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Updated: May 20, 2025
Without any preamble she said simply: "My fat'er a white man." Musq'oosis betrayed no surprise. "I know that," he replied. "My mot'er's fat'er, he white man too," she went on. He nodded. "Why you never tell me?" she asked, frowning slightly. He spread out his palms. "What's the use? You want to go. Got no place to go. Too much yo'ng to go. I t'ink you feel bad if I tell." She shook her head.
He filled his pipe and got it going well before he launched on his tale. "My fat'er, Simon Grampierre, he is educate'," he began. "He read in books, he write, he spik Angleys, he spik French, he spik the Cree. We are Cree half-breed. My fat'er's fat'er, my mot'er's fat'er, they white men. We are proud people. We own plenty land. We live in a good house. We are workers.
My mot'er's 'osban' is a hobo." She looked at his chin again. "Bishop Lajeunesse not scrape his chin," she stated. "Got long hair, so. He is fine man." Sam, not knowing exactly what to say, remained silent. He found it difficult to accommodate himself to a conversational Bela. She was much changed in the morning light from the inscrutable figure of the fire-side.
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.
I want so bad to come to the ot'er side of the tepee where you are, but I hold to my mot'er's blanket!" The man looked up. "Hm! You did, eh?" he exclaimed. "If I had known!" "But I t'ink I mos' not let you see I love you. So I mak' show I don' care at all. An' it hurt me ver' moch in my empty breast, 'Erbe't. But why I do it?
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