At the end of the village, almost on the edge of the high bluff that
towered above the river, rose a teepee, smaller than the rest. The open
door revealed the wasted form of Harpstenah, an aged woman.
Aged, but not with years! Evil had been the days of her pilgrimage.
The fire that had burned in the wigwam was all gone out, the dead ashes
lay in the centre, ever and anon scattered by the wind over the wretched
household articles that lay around. Gone out, too, were the flames that
once lighted with happiness the heart of Harpstenah.
The sorrows of earth, more pitiless than the winds of heaven, had
scattered forever the hopes that had made her a being of light and life.
The head that lies on the earth was once pillowed on the breast of the
lover of her youth. The arm that is heavily thrown from her once clasped
his children to her heart.
What if the rain pours in upon her, or the driving wind and hail scatter
her wild locks? She feels it not. Life is there, but the consciousness
of life is gone forever.
A heavier cloud hangs about her heart than that which darkens nature.
Pages:
278
279
280
281
282
283
284
285
286
287
288
289
290
291
292
293
294
295
296
297
298
299
300
301
302