Cogewea, the Half-Blood by Mourning Dove

Grew up like the prairie lilies, / Grew a tall and slender maiden, / With the beauty of the moonlight, / With the beauty of the starlight. / Hiawatha

It was sunset on the river Pend d'Oreille. The last rays of the day-God, glinting through the tangled vines screening the great porch of the homestead of the Horseshoe Bend Ranch, fell upon a face of rare type. The features were rather prominent and well defined. The rich olive complexion, the grave, pensive countenance, proclaimed a proud descent from the only true American -- the Indian. Of mixed blood, was Cogewea; a "breed"! -- the socially ostracized of two races. Her eyes of the deepest jet, sparkled, when under excitement, like the ruby's fire. Hair of the same hue was as lustrous as the raven's wing, falling when loose, in great billowy folds, enveloping her entire form. Her voice was low and musical, with a laugh to madden the gods.