“The heart of the father is always open to the words of his child,” replied the chief, drawing the little form of the girl to him as he spoke, and smoothing back the dark masses of ebon hair from her low forehead.
“Will my father be angry if Le-a-pah speaks straight?” and the girl looked shyly into her father’s face as she spoke.
“Let my daughter speak; the chief will not be angry at his singing-bird, because her tongue is not forked,” said Ke-ne-ha-ha, tenderly.
“My father is the great chief of the Shawnee nation; will my father be angry if his child has looked upon a young brave with loving eyes?”
An earnest look the chief cast into his daughter’s face.
“The singing-bird wishes to leave her father, then?”
“Did not the mother of the singing-bird leave her father when she came to sing in the lodge of the great chief?” the maiden asked, shyly.
“My daughter speaks straight. It is the course of nature. The leaf falls from the tree and seeks the embrace of the earth. What is the name of the chief in whose wigwam Le-a-pah would sing?”
“He is only a young brave,” began the girl, timidly.
“Youth is not a crime,” interrupted the chief; “nor would I give my child to a brave whose hairs are like the snow in color. Spring should not sit in the lap of Winter, else her blood will be chilled into ice—it is bad.”