But never said 'BIG HAIR.'"

"Did he tell you your mother died two years ago?"

"Yes--father, him dead, too. Both died in the plains. Father was
shot by robbers. Mother was left in big wagon--you bury her near
this mountain."

"Oh, ho! So your father was killed at the same time your mother was,
eh?"

"Yes."

"Well--all right. And now you got nobody but me to look after you--
but you don't need no more; as long as I'm able to be up and about,
nothing is going to hurt you. Just you tell me what you want, and
it'll be did."

"Want to be ALL like white people; want to be just like mother."

"Well, I'll teach you as fur up as I've been myself. Your style of
talk ain't correct, but it was the best Red Feather could do by you.
Him and you lay down your words like stepping-stones for your
thoughts to step over; but just listen at me, how smooth and fine-
textured my language is, with no breaks or crevices from the
beginning of my periods to where my voice steps down to start on a
lower ledge. That's the way white people talks, not that they got
more to say than Injuns, but they fills in, and embodies everything,
like filling up cabin-walls with mud. I'll take you by the hand
right from where Red Feather left you, and carry you up the heights."