Kootenay women wear their head-kerchiefs in this manner, tied in the back, whereas the prairie Indians (Blackfeet and Sioux) wear theirs demurely fastened beneath the chin. They cling to this old custom, as well as to their beaded robes and big shell ear-rings

Susette wears a dress of black velvet, and has further followed her "civilized" sister by adorning it with imitation jewelry-shells that are "just as good" as the rare and valued elks' teeth. Her baby, however, is cradled in ancient fashion, in a papoose-case intri

cately and beautifully beaded

Squaw

BY JOHN FARRAR

Who am I? A hated thing, a squaw,
Patterned and pressed into a man-made mold,
Only to grind the corn, only to sow,

Only to watch, to wait, to wonder here.

When the great camp-fires touch the drooping stars,
And the wild night things cry across the moon-

I to the watch, I to the mourners, go,

Heavy in heart, weary in foot and womb,

Why must I press my hand across my mouth
To keep the cry of hate back in my soul?
Why must I lie awake and long to strike
The quiet face of him who lies beside?

Mountains and hills, you, too, lie passive here;
And valleys there below, you wonder, too.
Do you not long to turn your hearts to God,
To dance at noon-tide, and to love at night?

And when the hunt goes rustling through the marsh, When the quick deer's brown eyes peer through the fern, I would go softly, I would go swiftly, too,

Soft on the moss, swift and soft on the hills,

Long stride, swift stride, strong stride, true stride,

I the proud hunter,

I the proud marksman, I,

Bearer of bows and arrows,

I to bring home the dappled doe to roast.
But who am I? A hated thing, a squaw

When I have watched the red limbs gleam and pass,
When the bright arrows quiver in the flame,
Tom-tom and war-cry beat against my heart,
Devils of hate tear down my weaknesses.
Bring the red paint! Oh, bring the weapons here!
I would smear boldly on my naked limbs
Signals of blood, signals of hate, of war,

Dancing to madness in the open fire.

Beat your drums, O war chiefs! beat your drums!
Beat your drums, O war chiefs! beat your drums!
Hate to hate, arrow to arrow, beat,

Beat your drums, O war chiefs! beat your drums,

O war chiefs! beat your drums, O war chief! beat your drums! Drums, drums, flames, flames, I,

Foot to foot and naked breast to breast,

Beating, struggling, fighting, dying, I,

Braver than braves whose great hands dare the sun;

I, the warrior, I the savior of tribes,

I the hero of battles, equal of gods!

But who am I? A hated thing, a squaw.

So the sun sinks,

And so must I return.

Sink into stillness by the wigwam door.

Why should I stay quiet through the years,
Under his hand, under his feet?

O soul,

O woman's soul, why must you dream and wait?
Break from his hand!

Break from his hand!

Go free!

Go cast yourself before the ready wind!

Let your loosed soul blow out on open ways!

Down and down below the great rocks lie.
I shall flee from him, cast myself below.

I would go freely, freely to the winds,
My old soul lying on new wings of god.

Down, down-one step

Why should I wait and dream?

Down, down-one step

Why should I wonder here?

Down, down-one step

Down, down!

Down-now, oh, hear!

Hear on the path,

Strongly and strongly there,

Pound of great strides.

How strong, how strong and brave!

Back from the hunt he comes,

O strong, O brave!

Shall I turn humbly now to meet his arms?

Down, down-one step

No! no!

There is no question, there is no waiting now;
Only I know I need his great arms here,
Only I know I need his hot lips here,

Only I know he is the life of me.

Wars, hunts, souls, bodies, hearts, and gods.

Are mingled in the burning of his eyes.

Take me, beat me, crush me,

Love me-so!

Break me beneath the stone that grinds the corn!

I am your field, I am your broken field.

Take, then, the harvest;

Take-while I forget.

For who am I? A hated thing, a squaw.