American Indian Stories

Description

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. 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. “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.