pression--almost of despair--into which we are all
liable to fall--days when nothing that we have done seems worth
while--moods of groping indecision during which we groan and most
unworthily complain. I am no exception. For several months after the
publication of _Hesper_ I experienced a despairing emptiness, a sense of
unworthiness, a feeling of weakness which I am certain made me a burden
to my long-suffering wife.

"What shall I do now?" I asked myself.

From my standpoint as a novelist of The Great Northwest, there remained
another subject of study, the red man--The Sioux and the Algonquin
loomed large in the prairie landscape. They were, in fact, quite as
significant in the history of the border as the pioneer himself, for
they were his antagonists. Not content with using the Indian as an actor
in stories like _The Captain of the Gray Horse Troop_, I had done
something more direct and worthy through a manuscript which I called
_The Silent Eaters_, a story in which I tried to put the Sitting Bull's
case as one of his partisans might have depicted it. I had failed for
lack of detailed knowledge, and the manuscript lay in my desk untouched.

It was in this period of doubt and disheartenment that I turned to my
little daughter with gratitude and a deep sense of the mystery of her
coming. The never-ending surprise of her presence filled me with
delight. Like billions of other Daddies I forgot my worries as I looked
into her tranquil eyes. To protect and educate her seemed at the moment
my chiefest care.

During the mother's period of convalescence I acted--in my hours of
leisure--as nurse-maid quite indifferent to the smiles of spectators,
who made question of my method. I became an expert in holding the babe
so that her spine should not be over-taxed, and I think she liked to
feel the grip of my big fingers. That she appreciated the lullabies I
sang to her I am certain, for even my Aunt Deborah was forced to admit
that my control of my daughter's slumber period was remarkably
efficient.

The coming of this child changed the universe for me. She brought into
my life a new element, a new consideration. The insoluble mystery of
sex, the heroism of maternity, the measureless wrongs of womankind and
the selfish cruelty of man rose into my thinking with such power that I
began to write of them, although they had held but academic interest
hitherto. With that tiny woman in my arms I looked into the faces of my
fellow m