Books with author Zitkala-Sa

American Indian Stories is a collection of childhood fiction stories written by Sioux writer Zitkala SA. It was first published in 1921 and describes the difficulties that confronted Native Americans in the schools designed to refine them. American Indian Stories gives an exceptional perspective into a society- the Native Americans- that is often looked down upon.

American Indian Stories details the hardships encountered by Zitkala-Ša and other Native Americans in the missionary and manual labour schools designed to "civilize" them. The autobiographical details contrast her early life on the Yankton Indian Reservation and her time as a student at White's Manual Labour Institute and Earlham College. The collection includes legends and stories from Sioux oral tradition, along with an essay titled America's Indian Problem, which advocates rights for Native Americans and calls for a greater understanding of Native American cultures. American Indian Stories offers a unique view into a society that is often overlooked though that society still persists to this day.

Based on the life of the author and members of her tribe, these stories provide a revealing glimpse into the world of the Dakota-Sioux at the turn of the last century. “There is no great; there is no small; in the mind that causeth all." Zitkala-Sa The audiobook is divided into two volumes. Volume One is based on the experiences of the author, and describes a young girl growing up in a changing environment. Volume Two consists of revealing stories about other members of her tribe. About the Author: Zitkala-Sa (Gertrude Bonnin) was a beautiful Dakota-Sioux Indian. She was a member of the Woman's National Foundation, League of American Pen-Women, and the Washington Salon. Through lectures and stories such as “Old Indian Legends” and “Americanize The First American,” she tried to make the public aware of Dakota-Sioux Indians, their culture and their plight.

At the age of seven, Zitkala-Sa describes herself as 'wild' and 'as free as the wind that blew her hair'. Recounting a conversation with her mother on one of their return trips from the river, Zitkala-Sa told her that when she is older like her 17-year-old cousin Warca-Ziwin, she will come and get water for her. Zitkala-Sa's mother responded, "If the paleface does not take away from us the river we drink".

"American Indian Stories" by Zitkala-Sa. Published by Good Press. Good Press publishes a wide range of titles that encompasses every genre. From well-known classics & literary fiction and non-fiction to forgotten−or yet undiscovered gems−of world literature, we issue the books that need to be read. Each Good Press edition has been meticulously edited and formatted to boost readability for all e-readers and devices. Our goal is to produce eBooks that are user-friendly and accessible to everyone in a high-quality digital format.

scending hills. A footpath wound its way gently down the sloping land till it reached the broad river bottom; creeping through the long swamp grasses that bent over it on either side, it came out on the edge of the Missouri. Here, morning, noon, and evening, my mother came to draw water from the muddy stream for our household use. Always, when my mother started for the river, I stopped my play to run along with her. She was only of medium height. Often she was sad and silent, at which times her full arched lips were compressed into hard and bitter lines, and shadows fell under her black eyes. Then I clung to her hand and begged to know what made the tears fall. "Hush; my little daughter must never talk about my tears"; and smiling through them, she patted my head and said, "Now let me see how fast you can run today." Whereupon I tore away at my highest possible speed, with my long black hair blowing in the breeze.

A wigwam of weather-stained canvas stood at the base of some irregularly ascending hills. A footpath wound its way gently down the sloping land till it reached the broad river bottom; creeping through the long swamp grasses that bent over it on either side, it came out on the edge of the Missouri.Here, morning, noon, and evening, my mother came to draw water from the muddy stream for our household use. Always, when my mother started for the river, I stopped my play to run along with her. She was only of medium height. Often she was sad and silent, at which times her full arched lips were compressed into hard and bitter lines, and shadows fell under her black eyes. Then I clung to her hand and begged to know what made the tears fall."Hush; my little daughter must never talk about my tears"; and smiling through them, she patted my head and said, "Now let me see how fast you can run today." Whereupon I tore away at my highest possible speed, with my long black hair blowing in the breeze.I was a wild little girl of seven. Loosely clad in a slip of brown buckskin, and light-footed with a pair of soft moccasins on my feet, I was as free as the wind that blew my hair, and no less spirited than a bounding deer. These were my mother's pride,—my wild freedom and overflowing spirits. She taught me no fear save that of intruding myself upon others.Having gone many paces ahead I stopped, panting for breath, and laughing with glee as my mother watched my every movement. I was not wholly conscious of myself, but was more keenly alive to the fire within. It was as if I were the activity, and my hands and feet were only experiments for my spirit to work upon.Returning from the river, I tugged beside my mother, with my hand upon the bucket I believed I was carrying. One time, on such a return, I remember a bit of conversation we had. My grown-up cousin, Warca-Ziwin (Sunflower), who was then seventeen, always went to the river alone for water for her mother. Their wigwam was not far from ours; and I saw her daily going to and from the river. I admired my cousin greatly. So I said: "Mother, when I am tall as my cousin Warca-Ziwin, you shall not have to come for water. I will do it for you."With a strange tremor in her voice which I could not understand, she answered, "If the paleface does not take away from us the river we drink.""Mother, who is this bad paleface?" I asked.