I was sitting on my daughter’s bed reading Laura Ingalls Wilder, and this and other scenes in “Little House on the Prairie” stopped me cold. What had been, in my gauzy memory, a beautiful and pure story was complicated by passages like this: “Why don’t you like Indians, Ma?” Laura asked, and she caught a drop of molasses with her tongue. “I just don’t like them; and don’t lick your fingers, Laura,” said Ma.