A simple Omaha Indian maid,
Modest and shy, yet unafraid.
Who left her loved Nebraska plains
To walk the white man’s path with pains,
And grew to earnest womanhood
With all the white man’s lore endued.
In quick intelligence and grace
The woman leader of her race,
Living to move with step serene
In highest culture’s fairest scene,
Yet never in that scene forgot
Her Indian home and tribal lot.
The Blackbird Hills to her were good,
The tepee and the earth lodge rude,
And busy years could not efface
Child memories of the buffalo chase.
To tell the legends of her tribe,
Fondly its feasts and faith describe
She loved, but in her heart more near
She held the Indian people dear.
The humble teacher of her race,
She lifted them to higher place;
She championed their sore distress
In crowded audience hall and press;
She crossed the sea to waken throngs
In Europe to the red man’s wrongs:
She sleeps—her name, Inshta Theumba,
Lives ever with the Omaha.


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