Stories of Enchantment: The Ghost Flower

There is a region of our own land, far to the westward, where great mountains lift their serene heads into the eternal calm of the upper air. Sunrise and sunset paint them with unearthly beauties; and night, with its myriads of flashing stars or its splendid moon, shines down on their white foreheads, and bids them dream on through the coming ages, as they have done in the past. Among their barren valleys one sometimes lights upon a small oasis. A little mountain stream, fed by the melting snows of the peaks, leaps and sings and flashes to its grave in the desert sand. Its banks are fringed with cottonwood trees, and the short grass and underbrush flourish in their shade. Usually, some energetic American or Chinaman is ranching it there, and claiming all the valley; but far away from the towns and the mines one may sometimes come upon a band of Indians, living their own lives separate and alone in their secluded valley. A generation ago, a fierce war raged between the whites and the Indians; and during its progress a train of emigrants, passing near an Indian village, was attacked by the warriors of the tribe. All the whites were killed, except one little child, who crept away into the sagebrush, and, worn out with fear and fatigue, dropped asleep. There the wife of the chief medicine man of the tribe found her; and when the little one opened her eyes, and, putting up a piteous lip, began to sob, the woman gathered her into her arms with tender "No, no's" and soft guttural cooings, that soothed and quieted the child. For the Great Spirit had lately called her own baby "far over the terrible mountains" to the spirit land. And this little one crept into the bereaved heart of the Indian mother. She took the child to her husband, and received permission to keep her. And so the little girl, with her lint-white hair and blue eyes, grew up among the other children of the valley. Soon after the massacre of the wagon train, the tribe withdrew from the vengeance of the white soldiers to a fertile, wooded valley, hidden in the heart of the mountains. Here little "Snow-flower," as she was named, lived happy with her foster parents. Her Indian mother was very proud of her childish beauty, and took excellent care of her. She bathed her often, in the clear water of the little river that ran through the valley; for, contrary to the popular belief, the Indians of the mountain are cleanly in their habits, and bathe their persons and wash their garments frequently, if water is plentiful. She braided her fair hair, and made for her pretty little dresses of pink or red calico, bought at the trader's store at the agency, many weary miles away. In the winter, she wore over her dress a warm fur coat reaching to the ankles, with a hood at the back to draw over her head. This was made of the skins of jack rabbits. Warm leggings and moccasins helped to keep her warm, and she was usually very comfortable.

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