"He knows your name," laughed Billy, stroking the small woolly head.
Bah sat down with her burden on her back and Billy sat beside her. The Indian mother continued to smile to herself as she went on weaving.
"Me glad you come," said Bah, smiling her friendly smile.
"Are you?" questioned Billy. "I couldn't wait to get here. You know, I've started to write a story—a real story like Father writes. It's going to be all about you!"
"Me?" the little girl pointed to herself. She realized that this was something important, for the white boy was excited and although the affair was very vague to her, she mustered up the enthusiasm necessary.
"I've written a poem to start it with. Want to hear it?"
"Oh, yes," Bah's eyes grew big. Just what a poem was didn't matter. It was important to know that Billy had written one. So he read—
"Bah, Bah Indian girl,
Have you any bread?
Yes sir, yes sir,
That's what I was fed.
When I was a papoose
I cried to my ma,
So she gave me bread,
And now my name is 'Bah'!"
There was a loud explosion from the corner where Mrs. Fighting Bull was weaving. Billy's face grew red. Mrs. Fighting Bull was laughing at him. Oh, now he knew he must have done something wrong!