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Little House on the Prairie

“Wild roved an Indian maid,

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.”
Where did the voice of Alfarata go, Ma?”

“Goodness!” Ma said. “Aren’t you asleep yet?”

“I’m going to sleep,” Laura said. “But please tell me where the voice of Alfarata went?”

“Oh I suppose she went west,” Ma answered. “That’s what the Indians do.”

“Why do they do that, Ma?” Laura asked. “Why do they go west?”

“They have to,” Ma said.

“Why do they have to?”

“The government makes them, Laura,” said Pa. “Now go to sleep.”

He played the fiddle softly for a while. Then Laura asked, “Please, Pa, can I ask just one more question?”

“May I,” said Ma.

Laura began again. “Pa, please, may I--”

“What is it?” Pa asked. It was not polite for little girls to interrupt, but of course Pa could do it.”