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Updated: June 7, 2025
"Musq'oosis," she corrected. "That name mean little bear. He is my friend. He friend to my fat'er, too. He is little. Got crooked back. Know everything." "Where do you live, Bela?" he asked. "Over the lake by Hah-wah-sepi," she answered readily. On second thought, she corrected the statement. "No; before I am live there. My mot'er live there. Now I live where I am. Got no home. Got no people."
"I thought her name was Bela Charley." "Her mot'er marry Charley Fish-Eater after," explained Musq'oosis. "People forget Walter Forest's baby. So call Bela Charley. Right name Bela Forest." "Well," said Joe, "that's quite a story. Did he leave any property?" Musq'oosis glanced at him sharply. His suspicions began to be aroused. "No," he said shortly. "That's a lie!" thought Joe.
Musq'oosis sighed and went on. "The Fish-Eaters was camp down the lake by Musquasepi then. Your mot'er was there. She ver' pretty girl. Mos' pretties' girl in the tribe, I guess." "Pretty?" said Bela, amazed. "She is the first one we see when we come. We are paddling up the river and she is setting muskrat trap on the bank. Your fat'er look at her. Her look at your fat'er.
Ambrose explained. "Bring all your things," said Tole. "You stay at our house now till you go back. My mot'er got good medicine. She cure mal de tête." Ambrose reflected bitterly that Mrs. Grampierre's simples could hardly reach his complaint. Nevertheless, he was not anxious to be left alone he was not one to nourish a sorrow.
"I have a whole tanned buckskin my father give to me when I go 'way; and my mot'er, she give silk, all colours. I make seven, eight, maybe ten pairs of glove, with cuffs; and work them with silk flowers! No woman can work so good with silk than me! I work all the time there is light; and when all are done I get forty dollar in trade at the store!
They mak' me sick! My mot'er say to me; 'You eighteen year old, Rina; w'en you go to marry? I say to my mot'er, 'I never marry a pig-man; I want to stay to you." Her voice changed, borrowing the soft, passionate music of the nightingale she had never heard.
I not lak them ver' moch. Only my mot'er. But I am live there before for 'cause I not know not'ing. Well, one day I hit my fat'er wit' a stick no, hit my mot'er's 'osban' wit' a stick. So my mot'er tell me my fat'er a white man. Her fat'er white man, too. So I mos' white. So I go 'way from those people." "But you've got to have some home somebody to live with!" said Sam anxiously.
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