I
fled from their cries of triumph--I longed to plunge the knife into my
own heart.
"I have lived on. But sorrow and cold and hunger have bowed my spirit;
and my limbs are not as strong and active as they were in my youth.
Neither can I work with porcupine as I used to--for age and tears have
dimmed my sight. I bring you venison and fish, will you not give me
clothes to protect me from the winter's cold?"
Ah! Checkered Cloud--he was a prophet who named you. Though the cloud
has varied, now passing away, now returning blacker than before--though
the cheering light of the sun has for a moment dispelled the gloom--
'twas but for a moment! for it was sure to break in terrors over your
head. Your name is your history, your life has been a checkered cloud!
But the storm of the day has yielded to the influence of the setting
sun. The thunder has ceased to roll, the wind has died away, and the
golden streaks that bound the horizon promise a brighter morning. So
with Checkered Cloud, the storm and strife of the earth have ceased; the
"battle of life" is fought, and she has conquered.
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