The Moccasin Maker


The Moccasin Maker is a collection of short-story of prose written by a pure blood. You will like it. It was published shortly after her death in 1913.

Her native land and the Empire should be glad of her for the work, interesting, vivid and human, which she has done.

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My Mother

Indian Mission

A Suitable Marriage for Him

George and Lydia

Not Married at the Cathedral

The Marriage

In Their New Home

The Most Beautiful Son

To the Indian Reserve

Her Own Little Moccasin

Two Friends

The Great Shadow

The First Attack

The Children Left

Write Poetry

Catharine of the "Crow's Nest"

Early Winter

Strange History

A Red Girl's Reasoning

The Sweetest Wildflower


He Found Her

The Envoy Extraordinary

The Cow

A Pagan in St. Paul's Cathedral

The Great Spirit

Beat of the Drum

The Little Christian Girl

The Legend of Lillooet Falls

Her Majesty's Guest

A Story of the Canadian North-West Mounted Police

Mother of the Men

The Nest Builder

The Tenas Klootchman

Is She Yours Now?

The Derelict


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Note about the cover : Image from Shooarts /

A Suitable Marriage for Him

Perhaps it was this grey shadow stealing on the forest mission, the thought of the day when that beautiful mothering sister would leave his little friend Lydia alone with a bereft man and four small children, or perhaps it was a yet more personal note in his life that brought George Mansion to the realization of what this girl had grown to be to him.

Indian-wise, his parents had arranged a suitable marriage for him, selecting a girl of his own tribe, of the correct clan to mate with his own, so that the line of blood heritage would be intact, and the sons of the next generation would be of the "Blood Royal," qualified by rightful lineage to inherit the title of chief.

This Mohawk girl was attractive, young, and had a partial English education. Her parents were fairly prosperous, owners of many acres, and much forest and timber country. The arrangement was regarded as an ideal one – the young people as perfectly and diplomatically mated as it was possible to be. But when his parents approached the young chief with the proposition, he met it with instant refusal.

"My father, my mother," he begged, "I ask you to forgive me this one disobedience. I ask you to forgive that I have, amid my fight and struggle for English education, forgotten a single custom of my people. I have tried to honor all the ancient rules and usages of my forefathers, but I forgot this one thing, and I cannot, cannot do it! My wife I must choose for myself."

"You will marry – whom, then?" asked the old chief.

"I have given no thought to it – yet," he faltered.

"Yes," said his mother, urged by the knowing heart of a woman, "yes, George, you have thought of it."

"Only this hour," he answered, looking directly into his mother's eyes. "Only now that I see you want me to give my life to someone else. But my life belongs to the white girl, Mrs. Evans' sister, if she will take it. I shall offer it to her tomorrow – today."

His mother's face took on the shadow of age. "You would marry a white girl?" she exclaimed, incredulously.

"Yes," came the reply, briefly, decidedly.

"But your children, your sons and hers – they could never hold the title, never be chief," she said, rising to her feet.

He winced. "I know it. I had not thought of it before – but I know it. Still, I would marry her."

"But there would be no more chiefs of the Grand Mansion name," cut in his father. "The title would go to your aunt's sons. She is a Grand Mansion no longer. She, being married, is merely a Straight-Shot, her husband's name. The Straight-Shots never had noble blood, never wore a title. Shall our family title go to a Straight-Shot?" and the elder chief mouthed the name contemptuously.

Again the boy winced. The hurt of it all was sinking in – he hated the Straight-Shots, he loved his own blood and bone. With lightning rapidity he weighed it all mentally, then spoke:

"Perhaps the white girl will not marry me," he said slowly, and the thought of it drove the dark red from his cheeks, drove his finger-nails into his palms.

"Then, then you will marry Dawendine, our choice?" cried his mother, hopefully.

"I shall marry no one but the white girl," he answered, with set lips. "If she will not marry me, I shall never marry, so the Straight-Shots will have our title, anyway."

The door closed behind him. It was as if it had shut forever between him and his own.

But even with this threatened calamity looming before her, the old Indian mother's hurt heart swelled with a certain pride in his wilful actions.

"What bravery!" she exclaimed. "What courage to hold to his own choice! What a man!"

"Yes," half bemoaned his father, "he is a red man through and through. He defies his whole nation in his fearlessness, his lawlessness. Even I bow to his bravery, his self-will, but that bravery is hurting me here, here!" and the ancient chief laid his hand above his heart.

There was no reply to be made by the proud though pained mother. She folded her "broadcloth" about her, filled her small carved pipe and sat for many hours smoking silently, silently, silently.

Now and again she shook her head mournfully, but her dark eyes would flash at times with an emotion that contradicted her dejected attitude. It was an emotion born of self-exaltation, for had she not mothered a man? – albeit that manhood was revealing itself in scorning the traditions and customs of her ancient race.

And young George was returning from his father's house to the Mission with equally mixed emotions. He knew he had dealt an almost unforgivable blow to those beloved parents whom he had honored and obeyed from his babyhood. Once he almost turned back...

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Mots clés : Mocassin Maker, E. Pauline Johnson, Tedahionwake, Indian Mission, Red Girl Reasoning, Canadian North-West Mounted Police, Mohawk Girl,