Cogewea, the Half-Blood by Mourning Dove

No more shalt thou from grassy and beflowered spot, / In peaceful rest look upon the silent world; / Nor again, in thy majestic wrath, arise and hurl / Thy mighty form in fiercest fray -- / (To the Last Buffalo) Sandbar

Densmore's declaration under the pines had thrilled Cogewea, as no words ever had. Could he really love her and was he sincere? She questioned herself. Perhaps after all she was to come into the life she had ofttimes pictured -- a home -- a husband who loved books and who would appreciate her efforts at making their domicile a place of endearment and happiness. Refined, he was so particular about his dress and he never ate with his knife, where, in the free, wild range, table manners were given but slight consideration. Somehow she wished that he could throw a rope like Jim -- and -- swear a bit on provocation. Perhaps he would learn.