Her brow speaks of intellect--and the white hair that is parted over it falls unplaited on her shoulders.

She folds her blanket round her and seats herself; she has a request to make, I know, but Checkered Cloud is not a beggar, she never asks aught but what she feels she has a right to claim.
"Long ago," she says, "the Dahcotah owned lands that the white man now claims; the trees, the rivers, were all our own.

But the Great Spirit has been angry with his children; he has taken their forests and their hunting grounds, and given them to others.
"When I was young, I feared not wind nor storm.

Days have I wandered with the hunters of my tribe, that they might bring home many buffalo for food, and to make our wigwams.

Then, I cared not for cold and fatigue, for I was young and happy.