"Mother, why is not your house cemented? Do you have no interest in a
more comfortable shelter?" I asked, when the apparent inconveniences of
her home seemed to suggest indifference on her part.

"You forget, my child, that I am now old, and I do not work with beads
any more. Your brother Dawée, too, has lost his position, and we are
left without means to buy even a morsel of food," she replied.

Dawée was a government clerk in our reservation when I last heard from
him. I was surprised upon hearing what my mother said concerning his
lack of employment. Seeing the puzzled expression on my face, she
continued: "Dawée! Oh, has he not told you that the Great Father at
Washington sent a white son to take your brother's pen from him? Since
then Dawée has not been able to make use of the education the Eastern
school has given him."

I found no words with which to answer satisfactorily. I found no reason
with which to cool my inflamed feelings.

Dawée was a whole day's journey off on the prairie, and my mother did
not expect him until the next day. We were silent.

When, at length, I raised my head to hear more clearly the moaning of
the wind in the corner logs, I noticed the daylight streaming into the
dingy room through several places where the logs fitted unevenly.
Turning to my mother, I urged her to tell me more about Dawée's trouble,
but she only said: "Well, my daughter, this village has been these many
winters a refuge for white robbers. The Indian cannot complain to the
Great Father in Washington without suffering outrage for it here. Dawée
tried to secure justice for our tribe in a small matter, and today you