I have not been writing because when the days are clear and there is no wind I have taken every opportunity to play. I am now known among the women as the fiercest, most dangerous player of all the settlers, including Kate, who tried to keep up with me but was unable to. Even Father and James and Robbie took note as they watched some of our games. Father seemed happy I was enjoying myself and did not seem to notice my unladylike behaviour. Robbie was very proud of me.
It turns out that both Robbie and James are very good at games themselves. The boys play a game similar to ours, except that their ball is not a double but a single one. James is very good at driving the ball with his stick, which is what the men do instead of throwing it, but he is not as fearless as I and often has the ball stolen from him. No one steals the balls from me.
Robbie has become an expert at a sliding game. A strip of snow about 5 feet long is brushed off and iced down to make it slippery. At the end of the slope are small holes, around twelve of them. The tips of buffalo horns are rounded off to make little smooth stones and the young boys roll the stones down the slope, scoring points when they drop into the different holes. Robbie is patient and he concentrates fiercely. He and Peter often play together and have become quite a team. It seems our entire family has some kind of talent in the games.
I know that I should not be enjoying myself so much, and I fear that I am becoming a savage instead of helping the savages raise themselves up, but I cannot stop myself. I love the attention the other women give me and I love their praise. I simply try to put thoughts of Mother and her teachings aside. Sometimes it seems to be only harmless fun and nothing to be ashamed of, but at other times I know in my heart that it is wrong.
Kate has taken to tormenting me. “Is that the behaviour of a lady?” she squeals. “Oh my, look at Little Miss Manners now!” Fortunately we are not living in the same tent as she is, but I see her constantly anyway, as she is always somehow nearby. She is not to be got rid of.
It has been too windy to write. I have a moment on our first sunny day in a while — but only a moment. I must get to my chores. Still I want to relate how we have been spending our evenings.
Although the Indians don’t read from books as we do, they tell stories at night around the campfire, and now, after a month or so, I find that I am able to understand little bits and pieces. They often seem to be about animals. They believe that certain animals watch over them and guide them. It does not sound that different to me than our angels, except all the animals have such different personalities and are so vivid that it almost seems more exciting than an angel, who appears boring in comparison. But there you see again, dear diary, how I began to sink into their world and to forget the superiority of my own.
I had just fallen into a deep sleep last night when I was suddenly awakened by loud shouting outside. I could not imagine who would be out making such noise in the middle of the night. Robbie ran out of the tent after pulling on his moccasins, and then ran right back in again.
“Come see, come see!” he shouted.
We all followed him outside. He pointed up. To the sky. The sky was flooded with lights of all different shades and hues, just like a rainbow, but at night!
“Ghost dancers,” White Loon said.
“No, no,” Father corrected her. “It is aurora borealis.”
It was beautiful and I was in awe at the sight. We stood there as long as we could until the cold drove us back to the warmth of our tents and blankets.