Charles Alexander Eastman, or Ohiyesa (The Winner, 1858–1939), was born near Redwood Falls, Minnesota. His father was Sioux, and his mother, the daughter of a well-known army officer and granddaughter of Chief Cloud Man of the Sioux, died shortly after his birth. Eastman lived on the Santee Sioux (Dakota) reservation in Minnesota until, at the age of four, he fled with his grandmother and uncle to Canada following the Great Sioux Uprising of 1862. There he was raised by his grandmother and trained by his uncle to assume the life of a Dakota hunter and warrior. Meanwhile, Eastman’s father, Jacob, whom the family presumed dead as a result of the Mankato mass execution, was imprisoned. While in prison Jacob adopted the markers of civilization—he wore white man’s clothing, converted to Christianity, and learned English—and decided that his son should “learn this new way” of life. When Eastman was fifteen his father reappeared to take him to a tribal settlement in Flandreau, South Dakota. Jacob convinced Charles to attend the Santee Normal Training School. After leaving the boarding school Eastman continued his education at Beloit College, Knox College, Kimball Union Academy, Dartmouth College, and Boston University Medical School, where he became one of the first licensed Native American physicians.
In November 1890 Eastman became the government physician at the Pine Ridge reservation in South Dakota. Eastman cared for those Lakota who were injured during the massacre at Wounded Knee. In 1893, after resigning his post, he moved to St. Paul and launched his literary career by publishing in St. Nicholas: An Illustrated Magazine for Young Folks. That same year he delivered a speech, “Sioux Mythology,” at the World Columbian Exposition. Soon thereafter Eastman became a representative of the International Committee of the YMCA and served as their field secretary. He also worked briefly as an outing agent at the Carlisle Indian Industrial School, became a spokesman for the Boy Scouts, and was a founding member and officer of the Society of American Indians.
During a literary career that spanned almost thirty years, Eastman wrote ten books and published widely in periodicals. His nonfiction prose appeared in national magazines like St. Nicholas and Harper’s. He also published in venues geared toward those interested in Indian reform, namely, Carlisle’s school newspapers and the SAI’s magazine, the Quarterly Journal (later the American Indian Magazine). None of Eastman’s writings reprinted here appear in Michael Oren Fitzgerald’s 2007 edited collection, The Essential Charles Eastman (Ohiyesa): Light on the Indian World. (Eastman, Indian Boyhood, 246; Littlefield and Parins, Biobibliography: Supplement, 206; Peyer, American Indian Nonfiction, 368–71)
At a recent meeting of the Jamaica Plains Indian Association, the most novel attraction was the speech of C. A. Eastman, a full-blooded Sioux Indian, graduate of Dartmouth, and now a medical student at Boston University. He is described as “a young man of fine physique, with the admirable air of reserved force characteristic of his people.” This was but his second attempt to speak in public, and he held his audience in close attention. He said:—
I will speak of my father, rather than myself, for he has been of more importance to my race, and is to me the model of a strong and good character. He was once a warrior, who painted his face and scalped his enemies; but after the great Sioux war of twenty years ago, he was imprisoned for four years in Davenport, Iowa; and there he embraced Christianity, through the influence of the missionaries, Williamson and Riggs, who taught him to read the Bible in the Indian language and to write. My father surrendered himself voluntarily to this imprisonment because his near relatives were either there or probably dead in the war.
As a baby, I found myself in my grandmother’s care in the British dominions, and I grew up under the impression that the whites had killed my father and brothers, and my great desire was to “get at” one of these fellows and be even with him. When I was five years old, a tall Indian in citizen’s dress appeared before me, saying he was my father and had come hundreds of miles from his Dakota home to take me back with him and make a Christian man of me. I wondered what that might be. Every morning my father read his Bible, and my grandmother adopted his belief; but my uncle would have none of it. As I was generally off roaming, I heard little of all this discussion, and so I well remember the impression my father’s prayers first made upon me. It was at our first camping-ground by a beautiful lake, at sunrise on our way back to Dakota. The waterfowel were about and the birds went singing through the air, but far sweeter to me was my father’s voice as he sang “Ortonville.” I asked who this Jesus was that he sang about. He replied that it was a man from above, through whose influence he had come to make a man of me.
When my father was released from prison he was determined not to be confined on a reservation, so he went to Yankton to cut wood for the Missouri steamers, eventually hoping to take up land for a farm of his own. He was joined by twenty others and they took homesteads at Flandreau and sold ponies to obtain oxen.
Thus I found him established when I came back with him, but nothing could overcome my terror of my white neighbors, who would come in to exchange work; I would run in the barn. My father was anxious we should know the English language, and would always speak the few words he knew to spur us on. My older brother, a graduate of Beloit College, now teaches in Mr. Alfred Riggs’ Indian Normal School at Santee, Nebraska.
It is true my people love the chase far better than manual labor, and it is also true that the United States’ promises have been rotten for one hundred years back. I wanted to picture my good father to you tonight to prove that if Indians have land assured to them they will work, and I want to add that one hundred Indian families on the Big Sioux River have just eagerly cast their Republican vote.1
It seems to be characteristic of the white people, at least those on the frontier, that when one of them is cornered and at a disadvantage he is apt to use profuse profane language; and it is also characteristic of the old Indian warrior when one is forced to a corner and taken advantage of he will probably give a war whoop. But, as I am not given to either of these characteristics, I have to suppress my feelings after the Major [Richard Henry Pratt] has called me out, especially when I look at the good speakers here ready to address you tonight, and I will simply say a very few words. When one of the Senators, on visiting Congress the other day, asked me whether I was an “anti-scalper,” I happened at the time to be following a lobbyist into his room who was an anti-scalper.
I said, “Most assuredly I am an anti-scalper,” and when I first took that position some twenty-five years ago, I took my blanket and my bag and started from Sioux Falls, in South Dakota, to the Santee Agency up above Yankton on the Missouri River, some one hundred and thirty miles, on foot in search of education. In those days, this school having been established only about twenty years ago—the Government was not so generous to the Indian, and the Government was not so sympathetic as it has been since furnishing education, and I had to hunt for my education over the prairie. That accounts for my not being here at the Carlisle School.
But I want to say that the Sioux is not going to be left behind because he once evidenced roughness, atrociousness and barbarous qualities. Now my friend here, the physician, medicine man, or whatever you may call him thinks that the Apaches were beneath all civilization, and all that, but the Sioux were equally as bad when on the war path, yet they had those redeeming qualities that all races have. God has made them emotional, religious, and with proper training and under favorable environments they can develop those talents and those pure thoughts that are common to all men, and they will prove to be just as trustworthy, good people as any race.
I have found in the last few years of my traveling among the Indians a boy or girl here and there who had been instructed here, true to the principles that the Major and his corps of good teachers had instilled into their hearts and inculcated in their minds from the day of their arrival here until the day they left, and although sometimes at a disadvantage with no encouragement, and sometimes surrounded by unfortunate circumstances, they stick to the instruction that the Major gave them—“Stick to the truth,”—and today many of them are becoming self-supporting men and women.
There are times when I sit down by the camp fire that my heart swells. There are times when girls come to me and ask me for advice what they shall do under certain circumstances, and tell me a pathetic story. I say:
“What did Major Pratt tell you?”
She would reply that he told me to be truthful, be steady, persistent, stick to a position and push right on; live an honest life. And I say to her, “That is right.”
There is not a person living but has their storms; but has their hard weather to go through; but has to pass through deep rivers; but has to ascend rough mountains, and those who are not able to do these things had better never have lived. The survival of the fittest is almost as the Bible among all races, and in order to be equal to the great privilege of citizenship of these United States, we must use our own muscle, use our own mind and put our shoulder to our responsibilities wherever we are, whether among Indians or among white people.
There is but one Heaven over us and one earth under us. Heaven gave us light and Heaven gave us rain, and gave us all the food necessary for us so that we were well provided for before the white man put his foot upon this country. We didn’t lie idle: we chased our game from early morning to late at night, and we never stopped until we carried our game back to the tepees or wigwams to feed our wives and children. It is exactly the same thing today; we are in very different circumstances, but we must not lie idle. We must strive to overcome the prejudices that exist against us.
You must not think that our ancestors were indolent, thoughtless, aimless, without ability and purpose, that our people don’t have just as high aims and ability as you white people have today. Sometimes I think that our people have purer aims, when I see the aims of a great many office seekers that you have here who seek by mercenary means to bring about their purposes. I think our aims are freer from mercenary motives and no office seeking can change it.
I want to say to you that what this school is doing and has done we Indians will never realize, and when the Major is gone I hope and pray, that the seed which he has sowed may develop one hundred fold, and that those who have been taught here may develop into leaders among our people. God has produced some of the greatest men in the history of the world out of the poorest parentage; men who founded great nations; men who overcame difficulties; and I still longingly hope that some of these dark faces over here, young men and young women, may look to that and may have purer and higher ideals and press steadily onward and upward, that we may some day take a distinctive part in the great civilization of this western nation.2
“Ogalallas, pray to the Great Mystery! An Evil Spirit is enveloped in yonder cloud.” The speaker was a “Medicine Man” of savage repute, and the cloud to which he pointed was at the least an unusual sight. It had all the appearance of a cyclone, and it was swiftly approaching their encampment.
The warning was quickly heard, and the Ogalalla camp became a scene of turmoil. The people ran hither and thither, scarcely knowing which way to turn; some leading a child by the hand while another was carried on the back. Dogs were baying and ponies neighing shrilly as they wildly galloped along.
In the midst of it all an old retired brave with scarcely a garment upon his body, which was painted black, was seen calmly riding around the inside circle of the rows of teepees, singing a “Strong heart” chant. There was something solemn and mysterious about his conduct, yet there was no time for conjecture or questions. He paid not the least heed to the general terror of the camp. If someone there had reflected even for half a minute he would have clearly understood the old man’s action, for the Indian customs are familiar to all the people. But see what those old “Medicine Men” are doing on the outskirts of the camp. Each one is holding a huge, filled pipe with the mouthpiece foremost pointing heavenward. Some are singing Medicine songs, others are crying in a sing-song fashion, and still others are devoutly praying to the “Great Mystery” to turn aside the course of the “drunken Thunder Bird,” which is apparently about to devour them with all their possessions.
Most of the Ogalallas were acquainted with the occasional advent of the drunken Thunder Bird or cyclone.
The Bird’s wings, it is supposed, scarcely cover a mile laterally, and its course is an occasional downward sweep for a few miles and then upward. So they all ran for the line of safety.
But fortunately the winged inebriate took its upward flight before reaching the camp, therefore they received only the heavy rain and hail. What a triumph for the “Medicine Men!” They were considered from that hour to be among the greatest of their class.
Some say to this day that one of those priests can cause a hurricane to deviate from its course!
As the storm departed with a rattle of thunder like artillery after a heavy engagement, quiet succeeded. All the fleeing Ogalallas now returned. The men resumed their usual indifferent and stoical expression, which the Indian habitually assumes to conceal his real susceptibility. In fact, their calm was so completely restored that a stranger would not have guessed that there had been any excitement or disturbance in the camp but a few minutes before.
The “Medicine Men” had not been alone in seeking succor from Him who holds the lariat of the powers of the universe, for there were many who, though excitedly fleeing to be sure, were casting anxious glances heavenward, and were not unmindful of the fact that their God not only loves to give and to pity, but appreciates gifts himself, even though in the form of promises.
Feasts, Sun dances, and tobacco were the usual inducements presented to him. There was an old woman whose chief possessions were two litters of dogs. In the confusion it was impossible for her to carry them all; so finally, despairing and distracted, she seized two of the fat pups and held them aloft, while she excitedly entreated the “Great Mystery” this: “Be kind to me and mine, O Great Mystery! I give thee these two pups for thy feast!”
The topic of conversation throughout the village of tents was the narrow escape. What became of the old man who rode around the camp during the excitement? was the thought that came back like a flash, and closely following it another “Poor Black Pipe!”
The old man’s conduct needed no explanation now; but during the excitement everybody had only thought of the end of the world—his world, at the sight of the approaching hurricane.
In the sunshine of rejoicing over their escape, poor Black Pipe, the brave, was once more forgotten. He was then standing upon the highest butte in all that region, praying assiduously to the “Great Mystery” for a sign.
If the old man, his aged father, had been observed in his movements, he would have been seen to leave the camp as soon as the heavy storm subsided, when his pony carried him as fast as he could toward the highest butte. But he did not actually reach it. He paused at the foot of a lesser hill just below the other.
Breathlessly he climbed it and looked toward the summit of the high butte. He distinguished a form; though motionless it was still standing. Devoutly and with arms outstretched toward the blue sky he sang the praises of the “Great Mystery.”
Briefly, Black Pipe was a young brave of a suitable age, who was possessed of a burning ambition. Though quite young, he had already achieved for himself a reputation, according to the savage way of thinking. He had determined to seek some sign of the “Great Mystery.” If successful, his aim would be accomplished. He would then become a “Medicine Man” as well as a true brave.
Hence, he had taken all the preliminary steps with much deliberation. He had given a pony for the advice of one “Medicine Man,” and a blanket, which was then a rarity, to another for a similar service. At last, he had made a sweat or bath-house, which is really the altar of the “Medicine Man,” and invited a few of the noted ones. He had not spared any of his savage wealth in offerings. Therefore he was confident of success. Black Pipe was advised to fast and sojourn upon the highest butte for three days and three nights, singing, praying, and weeping. The songs were rude chants of exultation and praise to his God. In the first part of the prayer he enumerated to the Supreme Being his sacrifices and gifts ever since he could remember; that he had been an obedient and faithful son; in fine, he was deserving favor and mercy.
The weeping purported to be the last argument in his cause. It was an act of submission, and intended to solicit sympathy and pity, as a child begs of his father.
When the disturbance occurred below at the camp, the young man had been already two days and two nights upon the butte. Though exhausted and weak, he was an anxious spectator of the approaching cyclone. The animals and birds had apparently interested themselves in his solitary and helpless state, and did not fail to observe him from a respectful distance. Besides these unrequested offices, the wolves had evidently held, during the two nights, some sort of a meeting, at which they did not hesitate to make themselves heard all over the neighboring region. These things were not pleasant in the least for Black Pipe.
He had noticed, at a glance, when he took a bird’s eye view of the country about him in his first appearance, that there were two large eagles who had their young birds perched upon an inaccessible butte near by. Yet he had entertained no thoughts of interference from that quarter. But as the Sun hurried over the prairie of the heavens, he had evidences of ill will on the part of his neighbors. Mr. Eagle would obviously start off on his hunting excursion in an opposite direction, but always turned up from some other quarter in Black Pipe’s vicinity. His suspicions were verified during the second day. As he was weakened perceptibly by lack of sustenance and loss of sleep, though his spirit was willing his body had to stoop towards the ground for rest. But no sooner was this done than he heard a noise like the sighing of the wind through a pine tree, only it became stronger every second; therefore he lifted his weary head reluctantly to ascertain the cause of the disturbance. Lo, down came his neighbor, the eagle, as if he were shot from the mouth of a cannon!
At the first sight Black Pipe hoped for a messenger from the “Great Mystery,” but as the eagle descended his fearful mission became too clear. He sprang upon his feet with all the energy he could muster, and shook irreverently the sacred calumet over his head. The bird swung upward within twenty feet of the brave’s head, with the air of saying “There! I fooled you. I did not intend to touch you.”
The second night of his fasting was a trying one, for he felt as if the wrathy thunder bird would hurl him headlong over the precipice. The night was dark. He could not detect any object a few paces away from him, except when the great bird winked and sent forth zigzag flashes of fire. Thought he, “Thunder Bird has come to earth to punish some evil-doer!”
He continued his program during a wakeful and restless night. A brilliant flash of lightening exhibited before him a stranger, who greeted him with double rows of white teeth, and a pair of eyes of flaming fire, the effect intensified by the leisurely swaying of a snaky tail. A mountain lion! It was a vision of a second but never left the memory of the beholder. Another flash and peal—the visitor had departed.
On the following morning Black Pipe again gave way to physical weakness, and was asleep most of the forenoon in a sitting posture, with the calumet in his hand. When he awoke, the deliciously cool air and long sleep together had restored his senses. The atmosphere was clear. The sky above him was a spotless blue canopy. The Black Hills loomed up against the ocean-like sky. The “Bad Lands” lay around him. It seemed to his simple mind that the Thunder Bird had once, in some remote time, searched for the evil spirit who was hidden under these hills, and had thus torn up the land; but to a civilized eye, the country would have appeared like the debris of an ancient city destroyed by an earthquake. Pillars were still preserved here; columns and walls there; and yonder monuments and pyramids. Between these were heaped masses of ruins indescribable.
Suddenly in the western sky a black speck appeared. It continually developed until it assumed immense proportions and gradually advanced southeastward. It was a peculiar coneshaped cloud; part gray and part black. The clouds around it seemed to be in a turmoil. “Ah!” said Black Pipe to himself, “the drunken Thunder Bird who occasionally visits these hills is coming, I must pray.” In a few minutes the cloud had passed and Black Pipe noticed that a rider came swiftly away from the camp and disappeared at the foot of the hill below him. Then he saw a man appear on the summit and stand there as if in prayer.
But all at once he felt chills and heat alternately, accompanied by a severe headache, and a feeling of utter weakness. Alas; the world around him was gradually fading away from his sight! At last, he thought he saw again the same landscape, and the Ogalalla camp lying below him. The people moved about like ants and the teepees appeared like ant hills.
But he was impressed with the added beauties of the scene. Upon the green prairies he saw vast herds of buffaloes. On the buttes adjacent to the one upon which he stood, were terraces like balconies high up on the sides, with perpendicular precipices above and below, on the edge of which were cedar trees and pines growing almost upon nothing. Under these were the daring Rocky Mountain sheep, quietly chewing their cud. Upon the ridges back of him were herds of elk, while lower down among the pine groves he saw the black-tailed deer lying in the shade. Just above him, among the rough banks, was digging the bear. As the young man looked about him with delight, he heard a voice:
“My son, I have heard thy prayers. Thou are a brave. I shall make thee also a Medicine Man. The Great Mystery has given me this power. I understand the mysteries of the roots and herbs. But thou must be strictly obedient to my rules. Thou shalt always keep my claws around thy neck for a token. Thou shalt sing my songs.”
When the speaker ceased, Black Pipe timidly turned his head to see who was addressing him. Behold, an old grizzly was sitting upon his haunches a few paces away. He bowed his head with a “how,” acknowledging these commands, and the old bear walked slowly away. Black Pipe resumed his former position but he was addressed again, in an unknown yet perfectly intelligible tongue.
“Brave, do not fear. Thou shalt be given the strongest of hearts henceforth.
“Behold me! I am no longer allowed by the Great Mystery to live in the world but with my contemporaries I a[m] returned to stone. Throughout these Bad Lands thou wilt find us. Our bodies have been turned to stones and commanded to remain thus until the end of time. Yet I have in possession some wisdom and knowledge, with which the Creator endowed me. I am now commanded by him to impart it to thee. I was originally given the power to see the heavens and earth, and know the events of the future, though I may be buried in the bottom of the lake or river. I was made to live longest of any animal, and my heart will beat even when it is taken from my body.
“Thou shalt be a prophet and live to a great age. Behold me!”
Black Pipe again turned to regard the speaker and, lo, a tortoise! A huge petrified tortoise, half buried in the smooth wall of a butte opposite him!
Just then, a great war party of the Crow Indians appeared suddenly in the neighborhood, and he was already discovered!
They attacked him upon their ponies, shouted wildly and surrounded him. In his brave defense he brought himself to his senses, and it was another bright morning, and the Crow Indian war party turned out to be a multitude of vulture[s] flying in circles over his head.
He sprang up quickly, and having smoked the pipe that he had held three days and three nights for the “Great Mystery,” he descended the butte with all the assurance of a great “Medicine Man” and a prophet. He found a new white teepee had been pitched just outside of the camp to receive him, and that he was now considered a full-fledged leader in his new profession.3
You ask me how I like Arizona. I say it is too hot and dry. As the old Pima chief, Antonio says, nothing will grow there unless it is heat-proof. It was ninety degrees above on March 31st, and kept it up during the three days I was in the Sacaton region. I can’t say that I like Arizona for her climate, her giant cactus, Gila monsters and centipedes. Yet nearly all the white people I met were there for their health. It is a good incubator in which to protect exhausted lives.
You ask further how the Pima and Papago Indians are getting on. I say very badly indeed. The Pimas are very good people—willing to work and help themselves but they have been deprived of everything—even the natural courses of their streams have been diverted. The Gila River runs dry. No water for stock; none for their gardens; nor even for daily household use in some places! They live in what was once a beautiful valley, but now it is the valley of death.
I never saw more gentle and genial Indians in my life than these people, and I have seen many. Yet I cannot see but that starvation stares them in the face. Everywhere my eye meets the same mummified and half-starved faces. I looked into the clear sky of that region and could not help saying: Where are you, Charity? Can not these miserable people appeal to you?
The Pimas ask no charity after the usual fashion. They seek only such assistance as will be for their own lasting good. They want a reservoir large enough to irrigate their valley. They have already dug ditches on a small scale about their gardens hoping to catch every drop if it should rain. A bill has been introduced in Congress for the building of such a reservoir, at a cost of a million and a half. There can be no better and more humanitarian legislation than this. It will not only make these people self-supporting, but it will also help many poor whites in their vicinity to gain a livelihood.
“And what did you see in the Osage country?” I saw there conditions directly opposite to those described above. If you were to ask me where the Indian customs linger longest, I would say, among the Osages and Sac and Fox at Tama City, Iowa. Nowhere in all my travels have I ever met an Indian woman in full Indian costume, and talking excellent English, except at this agency. The Indian woman referred to had with her an adopted daughter, who is a full blooded white girl. She also was attired in the native dress of the Osages. Both the white girl and her adopted Osage mother said that they had been educated at the Catholic mission school. I do not blame the school. I think the church has done what it can for these people. It is the conditions and environment that have kept them from progress.
The Osages possess a competency second to none. They are in fact a rich corporation. They have $8,500,000 invested at 5% interest and a country good enough for any one. They have lived in close touch with civilization for forty years—longer than most Indian tribes; yet I have seen more real Indians there than almost anywhere else. I was told that there was very little work done by them. A custom exists among them that is very much like that of an English prince—they draw a fine annual income from the Government and get into debt to everyone at the same time.4
It was mid-summer—the Indians’ festival time, when the medicine men fulfilled their promise of the year before to make a “sun-dance,” a “fox-dance,” or any other kind of dance that has an intertribal significance. The Ogallalas, the Brules, the Hunkpapahs and the Minne-conwojus were encamped together. It was an imposing village of white teepees that had sprung up in one afternoon upon one of the broad bottom lands of the Cheyenne, overshadowed by the high peaks of the majestic Pahah-sapah (Black Hills).
The village was in four distinct circles or rings, according to custom. When separate, each tribe usually has a council teepee within the circle, from which all the unwritten codes of the tribe are made and enforced. But at such a reunion as this, one or another of the four tribes is selected to maintain their joint government during the festivals. If all these bands have been successful in war and the chase, the occasion is a happy one. Many a new reputation or chief is announced with extravagant savage pomp and ceremony. Children of noted chiefs or warriors are named publicly, a custom by which the poor and old profit, for at such times the parents of the newly named child give a great feast, and distribute presents in the form of ponies, blankets, and garments of every description. Likewise many widows and widowers, or other respectable mourners, publicly announce that they will again paint their faces and cease to mourn; but not until they have made a great feast, and their good and loving relatives have given away ponies and other savage wealth in honor of the event.
Following a two-days’ sun dance one morning, a half century or more ago, the criers went the rounds of the circular village extending the cordial invitation of Grey Eagle to a feast at which his only son, Lame Deer, would have his ears pierced. The crier further announced as an extraordinary inducement that the chief would give away three ponies, one of them his favorite war-horse.
“Ugh!” exclaimed a warrior, “that pony saved his scalp in many a battle, especially when the Sapah-wichasha (Utes) pursued us over vast plains—will he part with him? That pony is an honor and ornament to him. He has been struck and wounded nine times, and is entitled to eagle feathers both in his dock and mane, besides the usual war-paint for ponies, according to the custom.”
“How,” interrupted another, “It is in his mind to show his love for the boy—his only son.”
“Listen! The crier of the Ogallalas, upon his white pony, has entered our circle. Let us hear what he has to announce.” The speaker was a Minneconwoju woman, who was standing upon a buffalo skin, in the act of scraping off the hair. The fog-horn voice of the crier fairly re-echoed from hill to hill as he proceeded in this manner:
“Hear ye, Minneconwoju people! Your friend, Fire Lightning, the Ogallala chief, invites you to his feast in honor of his son’s first act of note. Hear ye, Minneconwoju people, Fire Lightning, according to the custom of his family, will give away ten spotted ponies! Let all come to the feast! Let all the pretty maidens and great braves come and witness the great chief’s act of strong heart.”
It was to be a gala day for the Sioux upon the Cheyenne in that moon of Wee-pah-zoo-ka! (June berries.) Every maiden of any pretensions to beauty was intent upon surpassing her competitors in extravagance of attire. Many used the placid waters of a pond near by for their looking glass, many grouped together painted each other in turn. As for the young men, their toilet was made in similar fashion; with few exceptions they say in groups of six to ten, while one small hand mirror or perhaps only part of one did service for all.
The young maidens used generally but two colors—red and yellow; the young braves used anything for variety and always endeavored to out-do each other. In consequence of this singular taste, their faces looked not unlike the colors of a crazy quilt. Really handsome, however, were their blankets and buckskin shirts, embroidered with porcupine and set with elk’s teeth, and with profuse fringes down the seams. Their long braids of hair were wound with otter skin and heavily scented. The aboriginal dude was the most picturesque of them all!
The day was half over and all had completed their painting—even the antiquated women had smeared their wrinkled faces with a dull red, and the old men surpassed them by generously painting their hair as well. But the young people upon calico ponies, with gorgeous bridles and blankets—they really were objects of interest!
It was accorded to Fire Lightning to have his event come off first. All entered the Ogallala circle. The chieftain stepped into the ring with native dignity and addressed his audience thus:
“Ye people of the different bands of the Dakotas, hearken: My second son has just returned from a successful war-path. The war-chief reports that his conduct upon the battlefield was worthy of his ancestors. I beg the people to join with me in celebrating the beginning of his public career. It is my purpose to give him a new name with your approval.” (“How! how! how!” was the response from all sides.) “I name him Red Cloud. Remember at the eve of day the red clouds appear in the west to denote the promise of a bright day to follow.”
At this point he turned to the herald; the latter announced that the ten horses with fine aboriginal saddles would be brought into the circle by young Red Cloud.
“He looks very young. I do not believe he is over fifteen winters,” whispered a pretty maiden of chieftain’s blood to her girl companion.
“But they say that he is seventeen, and hunts the buffalo with a skill of an old hunter,” replied the other.
The old women and men struggled feverishly for a good position, for it was understood that Red Cloud would distribute these ponies among the poor and old, which he did gracefully and kindly. From that day the young brave was considered a man.
Now came Grey Eagle’s feast. He had announced that his boy, Lame Deer, would have his ears pierced. An Indian is not happy unless he wears earrings, and it was the fashion that the ear-piercing should be done publicly and some savage wealth change hands because that also shows the social position of the parents.
As had been heralded, Grey Eagle gave away three ponies; among them his own war-horse. Few warriors can part with their favorite pony.
An old medicine man was appointed to pierce the little boy’s ears. He did not use an awl or a needle, but a very sharp-pointed knife. The boy was now called upon to display his courage. He simply tightened his lips and his eyes were fixed upon the blue sky. He uttered no cry. (This was the same chief who grew up to fight General Miles on the Little Big Horn the winter following the Custer battle, and was killed.) He was a small but bright-looking boy with long black hair, and wore upon his head a warrior’s son’s eagle feather.
Grey Eagle was a man of intense feeling, yet he possessed a great deal of humor. He rose and addressed the throng: “I have invited you to partake of my meat. I will now tie a leather cord to the mane of each pony. A duplicate is to be thrown up into the air, and whoever catches it will be entitled to keep the pony that wears the cord.”
This unexpected proposition took the general fancy. Of course, every one would like to see one of the cords fall into their hands.
The big Indian drum was sounded and savage music rent the air. A strong brave sent the cords over the heads of the crowd, one at a time. The result was a general turmoil.
Everybody rushed toward the flying object—a confusion of upraised arms and swinging lariats! Old warriors were as free to give excited war whoops as any of the younger men, while women with their characteristic screams augmented the already intolerable noise.
The first cord was knocked about over their heads until it fell into the hand of a warrior. The disappointed contestants greeted its fall with a tremendous yell. All were on the utmost look-out as the next was thrown high into the air. Savage excitement neared its height and many were injured in the fray. At this instant the crier shouted above the din:
“The last cord will now be sent up!”
“Ugh! ugh!” exclaimed many a young brave, “I must catch this cord, or I am no athlete.”
Then came a terrific clash of bows, clubs, and nude bodies. The struggle, though a playful one, seemed desperate. The cord was kept on the jump from man to man, until finally it went under their feet. This change of position was even more dangerous to the contestants but no one heeded the danger.
At last a tremendous whoop went up. The crowd parted and a brave came out with the last cord in his hand. He did not resemble a human being so much as a buffalo bill or a black bear. The dust, the disarrangement of his massive hair, and the demoralization of his painted face made him anything but pleasing to behold. But as he approached there was satisfaction written on his hideous countenance, for he had won the prize!5
Not many weeks ago some of the Oklahoma Poncas went to South Dakota to visit their friends and relatives at Niobrara. Of course everybody was delighted. All the stories of old days were told in turn and the pipe of peace and the pipe apiece were filled and refilled.
But there came a time when the stories and provisions were exhausted and the young men strayed off to a neighboring town, in search of food and amusement.
One of them spied a strange thing. He saw a white farmer who had just sold some vegetables walk up to a slot machine and drop a dollar into it.
“Ugh!” said the Indian, when he saw a keg of beer roll out.
A council was held immediately. A collection was taken up among the Indians and the nickels and dimes resulting changed for a silver dollar. The keg of beer rolled out and was soon upon pony’s back, travelling toward the Indian village.
After it reached there, all the old stories were told over again, but this time with an accompaniment of songs, wailing, and shooting.
When quiet was restored at last, one young Indian lay dead. The murderer was sitting by in deep meditation.
“Ugh! I will go with him, before his spirit has gone too far. No white hangsman shall avenge his blood. I will go to his aged mother and will give her the gun that killed him, to kill me with it.”
He went; and the old woman did not argue the matter with him but immediately took the gun and shot him dead. If all the white murderers should follow this Indian’s example, they would save much time and money for their trial and execution.6
It is natural that the subject of the Indian should be of the deepest interest to me. It is natural for me to cling to the early training that I received—training that was instilled into the very fibre of my being—training that this civilization of steam, machinery, and electricity cannot wipe out. There is a cry that sometimes comes to my soul: “O let me go back to my childhood and primitive man and the love of Mother Nature!”
God made the Indian a part of Nature and made him to understand the Great Mystery as the Power of the universe. The Indian in the days that are past, in this beautiful country, had everything that a wild man could wish for. The Great Mystery was so generous to him that he made no effort other than to keep to the nomadic life and follow the profession of the chase. The climate was always congenial to him, whether in the blizzards of the Dakotas or the hot suns of Arizona. He saw God in His handiwork; the lofty peaks, the mighty river, the rushing falls, the proud oaks and pines spoke of His power. At times you would see the Indian youth standing upon a precipice commanding a most impressive view, in the act of offering his silent prayer to the Unknown God—the Great Mystery. He never expected to see his God and never expected to talk with Him except through Nature. Daily he sought for a sign.
The Indian hunter never set out in the morning until he had first raised his hand and offered his filled pipe, silently recognizing Him who controls all things, even the fortunes of the chase. He then chased the deer all day and came back to his tent at night satisfied, whatever the result of his day’s labor. He must often endure the severest exertion to supply food for his children. The Indian did not shirk that tremendous duty which presses upon us all—the duty of providing for his family.
Now what was it that made the Indian peculiarly interesting to all who study primitive man? Was it not a certain native power of faithfulness, as displayed in close observation and patience in practice? His eye swept the ground, and the moment he saw a footprint he knew whether it was that of a deer or a moose, a bear or a buffalo. He knew whether that track was made an hour ago or the day before yesterday, and he knew approximately where the animal was. He had been thoroughly taught. As a boy he had made that footprint with his own fingers in the sand or the mud until he knew it. And from that time on he continued to observe until the language of the footprints was as clear to him as hand-writing. This is an education. It is a profession.
At night the father comes home with a detailed account of his day’s experiences. The child sits there with his mouth and eyes wide open, and eagerly catches everything that is said. Afterward the old grandfather, or grandmother perhaps, tells one of the old legends, or a personal experience that was something like that of the father, perhaps something humorous. If there was anything new in the day’s experience they would note and discuss it. So the boy learned his lessons. His teacher was not a brilliant young lady. It was a wrinkled, wise old woman who was his teacher. Beyond all this the child was so impressed with the Great Mystery taught from childhood that he listened for its voice everywhere. He could not get away from that thought. Sometimes in the night, when he was older, he would go away from the camp and visit alone the summit of the highest hill. There he would sit looking out and meditating upon a mighty Power.
Indian customs, it has been said, are atrocious, barbarous, in the wild life. This is true of all the primitive races and it is true in civilization. I cannot see that war is beneficent at any stage of man’s progress. When I read that one iron-clad man-of-war blows up another, drowning many like rats or mutilating them beyond all recognition, then I say: “O civilization, where is your blush? Where is your shame?” It is true that the Indians fight sometimes, but I see those things wherever man exists. I will speak now of that side of war which the Indian supposed to be instituted by the Great Mystery to test and to develop man’s higher nature. Many people suppose that an Indian warrior in his war-paint and scalp-belt must necessarily have butchered many of his fellow-creatures. As a matter of fact, he may not have killed a single man all his life long. Some men go into battle armed with a stone war-club and quiver full of arrows; some carry only a staff. When an enemy falls they rush forward and touch the body, simply to show their bravery. This act entitles a man to wear an eagle feather. There are, it is true, treacherous and cruel men among the Indians. There are also many such in every city.
In order to be a really great man the Indian must be a feast-maker. There was no such thing as money in our life—one of the most powerful things to influence men, both for good and evil. In those days fine muscles were demanded—wonderful endurance, which it took much practice and self-denial to gain. In order to be a feast-maker it was necessary to be a fine hunter, and in order to be a fine hunter it was necessary to have a fine body. And you know it takes a good deal of moral fibre to make and to keep a fine body! We did not have sleepless nights in those days, and we did not need to have our food digested before we took it! In order to be a warrior or a chief, a man’s nervous system must be kept near to perfection up to the age of sixty-five. Among the Sioux tribe personal worth was the first thing required in choosing a chief. Only a man of spotless character could attain that high position. That was the way then. There is a great difference now. Indians of no standing have been made chiefs by the American press. A number of such chiefs are not recognized by their own tribes.
But we have lost a good deal. We don’t blame civilization. We had to rough it with the bad element upon the frontier before civilization really came. Some of these frontiersmen are good men—men who make civilization march along. But there is a class of people who come among us for another purpose. They ruin the innocent and childlike races of this continent, and through contact with them we have lost much in the way of honesty and upright living. The Indians are not natural lawbreakers. They had unwritten codes of law that none could break.
Among many the Indian is misunderstood as to his home life; it is claimed that the women have to do all of the work. But the tepee has few rooms to sweep and tend and no windows nor bric-a-brac to wash and dust. The woman has the whole management and care of the home and she does her womanly duty faithfully and gladly. The man is not idle. He must go out and follow the hunt to provide food. It may take him the whole day to find it. Many times there is danger from an enemy—he must defend the home. But unless engaged in either of these ways the Indian stays at home. He goes out to council meeting. Besides his council, or his club, he has no outside demands. He has perfect confidence in his wife. He comes home perhaps after hunting all day in the rain. His wife will be so kind as to take off his wet moccasins and put on dry ones, provide his food, set it before him, and he is perfectly happy. After supper he has a little smoke and recounts the experiences of the day. The old men tell stories and legends and they all laugh and enjoy themselves.
What about the sons and daughters? In those days it was not considered good taste for a young man to go away from home for his pleasure. All the laughing was done in the family circle. The daughter had even more restrictions. That old grandmother was a severe chaperone. When the girl got to be about fifteen years old the grandmother took her in hand, and a young man couldn’t get a peep at her even through a hole in a blanket!
All of these things were customary fifty or more years ago. Our old rules of conduct have broken down through contact with civilization. Even in my own time a good many of the Indian customs had fallen into disuse.
The child was trained before it was born, and when it was born it was taken out under the branches to hear the birds and become Nature-born. We were taught to think quickly. We attained accuracy by the coordination of the muscles and the eye. Keenness, swiftness, strength—that was part of us. You say this was intuitive, but it was not. It was taught us from the cradle. These things made the Indian love his family and his country, and made of him a strong, devoted warrior to defend his people.7
The Indians in general are not readers. Of the great mass of that which has been written about them, they know little or nothing. Here and there a book or a magazine article falls into the hands of one who can read and is translated to the old people, bringing a smile of contempt upon their faces. The pictures drawn therein are altogether foreign to their real life and mode of thought. Nor is it strange that this should be so. By their long-established habit of reticence and reserve, they have never been ready to show their inmost thoughts to the casual visitor. It is their pride to discern the characters of others before letting their own be understood.
Many of the forces which most strongly influence the minds of other men do not exist for the Indian. His strongest impulses to action came to him in the field, either of hunting or war. These motives cannot be learned by the stranger, as he lounges among the sluggish and apathetic reservation Indians. Neither can you obtain such knowledge through the illiterate interpreter, who is not at all able to portray character as the Indian himself might reveal it, in vivid descriptions of his own experiences in battle or the chase. The mirthful, humorous side of his temperament cannot possibly be known except by an intimate. It is never shown to the chance comer; one must live with him in his own home until all strangeness is worn away.
It is true that something of the red man’s nature may appear through his modern and freer way of living, but that also is modified by his recent adoption of the “white man’s way.” These new manners, not being fully assimilated to his native ideas and practice, too often serve to make him appear ridiculous.
The mind of the Indian nowadays is further hampered by the authority held over him upon the reservations. He is no longer free and spontaneous in expressing his thoughts, but rather feels obliged to say in a general way what he thinks will be pleasing to the white people. Even when questioned concerning old stories and customs, he commonly tones them down and introduces later ideas which he imagines will be more acceptable.
Occasionally, when greatly provoked, he may speak freely, but then it is apt to be more in the white man’s way than the old Indian fashion, which was dignified even in anger. Such occasions used to be rather to his advantage than otherwise, as his noblest eloquence and most admirable self-control were displayed under trying circumstances. It is quite the contrary now that the old barriers of speech are broken down. His simplicity of expression, which was original and peculiar to him, is fast disappearing. The great orators are nearly all gone. Even the old chiefs nowadays have heard so much of the official talk of Government agents and commissioners that they unconsciously drop into the hackneyed commonplaces of speech.
The writer of today goes to the reservation to study his red men. Because he still sees an Indian here and there wearing long hair and a blanket, it does not follow that such a one still practices the typical customs of his race. One man alone cannot effectively hold the beliefs and unwritten codes of hundreds of years, in etiquette and ethics and religion. The poor Indian merely clings to his blanket as the last remnant, the shell of his old life: the soul of it is gone.
Here and there one adheres to the dance and pounds the “Omaha” drum. What of it? He has already forgotten many of the old songs which formerly expressed the greater part of their social and religious life. The Omaha dance, which is generally kept up at the present time for amusement alone, is a very simple affair. It is really a modern innovation. All dances had once a religious significance, a higher purpose than mere entertainment.
The truth is that no one, writing from present-day observation, can portray the typical aborigine of this country. He has forever departed. Those who went among the wild tribes fifty or more years ago may have had some glimpses of his real nature, although tremendously handicapped, as a rule, by being unable to address him in his own language. You must know his language to understand him. Much of his eloquence is in idiom and inflection impossible to translate. His flights of rhetoric at times would not fall short of Choate’s or Webster’s, if interpreted with sympathy and intelligence.
In current fiction the Indian is introduced only as sensational effect is wanted, and is described as unstable, faithless, and venomous. He is represented as frightful and repulsive, and compared to the tiger and the snake. The writer is not seriously considering him as a man; he only seeks a sensation and therefore intensifies the traits of bloodthirstiness and cruelty which he perhaps imagines him to possess. The effect is altogether bad, for the general reader is fortified in a heartless prejudice, and it is really a gross injustice, though it may be without intention.
Let us consider for a moment the American classics, Longfellow’s Hiawatha, Cooper’s Last of the Mohicans, and Helen Hunt Jackson’s Ramona. Here some of the deeper qualities of the Indian are brought to light. Alessandro’s patience and self-control in desperate straits are truly characteristic. Cooper went a little further in word-painting, and possibly took advantage of the general ignorance of his subject to give his brush free play. However, Uncas is not untrue to his race. Indeed, he is one of the best types of the Indian existing in our literature.
In Hiawatha, the poet was mysteriously able to collect the gems of native American legend, poetry, and song into a harmonious whole, expressed with the simplicity of truth. I think the work will survive as the poetic interpretation of the Indian mind, although it is yet inadequate, regarded as a study of his life and character.
In American history, the red man has never been presented in a true light. His defense of his country and his people has been miscalled murderous and treacherous. From his standpoint it was the highest patriotism. His courage and devotion led him to face forces utterly disproportioned to his own and he was often victorious against great odds. Yet he has been deprived of his victory upon the records of history as written by the white man. Whenever he surpassed his trained opponent in strategy and generalship, and annihilated his foes, the battle is described as a massacre!
However, it has been admitted by competent authorities, outside of written history, that many of these leaders of the plains and the woods were great generals and statesmen, to be compared with those of any nation. King Philip, in his war against the colonies, had no adequate force to carry through what he had undertaken, yet he attacked them at nearly every point, and seriously threatened their very existence. Chief Joseph of the Nez Perces, in Montana, Washington and Idaho, Crazy Horse, Gall, Red Cloud, Sitting Bull and Spotted Tail in Montana and the Dakotas, were leaders in modern times.
As a statesman, Pontiac showed a high order of diplomacy when he united the various tribes of the Middle States and organized a simultaneous attack on all the forts along the Great Lakes. Had he succeeded in his determined effort to destroy Forts Detroit and Niagara, he might have checked the westward progress of civilization for at least a generation. Certainly he stands equal with Tecumseh and the others I have mentioned in military affairs. In oratory, Red Jacket, Logan, Strike-the-Ree, Six, Osceola, Grass, White Ghost are some of the greatest names.
There is one important truth which has been generally ignored by our historians. The red man is peaceful by nature and from choice. He is a devoted husband and father, a very agreeable host, and he never forgets a friend. The provocations which turned him to severity in war have not been fairly set forth. It is a fact which ought to be universally known that the wild tribes were invariably friendly and hospitable until they had been deceived and injured by the white man. The barbarities dwelt upon in all the text-books studied in our schools, as if they were habitual and characteristic, were in reality the acts of men driven to desperation by such provocations on the part of their enemies as have led to similar atrocities by the soldiers of all civilized nations, down to the present day.
The Indian’s side of any controversy between him and the white man has never really been presented at all. History has necessarily been written from the white man’s standpoint, and largely from the reports of commanding officers, naturally anxious to secure full credit for their gallantry or to conceal any weakness.
Take as an illustration the so-called “battle” of Wounded Knee. A ring was formed about the Indians, and after disarming most of them one man resisted and the troops began firing toward the center, killing nearly all the Indians and necessarily many of their own men. The soldiers then followed up fleeing women and children and shot them down in cold blood. This is not called a massacre in the official reports. The press of the country did not call it a massacre. On the other hand, General Custer was in pursuit of certain bands of Sioux. He followed their trail two days, and finally overtook and surprised them upon the Little Big Horn. The warriors met him in force and he was beaten at his own game. It was a brilliant victory for the Indians, whom Custer had taken at a disadvantage in the midst of their women and children. This battle goes down in history as the “Custer Massacre.”
Of the modern school of American ethnology Dr. George Bird Grinnell, Mr. James Mooney and the late Frank Cushing are leading representatives. Cushing studied the Zunis alone, and of their customs and religion he had a more intimate knowledge than any other white man has been able to gain. Mr. Mooney’s work is preserved mainly in scientific collections, where it is inaccessible to the general reader, and the same is true of other scientific workers. Dr. Grinnell has had rare opportunities to come into close touch with the Indians of several tribes, in the days of their wild life as well as in their semi-civilized state. He has done, perhaps, more than anyone else to popularize the subject, and in his versions of old legends and folk-tales he preserves admirably the native simplicity of expression. His sincere love for the Indian character is the secret of his success. A popular author, new in the Indian field, is Hamlin Garland. His sympathy with the red man is unmistakable, and he paints him in such a way as to win the sympathy of the reader.
To sum up, however, the Indian who is loyal to his race and familiar with its history, cannot but feel that his people have been unfairly treated in literature as in Governmental affairs. He has not been called to an equality with other men, but rather arbitrarily assigned to a part which he had no inclination to play, and left under the stigma of an imaginary character. Our writers, with few exceptions, seem to forget that he is a man, endowed with the faculties and virtues common to all men, except degenerates. The original American was an unspoiled man, and a fairly well-balanced character. In the white man’s books, either his faults are exaggerated or his good points sentimentalized.
The life of the red man, simple as it was, had many interesting phases, and its competent expression might prove a valuable contribution to the human story. The record of Indian wars and their cruelties should be kept entirely distinct from the portrayal of his national and domestic life. His conception of the “Great Mystery,” which was really the basis of all his development, his songs, music, and native literatures are as yet almost unknown, except for the good beginning made in this field by Miss Alice Fletcher and Dr. Grinnell. Miss Fletcher, in her recent book, Indian Story and Song, has revealed some of the secret motives and deeper feelings of the Indian as expressed in music. Yet, upon the whole, the Indian’s story has been written only from the outside, and he is yet to appear as his own interpreter.8
Among the forest Indians of the Northwest they are still some few who maintain themselves in the old-fashioned way, living in birch-bark houses during most of the year. Their home is the lake regions of northern Minnesota and the Province of Ontario. This country is so interlaced with watery highways that the primitive [bark] canoe is the main carrier. The horse is scarcely used, but in winter the dog-sled replaces the canoe. Each family roves about within an area of perhaps a hundred miles.
These people actually live by hunting and fishing, wild rice and berry gathering, and no country be more perfectly adapted to such a life. Each season of the year has its characteristic occupation. In the early fall they fish with nets at the outlets of the large lakes or in the narrows between their countless islands, sometimes spearing the sturgeon and other fish by torchlight. The flesh is cut into thin strips and smoked or sun-dried. At this time they also shoot many ducks and cure them in the same way for winter use.
A little later, they separate into small groups of one or two families each and scatter for the winter fur-hunt. Moose and caribou may also be hunted in winter; but if food is scarce they may fall back upon fishing through the ice. In the spring they deliver their furs at the nearest post of the Hudson’s Bay Company, although sometimes agents from the posts gather up the furs by dog-team, thus saving the Indian the long journey. This is the time for maple-sugar making, and delicious sugar is made with the primitive utensils, mostly of birch bark, and packed away in birchen boxes of a peculiar shape called “mococks.” In April large groups of from ten to thirty families gather at some waterfall near the mouth of a river for the spawning season, and again large quantities of fish are caught and cured.
From this time to the middle of July, as they plant no gardens, the people come together on their “sacred grounds,” and there conduct the ancient rites and festivities. This is the play time of the year—the time for courtship, dances, and feasts, as well as ceremonies of a distinctively religious nature.
In July they begin stripping the birch and white-cedar bark for canoes and basket-making, gathering pine roots also for the same purpose. The bark is baled and kept flat under large stones, to be used when needed. The pliable cedar bark is utilized in mats, as well as for binding and stripping the canoes; the framework and paddles of the canoe are made of its wood. During the latter part of this month bulrushes are gathered, dried, and pressed for use in making mats. After this comes the blueberry picking, an occupation which again scatters the Indians pretty widely in small groups throughout the country. The dried berries are put away in coarse stacks woven of grass rushes.
By the first of August, the people begin to seek out the wild-rice fields, where the precious cereal grows most abundantly about the outlets and swampy bays of these northern lakes. The harvesting of this natural crop is an interesting and important feature of their lives. A large field having been located, certain portions of it are pre-empted by different families, and men and women go out by pairs in a canoe [to] tie the straw in bundles to ripen. A month later, they again enter the field and beat out the grain with a club while holding it over the canoe with a hooked stick. In this manner the light craft moves slowly in water several feet deep, while only the black heads of the harvesters are visible through the thick straw.
After the field is cleared and the canoe emptied on shore, a hole is dug, or a natural water-worn rock filled half full with rice and covered with rawhide. Then the young men dance bare foot upon it until husked in its winnowed skins or flat baskets, thoroughly dried, and finally packed in rush sacks or skins, sometimes in whole fawn skins. This nutritious food is mainly used in the form of a soup or stew with wild duck and other game. Last come the cranberry picking and the fall fishing, when the cycle is complete.
Some of these Ojibwas have log cabins of their own construction, with mud chimneys, but few care to live in them except during the coldest part of the winter, preferring teepees covered with birch bark in overlapping strips, and supported by poles arranged in the shape of a cone. Their craftsmanship is as simple as it is ingenious, and nearly everything they use is made by themselves, lovingly, and with patient skill. Years ago all their fish-nets were of the wild hemp, but now they use twine bought at the trading-posts. I saw the women at work making them in different sizes for catching different kinds of fish. Two light, thin cedar strips are used for netting, one about two inches square, the other from five to eight inches long with a rounded point, slit to form a tongue. When thirty yards or so are made, it is weighted with stones, and strips of cedar wood are tied to the upper edge as floaters. These white floaters are noticeable along the shallows and wooded shores of the lakes, and in the early morning it is common to see the women, together or singly, lifting their nets and taking the catch into the canoes.
The canoe is begun by pegging out an outline upon the ground, after which the cedar framework is built up, and the bark sewed firmly into place and thoroughly calked with boiling pitch. Baskets are made of sweet grass, rushes, split roots, and strips of bark, the larger and coarser ones being uses for carrying fish, game, wild rice, berries, and even babies. The regular cradle has a pliable cedar board for a back, while the front is of tanned skins securely laced and provided with straps for carrying.
Skins are tanned and dressed by the women with their primitive instruments, scraped with the shin-bone of a deer, and softened by rubbing with liver and brains. These are skillfully made up into garments and especially moccasins, of which those made of moose-hide are the best and most durable. They are ornamented chiefly with beads, the more difficult and characteristic work in porcupine quills, flattened and dyed, having fallen largely into disuse. Sometimes the entire skin of a fawn or other small animal is tanned with the hair on, cutting it as little as possible, sewing and stuffing it so as to present an almost life-like appearance. Stuffed birds, skins of skunk, ermine, and other ornamental furs, bear-paws, horns of different animals, plumes of heron and eagle, are curiously combined in the characteristic warbonnets or head-dresses of the chiefs, some of which have been preserved through more than one generation.
The drum for the “sacred dance” is a hollowed log of bass-wood over which a wet moose-hide is tightly stretched by means of a ring and which, when struck, gives forth a weird and hallow resonance. There are also rattles made of bone with supposed sacred or mystic properties. Rough dishes in many shapes and sizes are made of the ever useful birch bark, and more durable ones of the flat horns of the moose. Spoons are carved of cedar wood. I found very few old pipes, such as there were being small and of black stone.
To me these last of the hunting Indians seemed happy and contented, and for a few short weeks I lived over with them my boyhood days, unexpectedly finding a little bit of the past in the midst of our noisy and strenuous today.9
In his sense of the aesthetic, which is closely akin to religious feeling, the American Indian stands alone. In accord with his nature and beliefs, he does not pretend to imitate the inimitable, or to reproduce exactly the work of the Great Artist. That which is beautiful must not be trafficked with, but must be reverenced and adored only. It must appear in speech and action.
The symmetrical and graceful body must express something of it. Beauty, in our eyes, is always fresh and living, even as God Himself dresses the world anew at each season of the year.
It may be “artistic” to imitate Nature and even try to improve upon her, but we Indians think it very tiresome, especially as one considers the material side of the work—the pigment, the brush, the canvas! There is no mystery left; all is presented. Still worse is the commercialization of art. The rudely carved totem pole may appear grotesque to the white man, but it is the sincere expression of the faith and personality of the Indian craftsman, and has never been sold or bartered until it reached civilization.
Here we see the root of the red man’s failure to approach even distantly the artistic standard of the civilized world. It lies not in the lack of creative imagination—for in this quality he is truly the artist—it lies rather in his point of view. I once showed a party of Sioux chiefs the sights of Washington, and endeavored to impress them with the wonderful achievements of civilization. After visiting the Capitol and other famous buildings, we passed through the Corcoran art gallery, where I tried to explain how the white man valued this or that painting as a work of genius, and a masterpiece of art.
“Ah!” exclaimed an old man, “such is the strange philosophy of the white man! He hews down the forest that has stood for centuries in its pride and grandeur, tears up the bosom of mother earth, and causes the silvery water-courses to waste and vanish away. He ruthlessly disfigures God’s own pictures and monuments, and then daubs a flat surface with many colors, and praises his work as a masterpiece!”
This is the spirit of the original American. He holds Nature to be the measure of consummate beauty, and its destruction, sacrilege. I have seen, in our midsummer celebrations, cool arbors built of fresh-cut branches for council and dance halls, while those who attended decked themselves with leafy boughs, carrying shields and fans of the same, and even wreaths for their horses’ necks. But, strange to say, they seldom made free use of flowers. I once asked the reason of this.
“Why,” said one, “the flowers are for our souls to enjoy; not for our bodies to wear. Leave them alone and they will live out their lives and reproduce themselves as the Great Gardener intended. He planted them; we must not pluck them.”
Indian bead-work in leaf and flower designs is generally modern. The old patterns are mainly geometrical figures, which are decorative and emblematic rather than imitative. Shafts of light and shadow, alternating or dove-tailed, represent life, its joys and sorrows. The world is conceived of as rectangular and flat, and is represented by a square. The sky is concave—a hollow sphere. A drawing of the horizon line colored pale yellow stands for dawn; colored red, for sunset. Day is blue, and night black spangled with stars. Lightning, rain, wind, water, mountains and many other natural features or elements are symbolized, rather than copied literally upon many sorts of Indian handiwork. Animal figures are drawn in such a manner as to give expression to the type or spirit of the animal rather than its body, emphasizing the head with the horns, or any distinguishing feature. These designs have a religious significance and furnish the individual with his personal and clan emblem, or coat of arms.
Symbolic decorations are used on blankets, baskets, pottery, and garments of ceremony to be worn at rituals and public functions. Sometimes a man’s teepee is decorated in accordance with the standing of the owner. Weapons of war, pipes and calumets are adorned with emblems; but not the everyday weapons used in hunting. The war steed is decorated equally with his rider, and sometimes wears the feathers that signify degrees of honor.
In his weaving, painting, and embroidery of beads and quills, the red man has shown a marked color sense, and his blending of brilliant hues is subtle and Oriental in effect. The women did most of this work, and displayed rare ingenuity in the selection of native materials and dyes. A variety of beautiful grasses, roots, and barks was used for basket weaving by the different tribes, and some used gorgeous feathers for ornamentation. Each article was perfectly adapted in style, size and form to its intended use.
Pottery was made by the women of the Southwest for household furniture and utensils, and their vessels, burned in crude furnaces, were often gracefully shaped and exquisitely decorated. The designs were both imprinted on the soft clay, and modeled in relief. The nomadic tribes of the plains could not well carry these fragile wares with them on their wanderings, and, accordingly, their dishes were mainly of bark and wood, the latter sometimes carved. Spoons were prettily made of translucent horn. They were fond of painting their rawhide cases in brilliant colors. The most famous blankets are made by the Navajos upon rude hand-looms, and are wonderfully fine in weave, colors, and design. This native skill, combined with love of the work and perfect sincerity—the qualities which still make the Indian women’s blanket, or basket, or bowl, or moccasins, of the old type, so highly prized—are among the precious things lost or sacrificed to the advance of an alien civilization. Cheap machine-made garments and utensils, without beauty or durability, have crowded out the old; and where the women still ply their ancient crafts, they do it now for money, not for love, and in most cases use modern materials and patterns, even imported yarns and poor dyes! Genuine curios or antiques are already becoming very rare, except in museums, and sometimes command fabulous prices.
As the older generation passes, there is danger of losing altogether the secret of Indian art and craftsmanship.
Struck by this danger, and realizing the innate charm of the work and its adaptability to modern demands, a few enthusiasts have made of late years an effort to preserve and extend it, both in order that a distinctive and vitally American art form may not disappear, and also to preserve so excellent a means of self-support for the Indian women. Depots or stores have been established for the purpose of encouraging such manufactures and of finding a market for them, not so much from commercial as from artistic and philanthropic motives. The best known, perhaps, is the Mohonk Lodge, Colony, Oklahoma, founded under the auspices of the Mohonk Indian Conference, where all work is guaranteed of genuine Indian make, and, as far as possible, of native material and design. Such articles as bags, belts, and moccasins are, however, made in modern form so as to be appropriate for wear by the modern woman. Miss Josephine Foard assisted the women of the Laguna pueblo to glaze their wares, thereby rendering them more salable; and the Indian Industries League, with headquarters in Boston, works along similar lines.
The Indian Bureau reports that over six hundred thousand dollars’ worth of Navajo blankets were made during the last year, and that prizes will be awarded this fall for the best blanket made of native wool. At Pima, fifteen thousand dollars’ worth of baskets and five thousand dollars’ worth of pottery were made and sold, and a less amount was produced at several other agencies.
Another modern development, significant of the growing appreciation of what is real and valuable in primitive culture, is the instruction in the Government schools in the traditional arts and crafts of their people. As schooling is compulsory between the ages of six and sixteen years, and as from the more distant boarding-schools the pupils are not even allowed to go home for the summer vacation, most of them would without this instruction grow up in ignorance of their natural heritage, in legend, music, and art forms as well as practical handicrafts. The greatest difficulty in the way is finding competent and sympathetic teachers.
At Carlisle there are and have been for some years two striking exemplars of the native talent and modern culture of their race, in joint charge of the department of Indian art. Angel DeCora, a Winnebago girl, who was graduated from the Hampton school and from the art department of Smith College, was a pupil of Howard Pyle, and herself made a distinctive success, having illustrated several books and articles on Indian subjects. Some of her work appeared in Harper’s Magazine and other prominent periodicals. She had a studio in New York City for several years, until invited to teach art at the Carlisle school, where she has been ever since.
A few years ago, she married William Dietz, Lone Star, who is half Sioux. He is a fine manly fellow, who was for years a great football player, as well as an accomplished artist. The couple have not only the artistic and poetic temperament in full measure, but they have the pioneer spirit, and aspire to do much for their race. The effective cover designs and other art work of the Carlisle school magazine, the Red Man, are the work of Mr. and Mrs. Dietz, who are successfully developing native talent in the production of attractive and salable rugs, blankets and silver jewelry. Besides this, they are seeking to discover latent artistic gifts among the Indian students, in order that they may be fully trained and utilized in the direction of pure or applied art. It is admitted that the average Indian child far surpasses the average white child in this direction. The Indian did not paint Nature, not because he did not feel it, but because it was sacred to him. He so loved the reality that he could not venture upon the imitation. It is now time to unfold the resources of his genius, locked up for untold ages by the usages and philosophy of his people. They held it sacrilege to reproduce the exact likeness of the human form or face. This is the reason that early attempts to paint the natives were attended with difficulty.
A form of self-expression which has always been characteristic of my race is found in their music. In music is the very soul of the Indian; yet the civilized nations have but recently discovered that such a thing exists! His chants are simple, expressive and haunting in quality, and voice his inmost feeling, grave or gay, in every emotion and situation in life. They vary with tribes and even with individuals. A man often composes his own song, which belongs to him and is deeply imbued with his personality. These songs are frequently without words, the meaning being too profound for words; they are direct emanations of the human spirit. If words are used, they are few and symbolic in character. There is no definite harmony in the songs—only rhythm and melody; and there are striking variations of time and intonation which render them difficult to the “civilized” ear.
Nevertheless, within the last few years, there has been a serious effort to collect these folk-songs of the woods and plains, by means of notation and the phonograph, and in some cases there has also been an attempt to harmonize and popularize them. Miss Alice C. Fletcher, the distinguished ethnologist and student of early American culture, was a pioneer in this field, in which she was assisted by Prof. J. C. Filmore, who is no longer living. Frederick Burton died several years ago, immediately after the publication of his interesting work on the music of the Ojibway, which is fully illustrated with songs collected, and in some instances harmonized, by himself. Miss Natalie Curtis has devoted much intelligent, patient study to the songs of the tribes, especially of the Pueblos, and later comers in this field are Farwell, Troyer, Lieurance and Cadman, the last of whom uses the native airs as a motive for more elaborated songs. His “Land of the Sky Blue Water” is charming, and already very popular. Harold A. Loring, of North Dakota, has recently harmonized some of the songs of the Sioux.
Several singers of Indian blood are giving public recitals of this appealing and mysterious music of their race. There has even been an attempt to teach it to our schoolchildren, and Geoffrey O’Hara, a young composer of New York City, made a beginning in this direction under the auspices of the Indian Bureau. Native melodies have also been adapted and popularized for band and orchestra by native musicians, of whom the best known are Dennison Wheelock and his brother James Wheelock, Oneidas, and graduates of Carlisle. When we recall that, as recently as twenty years ago, all native art was severely discountenanced and discouraged, if not actually forbidden in Government schools and often by missionaries as well, the present awakening is matter for mutual congratulations.
Many Americans have derived their only personal knowledge of Indians from the circus tent and the sawdust arena. The Red Man is a born actor, a dancer and rider of surpassing agility, but he needs the great out-of-doors for his stage. In pageantry, and especially equestrian pageantry, he is most effective. His extraordinarily picturesque costume, and the realistic manner in which he illustrates and reproduces the life of the early frontier, have made of him a great romantic and popular attraction, not only here but in Europe. Several white men have taken advantage of this fact to make their fortunes, of whom the most enterprising and successful was Col. William Cody, better known as “Buffalo Bill.”
The Indians engaged to appear in his and other shows have been paid moderate salaries and usually well treated, though cases have arisen in which they have been stranded at long distances from home. As they cannot be taken from the reservation without the consent of the authorities, repeated efforts have been made by missionaries and others to have such permission refused on the ground of moral harm to the participants in these sham battles and dances. Undoubtedly, they see a good deal of the seamy side of civilization; but on the other hand, their travels have proved of educational value, and in some instances opened their eyes to good effect to the superior power of the White Man. Sitting Bull and other noted chiefs have, at one time or another, been connected with Indian shows.
A pageant-play, adapted by Frederick Burton from Longfellow’s poem of “Hiawatha” was given successfully for several years by native Ojibway actors; and individuals of Indian blood have appeared on the stage in minor parts, and more prominently in motion pictures, where they are often engaged to represent tribal customs and historical events.
Among native inventions which have been of conspicuous use and value to the dispossessors of the Indian, we recall at once the bark canoe, the snowshoe, the moccasin, (called the most perfect footwear ever invented), the game of lacrosse and probably other games, and the conical teepee which served as a model for the Sibley army tent. Pemmican, a condensed food made of pounded dried meat combined with melted fat and dried fruits, has been largely utilized by recent polar explorers.
The art of sugar making from the sap of the hard or sugar maple was first taught by the aborigines to the white settlers. In my day, the Sioux used also the box elder for sugar making, and from the birch and ash they made a dark-colored sugar that was used by them as a carrier in medicine. However, none of these yield as freely as the maple. The Ojibways of Minnesota still make and sell delicious maple sugar, put up in “mococks,” or birch bark packages. Their wild rice, a native grain of remarkable fine flavor and nutritious qualities, is also in a small way an article of commerce. It really ought to be grown on a large scale and popularized as a package cereal, and a large fortune doubtless awaits the lucky exploiter of this distinctive “breakfast” food.
In agriculture, the achievements of the Indian have probably been underestimated, although it is well known that the Indian corn was the mother of all the choice varieties which today form an important source of food supply to the civilized world. Indian women cultivated maize with primitive implements, and prepared it for food in many attractive forms, including hominy and succotash, of which the names, as well as the dishes themselves, are borrowed from the Red Man, who has not always been rewarded in kind for his goodly gifts. In eighteen hundred and thirty, the American Fur Company established a distillery at the mouth of the Yellowstone River, and made alcohol from the corn raised by Gros Ventre women, with which they demoralized the men of the Dakotas, Montana, and British Columbia. Besides maize and tobacco, some tribes, especially in the South, grew native cotton and a variety of fruits and vegetables. The buckskin clothing of my race was exceedingly practical as well as handsome, and has been adapted to the use of hunters, explorers, and frontiersmen down to the present day.10