Explore "Cogewea, the Half-Blood" by Mourning Dove on Textopian. Read with annotations and highlights.
Listen not to what he tells you; / Lie not down upon the meadow. / Hiawatha
The last rays of the sun had faded on the western horizon when the two supplicants drew near the firelit teepee. Cogewea raised a finger to her lips for silence. For a moment they stood before she stooped to the low curtained entrance. The aged occupant welcomed her grandchild in Indian silence, but when her gaze met the grey one of the hated Shoyahpee, her own kindled and a frown knit her brow. This did not escape Cogewea, who, pointing across the fire to the familiar buffalo robe, addressed Densmore: