It's Sunday.
Laura loved to strroke the thick fur of red foxes. She liked the brown, soft fur of beaver, too, and the shaggy wolf’s fur. But best of all she loved the silky mink. Those were all furs that Pa saved to trade next spring in Independence. Laura and Mary had rabbit-skin caps, and Pa’s cap was muskrat. One day when Pa was hunting, two Indians came. They came into the house, because Jack was chained. Those Indians were dirty and scowling and mean. They acted as if the house belonged to them. One of them looked through Ma’s cupboard and took all the cornbread. The other took Pa’s tobacco-pouch. They looked at the pegs where Pa’s gun belonged. Then one of them picked up the bundle of furs. Ma held Baby Carrie in her arms, and Mary and Laura stood close to her. They looked at that Indian taking Pa’s furs. They couldn’t do anything to stop him. He carried them as far as the door. Then the other Indian said something to him. They made harsh sounds at each other in their throats, and he dropped the furs. They went away. Ma sat down. She hugged Mary and Laura close to her and Laura felt Ma’s heart beating. Ma said, smiling, that she was thankful they hadn’t taken the plow and seeds. Laura was surprised. She asked what plow. Ma said that the plow and all their seeds for next year were in that bundle of furs. When Pa came home they told him about those Indians, and he looked sober. But he said that all was well that ended well. That evening when Mary and Laura were in bed, Pa played his fiddle. Ma was rocking in the rocking-chair, holding Baby Carrie against her breast, and she began to sing softly with the fiddle: “Wild roved an Indian main, Bright Alfarata, Where flow the waters Of the blue Juniata. Strong and true my arrows are In my painted quiver, Swift goes my light canoe Adown the rapid river. Bold is my warrior good, The love of Alfarata, Proud wave his sunny plumes Along the Juniata. Soft and low he speaks to me, And then his war-cry sounding Rings his voice in thunder loud From height to height resounding. So sang the Indian maid, Bright Alfarata, Where sweep the waters Of the blue Juniata. Fleeting years have borne away The voice of Alfarata, Still flow the waters Of the blue Juniata.”
