Give me your light, o’er the grass as you creep,
That I may joyfully go to my sleep.
Come, little fire-fly, come, little beast,
Come, and I’ll make you to-morrow a feast.
Come, little candle, that flies as I sing,
Bright little fairy-bug, night’s little king.
Come, and I’ll dance as you guide me along,
Come, and I’ll pay you, my bug, with a song!”
Beth could not learn the song; in fact, she had learned very little of the Indian language, while Virginia spoke it quite as well as English. In return for Adwa’s tales of Indian lore, Virginia would often tell the Bible stories she loved so well, old fables, or wonderful fairy tales; she even taught Iosco her favorite hymn. In this way the first six years of her life were passed, and her intellect and imagination were developed. In the same proportion she gained strength and vigor from the active games of the Indian children. She could climb a tree as nimbly as a squirrel, keep up with any child of her own size in the race, scramble down a steep cliff, or run over a narrow bridge formed only of a branch, as if she were in truth an Owaissa. Her life was light-hearted and sunny: no cloud of sorrow had yet obscured its baby brightness. But a dark cloud was fast gathering. Even when the cloud had broken away, the sun would never again be as bright as it had been before.