, so my shadow the impudence to sit
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Speaker 1: beside me. Now my comrades caught up with me and
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Speaker 1: began to ask why I was running away so fast. Oh,
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Speaker 1: I was chasing my shadow. Didn't you ever do that,
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Speaker 1: I inquired, surprised that they should not understand. They planted
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Speaker 1: their moccasined feet firmly upon my shadow to stay it,
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Speaker 1: and I arose again. My shadow slipped away and moved
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Speaker 1: as often as I did. Then we gave up trying
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Speaker 1: to catch my shadow. Before this peculiar experience, I have
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Speaker 1: no distinct memory of having recognized any vital bond between
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Speaker 1: myself and my own shadow. I never gave it an afterthought.
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Speaker 1: Returning our borrowed belts and trinkets, we rambled homeward that evening.
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Speaker 1: As on other evenings, I went to sleep over my
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Speaker 1: legends four the coffee making. One summer afternoon, my mother
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Speaker 1: left me alone in our wigwam while she went across
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Speaker 1: the way to my aunt's dwelling. I did not much
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Speaker 1: like to stay alone in our teepee, for I feared
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Speaker 1: a tall, broad shouldered crazy man some forty years old,
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Speaker 1: who walked loose among the hills. Wi Yaka not Bina,
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Speaker 1: wearer of a feather necklace, was harmless, and whenever he
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Speaker 1: came into a wigwam, he was driven there by extreme hunger.
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Speaker 1: He went nude except for the half of a red
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Speaker 1: blanket he girdled around his waist in one tawny arm.
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Speaker 1: He used to carry a heavy bunch of wild sunflowers
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Speaker 1: that he gathered in his aimless ramblings. His black hair
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Speaker 1: was matted by the winds and scorched into a dry
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Speaker 1: red by the constant summer sun. As he took great strides,
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Speaker 1: placing one brown bare foot directly in front of the other.
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Speaker 1: He swung his long, lean arm to and fro. Frequently,
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Speaker 1: he paused in his walk and gazed far backward, shading
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Speaker 1: his eyes with his hand. He was under the belief
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Speaker 1: that an evil spirit was haunting his steps. This is
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Speaker 1: what my mother told me once when I sneered at
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Speaker 1: such a silly big man. I was brave when my
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Speaker 1: mother was near by, and Wiyaka not Bina, walking farther
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Speaker 1: and farther away. Pity the man, my child. I knew
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Speaker 1: him when he was a brave and handsome youth. He
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Speaker 1: was overtaken by a malicious spirit among the hills one
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Speaker 1: day when he went hither and thither after his ponies.
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Speaker 1: Since then he cannot stay away from the hills. She said.
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Speaker 1: I felt so sorry for the man in his misfortune
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Speaker 1: that I prayed to the great Spirit to restore him.
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Speaker 1: But though I pitied him at a distance, I was
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Speaker 1: still afraid of him when he appeared near our Wigwam. Thus,
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Speaker 1: when my mother left me by myself that afternoon, I
19:26
Speaker 1: sat in a fearful mood within our teepee. I recalled
19:30
Speaker 1: all I had ever heard about Wiyaka nat Bina, and
19:33
Speaker 1: I tried to assure myself that though he might pass
19:35
Speaker 1: near by, he would not come to our wigwam because
19:38
Speaker 1: there was no little girl around our grounds. Just then,
19:41
Speaker 1: from without a hand lifted the canvas covering of the entrance.
19:45
Speaker 1: The shadow of a man fell within the wigwam, and
19:48
Speaker 1: a large, roughly moccasined foot was planted inside. For a moment,
19:53
Speaker 1: I did not dare to breathe or stir, for I
19:55
Speaker 1: thought that could be no other than Wiyaka nat Bina.
19:59
Speaker 1: The next instant, I sighed aloud in relief. It was
20:02
Speaker 1: an old grandfather who had often told me Ike tolem
20:04
Speaker 1: me legends. Where is your mother, my little grandchild? Were
20:08
Speaker 1: his first words. My mother is soon coming back from
20:11
Speaker 1: my aunt's steepy, I replied. Then I shall wait awhile
20:15
Speaker 1: for her return, he said, crossing his feet and seating
20:18
Speaker 1: himself upon a mat at Once I began to play
20:22
Speaker 1: the part of a generous hostess. I turned to my
20:24
Speaker 1: mother's coffee pot, lifting the lid, I found nothing but
20:28
Speaker 1: coffee grounds in the bottom. I set the pot on
20:31
Speaker 1: a heap of cold ashes in the center and filled
20:33
Speaker 1: it half full of warm Missouri river water. During this performance,
20:37
Speaker 1: I felt conscious of being watched. Then, breaking off a
20:41
Speaker 1: small piece of our unlovend bread, I placed it in
20:43
Speaker 1: a bowl, turning soon to the coffee pot, which would
20:47
Speaker 1: never have boiled on a dead fire had I waited forever.
20:50
Speaker 1: I poured out a cup of worse than muddy warm water.
20:53
Speaker 1: Carrying the bowl in one hand and cup in the other,
20:56
Speaker 1: I handed the light luncheon to the old warrior. I
20:59
Speaker 1: offered them to with the air of bestowing generous hospitality.
21:03
Speaker 1: How how, he said, and placed the dishes on the
21:06
Speaker 1: ground in front of his crossed feet. He nibbled at
21:08
Speaker 1: the bread and sipped from the cup. I sat back
21:12
Speaker 1: against a pole, watching him. I was so proud to
21:15
Speaker 1: have succeeded so well in serving refreshments to a guest,
21:17
Speaker 1: all by myself. Before the old warrior had finished eating,
21:21
Speaker 1: my mother entered Immediately. She wondered where I had found coffee,
21:26
Speaker 1: for she knew I had never made any, and that
21:28
Speaker 1: she had left the coffee pot empty. Answering the question
21:31
Speaker 1: in my mother's eyes, the warrior remarked, my granddaughter made
21:34
Speaker 1: coffee on a heap of dead ashes. And served me
21:37
Speaker 1: the moment I game. They both laughed, and mother said,
21:41
Speaker 1: wait a little longer, and I shall build a fire.
21:44
Speaker 1: She meant to make some real coffee. But neither she
21:46
Speaker 1: nor the warrior, whom the law of our custom had
21:49
Speaker 1: compelled to partake of my incibit hospitality, said anything to
21:52
Speaker 1: embarrass me. They treated my best judgment, poor, as it was,
21:56
Speaker 1: with the utmost respect. It was not till long years
22:00
Speaker 1: afterward that I learned how ridiculous a thing I had done.
22:05
Speaker 1: Five the dead Man's plum bush. One autumn afternoon, many
22:10
Speaker 1: people came streaming toward the dwelling of our near neighbor.
22:13
Speaker 1: With painted faces and wearing broad white bosoms of elk's teeth.
22:17
Speaker 1: They hurried down the narrow footpath to Hirakawamdi's Wigwam. Young
22:22
Speaker 1: mothers held their children by the hand and half pulled
22:24
Speaker 1: them along. In their haste, they overtook and passed by
22:28
Speaker 1: the bent old grandmothers, who were trudging along with crooked
22:31
Speaker 1: canes toward the center of excitement. Most of the young
22:35
Speaker 1: braves galloped hither on their ponies. Toothless warriors, like the
22:38
Speaker 1: old women, came more slowly, though mounted on lively ponies.
22:42
Speaker 1: They sat proudly erect on their horses. They wore their
22:45
Speaker 1: eagle plumes and waved their various trophies of former wars.
22:49
Speaker 1: In front of the wigwam. A great fire was built
22:52
Speaker 1: and several large black kettles of venison were suspended over it.
22:56
Speaker 1: The crowd were seated about it on the grass in
22:58
Speaker 1: a great circle. Behind them, some of the braves stood
23:01
Speaker 1: leaning against the necks of their ponies, their tall figures
23:04
Speaker 1: draped in loose robes which were well drawn over their eyes.
23:07
Speaker 1: Young girls, with their faces glowing like bright red autumn leaves,
23:11
Speaker 1: their glossy braids falling over each ear, sat coquettishly beside
23:15
Speaker 1: their chaperones. It was a custom for young Indian women
23:19
Speaker 1: to invite some older relative to escort them to the
23:21
Speaker 1: public feasts. Though it was not an iron law, it
23:24
Speaker 1: was generally observed. Rokawomdy was a strong, young brave who
23:29
Speaker 1: had just returned from his first battle a warrior. His
23:33
Speaker 1: near relatives, to celebrate his new rank, were spreading a
23:36
Speaker 1: feast to which the whole of the Indian village was invited.
23:40
Speaker 1: Holding my pretty striped blanket in readiness to throw over
23:43
Speaker 1: my shoulders. I grew more and more restless as I
23:46
Speaker 1: watched the gay throng assembling. My mother was busily broiling
23:50
Speaker 1: a wild duck that my aunt had that morning. Brought over, mother, Mother,
23:54
Speaker 1: why do you stop to cook a small meal when
23:56
Speaker 1: we are invited to a feast, I asked, with a
23:58
Speaker 1: snarl in my voice. My child learned to wait. On
24:02
Speaker 1: our way to the celebration. We are going to stop
24:05
Speaker 1: at chau Hu's wigwam. His aged mother in law's lying
24:08
Speaker 1: very ill, and I think she would like a taste
24:10
Speaker 1: of this small game. Having once seen the suffering on
24:13
Speaker 1: the thin, pinched features of this dying woman, I felt
24:16
Speaker 1: a momentary shame that I had not remembered her before.
24:20
Speaker 1: On our way, I ran ahead of my mother and
24:22
Speaker 1: was reaching out my hand to pick some purple plums
24:24
Speaker 1: that grew on a small bush when I was checked
24:27
Speaker 1: by a loash from my mother. My mother, I want
24:31
Speaker 1: to taste the plums, I exclaimed, as I dropped my
24:33
Speaker 1: hand to my side in disappointment. Never pluck a single
24:37
Speaker 1: plum from this brush, my child, For its roots are
24:40
Speaker 1: wrapped around an Indian skeleton. A brave is buried here.
24:44
Speaker 1: While he lived, he was so fond of playing the
24:46
Speaker 1: game of striped plum seeds that at his death his
24:49
Speaker 1: set of plum seeds were buried in his hands. From
24:52
Speaker 1: them sprang up this little bush. Eyeing the forbidden fruit,
24:56
Speaker 1: I trod lightly on the sacred ground and dared to
24:58
Speaker 1: speak only in whispers until we had gone many paces
25:01
Speaker 1: from it. After that time, I halted in my ramblings.
25:05
Speaker 1: Whenever I came in sight of the plum bush. I
25:07
Speaker 1: grew sober with awe, and was alert to hear a long,
25:10
Speaker 1: drawn out whistle rise from the roots of it. Though
25:13
Speaker 1: I had never heard with my own ears this strange
25:16
Speaker 1: whistle of departed spirits. Yet I had listened so frequently
25:19
Speaker 1: to hear the old folks describe it that I knew
25:22
Speaker 1: I should recognize it at once. The lasting impression of
25:25
Speaker 1: that day, as I recall it now, is what my
25:27
Speaker 1: mother told me about the dead Man's plum bush. Six
25:33
Speaker 1: the ground squirrel. In the busy autumn days, my cousin
25:37
Speaker 1: worka zeween's mother, came to our wigwam to help my
25:40
Speaker 1: mother preserve foods for our winter use. I was very
25:43
Speaker 1: fond of my aunt, because she was not so quiet
25:45
Speaker 1: as my mother. Though she was older, she was more
25:48
Speaker 1: jovial and less reserved. She was slender and remarkably erect.
25:52
Speaker 1: While my mother's hair was heavy and black, my aunt
25:55
Speaker 1: had unusually thin locks. Ever since I knew her, she
25:59
Speaker 1: wore a string of large blue beads around her neck,
26:01
Speaker 1: beads that were precious because my uncle had given them
26:04
Speaker 1: to her when she was a younger woman. She had
26:06
Speaker 1: a peculiar swing in her gait, caused by a long stride,
26:10
Speaker 1: rarely natural to so slight a figure. It was during
26:13
Speaker 1: my aunt's visit with us that my mother forgot her
26:15
Speaker 1: accustomed quietness, often laughing heartily at some of my aunt's
26:19
Speaker 1: witty remarks. I loved my aunt threefold for her hearty laughter,
26:24
Speaker 1: for the cheerfulness she caused my mother, and most of all,
26:27
Speaker 1: for the time she dried my tears and held me
26:29
Speaker 1: in her lap when my mother had reproved me. Early
26:32
Speaker 1: in the cool mornings, just as the yellow rim of
26:35
Speaker 1: the sun rose above the hills, we were up and
26:37
Speaker 1: eating our breakfast. We awoke so early that we saw
26:40
Speaker 1: the sacred hour when a misty smoke hung over a
26:43
Speaker 1: pit surrounded by an impassable sinking mire. This strange smoke
26:48
Speaker 1: appeared every morning both winter and summer, but most visibly
26:52
Speaker 1: in midwinter. It rose immediately above the marshy spot. By
26:56
Speaker 1: the time the full face of the sun appeared above
26:58
Speaker 1: the eastern horizon, the smoke vanished. Even very old men
27:02
Speaker 1: who had known this country the longest said that the
27:05
Speaker 1: smoke from this pit had never failed a single day
27:07
Speaker 1: to rise heavenward. As I frolicked about our dwelling, I
27:11
Speaker 1: used to stop suddenly, and with a fearful awe watched
27:14
Speaker 1: the smoking of the unknown fires. While the vapor was visible.
27:17
Speaker 1: I was afraid to go very far from our wigwam
27:19
Speaker 1: unless I went with my mother from a field in
27:22
Speaker 1: the fertile river bottom. My mother and aunt gathered an
27:25
Speaker 1: abundant supply of corn near our teepee. They spread a
27:29
Speaker 1: large canvas upon the grass and dried their sweet corn
27:31
Speaker 1: in it. I was left to watch the corn, that
27:34
Speaker 1: nothing should disturb it. I played around it with dolls
27:37
Speaker 1: made of ears of corn. I braided their soft, fine
27:40
Speaker 1: silk for hair, and gave them blankets as varied as
27:43
Speaker 1: the scraps I found in my mother's work bag. There
27:47
Speaker 1: was a little stranger with a black and yellow striped
27:49
Speaker 1: coat that used to come to the drying corn. It
27:52
Speaker 1: was a little ground squirrel who was so fearless of
27:55
Speaker 1: me that he came to one corner of the canvas
27:57
Speaker 1: and carried away as much of the sweet corn as
27:59
Speaker 1: he could hold. I wanted very much to catch him
28:02
Speaker 1: and rub his pretty fur back, but my mother said
28:05
Speaker 1: he would be so frightened if I caught him that
28:07
Speaker 1: he would bite my fingers. So I was as content
28:10
Speaker 1: as he to keep the corn between us. Every morning
28:14
Speaker 1: he came for more corn. Some evenings I have seen
28:17
Speaker 1: him creeping about our grounds, and when I gave a
28:19
Speaker 1: sudden whoop of recognition, he ran quickly out of sight.
28:23
Speaker 1: When mother had dried all the corn she wished, then
28:26
Speaker 1: she sliced great pumpkins into thin rings, and these she
28:29
Speaker 1: doubled and linked together into long chains. She hung them
28:33
Speaker 1: on a pole that stretched between two forked posts. The
28:36
Speaker 1: wind and sun soon thoroughly dried the chains of pumpkin.
28:40
Speaker 1: Then she packed them away in a case of thick
28:42
Speaker 1: and stiff buckskin. In the sun and wind. She also
28:46
Speaker 1: dried many wild fruits, cherries, berries, and plums, But chiefest
28:51
Speaker 1: among my early recollections of autumn is that one of
28:54
Speaker 1: the corn drying and the ground squirrel. I have few
28:57
Speaker 1: memories of winter days at this period of mine life,
29:00
Speaker 1: though many of the summer. There is one only which
29:03
Speaker 1: I can recall. Some missionaries gave me a little bag
29:07
Speaker 1: of marbles. They were all sizes and colors. Among them
29:11
Speaker 1: were some of colored glass. Walking with my mother to
29:14
Speaker 1: the river on a late winter day, we found great
29:17
Speaker 1: chunks of ice piled all along the bank. The ice
29:20
Speaker 1: on the river was floating in huge pieces. As I
29:23
Speaker 1: stood beside one large block, I noticed for the first
29:26
Speaker 1: time the colors of the rainbow in the crystal ice.
29:29
Speaker 1: Immediately I thought of my glass marbles at home. With
29:32
Speaker 1: my bare fingers, I tried to pick out some of
29:34
Speaker 1: the colors, for they seemed so near the surface, But
29:37
Speaker 1: my fingers began to sting with the intense cold, and
29:40
Speaker 1: I had to bite them hard to keep from crying.
29:43
Speaker 1: From that day on, for many a moon, I believed
29:46
Speaker 1: that glass marbles had river ice inside of them. Seven
29:51
Speaker 1: the big red Apples. The first turning away from the
29:55
Speaker 1: easy natural flow of my life occurred in an early spring.
29:59
Speaker 1: It was in my eighth year, in the month of March.
30:01
Speaker 1: I afterward learned. At this age, I knew but one language,
30:04
Speaker 1: and that was my mother's native tongue. From some of
30:07
Speaker 1: my playmates, I heard that two pale face missionaries were
30:10
Speaker 1: in our village. They were from that class of white
30:13
Speaker 1: men who wore big hats and carried large hearts, they said.
30:16
Speaker 1: Running direct to my mother, I began to question her
30:19
Speaker 1: why these two strangers were among us. She told me,
30:22
Speaker 1: after I had teased much, that they had come to
30:24
Speaker 1: take away Indian boys and girls to the East. My
30:27
Speaker 1: mother did not seem to want me to talk about them,
30:31
Speaker 1: but in a day or two I gleaned many wonderful
30:33
Speaker 1: stories from my playfellows concerning the strangers. Mother, my friend
30:38
Speaker 1: Judaeween is going home with the missionaries. She is going
30:42
Speaker 1: to a more beautiful country than ours. The paleface has
30:44
Speaker 1: told her, so, I said, wistfully, wishing in my heart
30:48
Speaker 1: that I too might go. Mother sat in a chair
30:51
Speaker 1: and I was hanging on her knee. Within the last
30:55
Speaker 1: two seasons, my big brother Dawe had returned from a
30:58
Speaker 1: three years education in the East, and his coming back
31:01
Speaker 1: influenced my mother to take a farther step from her
31:04
Speaker 1: native way of living. First, it was a change from
31:07
Speaker 1: buffalo's skin to the white man's canvas that covered our wigwam.
31:10
Speaker 1: Now she had given up her wigwam of slender poles
31:13
Speaker 1: to live a foreigner in a home of clumsy logs. Yes,
31:17
Speaker 1: my child, several others besides Ju dai Ween are going
31:20
Speaker 1: away with the pale faces, your brother said. The missionaries
31:24
Speaker 1: had inquired about his little sister, She said, watching my
31:27
Speaker 1: face very closely, My heart thumped so hard against my breast.
31:31
Speaker 1: I wondered if she could hear it. Did he tell
31:34
Speaker 1: them to take me? Mother? I asked, fearing lest Dewey
31:38
Speaker 1: had forbidden the pale faces to see me, and that
31:41
Speaker 1: my hope of going to the wonderland would be entirely blighted.
31:44
Speaker 1: With a sad, slow smile, she answered, there I knew
31:48
Speaker 1: you were wishing to go, because U Daywen has filled
31:51
Speaker 1: your ears with the white man's lies. Don't believe a
31:53
Speaker 1: word they say. Their words are sweet, but my child,
31:57
Speaker 1: their deeds are bitter. You will cry for me, but
31:59
Speaker 1: they will not even soothe you. Stay with me, my
32:02
Speaker 1: little one. Your brother d'awete says that going east away
32:06
Speaker 1: from your mother is too hard an experience for his
32:08
Speaker 1: baby sister. Thus, my mother discouraged my curiosity about the
32:13
Speaker 1: lands beyond our eastern horizon, for it was not yet
32:16
Speaker 1: an ambition for letters that was stirring me. But on
32:19
Speaker 1: the following day, the missionaries did come to our very house.
32:22
Speaker 1: I spied them coming up the footpath leading to our cottage.
32:26
Speaker 1: A third man was with them, but he was not
32:28
Speaker 1: my brother de Waye. It was another, a young interpreter,
32:31
Speaker 1: a pale face, who had a smattering of the Indian language.
32:35
Speaker 1: I was ready to run out to meet them, but
32:37
Speaker 1: I did not dare to displease my mother. With great glee,
32:40
Speaker 1: I jumped up and down on our ground floor, I
32:43
Speaker 1: begged my mother to open the door, that they would
32:45
Speaker 1: be sure to come to us. Alas they came, they saw,
32:49
Speaker 1: and they conquered. Judaewen had told me of the great
32:54
Speaker 1: tree where grew red red apples, and how we could
32:57
Speaker 1: reach out our hands and pick all the red apples
32:59
Speaker 1: we could eat. I had never seen apple trees. I
33:02
Speaker 1: had never tasted more than a dozen red apples in
33:04
Speaker 1: my life. And when I heard of the orchards of
33:06
Speaker 1: the east, I was eager to roam among them. The
33:09
Speaker 1: missionaries smiled into my eyes and patted my head. I
33:13
Speaker 1: wondered how mother could say such hard words against them.
33:16
Speaker 1: Mother ask them if little girls may have all the
33:19
Speaker 1: red apples they want when they go east. I whispered
33:21
Speaker 1: aloud in my excitement. The interpreter heard me and answered, yes,
33:26
Speaker 1: little girl, the nice red apples are for those who
33:29
Speaker 1: pick them, and you will have a ride on the
33:30
Speaker 1: iron horse if you go with these good people. I
33:34
Speaker 1: had never seen a train, and he knew it. Mother,
33:36
Speaker 1: I am going east. I like big red apples, and
33:39
Speaker 1: I want to ride on the iron horse. Mothers say yes,
33:43
Speaker 1: I pleaded. My mother said nothing. The missionaries waited in silence,
33:47
Speaker 1: and my eyes began to blur with tears. Though I
33:50
Speaker 1: struggled to choke them back, the corners of my mouth twitched,
33:53
Speaker 1: and my mother saw me. I am not ready to
33:56
Speaker 1: give you any word. She said to them. Tomorrow, I
33:59
Speaker 1: shall send you my Auntie her By, my son. With this,
34:02
Speaker 1: they left us alone. With my mother. I yielded to
34:04
Speaker 1: my tears and cried aloud, shaking my head so as
34:07
Speaker 1: not to hear what she was saying to me. This
34:10
Speaker 1: was the first time I had ever been so unwilling
34:12
Speaker 1: to give up my own desire that I refused to
34:15
Speaker 1: hearken to my mother's voice. There was a solemn silence
34:19
Speaker 1: in our home that night. Before I went to bed,
34:21
Speaker 1: I begged the Great Spirit to make my mother willing
34:23
Speaker 1: I should go with the missionaries. The next morning came
34:27
Speaker 1: and my mother called me to her side. My daughter,
34:30
Speaker 1: do you still persist in wishing to leave your mother?
34:32
Speaker 1: She asked, Oh, mother, it is not that I wished
34:35
Speaker 1: to leave you, but I want to see the wonderful
34:38
Speaker 1: Eastern land. I answered. My dear old aunt came to
34:41
Speaker 1: our house that morning, and I heard her say, let
34:44
Speaker 1: her try it. I hoped that, as usual, my aunt
34:47
Speaker 1: was pleading on my side. My brother d'aueteh came for
34:51
Speaker 1: mother's decision. I dropped my play and crept close to
34:54
Speaker 1: my aunt. Yes, away, eh. My daughter, though she does
34:58
Speaker 1: not understand what it all means, means, is anxious to go.
35:02
Speaker 1: She will need an education when she has grown, for
35:04
Speaker 1: then there will be fewer real Dakotas and many more
35:07
Speaker 1: pale faces. This tearing her away so young from her
35:11
Speaker 1: mother is necessary if I would have her an educated woman.
35:15
Speaker 1: The pale faces who owe us a large debt for
35:17
Speaker 1: stolen lands have begun to pay a tardy justice in
35:20
Speaker 1: offering some education to our children. But I know my
35:23
Speaker 1: daughter must suffer keenly in this experiment. For her sake,
35:27
Speaker 1: I dread to tell you my reply to the missionaries.
35:30
Speaker 1: Go tell them that they may take my little daughter,
35:32
Speaker 1: and that the Great Spirit shall not fail to reward
35:35
Speaker 1: them according to their hearts. Wrapped in my heavy blanket,
35:39
Speaker 1: I walked with my mother to the carriage that was
35:41
Speaker 1: soon to take us to the iron horse. I was happy.
35:44
Speaker 1: I met my playmates, who were also wearing their best
35:47
Speaker 1: thick blankets. We showed one another our new beaded moccasins
35:50
Speaker 1: and the width of the belts that girdled our new dresses.
35:53
Speaker 1: Soon we were being drawn rapidly away by the white
35:56
Speaker 1: man's horses. When I saw the lonely figure of my
35:59
Speaker 1: mother vanish in the distance, a sense of regret settled
36:02
Speaker 1: heavily upon me. I felt suddenly weak, as if I
36:05
Speaker 1: might fall limp to the ground. I was in the
36:07
Speaker 1: hands of strangers whom my mother did not fully trust.
36:11
Speaker 1: I no longer felt free to be myself or to
36:13
Speaker 1: voice my own feelings. The tears trickled down my cheeks,
36:17
Speaker 1: and I buried my face in the folds of my blanket.
36:20
Speaker 1: Now the first step parting me from my mother was taken,
36:23
Speaker 1: and all my belated tears availed nothing. Having driven thirty
36:27
Speaker 1: miles to the ferry boat, we crossed the Missouri in
36:30
Speaker 1: the evening. Then riding again a few miles eastward, we
36:34
Speaker 1: stopped before a massive brick building. I looked at it
36:37
Speaker 1: in amazement and with a vague misgiving, for in our
36:40
Speaker 1: village I had never seen so large a house. Trembling
36:43
Speaker 1: with fear and distrust of the pale faces, my teeth
36:46
Speaker 1: chattering from the chilly ride, I crept noiselessly in my
36:49
Speaker 1: soft moccasins along the narrow hall, keeping very close to
36:53
Speaker 1: the bare wall. I was as frightened and bewildered as
36:56
Speaker 1: the captured young of a wild creature. End of section one,
37:02
Speaker 1: read by step Heather, September fifth, twenty twenty two, Bangalore, India,