. . . That grandchild of yours has been here—well, I do not quite know how many days it is; nobody can keep account of days or anything else where she is!  Mother, she did what the Indians were never able to do.  She took the Fort—took it the first day!  Took me, too; took the colonels, the captains, the women, the children, and the dumb brutes¹; took Buffalo² Bill, and all his scouts⁴; took the garrison—to the last man; and in forty-eight hours the Indian encampment was hers, illustrious old Thunder-Bird and all.  Do I seem to have lost my solemnity, my gravity, my poise⁵, my dignity?  You would lose your own, in my circumstances.  Mother, you never saw such a winning little devil.  She is all energy, and spirit, and sunshine, and interest in everybody and everything, and pours out her prodigal⁶ love upon every creature that will take it, high or low, Christian⁷ or pagan, feathered or furred; and none has declined it to date, and none ever will, I think.  But she has a temper, and sometimes it catches fire and flames up, and is likely to burn whatever is near it; but it is soon over, the passion goes as quickly as it comes.  Of course she has an Indian name already; Indians always rechristen a stranger early.  Thunder-Bird attended to her case.  He gave her the Indian equivalent for firebug, or fire-fly.  He said:

 

“’Times, ver’ quiet, ver’ soft, like summer night, but when she mad she blaze.”

 

Isn’t it good?  Can’t you see the flare⁸?  She’s beautiful, mother, beautiful as a picture; and there is a touch of you in her face, and of her father—poor George! and in her unresting activities, and her fearless ways, and her sunbursts and cloudbursts, she is always bringing George back to me.  These

分享到：