LITTLE TURTLE, THE INDIAN boy, heard the faltering words and hurried faster. The new captive girl was singing. She was singing a strange song of the white people. She must be happy today. She had put her sorrow aside at last. It had not taken Little Turtle long to find out that when the white girl was sent to bring water from the spring daily she ran off to the forest, sat under the walnut tree and cried for hours. He wondered that Squirrel Woman and Shining Star allowed it. Every day he expected to see Squirrel Woman, cross and ugly, march out and with kicks and blows fetch the girl home. But she did not come. Perhaps she knew as he did that the white girl’s sorrow must wear itself out. There was no hurry. As each moon passed, her unhappiness would fade. There were many moons to come. But in the meantime he did what he could. Day by day he followed Corn Tassel to the woods, and when she had dried her tears, took her by the hand and coaxed her home. Day by day he talked to her patiently in the Seneca language, pointing out objects and repeating their Indian names over and over, in the hope that some day she could speak to him in reply.
