During the summer days my mother built her fire in the shadow of our
wigwam.
In the early morning our simple breakfast was spread upon the grass west
of our tepee. At the farthest point of the shade my mother sat beside
her fire, toasting a savory piece of dried meat. Near her, I sat upon my
feet, eating my dried meat with unleavened bread, and drinking strong
black coffee.
The morning meal was our quiet hour, when we two were entirely alone. At
noon, several who chanced to be passing by stopped to rest, and to share
our luncheon with us, for they were sure of our hospitality.
My uncle, whose death my mother ever lamented, was one of our nation's
bravest warriors. His name was on the lips of old men when talking of
the proud feats of valor; and it was mentioned by younger men, too, in
connection with deeds of gallantry. Old women praised him for his
kindness toward them; young women held him up as an ideal to their
sweethearts. Every one loved him, and my mother worshiped his memory.
Thus it happened that even strangers were sure of welcome in our lodge,
if they but asked a favor in my uncle's name.
Though I heard many strange experiences related by these wayfarers, I
loved best the evening meal, for that was the time old legends were
told. I was always glad when the sun hung low in the west, for then my
mother sent me to invite the neighboring old men and women to eat supper
with us. Running all the way to the wigwams, I halted shyly at the
entrances. Sometimes I stood long moments without saying a word. It was
not any fear that made me so dumb when out upon such a happy errand; nor
was it that I wished to withhold the invitation, for it was all I could
do to observe this very proper silence. But it was a sensing of the
atmosphere, to assure myself that I should not hinder other plans. My
mother used to say to me, as I was almost bounding away for the old
people: "Wait a moment before you invite any one. If other plans are
being discussed, do not interfere, but go elsewhere."
The old folks knew the meaning of my pauses; and often they coaxed my
confidence by asking, "What do you seek, little granddaughter?"
"My mother says you are to come to our tepee this evening," I instantly
exploded, and breathed the freer afterwards.
"Yes, yes, gladly, gladly I shall come!" each replied. Rising at once
and carrying their blankets across one shoulder, they flocked leisurely
from their various wigwams toward our dwelling.
My mission done, I ran back, skipping and jumping with delight. All out
of breath, I told my mother almost the exact words of the answers to my
invitation. Frequently she asked, "What were they doing when you entered
their tepee?" This taught me to remember all I saw at a single glance.
Often I told my mother my impressions without being questioned.
While in the neighboring wigwams sometimes an old Indian woman asked me,
"What is your mother doing?" Unless my mother had cautioned me not to
tell, I generally answered her questions without reserve.
At the arrival of our guests I sat close to my mother, and did not
leave her side without first asking her consent. I ate my supper in
quiet, listening patiently to the talk of the old people, wishing all
the time that they would begin the stories I loved best. At last, when I
could not wait any longer, I whispered in my mother's ear, "Ask them to
tell an Iktomi story, mother."
Soothing my impatience, my mother said aloud, "My little daughter is
anxious to hear your legends." By this time all were through eating, and
the evening was fast deepening into twilight.
As each in turn began to tell a legend, I pillowed my head in my
mother's lap; and lying flat upon my back, I watched the stars as they
peeped down upon me, one by one. The increasing interest of the tale
aroused me, and I sat up eagerly listening to every word. The old women
made funny remarks, and laughed so heartily that I could not help
joining them.
The distant howling of a pack of wolves or the hooting of an owl in the
river bottom frightened me, and I nestled into my mother's lap. She
added some dry sticks to the open fire, and the bright flames leaped up
into the faces of the old folks as they sat around in a great circle.
On such an evening, I remember the glare of the fire shone on a tattooed
star upon the brow of the old warrior who was telling a story. I watched
him curiously as he made his unconscious gestures. The blue star upon
his bronzed forehead was a puzzle to me. Looking about, I saw two
parallel lines on the chin of one of the old women. The rest had none. I
examined my mother's face, but found no sign there.
After the warrior's story was finished, I asked the old woman the
meaning of the blue lines on her chin, looking all the while out of the
corners of my eyes at the warrior with the star on his forehead. I was a
little afraid that he would rebuke me for my boldness.
Here the old woman began: "Why, my grandchild, they are signs,--secret
signs I dare not tell you. I shall, however, tell you a wonderful story
about a woman who had a cross tattooed upon each of her cheeks."
It was a long story of a woman whose magic power lay hidden behind the
marks upon her face. I fell asleep before the story was completed.
Ever after that night I felt suspicious of tattooed people. Wherever I
saw one I glanced furtively at the mark and round about it, wondering
what terrible magic power was covered there.
It was rarely that such a fearful story as this one was told by the camp
fire. Its impression was so acute that the picture still remains vividly
clear and pronounced.