“One morning I was awakened before dawn by some one punching me in the ribs with a stick—well I remember how it hurt—and I heard my father say, ‘We must drive this wretched boy away from here, I can not stand him any longer. Get up from there, dog-like!’ and he punched me again. My mother who had always until lately taken my part in any dispute, took no notice, but bent over the fireplace, and soon a little fire began to flicker and finally filled our wigwam with light. She went to the water jar just inside the door, and I saw her dip into it our oldest, blackest, greasiest gourd cup. Then she turned to me and her face, usually so kind, seemed hard as flint. ‘Drink, boy,’ she ordered, handing me that cup, and I wonderingly obeyed.