Author Description

A wigwam of weather-stained canvas stood at the base of some irregularly ascendinghills. A footpath wound its way gently down the sloping land till it reached the broad riverbottom; creeping through the long swamp grasses that bent over it on either side, itcame out on the edge of the Missouri.Here, morning, noon, and evening, my mother came to draw water from the muddystream for our household use. Always, when my mother started for the river, I stoppedmy play to run along with her. She was only of medium height. Often she was sad andsilent, at which times her full arched lips were compressed into hard and bitter lines, andshadows fell under her black eyes. Then I clung to her hand and begged to know whatmade 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." WhereuponI tore away at my highest possible speed, 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-footedwith 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 wildfreedom and overflowing spirits. She taught me no fear save that of intruding myselfupon others.Having gone many paces ahead I stopped, panting for breath, and laughing with glee asmy mother watched my every movement. I was not wholly conscious of myself, but wasmore keenly alive to the fire within. It was as if I were the activity, and my hands andfeet were only experiments for my spirit to work up