It was about 100 years ago on the banks of the Misourri River. An old Indian chief is standing with all his children at his feet. He turns to the prettiest and quietest children and he say:
"My child, your beauty surpasses the majestic mountains that border our hunting grounds from the east and to the west. Your eyes like the deep pools in the river that flows past our lodges on the old winter evening. Your hair is silvertipped and shiny like that of the grizzly after he has feasted on the honey of the wild bee in the summer. I've seen the way your eyes light up when the young warrior Strongbow returns from the hunt, and the way you reach out to touch and caress him but he shies away my child, because he knows your father is the chief. Suddenly I realise you are 21 summers old and far wise enough to choose a mate for your self. But damn it Son... this isn't right..
