She fears not the thunder, nor sees the angry lightning. She has laid
upon the scaffold her youngest son, the last of the many ties that bound
her to earth.
One week before, her son entered the wigwam. He was not alone; his
comrade, "The Hail that Strikes," accompanied him.
Harpstenah had been tanning deer-skin near her door. She had planted two
poles firmly in the ground, and on them she had stretched the deer-skin.
With an iron instrument she constantly scraped the skin, throwing water
upon it. She had smoked it too, and now it was ready to make into
mocassins or leggins. She had determined, while she was tanning the
deer-skin, how she would embroider them. They should be richer and
handsomer even than those of their chief's son; nay, gayer than those
worn by the chief himself. She had beads and stained porcupine quills;
all were ready for her to sew.
The venison for the evening meal was cooked and placed in a wooden bowl
before the fire, when the two young men entered.
The son hardly noticed his mother's greeting, as he invited his friend
to partake of the venison.
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