The
Ancient White Fire was covered with ash; not a glimmer did _Higayuli
Tsunega_ afford her, not a flicker. What a mockery was it that _Kananiski
Gigage_ should pretend to weave his web so fast, so fine, about the
child, and yet suffer its strong meshes to be burst apart by a mere word.
It was not the obsolete word which the visitor sought, for as he sat
outside her door in a chair, brought from within the cabin, while she
crouched on the threshold, and the interpreter perched on the stump of a
tree, an interruption occurred that flung those enigmatic syllables back
on the mysterious past forever. "Polly Hopkins" in her poor and ragged
calico gown--for the picturesque Indian garb of yore is now but a
tradition in the Qualla Boundary--had barely lifted her head in her
flapping old sunbonnet that scarcely disguised its pose of surprised
expectation, when a sound came from the interior of the house as
turbulent as the approach of a troop of wild horses, and instantly there
rushed out into the sunshine a sturdy blond child with wide, daring blue
eyes, golden hair, muscular bare legs, arrayed in a queer little frock of
blue gingham, and no further garb than the graces of his own symmetry.
Pages:
181
182
183
184
185
186
187
188
189
190
191
192
193
194
195
196
197
198
199
200
201
202
203
204
205