American Indian stories

Зиткала-Ша American Indian stories

The Project Gutenberg EBook of American Indian stories, by Zitkala-Sa

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Title: American Indian stories

Author: Zitkala-Sa

Release Date: December 3, 2003 [EBook #10376]

Language: English

*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK AMERICAN INDIAN STORIES ***

Produced by Juliet Sutherland, Brett Koonce and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team

AMERICAN INDIAN STORIES

BY

ZITKALA-SA (Gertrude Bonnin)

Dakota Sioux Indian

Lecturer; Author of 'Old Indian Legends,' 'Americanize The First

American,' and other stories; Member of the Woman's National Foundation,

League of American Pen-Women, and the Washington Salon

'There is no great; there is no small; in the mind that causeth all'

1921

CONTENTS

 Impressions of an Indian Childhood

 The School Days of an Indian Girl

 An Indian Teacher Among Indians

 The Great Spirit

 The Soft-Hearted Sioux

 The Trial Path

 A Warrior's Daughter

 A Dream of Her Grandfather

 The Widespread Enigma of Blue-Star Woman

 America's Indian Problem

IMPRESSIONS OF AN INDIAN CHILDHOOD

I. MY MOTHER.

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.

I was a wild little girl of seven. Loosely clad in a slip of brown buckskin, and light-footed with 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 wild freedom and overflowing spirits. She taught me no fear save that of intruding myself upon others.

Having gone many paces ahead I stopped, panting for breath, and laughing with glee as my mother watched my every movement. I was not wholly conscious of myself, but was more keenly alive to the fire within. It was as if I were the activity, and my hands and feet were only experiments for my spirit to work upon.

Returning from the river, I tugged beside my mother, with my hand upon the bucket I believed I was carrying. One time, on such a return, I remember a bit of conversation we had. My grown-up cousin, Warca-Ziwin (Sunflower), who was then seventeen, always went to the river alone for water for her mother. Their wigwam was not far from ours; and I saw her daily going to and from the river. I admired my cousin greatly. So I said: 'Mother, when I am tall as my cousin Warca-Ziwin, you shall not have to come for water. I will do it for you.'

With a strange tremor in her voice which I could not understand, she answered, 'If the paleface does not take away from us the river we drink.'

'Mother, who is this bad paleface?' I asked.

'My little daughter, he is a sham,—a sickly sham! The bronzed Dakota is the only real man.'

I looked up into my mother's face while she spoke; and seeing her bite her lips, I knew she was unhappy. This aroused revenge in my small soul. Stamping my foot on the earth, I cried aloud, 'I hate the paleface that makes my mother cry!'

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