Seventy winters have passed over her, but the brightness of her eye is
undimmed by time. Her brow speaks of intellect--and the white hair that
is parted over it falls unplaited on her shoulders. She folds her
blanket round her and seats herself; she has a request to make, I know,
but Checkered Cloud is not a beggar, she never asks aught but what she
feels she has a right to claim.
"Long ago," she says, "the Dahcotah owned lands that the white man now
claims; the trees, the rivers, were all our own. But the Great Spirit
has been angry with his children; he has taken their forests and their
hunting grounds, and given them to others.
"When I was young, I feared not wind nor storm. Days have I wandered
with the hunters of my tribe, that they might bring home many buffalo
for food, and to make our wigwams. Then, I cared not for cold and
fatigue, for I was young and happy. But now I am old; my children have
gone before me to the 'House of Spirits'--the tender boughs have yielded
to the first rough wind of autumn, while the parent tree has stood and
borne the winter's storm.
"My sons have fallen by the tomahawk of their enemies; my daughter
sleeps under the foaming waters of the Falls.
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