"Tell me," said, Hiatu-we-noken-chah, or 'woman of the night,' "the
Great Spirit whom you have taught me to fear, why has he made the white
woman rich and happy, and the Dahcotah poor and miserable?" She spoke
with bitterness when she remembered the years of sorrow that had made up
the sum of her existence.
But how with the missionary's wife? had her life been one bright
dream--had her days been always full of gladness--her nights quiet and
free from care? Had she never longed for the time of repose, that
darkness might cover her as with a mantle--and when 'sleep forsook the
wretched,' did she not pray for the breaking of the day, that she might
again forget all in the performance of the duties of her station? Could
it be that the Creator had balanced the happiness of one portion of his
children against the wretchedness of the rest? Let her story answer.
Her home is now among the forests of the west. As a child she would
tremble when she heard of the savage whose only happiness was in
shedding the blood of his fellow creatures. The name of an "Indian" when
uttered by her nurse would check the boisterous gayety of the day or the
tedious restlessness of the night.
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