"It is a bird, scared by the storm," said father, "and we may as well
admit it."
I sat much nearer the door than either of my parents, and instantly
started up and opened it. As I did so, I looked out into the gloom, but
sprung back the next moment with a low cry of alarm.
"What's the matter?" asked father, hastily laying down his book and
walking rapidly toward me.
"It isn't a bird; it's a person." As I spoke, a little Indian girl,
about my own age, walked into the room, and looking in each of our
faces, asked in the Sioux language whether she could stay all night.
I closed the door and we gathered around her. She had the prettiest,
daintiest moccasins, but her limbs were bare from the knee downward. She
wore a large shawl about her shoulders, while her coarse, black hair
hung loosely below her waist.
Her face was very pretty, and her eyes were as black as coal and seemed
to flash fire whenever she looked upon any one.
Of course, her clothing was dripping with moisture, and her call filled
us all with wonder. She could speak only a few words of English, so her
face lighted up with pleasure when father addressed her in the Sioux
language.
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