She comes and sits beside my door; An Indian woman, old and gray, And as I feed her broken bread We talk before she goes her way. She smiles and shows me from her pack The gleanings of her wandering day, Old coats, old shoes or anything That white folks gladly give away. She sits awhile and weaves a bit Upon a basket made to sell, And as I stand to watch her work A bit of gossip tries to tell. I hardly understand her words, Few thoughts can we exchange or tell, But as she lifts her pack again We smile and wish each other well. |