pillow. At her deathbed I stood weeping, as the paleface woman sat near
her moistening the dry lips. Among the folds of the bedclothes I saw
the open pages of the white man's Bible. The dying Indian girl talked
disconnectedly of Jesus the Christ and the paleface who was cooling her
swollen hands and feet.

I grew bitter, and censured the woman for cruel neglect of our physical
ills. I despised the pencils that moved automatically, and the one
teaspoon which dealt out, from a large bottle, healing to a row of
variously ailing Indian children. I blamed the hard-working,
well-meaning, ignorant woman who was inculcating in our hearts her
superstitious ideas. Though I was sullen in all my little troubles, as
soon as I felt better I was ready again to smile upon the cruel woman.
Within a week I was again actively testing the chains which tightly
bound my individuality like a mummy for burial.

The melancholy of those black days has left so long a shadow that it
darkens the path of years that have since gone by. These sad memories
rise above those of smoothly grinding school days. Perhaps my Indian
nature is the moaning wind which stirs them now for their present
record. But, however tempestuous this is within me, it comes out as the
low voice of a curiously colored seashell, which is only for those ears
that are bent with compassion to hear it.




VI.

FOUR STRANGE SUMMERS.