remember one hot day in June, when father was sitting under a tree in
front of the house, and I was inside helping mother, we heard the
peculiar noises which told us that father had an Indian visitor. We both
went to the door, and I passed outside to laugh at their queer talk.

Sure enough, an Indian was seated in the other chair, and he and father
were talking with great animation.

The Indian was of a stout build, and wore a straw hat with a broad, red
band around it; he had on a fine, black broad-cloth coat, but his
trousers were shabby and his shoes were pretty well worn.

His face was bright and intelligent, and I watched it very closely as he
talked in his earnest way with father, who was equally animated in
answering him.

The Indian carried a rifle and a revolver--the latter being in plain
sight at his waist--but I never connected the thought of danger with
him as he sat there talking with father.

I describe this Indian rather closely, as he was no other than the
well-known chief, Little Crow, who was at the head of the frightful
Sioux war, which broke out within sixty days from that time.

The famous chieftain staid until the sun went down. Then he started up
and walked away rapidly in the direction of Lac Qui Parle. Father called
good-by to him, but he did not reply and soon disappeared in the woods.

The sky was cloudy, and it looked as if a storm was coming; so, as it
was dark and blustering, we remained within doors the rest of the
evening. A fine drizzling rain began to fall, and the darkness was
intense.

The evening was well advanced, and father was reading to us, when there
came a rap upon the door.

It was so gentle and timid that it sounded like the pecking of a bird,
and we all looked in the direction of the door, uncertain what it
meant.

"It is a bird, scared by the storm," said father, "and we may as well
admit it."

I sat much nearer the door than either of my parents, and instantly
started up and opened it. As I did so, I looked out into the gloom, but
sprung back the next moment with a low cry of alarm.

"What's the matter?" asked father, hastily laying down his book and
walking rapidly toward me.

"It isn't a bird; it's a person." As I spoke, a little Indian girl,
about my own age, walked into the room, and looking in each of our
faces, asked in the Sioux language whether she could stay all night.

I closed the door and we gathered around her. She had the prettiest,
daintie