Spring had deepened into summer. My father’s corn, a forest of rustling green, laden with tasseled green ears, was far above his head. His wheat grew golden in the sun. Hay for the stock was stored in the barn. The day was warm; all was calm and quiet. I sat on the great stone at the door with Polly, my black cat, at my side, when there appeared a party of Indians, men, women and children, mounted on fine ponies. We were surprised; they were not. Nothing ever surprises an Indian. They took possession of the hill in front and began to unpack their ponies, build their campfires and cook their venison. The children played in the grass, and I joined in the sport. I did not understand their tongue nor they mine, but a smile is the same in all languages. The game was not a difficult one; they found me their equal in all we undertook. My freedom from all fear won the hearts of old and young. On account of my golden hair at which they seemed to marvel, they gave me for a name, Na-so-rah-sooch, which I afterwards understood to mean “Child of the Sun.” The friendships formed at Whirling Thunder’s camp lasted for several years of my life.
The men of the Winnebago Nation were usually tall and well formed; their women, many of them, models of grace and beauty. I wandered at will among their lodges, watching them at their different employments. The women were never idle. They dressed the skins of the wild animals their braves brought home, curing the flesh for winter use by cutting it in strips and exposing it to the heat of the sun without salt. They wove baskets of wild grasses from the prairie or of rushes from the stream. They made, for themselves, tunics, soft, thick, and white, of fawnskins, and moccasins, gay with beads, of buckskins. They embroidered their blankets in many colors. Bearskins, they used for mats in their lodges.
Whirling Thunder’s lodge was a large one, handsomely decorated. One picture represented a flying enemy with Whirling Thunder in hot pursuit; another, a stag pierced by an arrow, with head and antlers high in the air as he sank on his knees to rise no more. The pictures, or picture-writing, excited my curiosity. If the outside was so grand, what must the inside be? I went boldly in and viewed the scene.
Two women occupied the lodge. One was tall, dark, and sad, her eyes as black as a starless night. She moved slowly, with grace and dignity, and with an air of utter hopelessness. She did not smile upon me or caress my curls or heed me in any way, but silently continued her work. In another part of the lodge, reclining on a pantherskin, was a young woman. She was beautifully attired in a fringed fawnskin tunic; her neck and breast were bound with ornaments of beads and shells, and a large silver brooch confined her tunic at the neck. Her shapely limbs and delicate feet were covered by leggings and moccasins of buckskin. Her long black hair hung down her back and was decorated with feathers. At her feet sat a smiling infant, naked and beautiful as a Cupid.
It was while we were living in Illinois that my brother had died when only two years old. We put away his little garments and our grief was bitter and hard to bear. Through all my life I had never known the love of a brother or sister. When I saw the Indian baby, I ran forward with a cry of childish delight and clasped him in my arms; I pressed him to me, showering kisses and tears upon him in remembrance of my little brother. The tall form of Whirling Thunder darkened the door of his lodge. He stood with arms folded upon his breast and gazed upon us. The tall dark woman scowled. The mother of the little chieftain smiled. I cared not for any of them; I held him in my arms, and all of his struggles to free himself from my embrace were in vain. A smile stole over the chieftain’s face. He advanced to the dark-browed woman and spoke to her earnestly.
Then he raised me up, placed my hand in hers, and led us to the door, followed by the young woman with the child in her arms. Outside the lodge he beckoned a young Indian to his side and delivered a message to him. The young brave sped away swift as the wind. Whirling Thunder’s tribe soon stood around us, and in respectful silence they heard his speech, which was most earnestly and solemnly delivered.
Then the women and maidens of the tribe came forward; each one presented me with some treasure. The young braves formed a circle and a solemn dance commenced, all of them extending their war clubs above my head and then laying them respectfully at the chieftain’s feet in token of submission to his will. I was then led away by Yoc-si-ca, the dark-browed woman. How changed her countenance! A star shone through the night of her eyes; a flush was on her cheeks. She stood proudly before her reconciled chieftain. She was no longer childless. She would no longer be a servant for her young and fairer rival, Ma-ha-la, for I, although I did not know it at the time, was the adopted daughter of the old chief and his first wife.
I was a princess of Whirling Thunder’s tribe. He was the most honored chieftain of the Winnebago Nation. The softest raiment and neatest of moccasins were mine, and a charm, a circle of polished bears’ claws, was placed around my neck. I was made to understand, by signs, that when I was at home, waking or sleeping, it must remain there, and it did for several years of my life. I played happily with my little chieftain, Eagle Eye, and to the Indians I was their princess, to be served, respected, protected, and even obeyed. All this suited me well; no happier child ever lived. The little chieftain grew fond of me, for Indian babies are like their pale-faced brothers, learning to love those who amuse and are kind to them. I began, soon, to pick up the language.
You're shittin me. Were we neighbors? . ![url]](http://[url]http://www.gothamist.com/attachments/arts_jen/2007_06_arts_ontheroadscroll.jpg[/url])
