Cogewea, the Half-Blood by Mourning Dove

Estranged from sympathy and joy, / Bearing each taunt which careless tongue / On his mysterious lineage flung. / Whole nights he spent by moonlight pale, / To wood and stream his hap to wail. / The Lady of the Lake

Cogewea seated on the veranda was endeavoring to interest herself in a book. It was a hot, lazy afternoon and she was alone. The family, including the shy-girl Mary, had gone to visit an Indian relative, leaving her with the old grandmother, whose small lodge stood not far from the farm house. Stemteemä never would consent to live in a modern dwelling with a solid roof, so her teepee had been erected, permitting her to continue after the ancient manner of her fading race. She was now sleeping on her blankets, after toiling all the forenoon at basket weaving.