What the White Race May Learn from the Indian

by George Wharton James

EDUCATION

Here are two educated men.

The one has a smattering of Latin and Greek;

The other knows the speech and habits of horses and cattle, and gives them their food in due season.

The one is acquainted with the roots of nouns and verbs;

The other can tell you how to plant and dig potatoes and carrots and turnips.

The one drums by the hour on the piano, making it a terror to the neighborhood;

The other is an expert at the reaper and binder, which fills the world with good cheer.

The one knows or has forgotten the higher trigonometry and the differential calculus;

The other can calculate the bushels of rye standing in his field and the number of barrels to buy for the apples on the trees in his orchard.

The one understands the chemical affinities of various poisonous acids and alkalies;

The other can make a savory soup or a delectable pudding.

The one sketches a landscape indifferently;

The other can shingle his roof and build a shed for himself in a workman-like manner.

The one has heard of Plato and Aristotle and Kant and Comte, but knows precious little about them;

The other has never been troubled by such knowledge, but he will learn the first and last word of philosophy, “to love,” far quicker, I warrant you, than his college-bred neighbor.

For still it is true that God hath hidden these things from the wise and prudent and revealed them unto babes.

Such are the two educations:

Which is the higher, and which the lower?[2]

[2] From Plain Talk in Psalm and Parable, by Ernest Crosby.

A NAVAHO GRANDMOTHER WITH THE BABY SHE LOVES, AND WHOSE EDUCATION SHE WILL DIRECT.

I would not have it thought that I am opposed to all systematic and book education, even on our present plan or under our present system. My protest is not so wide and sweeping as that. The main propositions upon which I base my opposition are:

1. That we do not pay sufficient attention to the physical health of our students, making health of secondary, tertiary, or quaternary importance, or often not giving it a single thought; leaving it absolutely to regulate itself, when it should be the first, primary, determinate aim and object of all education.

This very day upon which I write I sat at a professor’s table. He is a prominent educator in one of the important cities of the West. We were eating breakfast. He was complaining of indigestion. As he ate I could see his tongue seamed and coated, and his lips were rough and fevered as with stomach trouble. He helped himself to mush,—four times as much as a healthy man ought to have taken, and in far less time than it has taken me to write this he had “shoveled” it all in and “gobbled” it down. (The words in quotation marks are used thoughtfully, and they more truthfully describe what was the absolute fact than any other words with which I am familiar.)

He drank two glasses of milk warm from the cow, and ate French bread which had been heated in the oven and then saturated with butter. The night before he had opened a can of sardines,—as he said, “to see what he could eat,” and after the mush he ate a few of them. Then the maid brought in bacon and fried eggs and coffee, and he “did justice” to them. Yet he wondered why he was troubled with indigestion, and his poor wife sent word down from her bedroom that she regretted she could not see me again as she was suffering severely with one of her “regular” sick headaches. My own breakfast consisted of a small quota of mush, some of the hot bread (there was no other), and some cold milk. I felt well and happy after my frugal meal, while he confessed not only to feeling heavy and “logy,” but unsatisfied with what he had eaten—a clear proof of an abnormal appetite and a disordered digestive system.

AN AGED COAHUILLA BASKET WEAVER.

Now, is it to be expected that with our teachers themselves so ignorant of the first principles of healthy dietetics our students should know any better? Our whole system of eating is wrong. We eat anything and everything our tastes—often perverted and depraved—demand, and we never ask ourselves the question as to whether the food is good, or our methods of eating it wise and proper. In my chapter on the Indian and diet I discuss this question more thoroughly, but I refer to it in this connection as one of the great defects of our educational system.

2. My second proposition is, that we keep our students indoors all the time,—as a settled, established custom,—with occasional short periods out of doors, instead of reversing the matter and keeping them out of doors all the time, with occasional short periods indoors.

Why keep children or university students indoors? While in the winter climate of the East outdoor life is not as possible as it is in the balmy West, there certainly can be much more time spent out of doors than there now is. We pride ourselves upon our scholastic progressiveness, yet they do these things far better in Germany. The educational and medical authorities of Berlin have organized a forest school for the city children of the crowded districts of Berlin and Charlottenburg. In a wide clearing 150 children follow—out of doors—the usual procedure of school, delightfully varied with nature study at first hand. The hours of work are short, and fresh air and exercise are given a supreme importance. The children cook their own dinners at a camp-fire, and their desks and seats and shelter-sheds were made from the timber felled to form the clearing. At 1 o’clock they are all required to take an hour’s nap, for which each child is provided with a blanket and a reclining-chair.

This is a move in the right direction. Our schools cost the nation millions of dollars each year. Surely we have a right to demand that they give us health for our children in exchange, instead of ruining it in so many cases as they now do.

In Japan out-of-door schools are quite common, especially when the cherry and plum trees are in blossom.

In Los Angeles, California, a business college holds many of its class sessions out of doors, and I trust the time will come when this will be the rule in all schools, instead of the exception.

I am perfectly well aware that there is danger that these statements will be taken too literally. They must be taken as broad and general statements. My conception is that in our present condition we live indoors and go out of doors occasionally. I would have that proposition reversed. We should live out of doors and go indoors occasionally.

The same common sense and rational mode of reading my words must be applied to all that I say on out-of-door education. Naturally, I am not such a fool as to suppose that all educational or scientific or any other work can be done out of doors. Though I am not a college professor, and never shall be, though I am not a scientific expert, and never can be, though I am not many things that other men are, I know enough—have observed and seen enough—to know that delicate experiments of a variety of kinds need the most rigid indoor seclusion for their successful conducting. But this does not alter my general propositions, viz., that the health of students is of more importance than any and all education given in schools or colleges; that outdoor life is more conducive to the health of students than indoor life, and that, therefore, where possible, all education should be given out of doors.

AN ALEUT BASKET MAKER. THESE WOMEN MAKE THE MOST DELICATE BASKETRY IN THE WORLD.

3. As a result of this indoor scholastic life, we content ourselves by teaching our children from books,—which at best are but embalmed knowledge, canned information, the dry bones of knowledge, words about things,—instead of bringing them in contact (as far as is possible and practicable) with the things themselves. I believe in books; I believe in education; I believe in schools, in colleges, in universities, in teachers, professors, and doctors of learning; but I do not believe in them as most of the white race seem to do, viz., as good in themselves. They are good only as they are instruments for good to the children committed to their care. The proper education of one child is worth more to the world than all the schools, colleges, and universities that were ever built. One Michael Angelo, one Savonarola, one Francis of Assisi, one Luther, one Agassiz, one Audubon, is worth more to the world than all the schools that ever were or ever will be. And if, by our present imperfect and unhealthful school methods, we kill off, in childhood, one such great soul, we do the human race irreparable injury. Let us relegate the school to its right place, and that is secondary to its primary,—the child. The school exists for the child, not the child for the school. As it now is, we put the plastic material of which our nation is to be formed into the mould of our schools, and regardless of consequences, indifferent to the personal equation in each child, overlooking all individuality and personality, the machine works on, stamping this soul and mind material with one same stamp, moulding it in one same mould, hardening it in the fire to one same pattern, so that it comes forth just as bricks come forth from a furnace, uniform, regular, alike, perhaps pretty to the unseeing eye, but ruined, spoiled, damned, as far as active, personal, individualistic life and work are concerned. The only human bricks that ever amount to anything when our educational mill has turned them out are those made of refractory clay,—the incomplete ones, the broken ones, the twisted ones, those that would not or could not be moulded into the established pattern.

This is why I am so opposed to our present methods. Let us have fewer lessons from books, and more knowledge gained by personal observation; less reading and cramming, and more reflective thinking; fewer pages of books read, and more results and deductions gained from personal experiences with things high and low, animate and inanimate, that catch the eye and mind out of doors; and above all the total cessation of all mental labor when the body is not at its best. The crowding of sick and ailing children is more cruel and brutal than Herod’s slaughter of the innocents, and so utterly needless and useless that fools couldn’t do worse. What is the use of education to a sick person, and especially when the sickness is the result of the educational process. God save us from any more such education!

Doubtless I shall be told that my ideas are impracticable. I know they are and ever will be to those who value “the system” more than the child. Granted that in cold and wet weather students can’t get out of doors much. Then open all the doors and all the windows and give up the time to marching, to physical exercises, to deep breathing, to anything,—romping even,—rather than to cramming and studying a set number of pages, while the air breathed is impure, unwholesome, actively poisonous. When our educational methods thus interfere with the health of the child, I am forever and unalterably opposed to them. We had far rather have a nation of healthy and happy children, growing up into healthy and happy manhood and womanhood, even though devoid of much book knowledge, than a bloodless, anæmic, unhappy nation though filled with all the lore of the ages. Give me, for me and mine, every time, physical and mental health and happiness, even though we have never parsed a single sentence, determined the family and Latin name of a single flower, or found out the solution of one solitary problem of algebra.

4. My fourth proposition is, that as the result of this indoor book-teaching our children are not taught to think for themselves, but are expected and required to accept the ideas of the authors,—often, indeed, they must memorize the exact words of the books. This is, in itself, enough to condemn the whole system. We could better afford to have absolutely no schools, no colleges, no books even, than a nation professedly educated, yet the members of which have not learned to do their own thinking.

5. As a conclusion, therefore, I am forced to recognize that, in a much larger measure than we are ready to admit, our educational system is superficial, is a cramming process instead of a drawing-out—educere, educational—process, and no education so-called can be really effective, really helpful, that thus inverts the natural requirements of the mind. And that, when our system ignores the physical health of the student, no matter what his age, it is a criminal, a wicked, a wasteful system that had better speedily be reformed or abolished.

All these ideas are practically the result of my association with the Indian and watching his methods of instruction. His life and that of his family out of doors color all that he and they learn. I think it was John Brisbane Walker who once wrote a story, when he edited and owned the Cosmopolitan, about some college men, thoroughly educated in the academic sense, who were shipwrecked at sea. He showed the helplessness and hopelessness of their case because of their inability to take hold and do things. The Indian can turn his hand to anything. When out of doors few things can feaze him. He knows how to build a fire in the rain, where to sleep in a storm, how to track a runaway animal, how to trap fish, flesh, or fowl, where to look for seeds, nuts, berries, or roots, how to hobble a horse when he has no rope,—that is, how to make a rope from cactus thongs, how to picket a horse where there is no tree, bush, fence, bowlder, nor anything to which to tie it. What college man knows how to picket a horse to a hole in the ground? Yet I have seen an Indian do it, and have done it myself several times.[3] He knows how to find water when there is none in sight and the educated white man is perishing for want of it, and he knows a thousand and one things that a white man never knows.

[3] See “Indians of the Painted Desert Region,” Little, Brown, & Company, p. 15.

As I shall show in the chapter on the Indian and art work, the Indian basket-weaver far surpasses the white woman of college education in invention of art-form, artistic design, variety of stitch or weave, color harmonies, and digital dexterity, or ability to compel the fingers and hands to obey the dictates of the brain.

Education is by no means a matter of book-learning. It is a discipline of the eye, the hand, the muscles, the nerves, the whole body, to obey the dictates of the highest judgment, to the end that the best life, the happiest, the healthiest, and the most useful, may be attained, and if this definition be at all a true one I am fully satisfied that if we injected into our methods of civilized education a solution of three-fifths of Indian methods we should give to our race an immeasurably greater happiness, greater health, and greater usefulness.

CHAPTER XII
THE INDIAN AND HOSPITALITY

Another of the things I think we might well learn from the Indian is his kind of hospitality. Too often in our so-called civilization hospitality degenerates into a kind of extravagant, wasteful, injurious ostentation. I do not object, on formal occasions, to ceremonial hospitality, to an elaborate spread and all that goes with it. But in our every-day homes, when our friends call upon us for a meal or a visit of a week, it is not true hospitality to let them feel that we are overworking ourselves in order to overfeed and entertain them. When one has plenty of servants, the overwork may perhaps not be felt, but the preparation and presentation of “extra fine” meals should be looked upon as an unmitigated evil that ought to cease.

THE NAVAHO INDIAN EXPECTS YOU TO PARTAKE OF HIS SIMPLE DESERT HOSPITALITY.

IN THE HOME OF A HOSPITABLE NAVAHO AT TOHATCHI.

Why is it that the professional lecturers, singers, and public performers generally refuse to accept such hospitalities? Every one doing their kind of work knows the reason. It is because this “high feeding” unfits them for the right discharge of their duties. To overfeed a preacher (and I’ve been a preacher for many years) is to prevent the easy flow of his thought. It is as true now as when Wordsworth wrote it, that “plain living and high thinking” go together. For the past five weeks I have been lecturing nightly in New York City. I am often invited to dinners and banquets, but I invariably refuse unless I am promised that a full supply of fruit, nuts, celery, and bread and butter, or foods of that nature are provided for me, and that I am not even asked to eat anything else. I don’t even want the mental effort of being compelled to refuse to eat what I know will render my brain “logy,” heavy, and dull.

Then, again, when I am invited to a home where no servants are kept (as I often am), and see the hostess worrying and wearying herself to prepare a great variety of “dainties” and “fine foods” for me that I know I am far better without, what kind of creature am I if I can accept such hospitality with equanimity? I go to see people to enjoy them, their kindness, their intellectual converse, the homelikeness of themselves and their children. If I want to “stuff and gorge” I can do so at any first-class restaurant on the expenditure of a certain sum of money. But at the homes of my friends I want them; I go for social intercourse; and to see them working and slaving to give me food that is an injury to me is not, never can be, my idea of hospitality. I would not have my readers infer from this that I am unmindful of the kindly spirit of hospitality behind all of this needless preparation; nor would I have them think that I never eat luxurious things. I am afraid some of my readers would forego their kind thoughts towards me if they were to see me sometimes as I indulge in all kinds of things that “ordinary people” eat. But I do want to protest against the ostentatious and extravagant manifestation of our hospitality, and also the injuriousness of much of it when it comes to the food question, and to commend the spirit and method of the Indian’s way. If friends come unexpectedly to an Indian home, they are expected to make themselves at home. They are not invited to the “festive board” to eat, but they are expected to share in the meal as a matter of course. Hospitality is not a thing of invitation, whim, or caprice. It is the daily expression of their lives. Every one, friend or stranger, coming to their camp at meal times is for the time being a member of the family. There is no display, no ostentation, no show, no extra preparation. “You are one of us. Come and partake of what there is!” is the spirit they manifest. There is nothing more beautiful to me than to find myself at a Navaho hogan in the heart of the Painted Desert, and to realize that I am expected to sit down and eat of the frugal meal which the family has prepared for itself.

HOPI INDIANS COOKING CORN IN AN UNDERGROUND OVEN.

My contention is, that this is the true spirit of hospitality. You are made to feel at home. You are one of the family. Formality is dispensed with; you are welcomed heartily and sincerely, and made to feel at ease. This is “to be at home”; this is the friendly, the human, the humane thing to do. Unnecessary work is avoided; the visitor is not distressed by seeing his hostess made to do a lot of extra cooking and “fussing” on his account; his heart is warmed by the friendliness displayed (and surely that is far better than merely to have his stomach filled); and, furthermore, if he be a thoughtful man who values health and vigor rather than the gratification of his appetite, he is saved the mortification and the annoyance of having to choose between the risk of offending his hostess by refusing to eat the luxurious “obnoxities” she has provided, or offending himself by eating them under protest, and possibly suffering from them afterward.

MOHAVE WOMAN POUNDING MESQUITE TO PROVIDE A DRINK FOR HER GUEST.

I was once visiting the Mohave reservation, at Parker, on the Colorado River. It was a very hot day, and I was thirsty, weary, and hot. As soon as I arrived at the home of one old lady, she at once went out of doors to her wooden mortar, took some mesquite beans, pounded them, poured water over the flour thus made, and in a few minutes presented me with a copious drink that was both pleasing to the taste and refreshing. Look at her face as she kneels before the mortar. It is a kindly and generous face. She cared nothing for the fact that it was hot, or that it was hard work to lift the pounder and make the meal for the drink. She did it so simply and easily and naturally that I accepted the drink with the added pleasure that it was the product of a real, and not an artificial, hospitality.

Few visitors to the Snake Dance and the different religious or thanksgiving festivals of the Indians of the Southwest have failed to observe the great amount of preparation that goes on for expected but unknown guests. It is known they will come; therefore preparations must be made for them. Corn is ground in the metates, and piki is made.

An old Navaho Indian, pictured on the first page, is a wonderful illustration of the natural generosity of the aborigine before he is spoiled by contact with the white. Many years ago this man, who had large possessions of stock, sheep, horses, and goats, with much grazing land, and several fine springs, was riding on the plateau opposite where the Paria Creek empties into the Colorado River. Suddenly he heard shouts and screams, and rushing down to the water saw a raft filled with men, women, and children, dashing down the river to the rapids. When the raft and its human freight were overturned into the icy waters he did not hesitate because the people were of a different color from his own, but, plunging in, he rescued all those who were unable to save themselves, mainly by his own valor. It turned out that the strangers were a band of Mormons seeking a new home in Arizona, and, being met by the barrier of the Colorado River, had sought to cross it with their worldly goods upon the insecure and unsafe raft.

What could they now do? Though their lives were saved, their provisions were nearly all lost in the raging rapids of the turbulent and angry Colorado. Bidding them be of good cheer, this savage Indian led them to one of his hogans, where immediately he set his several wives (for the Navahos are polygamists) to grinding corn and making large quantities of mush for the half-famished white strangers. He thus fed them, daily, for months. In the mean time, he allowed them to plant crops (he finding seed) on his land, using for irrigation therefor water from his springs.

But he had not given himself proper care after his icy bath. His legs became drawn up by rheumatism, and from that day to this he has been a constant sufferer from his exposure to the cold water of the river and his after-neglect caused by his eager desire to care for unknown strangers.

The awful irony of the whole thing lies in the fact that in spite of what he had done, the recipients of his pure, simple, beautiful hospitality could not, or did not, appreciate it. He was “only an Indian.” He had no rights. They were American citizens,—white people; civilized people. Why should this Indian own or control all this fine land, all these flowing springs, all these growing crops? It was wrong, infamous, inappropriate. Therefore, to make matters right, these grateful (?) civilized (!!) Mormons stole from him the best part of his lands, and the largest of his springs, and for years laughed at his protests; until finally a white friend was raised up for him in a brave United States Army officer, now a general in the Philippines, I believe, who presented the case of the Indian to the courts, fought it successfully, and lived to see the Indian’s wrongs in some small measure righted.

To this day the Indian is known as “Old Musha,” the name given to him by the people whom he befriended in their distress, because mush was the chief article of the diet that his hospitality provided for them. Truly did Shakspere write:—

“Blow, blow, thou winter wind,
Thou art not so unkind
As man’s ingratitude!”

That Indians know how to be beautifully courteous to their guests, I have long experienced. I have eaten at banquets at Delmonico’s and the Waldorf-Astoria (New York), the Hotel Cecil (London), the Grand Hotel (Paris), and many and various hotels between the Touraine (Boston) and the Palace of San Francisco and the Hotel del Coronado. And I have seen more vulgarity and ill-breeding at these choice and elaborate banquets, more want of consideration, more selfishness, and more disgusting exhibitions of greediness and gluttony than I have seen in twenty-five years of close association with Indians.

I was once expected to eat at an Indian chief’s hawa, or house. The chief dish was corn, cut from the cob while in the milk, ground, and then made into a kind of soup or mush. A clean basketful was handed to me, with the intimation that I was to share it with two old Indians, one on my right, one on my left. I asked my hostess for a spoon, for I knew I had seen one somewhere on one of my visits. She hunted for the spoon, in the meantime sending to the creek for an esuwa of fresh, clean water. When it was brought, she carefully washed her hands and then gave the spoon seven scrubbings and washings and rinsings before she handed it to me. I felt safer in using it than I do many a time at a city restaurant when the “culled brother” brings me a spoon that he has wiped on the “towel” which performs the multifarious duties of wiping the soiled table, the supposedly clean dishes, the waiter’s sweaty hands, and—far oftener than people imagine—the waiter’s sweaty face.

During the time we were waiting for the spoon the old Indians by my side sat as patiently and stoically as if they were not hungry. When the spoon was handed to me, I marked a half circle on the mush in front of me, in the basket, then divided the remainder for them. Each waited until I had eaten several mouthfuls before he inserted his own fingers, which served as his spoon, and then we democratically ate together.

Now, to me the whole affair showed a kindly consideration for my feelings that is not always apparent in so-called well-bred strangers of my own race. I’ve had many a man light a cigar or a cigarette at a table at which I’ve been compelled to sit in a restaurant with never a “By your leave!” or “Is this agreeable?” From the Indian we imagine that we ought not to expect much of what we call “higher courtesy,” yet I find it constantly exercised; while from the civilized white race we expect much, and, alas! often are very much disappointed.

It is a singular thing that while I am writing these pages about the lessons we may learn from the Indian, the Bishop of London, speaking in Trinity Church, New York, in September, 1907, should enunciate ideas remarkably similar to those held by the Indians. The Indian owns nothing for himself: it belongs to all his tribe. What is this but the stewardship—in a rude and crude fashion perhaps, but nevertheless stewardship—as declared by the bishop, who says:

“The one sentence, which above all others I would say to you, a sentence as yet unlearned in London and New York, and which if adopted would cleanse the life on both sides of the Atlantic is—life is a stewardship, and not an ownership.

“Have you ever thought why there are any rich and poor at all? That is the question I had to face in London. They had asked me how I reconciled my belief in the good God loving all His children, with the wretched millions in East London, seemingly abandoned by both God and man. I had to face that question, and I have had to face it ever since. There is but one answer—the rich minority have what they have merely in trust for all the others. Stewardship, non-ownership, is God’s command to all of us.

“You are not your own. Nothing that you have is your own. We haven’t learned the Christian religion if we have not learned the lesson of stewardship.

“My home has been the home of the Bishop of London for 1,300 years. Suppose I should say that it was my own, and that the Bishop’s income of $50,000 a year was my own. I would be called a madman. The man who thinks he owns what he has in his keeping is no less a madman. This applies alike to the boy and his pocket money, and the millionaire and his millions. Disregard of this trust is the cause of all the social evils of London and New York.”

To resume my experiences with the Indians:

UTA, MY HOSPITABLE HAVASUPAI FRIEND.

In September, 1907, I again visited the Havasupais and then had several wonderful illustrations of their real and genuine hospitality. We decided to camp below the home of an old friend of mine, Uta. As soon as our cavalcade of six persons on horses, mules, and burros appeared, with two pack-horses, he cordially welcomed us, and when I told him that we wished to camp below his hawa he took us into a fenced-in field, where there were peach trees and a corral for our animals. Here we were free from the intrusion of all stray animals, and were able to secure seclusion for the ladies of our party—for, of course, we were camping out and sleeping in the open. Knowing that we should want plenty of water, both for ourselves and our animals, and that it was quite a little walk to Havasu Creek, he took his shovel and in five minutes the limpid stream was flowing through the irrigation ditches close by. The peach tree over our heads—the best in the whole village—was placed at our disposal, and delicious indeed we found the fruit to be, and he sent us figs, beans, melons, and a canteloupe. Without a question as to payment, he supplied us daily during our stay with an abundance of dried alfalfa hay,—the fresh alfalfa not being good for our too-civilized animals. And in every way possible to him he sought to minister to our comfort and pleasure, and did not resent it in the slightest when I bade him retire at meal times, or while we were cooking our provisions.

MY HOPI HOSTESS WHO KEPT THE
NEIGHBORHOOD QUIET WHILE I SLEPT.

That we paid him abundantly when we left did not in the slightest alter the sweet character of his genuine and simple hospitality.

Another illustration of the most beautiful kind of hospitality and courteous kindness was shown by an old Hopi Indian woman pictured. I was visiting the Hopi pueblo of Walpi for the purpose of studying the secret ceremonies of the underground kivas of the Antelope and Snake clans prior to the Snake Dance. For fifteen days and nights I never took off my clothes to go to bed, but went from kiva to kiva, witnessing the ceremonials, and when I was too tired to remain awake longer, I would stretch out on the bare, solid rock floor, my camera or my canteen for my pillow, and go to sleep. Occasionally, however, when something of minor importance was going on during the daytime, I would steal upstairs to a room which I had engaged in this woman’s house. As soon as I stretched out and tried to sleep, she went around to the children and the neighbors and told them that the “Black Bear”—my name with these people—was trying to sleep, and was very, very tired. That was all that was necessary to send the children far enough away so that the noise of their play could not disturb me, and to quiet any unnecessary noise among their elders. This I take to be an extreme courtesy. I know people of both “low and high degree” in our civilization who resent as an impertinent interference with their “rights” any suggestions that they be kind or quiet to their neighbors,—much less strangers and aliens. But for my own sake I would far rather that my children possessed the kindly sympathy shown by these Indian children than have the finest education the greatest university of our civilization could grant without it.

CHAPTER XIII
THE INDIAN AND CERTAIN SOCIAL TRAITS AND CUSTOMS

In the treatment of younger children by those who are older, the white race may learn much from the Indian. While it must be confessed that Indian youth are cruel to the lower animals, I have never seen, in twenty-five years, an older child ill-treat a younger one. There seems to be an instinctive “mothering” of the little ones. The houses of the Hopis are built on the edges of frightful precipices, to fall from which would be sure and certain death; yet, although the youngsters are allowed to play around with the greatest freedom, such are the care and constant oversight of the little ones by those who are older that I have never known of an accident.

There seems to be none of that impatient petulance among Indian children that is so common with us; no yelling or loud shouting, and certainly no bullying or cowardly domineering.

Then, too, there is a very sweet and tender relationship existing quite often between the very old and the very young. I know this is not unusual or peculiar to the Indian, but I deem it worthy of note here. I have often seen a grandfather going off to his work for the day in a corn-field with his naked grandson on his back, and the youngster clung to the oldster with an affection and confidence that were absolute.

AN APACHE GRANDMOTHER AND HER PET.

It should also be observed that respect and reverence are nearly always paid to age. In a council the young men will invariably wait until the old men have spoken, unless they are definitely called upon. If a cigarette is offered to a young man in the presence of his elders, he will not enjoy it until the older ones have lit theirs and taken a few puffs. A girl or young maiden will not sit down until places are found for the older ones and they are comfortably seated, and, of course, the same rule applies to the boys and youths.

It may also seem strange to some of my readers that I insist that the native Indian is inherently honest. I did not use to think so, and I know of many dishonest Indians. But as a rule these are the ones that are partially civilized. They have had so many things given to them without rhyme or reason that they come to regard all things of the white men as theirs. Scores of times I have left my wagon, laden with provisions and other materials, such as cameras, camera plates, clothes, etc., and I have been gone for a week or a month. As I now write I can remember only twice that anything was taken. Once a young man, who had been to our schools, broke into a box of oranges that I had taken as a great luxury after a desert tramp, and ate several of them. I soon learned who the culprit was, made complaint against him, had him brought to my camp, and asked him why he stole my oranges. It must be remembered that it is an unwritten, but well-understood, law of the desert regions that a truly hungry man is always allowed to help himself to needful food, but without waste or extravagance, and with due care for the owner or those who may come after.

This young man claimed that he had taken my oranges because he was hungry. I gave him the lie direct; for, said I, “Had you been hungry, you would have been willing to eat meat and potatoes and bread. Instead of that you went prowling around until you smelled these oranges and then you stole them. In future, even if you are hungry, you must keep away from my wagon and camp, for if ever you touch my things again, I shall see that you are severely punished.” It was a stern reprimand, yet in this case it seemed to be necessary.

The other time that things were taken from me was when I had promised certain women and girls some calico and bead necklaces in return for something they had done for me. Foolishly I showed them the bag in which the calico was. My hostess was also to be a participant in the distribution of favors. While I was away on a several days’ exploring trip she took it into her head that she ought to have the first choice, and, as I had promised the piece to her, there would be no harm in taking it. When she had made her own choice, and told of it, of course she could not protest against the others making theirs, so, when I returned to my Indian home I found the bag pretty well looted. It was not long before, little by little, the whole story leaked out. When I was sure, I told my host, and informed him that I wanted every piece of calico and every necklace returned instanter. In twelve hours everything was back in place, as if by magic. Then for several days I kept the promised recipients in a “state,” for I intimated that their conduct was so reprehensible that I doubted whether I should give them anything or not. This made them very anxious, and when they “dropped in,” two or three at a time, I took the occasion to tell them how I resented their helping themselves to my things while I was absent.

With these two exceptions, in twenty-five years’ experience I have met with nothing but perfect honesty. (No, now I remember, a small whip was taken from my camp many years ago, but when I complained, it was found and returned.) I have left camera plates by the score in boxes that could have been opened, and the results of my months of labor destroyed by nothing but idle curiosity. But when I have explained that I was going away and expected to find everything untouched on my return, I had no fear, no misgivings, and invariably found everything in perfect order when I came back. I doubt whether I could leave things where the whole population of any of our American cities could get at them and find them untouched after a week’s or a month’s absence.

Another interesting fact about the Indian is that when he gives a name to a child or an adult, it generally means something. Among ourselves names are often-times either quite meaningless or senseless. For instance, my parents gave to me the name George. When I was old enough to begin to care about such things, I asked and found out that “George” means “a husbandman.” And all through my life I have borne that name—a husbandman—when my ignorance of agricultural pursuits, I am sorry to say, is simply dense and unspeakable. What is the sense of giving such names to children? And when we come to the Algernons, and Reginas, and Sigourneys, and Fitzmaurices, and all the high-sounding but altogether meaningless names with which we burden our children, I long for the simplicity of the Indian’s habit, the poetry, the prayer, that so often are connected with the names they give. The old Hebrews knew something of this, for we read of many of their names having a definite and decided significance.

One day I found a Chemehuevi Indian with the name Tow-um-bow-i-si-co-rum. After a little working of it out, I found the name signified: “The reddish golden pathway of glory made by the setting sun from the zenith to the horizon.” I asked the man’s mother how he came to have such a name, and here is her reply! “As I gave birth to my son, I looked up in the heavens and there I saw the golden reddish glory reaching from above where I lay to the faraway west, where the sun was just setting. So I said, ‘It is an omen, and may it also be a prophecy,’ and my heart went out in prayer to Those Above, that the pathway of life of my newly-born son might be one of golden glory until he, too, passed out of sight in the west; so I called him Towumbowisicorum, which signifies what I have said.”

CHAPTER XIV
THE INDIAN AND SOME LUXURIES

Most city men regard a shampoo as a city luxury of modern times, except, of course, for the rich, who could always have what they desire. Yet the shampoo is more common with some Indians than with us, and they enjoy it oftener than we do. The Indian’s wife takes the root of the amole, macerates it, and then beats it up and down in a bowl of water until a most delicious and soft lather results, and then her liege lord stoops over the bowl and she shampoos his long hair and scalp with vigor, neatness, skill, and dispatch. I have been operated upon by the best adepts in London, Paris, and New York, and I truthfully affirm that a white man has much to learn in the way of skillful manipulation, effective rubbing of the scalp, and delicious silkiness of the hair, if he knows no other than such shampooing as I received.

Another so-called luxury of our civilization is an every-day matter with the Indians of the Southwest. That is the Russo-Turkish bath. The first time I enjoyed this luxury with the Indians was on one of my visits to the Havasupai tribe. I had been received into membership in the tribe several years before, but had always felt a delicacy about asking to be invited to participate in this function. But one day I said to the old Medicine Man, as he was going down to toholwoh, “How is it you have never invited me to go into toholwoh with you?” My question surprised him. He quickly answered, “Why should I invite you to your own? The sweat-bath is as much yours as it is mine.” “Then,” said I, “I will go with you now.”

The “bath-house” consisted of a small willow frame, some six or eight feet in diameter, which, at the time of using, is covered over with Navaho blankets, etc., to make it heat and steam proof. A bed of clean willows was spread out for the “sweaters” to sit upon, and a place left vacant for the red-hot rocks. As soon as all was prepared I was invited to take my seat; one Indian followed on one side and the Medicine Man on the other. Then one of the outer Indians handed in six or eight red-hot rocks, and the flap of the cover was let down and the bath was fairly “on.” Directly the shaman began to sing a sacred song which recited the fact that Toholwoh was a gift of the good god, Tochopa, and was for the purpose of purifying the body from all evil.

As soon as the song ended, we were all sweating freely, but when the flap was opened, it was not to let us out, but to receive more hot rocks. As we sang a second song the heat grew more penetrating, so that the words seemed to have real meaning. Our petition was that “the heat of Toholwoh might enter our eyes, our ears, our nostrils, our mouths,” etc., each organ being named at the end of the line of petition. The song comprised a great long string of organs, some of which I had never heard of before. By this time sweat was pouring off from our bodies, but the flap was opened only to receive more rocks. At the third time a bowl of water was handed in to my companion, which I was reaching for in order to enjoy a drink, when, to my horror and surprise, he sprinkled the water over the red-hot rocks. The result was an instantaneous cloud of steam, which seemed to set my lips and nostrils on fire and absolutely to choke me and prevent my breathing. Yet the two Indians began another song, so I determined to stick it out and stand it as long as I could. Of course, in a few moments the intense heat of the steam was lost, and then I was able to join in the song. At its close the same process of steaming was repeated, and then I sprang out and dived headlong into the cool (not cold) waters of the flowing Havasu, where for a long time I swam and enjoyed the delicious sensations with which my body was filled. Then, after a rub down with clean, clear, clayey mud, and another plunge, I lay in the sun on a bed of willows, listening to the Indians tell stories, and I can truthfully say I never felt so clean in my life.

A MOHAVE INDIAN WRAPPED UP IN HIS RABBIT SKIN BLANKET.

This bath is taken by thousands of the Southwest Indians once a week as a matter of religion, so that, as a fact, while their clothes are ragged and dirty, and they themselves appear to be dirty, they are really clean. It must be confessed, on the other hand, that too many Americans value the appearance of cleanliness more than the reality. They would far rather appear clean even if they were not than be clean and appear dirty. It is better to combine both reality and appearance, but, for my own sake, if I had to choose between the two, I believe I would rather be clean than only appear clean.

Civilized man, for centuries, has used hot baths of various kinds for remedial and healing purposes. Throughout the world, wherever hot springs are found, men and women congregate in large numbers, palatial hotels are built, bath-houses established, and an army of hotel-keepers, physicians, nurses, masseurs, and bath operators organized. Some go to the baths just as they do any other fashionable thing, or in order to mingle with the gay and fashionable throng. Other idlers go purely for the pleasure they gain from such associations, while still others go for the health they long for,—the strength and vigor they have lost. And there can be no question that they often gain it. In spite of the fashionable doctors who care less for the health of their patients than they do for their own fame and pockets; in spite of the physical ills that come from the altogether inappropriate diet of the hotel dining-rooms; in spite of the excitement of balls and parties, receptions and routs, common at such places; and in spite of the injurious influences of the gaming tables too often maintained, the use of the waters is often beneficial to a number of the patients. Were they to use the waters rationally, live hygienically, avoid all stimulating foods and drinks, and religiously refrain from all unnatural excitements, there is no question but that the use of the hot waters, the hot mud packs, and the like, would give health to many thousands who now derive but little benefit from them.

From whom did the white race learn the use of the hot bath, the mud bath, and the like? He learned it from the Indian, and if he would study the present methods of the Indians he would find many details connected with these baths that he might learn to his great advantage.

When the Indian goes to the bath he makes of it an almost religious ceremony. In one of the illustrations an old Indian Shaman is telling to the younger ones the things they should heed before going into the toholwoh, or sweat bath, the frame of which (as yet uncovered) is close at hand. The hot waters that bubble out from the interior of the earth he regards as the special gifts of the gods. He prays that he may not use these gifts unworthily. Just as the Mohammedan believes that the desert is the “Garden of Allah” and that no one must walk in it who is sinful until he has first asked for forgiveness, so does the Indian believe that the waters of healing will turn to his injury if he does not use them in the right spirit. Would it not be well if we—the superior race—approached this good gift of God in like manner?

THE SHAMAN TELLING THE STORY OF THE FIRST TOHOLWOH.

The natural simplicity of the Indian at the baths also offers a good lesson to us. Instead of seeking for gaiety, frivolity, fashion, and the means of pampering his appetite, he goes to the baths of nature resolved upon quiet and restfulness as far as possible. He seeks to prepare his mind beforehand, that the physical means used will be beneficial. In other words, though he is a rude, untutored savage,—so we say,—he has a clearer conception of the effect the mind has upon the body in real, practical healing, than has a large part of his civilized brothers and sisters. As a rule, we go to a physician, or to a sanitarium, or to baths—I mean those of us who are sick and desire health first of all—without any other thoughts than “I am sick. To go here may do me good. I hope it will.” Instead of preparing our minds beforehand by thoughtfulness, getting ourselves into the proper mental attitude to be helped, we leave it to chance, to the surroundings, to the doctor, and thus often fail to get the benefit we might have received. We carry our business cares, our family worries, our money-getting, with us and thus defeat the end for which we go.

Nor is that all! When we get there we want “all the comforts of a home.” In other words, we must be assured that we have a bedroom which we can lock up at night, a bedstead with a mattress as soft and unhealthy as the one we regularly sleep on, stuffy closets where we can hang our clothes,—and the rest.

The Indian finds his bedroom under the stars. He puts the invalid flat on the ground,—a sheepskin, perhaps, between him and the earth, but that is all. When will the superior white race learn that rejuvenation of the body comes quicker to those who “shed” their civilization, forswear their home comforts, quit their indulgence in fixed-up dishes, refrain from social frivolities (commonly called duties), and first and foremost,—after throwing away all the cares and worries that come of being so highly civilized,—get to a place where it is possible to sleep out of doors on the hard ground, protected, of course, as the Indians are. Get into the woods, on to the hills, down in the canyons, out on the deserts. Take a roll of blankets along, and no matter what the weather, learn to sleep on the bosom of Mother-Earth, out of doors. And if the region is one near hot springs or mud baths, all the better. Make it for the time being your home.

Ah! how wise is the Indian in his choice of a home. I have before referred to this, but I cannot help writing of it again. Home! It is not a place of unrest to him, where it requires the labor of wife and daughter, or a host of servants, to keep it in order; where polished furniture, polished floors, polished doors, polished mirrors, keep one forever with wiping-cloth in hand, removing the marks of careless fingers; where bric-a-brac is accumulated and piled everywhere to the shattering of nerves if the children get near it, or careless visitors happen to call; where “social demands” are so great that children are relegated to the care of servants; where brothers and sisters scarce have time to know each other, and husbands and wives meet semi-occasionally—no, it is not a home of this kind. To most Indians “everywhere” is home provided there is a little shade, water, and grass for his burro or pony. In the mountains, where he can shelter under an overhanging rock, or in the forest where he has a roof of emerald, supported by great pillars of pine or cottonwood or sycamore,—there is home. In the desert, where the roof is millions of miles high, decorated with suns and moons and stars and comets and meteors and Milky Way and countless nebulæ, and the walls are bounded on the east by the rising sun, and on the west by the setting sun, and God’s own laboratories make new, fresh, pure air every moment—there is home.

The San Francisco disaster taught thousands of people the healthfulness of the outdoor life. People who had been ailing for years, puny children, anæmic youths and maidens, dyspeptic parents, all “picked up” appetite and health when compelled to live in the parks and on the streets.

Let us heed the lesson. Let us follow the example of the Indian and be more simple, more natural. Let us relegate to the museum the collecting of curios and bric-a-brac and the thousand and one things that so crowd our houses as to make museums rather than homes of them.

A MOHAVE WOMAN WHOSE HAIR HAS BEEN
“DRESSED” IN MUD.

I do not suppose it is necessary that I should say that in our civilization we cannot literally do as the Indian does in this matter. That is not my thought. What I would urge is that we live more simply, and that, like the Indian, we get out of doors more, instead of housing ourselves the more as we become more “civilized.” And that, in the arrangements and accumulations of our home we make personal health, comfort and happiness the most important considerations, rather than display, and to win the approval or envy of our neighbors.

But to return to the hot springs. The Indian has always used them. He also learned and bequeathed to us the knowledge that mud is a useful therapeutic agent. The Yumas, Mohaves, and others who live near the banks of the Colorado River are in the habit of regularly plastering down their hair and scalp with thick, black mud. They go where it is clean and fresh,—washed down by the rushing waters of the mighty Colorado through the great canyons—and, rubbing it well into their hair, they cover it over with a cloth tied over the scalp and go on about their daily work. They keep the hair thus covered with mud for a day or two, and then wash it off and give the scalp a thorough cleansing. What is the result? Whether the fact be a result from the use of the mud or not, it is a fact that these river Indians have long, glossy black hair free from all disease, and their scalps are as healthy as the hair. They have no dandruff, no falling out of the hair, and do not need any hair tonic or dye. The mud contains enough of the finely ground sand commingled with the softer silt to make a healthful mixture for gently exciting the scalp when the rubbing off and cleansing process takes place. And covering the hair as well as the scalp with the mud and allowing it to dry on demands that the hair shall be well rubbed as well as the skin. The effect is to clean the hair thoroughly, and who knows but that the excitement generated by thus rubbing the hair as well as the scalp has something to do in promoting the healthful flow of the elements required for hair nutrition? Be that as it may, I know the fact, which is that these Indians, men as well as women, have hair, long, black, glossy, reaching down to their waists, and they attribute its healthfulness to the regular use of the mud-pack and rub.

Now, while we may not care to pack the hair in mud, we can certainly utilize the idea. I have done so for years. I often give my scalp and hair a mud bath, and it is both agreeable and exhilarating, and I had the assurance a few months ago from one of the leading scalp specialists of the East that my scalp was in an absolutely healthful condition—one of the very few found in such condition in the large eastern metropolis.

A MOHAVE INDIAN WHOSE HAIR AND SCALP HAVE BEEN CLEANED WITH MUD.

The Indian also uses mud—and by this I mean the clear, pure, uncontaminated earth and sandy mixtures found in the rivers of the desert west—for wounds. There is little doubt but that he learned this from the animals. Who has not seen a dog, after a fight in which he got worsted, run and throw himself into a mud puddle? Many years ago—about twenty—I read an account of a battle between a wildcat and a dog, and the writer, who saw the conflict, told how the dog went and bathed himself in mud thereafter. The brief sketch made such an impression on me that I knew just where to find it, and I have hunted it up, and am now going to copy it for the benefit of my readers. It will help explain why the Indian does the same thing. He has observed the animals bathing in the mud, when wounded, as this dog did.

“The dog has won the battle; but he has got some ugly scars along his sides and flank. Observe, that overheated as he is, he does not rush into that clear stream. He takes his bath in that shallow spring with a soft mud bottom. Note how he plasters himself, laying the wounded side underneath, and then sitting down on his haunches, buries all the wounded parts in the ooze. That mud has medicinal properties. The dog knows it. No physician could make so good a poultice for the wounds of a cat’s claws as this dog has found for himself. Pray, if you had been clawed in that way by either feline or feminine, would you have found anything at the bottom of your book philosophy so remedial as this dog has found?”

The Indian’s use of mud, therefore, is seen to be an inheritance as the result of his observation of the animals. Since the time I heard of the dog and wildcat fight I have had occasion to watch the Indians many times. I have used the mud with them, and always with good results. And if, when some four and a half years ago I was bitten on the thumb by a rattlesnake, and for a week was supposed to be hovering between life and death, I had thought enough to have done as the Indians do,—gone and put my hand and arm in a mud bath at the side of a stream or at the bottom of a shallow spring, I should have fared as well as I did (and perhaps better), though I had two skilled physicians, an accomplished professor, and a devoted nurse to care for me.

And when I was supposed to be well again,—months afterward,—I found that the deadly poison had in some way lodged in the lining of the stomach, so that, at times, it would cause a nervous and muscular disturbance that made me suffer intense agony. I then recalled the use of mud by my Indian friends, and I hied me away as speedily as I could to the hot mud baths of Paso Robles, in California. There the sulphur water at a temperature of over 110° Fahrenheit comes bubbling into a great wooden tank filled with the soft, velvety mud, black as ink, of the tule marsh. Into this tank I stepped, and gradually worked my way into the mud, lying down in it, and wriggling and working my body until I was as near covered as I could be. I brought great armfuls of the hot, soft, and soothing nature poultice over my stomach and body, and then lay there as long as it was wise to do so. What mattered it that I was blacker than a negro when I came out. Two minutes with a bucket and a hose and I was cleaner than ever. One week of these baths and I lost the poison, never again to return. I never think of Paso Robles and the mud baths there without a deep sense of gratitude that some of us at least have learned how to utilize some good things that the Indian has taught us.

CHAPTER XV
THE INDIAN AND THE SEX QUESTION

Having studied medicine somewhat in my life, I have been permitted as a “medicine man” to know more of the intimate life of the Indian women than many white men. In this article I propose to give the results of many observations in this field, with full assurance that there are many things the white woman may learn from the Indian, both in her treatment of herself and her children.

In the first place, the period of adolescence in both boys and girls is regarded with the importance it deserves.

The white race has much to learn from the Indian in its treatment of boys and girls at this age. My blood is made to boil almost every day when I am in our cities and see young girls, just entering into maidenhood, coming home from school, anæmic, pale, nervous, irritable, almost victims of St. Vitus’s dance, often dyspeptic or with a cough fastening its hold upon them, because their parents are so blind and foolish as to prefer book and school education to health. To me such parents are guilty of cruelty and criminality, and I would sooner imprison them and take away the control of their children from them than I would the forger or the housebreaker. They are cruel in that they are either ignorantly or wilfully ruining the health,—perhaps for life,—of their children, and they are criminal in that by so doing they are injuring the future welfare of the state. Boys, too, are treated exactly the same at this time as at any other, and when the great mystery of sex awakening is upon them, they are sent to school as usual, treated with the same untrue answers to the questions that arise that they were given to quiet their minds when they were little more than babies. I am thankful there has been much of an awakening in this matter during the past twenty years, and that I have had an active part in it. I think it was in 1888 that I published a small book on sex teaching for the young.[4] It is as imperative to warn the young to-day as it was then. The Indian boy is instructed fully into the mystery of sex just as soon and as simply as he is in every other question that arises, and at puberty he is made the subject of specific ceremonies that teach him the meaning of the change that is coming over him. He is treated with a new dignity, is formally recognized as having entered man’s estate, and is sent out into the woods or the solitude of the desert “to come to himself.”

[4] “The Guiding Light,” in two parts, to be had only from the author, 1098 N. Raymond Ave., Pasadena, Cal. In paper, 50 cents; in cloth, $1.00 postpaid.

In the case of girls, ceremonies of instruction, purification, and dedication are almost universally observed. The adolescent is set apart from her fellows, and the elder women give her definite and full instruction as to what the change that is taking place in her life means. She is shown the importance of the new function, and how much the welfare of the race depends upon it. Then she is made to undergo ceremonies that last for several days, in which her body and all its functions are dedicated to the tribe. She is one of the future mothers now, and, as such, is entitled to all respect and consideration. There is no foolish reserve, no “modesty,” so-called, which arrogates to itself the right to criticise the wisdom of God in creating human beings male and female that they may marry and propagate their kind upon the earth. For, wherever one finds the sort of “modesty” that is ashamed of natural and God-given functions, there is either a mental perversion for which the victim is to be pitied, or a moral perversion which is to be reprobated. Every Indian girl is given fully to understand what the function means, with all its possibilities, and she is taught to pray that, when the time comes, she may have a lover, and that he may be a good husband, and that, in due time, she may be the happy and healthy mother of many happy and healthy children.

And in some tribes there are certain shrines where the girls are taught to go and offer their prayers that lovers, husbands, and children—not one or two of the latter, but many—may be given to them at the will of the gods above.

This is to dignify sex, to train the girls that wifehood and motherhood are holy and to be desired, and that they are not matters merely to jest and joke about, or to talk in secret whispers about one to another, as if the very subject were unholy and unclean.

Then a matter of practical healthfulness is observed that white parents need very much to learn, it appears to me, especially in this age of scholastic crowding and mental overworking. Each month the girl is required to rest, in order that she may preserve and maintain her body in perfectly healthy condition. She may go where she will, but she must be quiet and still, in order that the function may be not disturbed, and that its regularity may be established. Not only this, but this habit of rest is kept up so long as the function continues through life. Even on the march a woman may stay behind (if she so desires) and rest for a day or so. The result of this rest at such times is shown in the strength and vigor the women show during pregnancy and at birth. They seem to store up strength, and, as I shall later show, childbirth to most of them is no more a time of peril, pain, or distress than is breathing.

A HAVASUPAI MOTHER, PROUD
OF HER MAN-CHILD.

Mothers who neglect to thus instruct and care for their daughters at the adolescent period are criminals both to their children and to the race. Among the ancient Greeks such a mother would have been regarded as a monstrosity; yet many mothers have confessed to their physicians they have never had one word of converse with their daughters upon this most important subject. When I see children going to school at this adolescent period, and being forced by our competitive system of education to strain every nerve to cram the required amount of facts into their brains, I do not wonder that we have so many sickly women who are incapable of being the mothers of healthy and happy children. Far better that our children be not educated in chemistry, and literature, in physical science and art, than that they unfit themselves for the happy relations of a beautiful marriage and sweet and tender parenthood. For let the new or the old woman say what she will, the divinely ordered plan is that women shall be wives, and happy wives at that, capable of making their husbands happy, or at least of contributing their share to that end, and also that they shall know the joys of maternity. Unhappy indeed is that woman whose physical condition is such that she refuses to know the sweet touch of her own baby’s body, and denies herself the blessed privilege of training its soul for a beautiful and useful life.

The Indian mother sees to it that her daughter is early taught her future possibilities and the will of Those Above in regard to her, and the growing woman would as soon shirk the responsibilities of her sex as she would refuse to eat. The consequences are that normal births with Indian women are practically painless and entirely free from danger. I have known a woman to deliver herself of her child, sever the umbilicus, and then walk half a mile to the creek, walk into it with the baby, and give herself and the child a good washing, then return to her camp, suckle the little one, and proceed to attend to her duties as if nothing had happened. At another time I saw a woman, less than half an hour after her child was born, start off for a heavy load of wood. Their freedom from constricting waist-bands, their absolute freedom of body, their nasal and deep breathing, their muscular exercise through life, their open air sleeping and living,—all have much to do with these easy births.

THE AUTHOR DESCRIBING THE SYMBOLISM OF THE PAIUTI BASKET DESIGN.

To a good Indian woman, also, there is nothing more evil than to circumvent the will of Those Above by refusing to have children. Such a woman would be almost a monstrosity to an Indian, who would be unable to comprehend the mental workings of such an abnormality. Children are to be desired, to be longed for, and to become a joyous possession. In the making of some of their basketry the Paiuti women weave a design which shows the opening between the upper and lower worlds through which the souls of all children born into this upper world must come. By a correspondence of the symbol with the thing symbolized, the Paiuti weaver believes that if she closes up this opening in the basket, she will render herself incapable of bearing any more children. Therefore, even though you were to offer her her weight in money, you could not persuade her to close up the aperture in the basket’s design. This would be circumventing the will of the gods.

The same law, too, applies to the suckling of her child. The Indian mother never dreams of foregoing this healthful duty and pleasure. She regards it as one of her special joys, in which she is superior to man. And just as the Paiuti weaver refuses to close the aperture in her basket, so does the Zuni woman refuse to close, except with averted eyes and a prayer that the gods will see she did it with unseeing eyes, the tiny aperture in the mammæ of the water bottles which she makes of clay in imitation of the human breasts. She dare not, even thus in symbol, suggest the closing of her own maternal founts.

Ah! beautiful simplicity and joy of naturalness. The God of men and women surely knew what was good for them when He set in motion the forces that created them. In harmony with His will and purpose we are healthy, happy, normal beings, living lives of purity, progress, and peace. In opposition to His will we are unhealthy, unhappy, abnormal beings, full of wretchedness, impurity, and misery. In many things the Indian, too simple to go far away from the Divine precepts which come to him through contact with nature, is wiser than we. Let us then put on the garment of simplicity, seek to know the will of God, and with hearts like little children learn the true way, and then seek for courage to walk therein.

A HEALTHY AND HAPPY PIMA MOTHER WHOSE BABY WAS GLADLY WELCOMED.

CHAPTER XVI
THE INDIAN AND HER BABY

I have elsewhere spoken of the Indian woman’s reception of her child. It is welcomed with joy, and yet in its first hour’s treatment most white women would think its life would terminate. After seeing that it breathes properly—that is, through the nose—the mother carries her little one to the nearest creek or water-hole and gives it a good bath. Cold water has no terrors for her, and she does not fear its use for the child. With this cold bath the child may be said to enter its earthly existence. Henceforth life is to be a succession of hardening processes. Indian babies get no foolish and weakening coddling. They are loved dearly and petted often, but are made to lie down on flat boards or basket cradles, with arms and legs strapped down, and are thus early accustomed to physical restraint. They sleep out of doors from the day of their birth, and become accustomed to all kinds of weather. For an Indian child who has taken cold we shall look in vain. The name, the thought of such an ill is unknown.

If the parents have to move from canyon up to plateau, or go off to far away forests for the winter’s supply of pinion nuts, the child is put into its carrying basket, swung on the back of the mother, dependent from her forehead, and carried either on horseback or on foot to the new stopping place. Simplicity and naturalness accompany every stage of the little one’s life until the age of puberty, when the child-life is supposed to end, and the man or woman life begins.

A HEALTHY AND HAPPY INDIAN BABY.

Now, while of very necessity our method of treating white children must be different from this, we can learn many lessons from the Indian that will materially benefit our race. The key-stone of the whole idea is found in the words: “No coddling.” Not long ago I went to the home of an artist friend. His wife had just presented him with a fine, healthy son. The wife’s mother was present, and had taken charge of the young mother and her baby. The room was stifling hot, so that I could scarcely breathe, and when I went to see the baby it was wrapped up in a cradle with a sheet and three blankets over its head. At once I opened the doors and windows, taking good precaution to see that the mother did not take cold. I gave both grandmother and new mother a lecture upon the monstrous folly and cruelty of thus depriving the new-born child of needed air for its expanding lungs. The lesson was accepted in the proper spirit, for the father fully agreed with me, and on the grandmother’s departure, a few days later, the coddling, smothering process ceased, and a cold bath, sleeping out of doors, and a generally healthy treatment of the child substituted. I know this is an exaggerated case, but it serves as an illustration of the wrongful and excessive “coddling” we give our children, from which follow such evils as weak lungs, weak throats, readiness to take cold, etc.

As the exaggerated opposite of this, let me relate the treatment I accorded to my own children.

When my first son was born, we were so located that I was compelled to be both physician and nurse. His first experience—after a good hot bath—was a cold bath, and within half an hour of his birth he was sleeping out of doors. At five weeks of age he and his mother accompanied me on an eight-hundred-mile drive over the plains and deserts of Nevada. We camped out, slept on the ground, and gave him, whenever possible, an open air bath in the cold mountain brooks that occasionally were met with.

A year or so after the second boy was born I was stationed in the little town of Cedarville, Cal., and one of the happiest remembrances of my life there was in winter when the snow was deep upon the ground. I would place a canvas upon the floor of my small study, where a good fire blazed in the stove, fetch in a couple of washtubs full of snow, then undress the youngsters, and watch them as they sat in the snow, rubbed it on their naked bodies and laughed and shouted and crowed with delight when I gently snowballed them.

While they were little tots, every morning before being dressed they stood outside while I threw—not poured, but threw,—a bucketful of cold water over them. Then, after a vigorous and hearty rub down, they went with me for a walk where they were allowed to run and jump and romp to their heart’s content.

This I call a rational treatment of children. It certainly is a healthy treatment, and those brought up under such an Indian method will never know the aches, pains, ills, and weaknesses that most white children are afflicted with. And I would treat my baby girls, if I had any, exactly the same as my boys, for the health of the race more nearly depends upon the health of the future mothers than upon that of the future fathers.

If it be thought that I am too extreme I quote an article entire from a recent Good Health, entitled “Strenuous Health Culture,” in which it will be seen that others have done the same thing with equally good results.

“‘Time was when clothing, sumptuous or for use,
Save their own painted skins, our sires had none.’

“Yet they were far healthier and hardier than the present much-clad generation. Why does the savage go naked with impunity while the civilized man shivers in his clothes, and is a prey to colds, pneumonia, and a variety of diseases unknown to the naked savage?

“One of the marvels of the normal human body is its wonderful adaptability—the maintenance of its equilibrium under constantly varying conditions. By the regulation and adaptation of the heat functions of the body the bodily temperature is maintained at the normal standard in spite of the changing temperature of the surrounding atmosphere. But when the body is artificially heated continually, as by over-clothing and over-heated rooms, its functions become to some degree dormant, and in consequence the natural bodily resistance is greatly lessened.

“The effort of the body to resist cold stimulates and strengthens. One who can resist cold can resist all kinds of disease germs. This has been demonstrated by the success of the ‘cold-air cure’ for a variety of diseases.

“The old-time coddling of delicate children, which still further lessened their vitality and weakened their powers of endurance, is now giving place to its opposite. Judicious exposure to cold has been found to be one of the best methods of strengthening weak infants and developing healthy children. At a recent conference of mothers held in Minnesota, they were advised that a snowbank makes one of the best cradles. One mother who had tried this treatment thought that it accounted for the unusual health and strength of the family.

“A Milwaukee physician, Dr. John E. Worden, has adopted this strenuous treatment to prepare his babes for the rigors of life, and up to the present his methods have been abundantly justified by their success. His little daughters, Shirley and Jane, aged respectively eight and three years, are two of the firmest and healthiest bits of humanity to whom disease of all kinds is unknown. During the cold weather these children may be seen barefooted and bareheaded, clad only in their cotton garments, thoroughly enjoying a romp in the snowdrifts, and without even a goose-pimple on their skin.

“‘We are merely following out health rules,’ said Dr. Worden, speaking of his unique methods of bringing up his children. ‘We are aiming at prevention rather than at cure. We have brought the children up so that they are fearless, and dread neither the ice-cold plunge nor a romp in the snow in their bare feet. The door is always open, and they go out when they like and return when they are ready to do so. We do not force the children to go out in the snow barefooted; they go out of their own free will, and play until they are tired, or their attention is called to something else.

A HOPI INDIAN AT ORAIBI SHELLING CORN.

“‘In the summer we send them out into the sun bareheaded and barefooted, with orders to keep out of the shade. On the street cars they are instructed to sit on the sunny side of the car. It is well that they experience something of contrast; therefore, a cold bath is given them daily in the warm weather. In the winter they are allowed to go outdoors to get stimulus from the cold air.

“‘Children brought up like tender hot-house plants are likely to contract colds and other diseases, and to die as the result of not having robust constitutions. These children, on the contrary, will and do escape without any sickness; and should they get sick, their recovery is almost certain, because of their being strong and in good condition.’

“Both Dr. Worden and his wife are graduates of the University of Michigan, and Mrs. Worden was for a number of years before her marriage a trained nurse.

“‘During my hospital training and institutional work,’ says Mrs. Worden, ‘I saw so much sickness due to weakened bodies that I investigated causes, and came to the conclusion that much of the weakness was due to a lack of physical development, to abuses through mistaken kindness on the part of the parents, that so weakened the immature bodies that they could not withstand the attack of disease. With our children, beginning from babyhood, we have had one aim, and that is to give them strong physiques, and we have succeeded thus far. They have never had one drop of medicine, and never been ill one moment.’

“The clothing of these children is always light, and much the same summer and winter. It is of cotton almost exclusively, and no bands are ever used. In the place of stockings the easy, sensible, comfortable Roman sandal, made only in England, is worn.

THE BEST NATURED BABY I EVER SAW. HER
PARENTS ARE WALLAPAIS.

“‘We believe in clothing them as lightly as possible,’ says Mrs. Worden, ‘depending on their excellent heat-making organs to develop any extra warmth needed in an emergency. This stimulates a necessity for a good, strong internal circulation of the fluids of the body, and creates a desire to exercise a little in order to keep warm. Over-warm children are usually lazy.’

“The Worden home is sunny and bright, with windows wide open day and night, and the rooms kept always cool and fresh. No useless furniture, no bric-a-brac, no draperies, harbor dust and germs. The walls and hard-wood floors and few articles of furniture are kept scrupulously clean, but without ornament. The whole house is given over to the children, and there is no need for prohibitions of any sort.

“Concerning the diet of his children Dr. Worden says: ‘No national or international problems concerning the welfare of our people are as important as our food problem. And yet it is a very simple one, solved by an all-wise Creator before the creation of man. Time enough is wasted in the kitchen of our modern homes, spoiling good food by making almost impossible mixtures and then over-cooking these, to do all the necessary work of any nation. This careless and ignorant diet leads to ill-health, from which there is no escape unless we learn to lead a sensible life, eating moderately of natural foods, and these in simple combinations.

“‘With our children, very little cow’s milk is used, largely because of its unreliability in the city; but we do not favor an abundance of milk anyway, after children have teeth to use on their food. Their diet consists of fruits, cereals, nuts, and vegetables, no spices, vinegar, etc., being used. Whole wheat flour, the bran included, is used exclusively.

“‘They are never urged to eat. We expect them to know whether they are hungry or not. Urging children to eat leads to overfilling of the stomach, and this to bowel disorders, and often death. Next to urging children to eat, as a cause of overeating, is variety. We never supply them with a choice of foods at one meal. The diet for each meal is simple, and yet in one season or year they get quite a variety, as exampled by a list of the fruits they get, one kind at a time: Apples, pears, grapes, plums, cherries, oranges, pineapples, peaches, grape fruit, prunes, apricots, figs, dates, raisins, bananas, melons, and the numerous kinds of berries—all choice fruit. They scorn anything with a bad spot as being not fit to eat. Then again we buy them lots of nuts for food, not just for the fun of cracking and eating and usually overeating. They get nut food as a United States soldier his rations. Next we have an immense choice of vegetables, of which they get one kind at a meal—never two vegetables to one child at the same meal. On such a diet it is no occasion for surprise that they have never been sick. The good health to be derived from a simple meal more than repays for any fancied abstinence.’

“The Worden children are already little athletes. The elder girl is the youngest basket-ball player in Milwaukee. Every evening they exercise for a few minutes nude, incidentally getting an air bath to the skin of the whole body while developing and strengthening the muscles.

“Dr. and Mrs. Worden are not faddists. They are earnestly and steadfastly endeavoring to fulfill the trust committed to them, to develop their children into strong healthy women, to strengthen their powers of endurance, and develop their physical faculties by bringing them up in accordance with all the laws of health.”

---

Another thing that I would have white women learn from their Indian sisters, is a thing they used to know but are rapidly forgetting. That is, the joy of suckling their own children. An Indian mother that does not suckle her own child is almost unknown. With the “superior classes” of the white race it is the opposite of this proposition that is true. Not only is this of great injury to the child, but it is fraught with most serious consequences to the mother. Is it nothing that the mother of a child willfully puts away from herself all the little, fond, sweet intimacies that naturally grow out of this relationship; the joy of exercise of a natural and beautiful function; the feeling that the baby life is still being sustained by the mother’s own life-blood transmuted by mother love and mother-processes into sweet, delicious food that nothing else can equal?

A DILIGENT HOPI BASKET WEAVER, WHO IS ALSO A GOOD MOTHER.

It is a fact that all the higher affections and emotions of the human soul have to be cultivated and developed. The child sees little or no beauty in a sunset; it must be trained to recognize it. The love of Nature grows as we cultivate it. The nobler emotions of self-sacrifice, humility, kindliness, grow as we cultivate them, and while, where maternity is a perfectly natural process, joy accompanies it in all its manifestations, there is no denying the fact that in our so-called civilization women have to cultivate the feelings connected with the function to bring to themselves the joy they should normally possess. But that there is a joy in suckling one’s own child many, many mothers—true mothers—have assured me, and I wish to add my voice to the supplications of the innocent child that every mother give of her own sweet, loving breast to the child she has brought into the world. Some mothers refuse because it destroys the beautiful contour of the bust; others because it demands too close confinement, and would therefore prohibit regular attendance upon club or social functions. Poor women! Bartering their God-given rights and privileges for the messes of pottage that society and club life afford—that is, afford to mothers at the time they should be with their babes. Can any society on earth, any club that ever existed, compensate for the loss of healthful nutrition given from a loving mother’s breast? Let the statistics of “bottle-fed” babies attest the dangers that accrue from the mother’s refusal (or inability—for which she is to be pitied rather than condemned) to suckle her own young.

A PROUD AND HAPPY WALLAPI MOTHER.

A HOPI BABY WHO HAS NEVER YET KNOWN CLOTHES.

CHAPTER XVII
THE INDIAN AND THE SANCTITY OF NUDITY

While adults of both sexes among all Indians wear either a skirt or a gee-string, there is not the slightest hesitancy in allowing the young, both boys and girls, to run about in a state of nudity. Since we have sent white teachers and missionaries to the Indians, they are beginning to learn that somehow—though they can’t sort it out just how or why—there is something indecent in allowing nude children to wander about their homes and villages. They are being taught to be “ashamed,”—their children are becoming sex-conscious as are our white children, long before their time, and we are foisting on to them our hateful, impure, and blasphemous conceptions of nudity. For myself I am free to confess that I have no sympathy with this kind of teaching. I think it unnecessary, and not only unnecessary but a positive injury. I believe in the sanctity of nudity, especially in that of young children, and while with our present social customs we cannot allow our children to be nude or partially nude in public, I would that our minds were as clean in this matter as are those of the Indians with whom I have so long been acquainted.

Whatever society may demand of us in public, there is no reason why, in private, both our children and ourselves should not spend a certain portion of every day, if possible, in contact with the direct rays of the sun and the air. Every school in the land should be so equipped, and our children and their parents be so trained, that, under proper direction, a certain part of every day the students could be so exposed. All know the benefit that comes from the exposing of the arms and legs to the sun and breezes at the sea-shore. Men, women, and children alike who flee the city for an annual holiday to the seaside return to their shut-in, civilized (!) life with renewed vigor and health. Why not give some of this life to city children every day in the year? Even in Eastern cities, in winter, a solarium could be created in the top stories of the schoolhouses, and there, with every window wide open, the children clothed in the scantiest of garments, as at the seaside, could go through physical and breathing exercises, and romp or play games for half an hour, to their great benefit both of body and mind.

We have for so long trained ourselves to the half expressed belief that there is something wrong about nudity that we find women’s clubs draping statues, and organizations rejecting figures because they are nude, which all ages and all civilized peoples have accepted as pure and chaste works of art. I would not for a moment have it thought that I approve of all nude statues or pictures. Many of them have no virtue to commend them. Yet I would not indiscriminately condemn all works of art in the nude merely because they are nude. We have forgotten the appearance of a healthy body, and feel ashamed to see one. By our mental attitude we accuse the Creator of indecency that “male and female created He them,” for, not only do we veil the bodies of the opposite sexes from each other, (which is a perfectly correct and wise thing to do) but daughters are ashamed to be seen nude by their own mothers, and mothers by their daughters. I believe in the sanctity of nudity. Let the sexes remain apart, by all means, but let there be less of false shame when men see nude men, or women see nude women, or either or both see nude children. It is a fact declared by the most conservative of white explorers, that the naked tribes of aborigines are the most pure, chaste, and truly modest. Our conception that because Indians are unclothed they are therefore indecent and unclean, impure and unchaste, is a dirty conception, dishonoring to ourselves and our Creator. Honi soit qui mal y pense, and “to the pure all things are pure” are as true to-day as when they were first spoken and written, and while I am as opposed as is any one living to nude pictures and statues that have nothing to commend them but their nudity; while I am strongly opposed to promiscuous nudity either in whole or in part, I am equally opposed to the mental attitude that nudity in itself is wrong, and that the Creator did not know His business when he created us both nude and of different sexes.

A HAVASUPAI CHILD BROUGHT UP
TO ENJOY BEING OUT IN THE
RAIN.

Benjamin Franklin, John Quincy Adams, and many others of the great men of the world, made it a daily practice to expose their bodies to the sun and the air. For years I have seized every proper opportunity to do so, such as when I took my fifteen days’ rowing trip down the Colorado River. When on the Salton Sea exploring trip; when out in the deserts, the canyons, the forests, on the mountain tops, I endeavored every day to give my body some exposure, and every night and morning, when camping out, before retiring and arising, I have a brief air bath, sometimes with vigorous physical exercises. Thus the power of God’s own sun and air enter my body through every pore of the skin, and I enjoy a health, vigor, vim, and tingle of delight I can get in no other way.

When I first visited the Havasupai Indians, all the men were nude, part of the time, save for the breech-clout. In their dances, in some of which I participated, it was a delight to see the movements of their perfect muscles, their bronze flesh glistening in the sun, or in the glow of the camp fires. And men, women, and children all bathed at the same time, in the clear waters of Havasu Creek, all the adults, of course, wearing either a short skirt or a breech clout, but the major part of the body fully exposed. There was no immodesty and no thought of anything of the kind. Nudity or semi-nudity was taken as a matter of course, and neither by word or deed did anyone seem conscious of it. After vigorous swimming, the young men wrestled, the youngsters ran races, the men indulged in various games, their bodies still exposed to the sun and the air, and no one could fail to observe the health, vigor, and robustness that came from this habit of life.

The Hopis train their boys and young men to their morning runs over the desert in a state of almost complete nudity, and in their snake dance races, nothing but the gee-string is worn, and people of both sexes gaze upon them with no thought of immodesty. Modesty is a condition of soul, and has nothing to do with the exposure or covering of the body. One may be a Godiva and be far more modest than another who veils not only her whole body but even her face. And for myself, I wish to record my conviction that it would be far better for the morals of civilized man if he would bring up his children of both sexes to recognize and know the sanctity of nudity, rather than to cover the body as he does and to affirm by his words and suggest by his demeanor that he regards an exposed body as indecent. A small trunk can always be worn and this suffices for every purpose of true modesty.

A NUDE HOPI SPINNING WOOL FOR THE
MAKING OF A DRESS FOR HIS WIFE.

In many of the leading sanitariums of the world the patients are required to expose their bodies to the sun and air for a certain length of time daily. Here is a struggling to get back to a natural condition, an almost essential condition to the attainment and retention of perfect health. Of the outdoor gymnasiums for men and women at the Boulder Sanitarium, Colorado, Dr. Howard F. Rand thus writes:

“Here the men patients, clothed with simple trunks, bask in the sunshine on the sand which covers the ground, follow the trainer through the different lines of gymnastic work, finally plunging into the pool and coming out ready to be dried and thoroughly rubbed. Donning their simple apparel, they can, if they choose, proceed up the mountain, and gather beautiful wild flowers and rest the eye on the surrounding scenery.

“The outdoor gymnasium is especially helpful in the treatment of women. It is very difficult to get them to dress properly when taking physical exercise, and they are ‘so afraid’ of exposing themselves to the sunlight and ‘ruining’ their complexion. But the beautiful physique of some of our young women who have trained in this line, and the assurance that they can so develop themselves, lead them to make short trips to the gymnasium, and gradually they grow willing to be delivered from close wrappings, and expose themselves to the sunlight. The pleasure is enticing; enjoyment of exercise in this place without the restriction of tight clothing rapidly increases, and desired results are obtained by this means in less time than in any other line of training. The great essential is to have the person in natural condition when exercising, so that all the organs of the body may move freely and naturally, without let or hindrance. Number seems to increase the enchantment; hence the more readily do the timid and backward take the first steps.

“At first it is impossible for many to expand at the waist line; but a jump into the pool, the temperature of the water being 70° to 75°, causes them involuntarily to inflate the respiratory organs, and through this and special training deep breathing becomes habitual in less time than it would in any other way.

“We aim to have our patients spend at least one hour, twice a day (forenoon and afternoon), in the open-air gymnasium.

“Soon after beginning this course, the patient’s skin, and mind as well, will be found clearing up. He will say his appetite is better, and that he sleeps more soundly, and is gaining weight and strength. The surface becomes brown in a short time, but as soon as pigmentation ceases, there is a natural, pearly-white hue—a sure indicator of health.”

These open-air gymnasiums are to be found at the leading sanitariums of the world, thus clearly showing that the Indian idea of nudity has the sanction of the highest and wisest medical opinions of the white race.

The body is a sweet, a precious, a beautiful expression of God’s thought; it was and is intended by the Divine as the house of the mind, the soul, the immortal part of the human being. Paul expressly declares it is “the temple of the Holy Ghost.” Every part of it is beautiful, every part God-given. In health it is the most perfect machine ever designed, and the most beautiful. Every function it performs is a marvel, every power contained within it a miracle. How obviously wrong then is anything that disparages, lowers, offends the high and supreme dignity of this glorious structure. Yet we are ashamed of it, we apologize for it, we teach our children to be ashamed of it and to cover it as an evil thing.

CHAPTER XVIII
THE INDIAN AND FRANKNESS

Another thing the white race might learn from the Indian, and it would be well for them if they did, is the virtue of frankness. If an Indian likes you or dislikes you, he lets you know. There is no pretense, no hypocrisy, and in his speech he indicates his feelings. Then, too, he is not offended by plain speech. If he lies and you tell him so, he honors you; and if you lie, he will not hesitate to say so. Making the fingers of both hands as a tongue on each side of the mouth, he says: “You talk two ways at once,” which is Indian for our ruder vernacular: “You are a liar!” There are no conventional lies among Indians. They do not speak untruths for the sake of politeness. They have learned the lesson of the Man of Galilee, who two thousand years ago taught, “Let your yea be yea, and your nay nay, for whatsoever is more than these cometh of evil.” Of course there are untruthful Indians, but with the major part their word is never broken. I would just as soon take the simple word of most of the Indians I know as that of the most upright and honored of the old-fashioned Southern gentlemen. And I would no more think of insulting the Indian by putting his integrity in speech on the same plane as that of the ordinary society or business man or woman of America than I would insult the lion by calling him a wolf. Strong words, but true, and capable of demonstration. Too often Indians who come in contact with the whites learn to lie, but the pure, uncontaminated, uncivilized Indian hates a lie and a liar as much as the proverb says the devil hates holy water. I shall never forget the impression made in the court-room at Flagstaff, Arizona, when Bigwoetten, a Navaho Indian, who had been charged with murder, and who had sent word to the sheriff that it would be useless to hunt for him as he could never be found, but that, if he was wanted, he would come in when the trial began,—I say, I shall never forget the marvelous impression caused by the proud stalking into the court-room of this old and dignified Indian, and his speech to the judge: “Though I am sore wounded, and the journey over the desert has been dreary and long, and has well-nigh killed me, I gave my word that I would be here,—the word of a Navaho that never was broken—so here I am. Do with me as you will, so that you do honestly.”

THE AUTHOR HAVING A POW-WOW WITH THE YUMA INDIANS.

Several times, with perfect confidence, I have risked my life in exploring trips, on the mere word of an Indian that he would be at such a place at a certain time with food and water. And such has been my experience that now I never hesitate to accept the simple word of any Indian who has an ordinarily good reputation.

I have often had pow-wows with various tribes and whatever they have promised me in such councils has invariably been performed.

And yet there is a peculiar twist to the mentality of many Indians that needs comment here. When a stranger is questioning an Indian about anything that she (or he) deems of no great importance, as, for instance, the meaning of a certain design on a basket, the Indian conception of politeness leads her to give you the reply your question seems to call for. For instance, if you see a zigzag design on a basket and you ask her, “Is this to represent lightning?” she thinks that is what you want it to represent, so she says, “Yes!” Ten minutes later and her questioner asks, “Is this the ripple of the sunshine on water?” Again with the same thought uppermost in her mind, that she must be polite to her questioner, that that is the answer asked for, she says, “Yes!” And so on with a dozen different questioners, and all of them with a different interpretation of the same symbol, her answer would be “yes” every time. This, however, is not untruth. It is because the white questioner does not know that his is not the method of extracting truth from an Indian. He has asked for a certain answer and he has it.

CHAPTER XIX
THE INDIAN AND REPINING

In all my association with Indians, I cannot recall a single instance of repining, regret over the unalterable events of the past, weeping or wailing over joys lost, demoralizing self-pity, or magnified distress because “we have seen better days.” The simple, unpretentious, really democratic life of the Indian disposes of these latter ills to which the white race is heir by rendering them impossible, and repining and self-pity seem to have no place in their vocabulary. They weep and wail when their loved ones die; and they gather together and pray if drought or other natural evils destroy their crops, but when the weeping is done it is done, and life’s duties are taken up without constant repining or self-pity. What has happened has happened. Nothing can alter it. It is the will of Those Above, or whether it is or not it IS, and that is enough. Hence why complain, why protest. Accept the inevitable. Leave it alone. Let the dead past bury its dead. Do the work of to-day; never mind the woe of yesterday.

This seems to me to be the Indian attitude. A kind of proud acquiescence, a manly, womanly recognition of facts, and a willingness to face them and thus triumph over them. Instead of magnifying their sorrows they minimize them by constant labor and by doing the very opposite, viz., magnifying their joys. Often have I heard this done. A widow speaking of her lost husband, and immediately referring in tones of joy to her boys and girls, her fine corn-field, her peach orchard,—her blessings, in fact.

It is simply impossible for any one to estimate the amount of time, strength, energy, and life that have been wasted by the white race in lamenting, repining, weeping, over things that could neither be helped nor changed. And how absurd such lamentation is. If an evil can be remedied, remedy it. If a wrong can be righted, right it. But to waste valuable time, strength, and energy in vain repining and self-pity is a crime that no Indian is so foolish as to commit. It is left to the white race to thus show its superiority! This comes from two or three causes. First: Our race, mainly our women, are not as healthy physically as the Indian, and where physical health is lacking it is so easy to yield to the force of evil circumstance. Strong men or women can force themselves into physical and mental activity and these bring solace and forgetfulness of the pains, ills, and sorrows of the past. Second: The very ease and luxury of our lives which all white people so much covet, give us time and opportunity to sit down and study over sources of sadness, while on the other hand, the Indian woman has her daily work that she must perform, willy nilly, and thus is kept from the contemplation of her sorrows. Third: There is in the Indian that calm serenity of mind and soul that belong only to either very childlike or exceedingly cultured natures. With the Indian it is childlike acceptance of the will of the gods; with Browning, it was the calm philosophy of the highest culture. Unfortunately for most of us, we have lost the religious simplicity of our ancestors, our childlike faith and trust, and have not yet attained to the serenity of the philosopher.

I write this brief chapter merely to call attention to the facts, and to urge upon the white race the necessity, if it would preserve its serenity, of either reverting to the simple faith of the Indian, or of cultivating a religious philosophy that will produce an equal serenity and equanimity in the face of trial, sorrow, misfortune or death.

CHAPTER XX
THE INDIAN AND THE SUPERFLUITIES OF LIFE

The white race may learn much from the Indian as to the superfluities of life. There is no question but that we—the white race—are cursed with the collecting habit; we are vexed by many possessions. And what is the good of much of what we gather? Mere trash, accumulated for show; bought without much thought merely to gratify a passing whim, and half the time we don’t know what to do with our purchases when we have made them. Our houses are no longer homes, they are converted into bric-a-brac establishments. Our children become a terror to us lest they should touch this or that or the other, and our nervous systems are wrecked because of dread lest our fine “Japanese bowl,” or our elegant “Etruscan vase,” or our exquisite “Italian figurine,” or “that lovely Hindoo idol,” should be injured.

A year or two ago I was the guest in the home of an eminent scientist, whose wife is herself a remarkable woman, gifted as a writer and public speaker, and yet whose home is laden with extraneous material to the nerve-breaking point. One evening they were entertaining a well-known author and lecturer, and the hostess had called upon him to tell of some of his interesting experiences. The guest was a normal, healthy man and gentle in his movements, but, while speaking, somewhat free in gesticulation. In one part of his story he made a quick motion and pushed his chair gently back. In doing so he overturned a Japanese vase that stood on a slight pedestal near by. With a crash that shocked the nerves of every one present, the valuable piece of bric-a-brac fell. Fortunately, it was not broken, but, with blanched face, though her voice was well under control, the hostess tenderly picked it up. She endeavored to smooth over the accident, but the author’s interest in his story was gone. He brought it to a lame conclusion, and gave an evident sigh of relief,—though quite unconsciously,—when his wife suggested that “the babies might need her presence at home.” After they had gone I was witness of the grief and distress of the poor woman who lamented the injury to her treasure, and who evidently valued it far more than she did the comfort and welfare of her visitors and guests.

I sometimes go to homes where the furniture is of the elegantly polished or “enameled” type. To place a book or one’s hand upon such polish is to mar the surface. The hostess must either keep the table to be merely looked at, and be in constant terror lest some one outwit her vigilance and mar its “beauty,” or resign herself to seeing it used and spoiled.

Now, of all of these things, I constantly ask myself, What’s the use? For myself I value the health and happiness of my wife and my children more than all the bric-a-brac that ever was, or ever will be, made. The nerves of the former, and the healthy, untrammeled movements of the latter, are worth far more than a few “curios.” And so with my guests. I want my visitors to feel free to move around and about in my home, as healthy men and women ought to do, and if there is anything in the way of such action the sooner it is knocked down and smashed the better I shall like it. And as for “enameled” furniture: if I found any of it introduced into my house where I was constantly in danger of marring it, I fear my “angry passions would rise,” and so would the polished article, to find itself at the next moment on the woodpile. Human happiness and comfort are of more value than many pieces of furniture, and he, and he only, is wise who keeps life as simple as possible, and free from these needless, labor-creating, nerve-wearing luxuries and superfluities of life.

THE WIDOW OF MANUELITO,
THE LAST GREAT CHIEF OF
THE NAVAHOS. ONE OF THE
QUEENLIEST WOMEN IN DIGNITY,
GRACE, AND CHARACTER
I HAVE EVER MET.

In both men’s and women’s dress, too, something may be said on this line. The tendency of the age is to add and add and add, until we are burdened by the superfluous. Women want laces, embroideries, tucks, ruffles, pleats, and ribbons; they quilt, braid, hem, and fell to a fearful and wonderful extent,—all adding labor, trouble, and care to life, and depriving them of time that could and should be more wisely and profitably spent. No one loves to see woman or man neater or better dressed than I, but there is a point of simplicity and native dignity beyond which no one can go without getting into the realm of needless, wasteful luxury and harmful superfluity. Some men are as bad as some women, what with ties for every function and hour of the day, cuffs, collars, vests, and creased trousers, all of which must be a la mode and au fait. To me these things reveal as much non compos mentis as they do a la mode, for mind should be, and is, superior to an excess of such frivolity.

Rose Wood-Allen Chapman in Good Health has sagely written upon this subject. She well says:

“The one important thing in life is character; your own character, the character of your husband, your children, your friends. All other things should be judged by their bearing upon this important matter. Things may be delightful in themselves; but if they tend to add to your worries, if they are a barrier between you and your loved ones, if they interfere with the development of the higher faculties of your children, they become undesirable, inadvisable, and should be classed with the superfluities of life.

“The mother who prepares for her baby dainty, hand-made garments, wonderfully trimmed with lace and embroidery, in the majority of instances is depriving that child of personal love and care that rightfully belong to him. What does he care for such finery? He wants his mother’s companionship, and for himself perfect freedom for all forms of activity. To so attire him that he must be constantly cautioned, ‘Now don’t get your dress dirty,' is to interfere with one of his inalienable rights. The wise mother will make her baby’s clothes simple, to serve as a background for his infantile charms, instead of taking the attention away from him to center it upon elaborate ornamentation.

“Many housekeepers there are who bemoan their inability to keep up the interests of their girlhood. They have no time now to play the piano, to read inspiring literature, to join the club, or to enter upon any philanthropic work. They say they feel their deprivation; have they ever tried to see how many of their household tasks could be eliminated as superfluous?

“I have been in homes where there were two and sometimes three pairs of curtains at each window. The effect was rich, but one whose mind was awakened to the question of the superfluities could but think of the extra work such hangings entailed.

“Then there are the ‘cozy corners,’ the Turkish divans smothered in over-hanging draperies, which the furniture stores are so eager to urge upon their customers as ‘the very latest style.’ Such corners are gathering-places for dust, and an unnecessary addition to the work of the home.

“Heavy carpets on the floors may feel soft under foot, but they are hard to sweep, are never really clean, save after the annual beating, and so are both unhygienic and burdensome.

“Think how much less drudgery must be performed by the woman who has hard-wood or stained floors with a few medium-sized rugs! Her floors can be wiped up quickly with a damp cloth, and her rugs thoroughly cleaned with a minimum amount of effort.

“At the windows this same woman will have filmy net curtains, with ruffled border, it may be, that are ordinarily cleansed by putting them on the line where the wind can blow the dust out of them; or can easily be laundered when more thorough cleaning is desired.

“On her walls will be a few artistic pictures, with no overhanging festoons or ribbons to catch dust and add to the labor. Bric-a-brac will be conspicuous for its absence; photographs will be put away, instead of covering her dresser and the walls of her bedroom. In a word, her aim will be to have her home light, airy, artistically furnished, but in such a way as to be the least possible burden to her and to her family. Husbands and children find it hard to be careful of the things that have been bought for show. Why not dispense with them, then, and have only that which is necessary and usable?

“Many housekeepers have learned to dispense with unnecessary furnishings, but are still slaves to elaborate meals, especially when they entertain.

“It is wise, in the first place, to remember that the health of the family is conserved by simplicity in the meals. Even though they are now used to a larger variety at each meal, they can be gradually accustomed to a simple diet. No soup when there is dessert and no dessert when there is soup, is a very good rule for dinner. The other course should consist of a meat substitute and only two vegetables. A simple breakfast food, with bread and butter and fruit, is enough for the morning meal; while an equally simple supper should be entirely satisfactory.

“It is a temptation to leave the paths of simplicity when company is coming; but if we just remember that our friends come to see us, not to eat our food, we will find it easier to restrain our inclinations in this direction. Oftentimes housewives become possessed with a spirit of emulation which leads Mrs. Smith to feel that she must set forth a more elaborate meal than Mrs. Jones had served, while Mrs. Robinson in turn strives to eclipse Mrs. Smith, and as a result meals become so complicated as to be most burdensome to the hostess and almost dangerous to the guests. Let us confine our efforts to making our simple entertainment as attractive as possible, and furnishing such wit and merriment therewith, such geniality and kindliness, as shall make our guests feel that they have partaken of a feast.”

I have already, in other chapters, commented upon some of these things, as revealed in the light of the Indian’s life. Their lives are, perforce, models of simplicity, devoid of luxuries and also of superfluities. It is not my intent to suggest that we should revert to their method of living a simple and unluxurious life, but I do long with all my heart that we might take lesson from them, and find the golden mean between their life and our too complex and superfluity-laden life. If health and happiness are the ends to be attained in life they, with their rude simplicity, have surpassed us, with our elegant and ornate complexity. And for me and mine I prefer health and happiness rather than all the superfluities that a commercially-cursed, bargain-counter, curio-loving, bric-a-brac adoring, showy, shoddy civilization can give.

CHAPTER XXI
THE INDIAN AND MENTAL POISE

On a trip made recently from Yuma to the Salton Sea, down the overflow of the Colorado River, I found occasion to watch my two Indians in contrast with four white men of more than ordinary intelligence and ability. In some important things the Indians lost nothing by the comparison. Indeed, several times I called the attention of my white companions to them, and to certain characteristics which are by no means confined to them, but that belong to most Indians, and urged their emulation. Some of these will form the subject of this chapter.

CAMPING OUT ON THE WAY TO THE SALTON SEA.

JIM, OUR YUMA INDIAN BOATMAN.

One member of my party was a “reverend”—a missionary. He was a fine, open-hearted fellow whom we all liked, but every once in a while—indeed, I ought to say frequently—he would make suggestions to the Indian to go here, or go there, which finally called forth (from me) a forceful rebuke. Let me explain the situation fully. When we came to the place where the Colorado River left its banks and entered a mesquite forest, its waters were naturally much divided. As we did not know where each current led, and how soon it would spread so as to render further progress in our boats impossible, it was a situation that called for great knowledge as to determining the course of the best and deepest current, and quick decision; for, as we were carried along among mesquites, a few moments of indecision meant being thrust into a mesquite tree, perhaps, where cruel thorns spared no one, because of his indecision. Reader, do you know what a mesquite is? Its proper name should be “me scratch.” If you come within ten feet of one it verily seems to reach out for you and scratch you somewhere. Imagine your thorniest rosebush multiplied by fifty and all concentrated and condensed into one tree with thorns much longer, far more pointed, and with poison lurking on the end of them, and you have a not very much exaggerated idea of the mesquite. Now to have our missionary friend bawling out all the time, “Better go this way,” or “Better go that,” was both annoying and useless, so I finally told him I had brought the Indian because I knew that he knew a thousand-fold more of such a current and how to get through this wilderness of mesquite than I did. “And,” said I, “as far as I am concerned, I should feel it was an impertinence for me to make even a suggestion to the Indian. He knows where I guess, and yet as you know, I have had far more experience in this kind of thing than you have. Don’t you think it wiser for you to add a little more silence to your possessions?”

He was, as I have said, a royal-hearted fellow, and he took my rebuke in a manly, Christian way, for a few moments’ reflection showed him that what I said was wisdom.

Now, while these wild and foolish suggestions were being made to the Indian, what did he do? It was most interesting to me to watch him. Instead of replying and arguing with a lot of vehement words, he smiled quietly, looked at me to see if I approved of the suggestion, and when he saw my absolutely impassive face, went on following his own course. Had he been a white man—or like most white men—he would have shouted back that he was going some other way, or called his adviser a fool, or informed him that he knew his business, or some other equally agreeable thing.

IN THE BOATS, IN THE RAIN, ON OUR WAY TO THE SALTON SEA.

This serenity of mind in the Indian is often called impassiveness or stolidity. It shows how little the critics have known of the Indian to speak thus. They are as sensitive as children, morbidly so sometimes, but they have the self-control not to show it, and in matters like this, where they are sure their knowledge is superior to that of their adviser, they go on with a proud disregard of criticism or censure.

This calmness was also shown in the face of danger. Several times we came to places where there was both difficulty and danger. We had three boats. In the first were Jim (the Indian) and myself, seeking out the way; in the second, Indian Joe and Mr. Louis Francis Brown (business manager of the Burton Holmes lectures); and in the third his reverence and two others. When we came to the thrilling places, Jim soon learned that he was to take the responsibility, save where there was time and opportunity to discuss matters with me, and with a dignified self-reliance he made his choice, and then awaited results. If they were unpleasant, as they often were, there was no murmuring, no shouting, no remonstrance. He took things as they came, and made the best of them. The second boat followed, and there was little more said there than in our boat; but from the third came a constant babble of voices, cries to do this or that, shouts of warning, remonstrance, and fault-finding. I could not help contrasting the demeanor of the Indians with that of the civilized whites, and wishing that the latter could and would learn the lesson so clearly taught.

The quickness of Jim’s observations and his decisions were remarkable, and I wished my children, and others too, might have gone to school to him for a year or two. He saw where the sand bars were that I could not see; he could tell which way the wind was blowing, when to me it seemed to be blowing several directions at once; he was generally able to tell where the largest amount of water was flowing, and only two or three times did he make a mistake so that we had to turn back. And when those times came, there was no grumbling, no murmuring, no finding fault. He accepted the disagreeable inevitable just as easily and readily as he accepted the pleasant.

This silence and serenity in the face of annoyances is a very pleasing feature of Indian life to me. What is the use of fault-finding and complaining over disagreeable things that cannot be helped? I have just had an example (and he is but one of scores that occur to my mind) of the opposite spirit shown by a very proud and haughty member of the white race. We were on the car together, coming from the East. The first time he had a meal in the dining-car he came back furious: the chicken was cooked two or three days ago, and was weeks old to begin with; all the provisions were equally bad, the service was abominable, and the charges infamous. Then the speed of the train came in for censure. They did things differently on the New York Central or the Pennsylvania, (forgetful of the fact that those roads run through thickly populated centers, and have a passenger patronage ten times as large as is possible to the western railways that pass through unsettled and barren regions). Then, though it was perfectly delicious weather, he had to kick against its being warm and disagreeable, and so on ad libitum until I was sick of him, as was everybody else in the car. In twenty-six years of association with the Indians, I never met with one such disagreeable grumbler. The white race retains that characteristic practically to itself. If things are disagreeable and can be changed, the Indian calmly and deliberately goes to work to change them. If they are unchangeable he serenely and silently bears them. It is more manly, more agreeable, more philosophical.

Time and again I have had white men with me on various trips who needed to learn this simple and useful lesson. They made of themselves intolerable nuisances by their whining, whimpering, and complaining. Those of my readers who care to read Chapter XV in my “In and Around the Grand Canyon,” and the story of the Britisher on page 18 and onward in “The Indians of the Painted Desert Region,” will see that I know that of which I speak. And these are but two experiences out of many similar ones. Yet I have been with Indians again and again in places of distress, deprivation, and danger, and in all my experiences have not heard a half hour’s unpleasant words. Once I started to explore a series of side canyons of the great Grand Canyon. My guide was Sin-ye-la, an intelligent Havasupai. We had a most arduous trip; ran out of water and food; our horses gave out and we had to catch, saddle, and ride unbroken steeds, and finally he caught a wild mule upon which we placed the pack. The horrors and anguish of that trip I have never written, yet there was not a suggestion of complaining from Sin-ye-la, until I decided to leave the canyons and go across the desert to a certain spot where he did not wish to accompany me. Even then he merely stated his case with little or no argument and when I proved obdurate, refused to accompany me, and in fifteen minutes we parted, good friends, he to go his way and I mine.

Another time, as recorded in my Canyon book, I was caught in a marble trap with Wa-lu-tha-ma, where it seemed impossible that we could ever escape. The Indian’s calmness was almost too much. He was almost as resigned as a Mahommedan who believes in Fate. Yet, though I remonstrated with him for his despairing attitude so that we eventually got out, I believe I would rather have that bravery of despair which dares to face death without complaining or whimpering, than the fault-finding, “Why did you bring me into such dangers?” or “Shall I ever get out of this horrible place?” that some white men indulge in.

WALUTHAMA, MY HAVASUPAI GUIDE.

When, on the Salton trip, we came to the beginning of the most dangerous part where I had been told we should go “fifty miles in fifty minutes,” and there were many rapids which would dash our boats to pieces, and where undermined cliffs, forty, fifty, and more feet high, were likely to be suddenly precipitated into the river, and might fall upon us and our boats and send us to instant destruction; when I told my Indian of these dangers he calmly looked me in the eye and answered my question, “You afraid to go, Jim?” with a counter question: “You afraid?” And when I said “No,” and answered his further “You swim?” with a “Yes!” he immediately replied; “All right, I go.”

Of course I do not wish for one moment to suggest that this virtue of courage is not the white man’s. For love of home and country white men will go to death with a smile on their lips. But in work which the world does not see, where men are simply paid two dollars a day wages, to face danger and possible death as a matter of course, this I have found rare with the white man, and very common with an Indian. The facing of danger and death is part of their every-day life. It calls for the exercise of no special virtues. Strong in body, daring in mind, fearless in soul, duty must be done and done unhesitatingly, regardless of whether danger or death are lurking near. I am free to confess this large bold faith in life and the Supreme pleases me. The man who is always seeking to guard his own life, who refuses to run any risks, who never goes except where all is safe, may be a more comfortable man to live with, but as for me, I prefer the spirit of the man who dares and trusts; the man who does the unsafe things because it is his duty to do them, and who faces death and thinks nothing of it. The man who is prodigal of his strength and courage and faith is the man who saves them. The man who is constantly watchful lest he overdo, who refuses to run any risks, who would rather run away than dare, is the one who, in the end, will be found short in manhood and worthy accomplishment.

So I emulate the Indian in these things, and seek to be like him. This prodigality and strength in work calls for more comment. Labor unions are making one of the greatest mistakes of their career in restricting the full exercise of a man’s energy. In limiting his daily output they are bucking against that which every man should strive to possess, viz., the spirit of prodigal energy in work. My Indian would row all day, and after a few hours of especially hard work I would ask if I might not relieve him. “No; like ’em,” was his reply invariably. He liked his work. It was a joy to him. What was the result? A body of tested steel; lungs equal to every demand; muscles that responded to every strain; eyes as clear as stars; brain quick and alert because of a healthy body made and kept so by hard, continuous labor. We are told that the Indians are lazy. It is not true. Some few may be, but the Indians of the Southwest do their work heartily and well, and with a prodigal energy that is as novel and startling to most white men as it is educative and suggestive to them. As for me, I have learned the lesson. When I reach a station and have time, I walk to my hotel, and refuse to allow any one to carry my usually heavy grips. I seek for the physical exercise. Many a time I arrange for an arduous exploring trip in order to compel myself to great exertions. I know that when I get started I must go on, and in the going on, though I get very weary, I know I am developing power and hoarding up health, energy, and strength for future use. A few weeks ago I started with a comrade for a few hundreds of miles of tramping and riding over the Colorado Desert, up mountain trails, through waterless wastes. My part of the journey was shortened by circumstances over which I had no control, but my assistant and artist took the whole trip, arduous and exhausting though it was, and I envied them and regretted my inability to go along.

Another thing my Indian helpers have taught me. That is a prompt readiness to obey in any service they have agreed to perform, or anything that comes legitimately in the course of their work. There is no holding back, no remonstrance, no finding fault, no crying out that they were not engaged to do this. They perform the service, not only without a murmur, but with a ready willingness that is delightful in this age when every one expects a tip for the slightest service. This comes from two things, viz., a strong, healthy body which responds willingly to any ordinary demands upon it, and a healthy state of mind which neither resents service nor wishes to measure every expenditure of energy in a monetary balance. We are making a grand mistake in basing our present-day civilization upon material wealth. “What is there in it for me?” should be more than a query applying to mere cash. What is there in it of service, of helpfulness to my fellow-man, of healthfulness to myself, of increase of my own strength and power. The men who are relied upon by employers and by the nation are not the men who have selfishly sought their own monetary gain. There is no doubt that such seekers often seem to gain and do really gain a temporary advantage; but it is not a real advantage. It is an advantage of pocket gained at a loss of manhood, physical, mental, and spiritual, and that man who is not worth more in body, mind, and soul than his pocket can never be much of a man.

CAPTAIN BURRO AND HIS SQUAW IN HAVASU CANYON, ARIZONA.

CHAPTER XXII
THE INDIAN AND SELF-RESTRAINT

Few of the superior white race would think of looking to the Indian for examples of self-restraint, but I can give them here one of the most marked examples in history. Before the advent of the white man in America the various aboriginal tribes roamed over the plains, the mountains, the foothills, and in the forests, and with snare and trap, gin and bow and arrow caught or slew the game needed for food. These tribes were often hostile to each other; they trespassed on each other’s hunting-grounds, and in consequence, often fought in deadly wars which came nigh to exterminating some of them. They were not regardful, therefore, one would think, of the rights or needs of others than themselves to the game they hunted; and it is absurd (so the school-books would tell us) to assume that they would be provident or careful to preserve game for the future. Hence they would slay ruthlessly (the same authorities would doubtless declare), indifferent as to the days to come and their future needs, merely seeking food for to-day, and gorging upon it to repletion. In this case, however, the school-books would be wrong. In the hundreds or thousands of years that the Indians controlled this great continent they never once “killed out” any one of their hunting-fields.

When the white race appeared upon the scene, game of every kind,—fish, flesh, and fowl,—was plentiful. Trappers and hunters went up and down the rivers, where beaver and otter, musk and mink, lived, and through the forests where birds nested and deer, antelope, and other game browsed; climbed the mountains where bear and puma lodged, and ever their bales of skins, furs, peltries, and hides loaded the canoes and the decks of returning vessels. Here was the best proof of the Indian’s self-restraint and provident foresight for the future, in that the white man found such an abundance of all kinds of game ready to his hand.

Then came the master mind of an Astor who valued money more than the future. What did it matter to him that game of a hundred kinds disappeared from the face of the earth provided he could make a fortune? What cared he that men and women would starve in the days to come so long as he could pile up his hoard of pelts, and sell them to add to his wealth? Modern commercialism, that damned and damning spirit of our civilization that sees nothing but dollars, that would shut out the glory of the sun rather than miss the ten-cent piece close at hand, entered into the game. Then the sportsman and the pot hunter of the white race came also, and between them and the Buffalo Bills who shot down buffaloes by the thousand for food to supply the builders of the transcontinental railways, in half a generation they cleared the prairies of the millions of noble buffaloes which used to roam in vast herds, left nothing but slender bands or solitary animals of the moose and elk, and drove these into almost inaccessible solitudes for self-preservation, and nearly stripped the country of deer, antelope, wild turkeys, and sage hens. Then they passed laws to protect “game,” making a close season so that the Indians, who, in their days of freedom and wildness, needed no law but their own good sense and self-restraint, cannot now shoot at all save in the few days when the restrictions are removed. So that, practically speaking, the Indian now has no hunting-ground; he is debarred from obtaining wild game for food for himself and family, and all because of the infernal greed and equally infernal brutality of the pot-hunter. Here, then, is a national proof—for what I have said is practically true of every state in the country—that the white race has much to learn of self-restraint from the despised Indian. Self-restraint as to greed,—for, until the advent of the white, one Indian never sought to build up mere wealth at the expense of or to the injury or detriment of his fellows. This was the white man’s way, not his! He practised self-restraint, for the Indians knew and realized that if the animals were killed too closely the species would soon become extinct, and future generations, if not themselves, have to suffer.

To most people the Indian is a careless creature, content if his belly is filled to-day, improvident for the future, and therefore unwise, unthoughtful, and to be condemned. May it not be in this apparent carelessness for the future the Indian is wiser than we, that he is deliberately exercising a beneficial restraint? Think of the wild hurly-burly of our struggle to accumulate, and then consider the expense, the worry, the endless care of protecting that which we have accumulated. One far wiser than the sages of to-day once declared that we were to “take no thought for the morrow,” and in His whole teaching and life reprobated the struggle for wealth, and the life of selfish ease that comes with its attainment.

One of the greatest curses of our present age and civilization is love of ease, craving for luxury, desire to “have a good time.” We worship money because it brings these things, forgetful of the teachings of history that luxury and ease beget sensuality and vice, and these in turn beget disease, decay, and death. I am opposed to great money-getting on this account, and would not amass a fortune if I could. As for leaving large sums of money to my children, especially my sons, nothing could ever induce me to do it. If much money should ever come to me I hereby serve notice upon all concerned that I shall spend it, wisely and usefully, as my best judgment dictates, as soon as I can, and anyhow get rid of it so that no son of mine shall say that the money I left him helped him on the downward path.

The Indian knows well the lesson that physical health comes only by the exercise of the body, therefore he definitely refuses any course of life that would prevent it; he welcomes for himself, his wife, his sons, and his daughters physical work; he also knows that mental and spiritual improvement come only by the exercise of mental and spiritual faculties, and he shuns everything that stultifies them. Did he know English, he could sing with Thomas Gray:

“From toil he wins his spirits light,
From busy day the peaceful night:
Rich, from the very want of wealth,
In heaven’s best treasures, peace and health.”

And he puts into practical life what another of our sages well expressed when he said: “Occupation and exercise are the hand-maidens of purity and strength.” Too often we merely read these wise words. The Indian lives them. In this the white race can well imitate him. He faces hardship and danger with eagerness that thereby he may develop courage and strength. He takes his sons and punishes them in what we should call a cruel manner to develop fortitude; he sends them out into the desert, mountain, and forest solitudes that there they may meet and talk with Those Above. Every youth or young man who hopes to be a “medicine man” goes out to some such solitary place. He takes no food, no nourishment of any kind, and fasts several days and nights. He drinks nothing but a little water. He sleeps as little as possible. Then if spirits come to him he must obey the teachings and requirements of each one. These teachings and requirements demand the suppression of the natural instincts and desires, and the exercise of positive restraints to an extent that the greatest religious devotee of the white race would scarcely be willing to submit to. One spirit demands that water be drank but once a day, no matter how hot the weather; another that no food shall be taken on three days out of each week; another that no hide shall be made into moccasins, and so on. This, therefore, means a life of self-denial and restraint that surpasses anything known in civilization. Our Catholic priests take a vow of perpetual chastity and obedience, the members of the religious orders go further and pledge themselves to perpetual poverty, but these Indian medicine men, who accept the aid of many spirits,—ten, twenty, and even thirty,—are limited and restricted in their lives to a degree that is as astonishing as it is, to the majority of the white race, unknown.

Now, while the specific acts of restraint of the Indian may not appeal to me, the spirit of them is much needed by our whole race. Self-restraint, self-denial, self-control, are the bulwarks of spiritual power. He only is strong in spirit who can control himself, hence I would that the white race would learn these lessons from the Indian.

Browning thoroughly believed in this spirit of self-restraint, self-sacrifice, self-control. In his Rabbi Ben Ezra he preaches some strong doctrines. Nothing is more needed to-day than the following robust and forceful words put into practical every-day living:

“Then, welcome each rebuff
That turns earth’s smoothness rough,
Each sting that bids, not sit, nor stand, but go!
Be our joys three parts pain,
Strive and hold cheap the strain,
Learn, never mind the pang; dare, never grudge the throe!”

CHAPTER XXIII
THE INDIAN AND AFFECTATION

Most people of the white race may learn from the Indian in the matter of affectation. Few of us are simple and natural in our social manners. My own family often joke me, when, in answering the telephone, I respond in what they call my “dressy tone.” The other day a lady, whose husband is a college professor, mistook me for a distinguished eastern psychologist whose surname happens to be the same as mine. Until she discovered her mistake she “minced and mouthed” in a most ludicrous fashion (how I wish she could have seen herself as I saw her!) merely because she thought I was a prominent man in the field wherein her husband was a more humble member. The criticism on my own “dressy tone” is a perfectly just one. I find myself, often, “putting on style” because I want to appear “my best.” After due consideration I have decided to confess that—like most people—I have a variety of “celluloid smiles” which unconsciously I put on or off as occasion requires. We are not simple, not natural in our relationships one with another. We feel that we must “make an impression,” that we must “appear well.” The result is we are unnatural, affected, often deceptive, and many a time disagreeable. Affectation in speech and manner is always a sign of mental meanness,—of what is commonly called vulgarity, and is never to be commended but is always to be condemned.

APACHE INDIAN WHO REFUSED TO “PUT ON STYLE” TO PLEASE THE WHITE MAN.

On the other hand, if the President of the United States were to visit a tribe of uncontaminated Indians, as, for instance, the Navahos, they would treat him in exactly the same manner as they would the humblest citizen; except, of course, that if the president asked for a pow-wow they would give him one, and treat his words with respectful deference. But there would be no affectation in their dealings with him, no putting on of airs or style. With frank, open directness, with the respect they show, as a rule, to each other, and no more, they would listen to all he had to say and give hearty and manly response of approval or disapproval. They have no “company manners,” no changes of voice which are used according to the social status of the listener. There are no snobs among them. “A man’s a man for a’ that,” no matter whether he wears an old army overcoat and a top hat or merely a tight skin and his gee-string.

The white race, too, is fearfully affected in its pretense at knowing more than it can know. We are all ashamed to say, “I don’t know!” I believe this applies more truthfully to women than to men. Since the era of the woman’s club, the gentle sex has been wild to accumulate knowledge, and sadly too often, it is content to appear to have the knowledge rather than appear ignorant. One has but to look over the programs of a score or a hundred women’s clubs, as I have recently done, to see proof of this in the vast range many of them take in a single season. They crowd into an hour’s or two hours’ session what no person living can get a reasonable grasp of in less than from three months to a year of fairly consistent and persistent study. They jump from “The Romantic School of Music,” one week to “The Effect of the Renaissance upon Gothic Art,” the next, and the third week finds them swallowing a concentrated pill on “The Poets of the Victorian Era,” while on the fourth they completely master all that can be learned of “The Franciscan Mission Epoch in California and Its Influence upon the Indians.”

Yet let it not be thought that I am not a believer in education for women, women’s clubs, and the like. I believe in everything that really helps. And if these clubs would compel mental exercise enough to give a fair grasp of one subject a year, they would be doing work of incalculable benefit. But this smattering of knowledge, this thin spreading out of scraps of information, feed no one’s mind, and the pretense that comes from an assumed knowledge does the mind and soul of the pretender more harm than a dozen clubs can eradicate in a lifetime. Hence, let us become simple-minded, as the Indians. They “don’t know,” and they know they don’t know, and they are willing to say so.

There is another affectation to which I must refer. We Americans pretend to be democratic, yet we have a caste of wealth that is more disgusting, degrading, and demoralizing than the Hindoo castes, or the social scale of European aristocracy. We “kow tow” to an English lord as if he were a little god, and we bow and scrape and mince our words when we come in contact with the nouveau riche of our own land, just as if they were made of different material from ourselves. The space given in our newspapers to the most trivial doings of Alice Roosevelt, both before and after she married Congressman Longworth; the recital of the actions of the “society” few,—the Vanderbilts, Astors, Goulds, Carnegies, Harrimans, Fishes, and the rest,—are proofs of our affected snobbism. I have not yet attained to the mental serenity and calm philosophy of the Indian, but I am seeking it, where I shall judge all men and women not by their exterior circumstances of wealth, position, dress, or birth, but by inherent character, perfection of body, force of mind, and beauty of soul.

CHAPTER XXIV
THE INDIAN AND ART WORK

Even our artists and designers may learn much of great importance from the Indian. While to most of my readers it may come as a surprise that I claim great artistic powers for the Indian, yet no one can carefully study the basketry and pottery of the Amerind and not know the perfect justice of the claim. In my larger work on this subject[5] I have fairly discussed the ability of the Indians in this regard; and to those who are not aware of the vast debt the white race owes to the aboriginal woman in artistic as well as other lines, I earnestly commend a perusal of that masterly work by a conscientious and thorough student, Otis T. Mason, of the Smithsonian Institution, entitled “Woman’s Share in Primitive Culture.”

[5] Indian Basketry and How to Make Indian and Other Baskets.

In reference to their basketry, however, more than a mere passing mention is required. The Indian weaver shows marvelous ability in the creation of form, color, stitch, and design. Turning to Nature for her original inspirations she is not a mere copyist of what others have done. All her forms are based upon utility, and therefore meet the first and highest requirement of all art when applied to articles that are to serve a useful purpose, viz., adaptation to use. There is no reversal of principles in manufacture, as is so often the case with white workers who value appearance, so-called ornament, finish, etc., rather than adaptation to purpose or utility. Wherever anything is allowed to usurp the place of this primary element, the work is doomed even before it is made. On the other hand, frankness, honesty, simplicity, directness, characterize the manufactures of the Indian. They are to serve such and such a purpose; that purpose is openly denoted. The result is that, to the unperverted eye, the artistic work of the unspoiled Indian is as perfect in form as it can be. There is no wild straining after unique effect; no fantastic distortions to secure novelty; everything is natural and rational, and therefore artistically effective.

ONE OF THE FINEST YOKUT BASKETS IN EXISTENCE.

In color, too, the original work of the Indian weavers, before the vile aniline dyes were forced upon them by the “civilized” and “Christian” traders and missionaries, was above criticism. The old baskets and blankets are eagerly sought after, at fabulous prices, by the most refined and critical of artists and connoisseurs because of the perfection of their color harmonies. In every good collection are to be seen such specimens that are both the admiration and despair of modern artists.

As for weave, it is asserted upon the highest authority that there is not a weave or stitch known to modern art that was not given to our civilization by the aborigines. And they have many stitches of great effectiveness that we have not availed ourselves of. Take the Pomas alone—a tribe of basket-makers who live in northern California. They have not less than fourteen different stitches or weaves, some of them of marvelous beauty and strength. In one of the accompanying pictures is a specimen of their carrying baskets. This basket will hold a large load of seeds or fruit, and when so laden requires a construction of great durability to sustain the burden. It is woven with this express purpose in view, yet it is artistically decorated with a beautifully worked out design. Here is an important lesson the white race might learn, viz., that the utensils of daily life should be surrounded with as much beauty as is practical. The kitchen should be as full of enjoyment to the eye, in reason, as the parlor. The cook and maid need æsthetic surroundings as well as—indeed, more than,—the mistress and her children. If social custom insists upon making servants of one part of its members, the other part should be willing to make their “servitude” as comfortable and beautiful as is possible and practicable. Think of these poor, ignorant(!) Indian women making baskets for porridge, carrying baskets, plaques for holding food, mush bowls, and a score of other purposes, all beautifully decorated and ornamented with designs that express some emotion of their own souls, some ambition, some aspiration, or some happy memory.

EXQUISITE DESIGN ON A FINE YOKUT INDIAN BASKET.

In the matter of these designs the white race has much it may learn from the Indian. Sometimes I have looked upon the patterns and colors of our wallpapers, our rugs, our carpets, our chintzs, our calicoes, and especially upon the wool work or embroidery of some women, and have been compelled to ask myself if hideousness could be carried to any further extent. Some of the designs were the absolute delirium tremens of craziness,—conventionality reconventionalized again and again, until it was made unlike to anything in “the heavens above, the earth beneath, or the waters under the earth.”

A MISSION INDIAN BASKET OF GOOD DESIGN.

I was once lecturing to a “civilized” and “cultivated” audience upon this subject of Indian designs that have a personal meaning, and when I got through I heard one highly civilized and cultivated man exclaim in disgust: “Why, he’ll soon try to make us believe that our own wall-paper patterns ought to mean something!”

A CHEMEHUEVI BASKET OF BEAUTIFUL FORM AND DESIGN.

Most certainly I will! The idea that we, the superior, the wise race, use designs in our goods that are supposed to be beautiful to us, and yet that have no meaning! What absurdity and foolishness for our girls and women to spend hours on “fancy-work” (!), the designs of which are a crazy, intricate something to be dreaded rather than admired. The Indians have more sense than to waste their time over such foolishness. They have studied Nature in all her varying forms, and their minds are stored up with a thousand and one designs which they can transfer at pleasure to their basketry, pottery, or blanketry. I have had the pleasure of teaching this basic principle of art work to many white women, and I learned it from the Indian. One woman wanted to get a design for her sofa pillows. I asked her if she had no flowering vine over her porch. She said “Yes.” “Then copy its leaf and flower,” was my reply, and when she did so, and saw the beauty of the design she had created from Nature, her soul was filled with a new joy, and she wrote me that few things had given her more pleasure than the discovery of that basic principle.

BASKET BOWL MADE BY PALATINGWA WEAVER.

Think of the white race making baskets. Where do they go to for their forms and designs? In thousands of cases they take my own books and copy from them! But where did I get them? I am no creative artist, no inventor of design! I got them, “body, soul, and breeches,” from the Indian,—every one of them; and yet the “superior race” must go to them to copy, instead of so disciplining the powers of observation from Nature that designs for embroidery, for basketry, for fancy-work of every description, are contained within their own memories. The Indian’s life has trained these wonderful faculties of observation and memory. He was compelled to watch the animals in order that he might avoid those that were dangerous and catch those that were good for food; to follow the flying birds that he might know when and where to trap them and secure their eggs; the fishes as they spawned and hatched; the insects as they bored and burrowed; the plants and trees as they grew and budded, blossomed and seeded. He became familiar, not only with such simple things as the movements of the polar constellations and the retrograde and forward motions of the planets, but also with the less known spiral movements of the whirl-winds as they took up the sands of the desert; and the zigzags of the lightning were burned into his consciousness and memory in the fierce storms that, again and again, in darkest night, swept over the exposed area in which he roamed; with the flying of the birds, the graceful movements, the colors, and markings of the snakes, the peculiar wigglings of insects, and their tracks, and those of reptiles, birds, and animals, whether upon the sand, the snow, the mud, or more solid earth, he soon became familiar. The rise and fall of the mountains and valleys, the soaring spires and wide-spreading branches of the trees, the shadows they cast, and the changes they underwent as the seasons progressed, the scudding or anchored clouds in their infinitude of form and color, the graceful arch of the rainbow, the peculiar formation and dissipation of the fogs, the triumphant lancings of the night by the gorgeous fire-weapons of the morning sun, the stately retreat of the king of day as evening approached,—all these and a thousand and one other things of beauty in Nature the Indian soon learned to know, and from all these mental images he can readily draw when a design is needed.

AN EXQUISITELY WOVEN YOKUT BASKET SHOWING ORIGIN OF ST. ANDREW’S CROSS, FROM THE DIAMOND OF THE RATTLESNAKE.

Is it not well that the white race should learn to observe the things of Nature? We have a few nature writers: Thoreau, John Burroughs, Olive Thorne Miller, Elizabeth Grinnell, John Muir, Ernest Seton Thompson, Wm. J. Long, and Theodore Roosevelt, but why should we need nature books? We have the whole field of Nature for our own; every page is open to us, and the need of these books is proof that we have not, and do not, take the trouble to read Nature for ourselves. The Indian does better than this. He is a personal student. He finds joy and mental development in the results of his own observation, and until the white race learns his lesson, it will be behind him in its joy in Nature, its wisdom gained from Nature, in the physical health, vigor, and strength that Nature always gives to her devotees, and in the true art development that alone can come from familiarity with Nature in all her varying moods.

CHAPTER XXV
THE INDIAN AND RELIGIOUS WORSHIP

THE DIGNIFIED AND SOLEMN ROW OF SNAKE PRIESTS IN THE HOPI SNAKE DANCE CEREMONIES.

HOPI INDIANS AT THEIR FLUTE CEREMONIES. THIS IS A PRAYER FOR WATER TO FLOW INTO THEIR DESERT SPRINGS.

Another thing that the civilized of this age may well learn from the Indian is intense earnestness and sincerity in all matters of religion. It is a painful thing for me to go into many of our city churches. Well-dressed women and girls and young men will sit and whisper through even the most sacred parts of the service. Indeed, it is the exception, not the rule, that I ever go to a service without being outraged by some such exhibition of rudeness, ill manners, and irreverence. This kind of thing is unknown with the Indian. Religion is a serious thing. Fun is fun, and when he goes in for fun he does it with thoroughness and completeness; but when his religious instincts are called upon, he puts aside all fun, and enters into the spirit of the occasion with becoming reverence and solemnity. It is civilized people who go into churches of other faiths than their own and gape and “gawp” around, whispering the while to one another at the strange things they see. Protestants are particularly guilty of this serious vice. Roman Catholics are so trained to attend to their own devotions, and to be devout in the house of God, that they pay no attention to one another, but Protestants will go to a Catholic church, or one of some other denomination than their own, and behave in a manner that I would never insult the Indians by calling “savage” or “uncivilized.” An Indian will not even set foot on the top of one of the underground kivas where religious ceremonies of one clan are going on to which he does not belong. I do not ignore the fact that this reserve comes from superstitious fear lest some harm befall him, and this fear, perhaps, is not good. But whether from fear or not, the reverence for the sacred place and the ceremonies going on is refreshing and gratifying. Especially so is it to me after seeing, week after week, a crowd of so-called civilized young men (and old) lounging around a church door, sometimes smoking, making comments upon the people entering the church. I have as little toleration for the acts of these young men who thus selfishly rob people of their comfort and destroy their religious feeling as I would have for any one who would laugh at sorrow, or make a mock of the grief of the bereaved. And my feeling extends also to the officials of the church who will permit such outrageous conduct. Churches are for the education of all the people in religious and higher things. How can youth be educated in higher things when the very precincts of the church are allowed to be used by them for acts of discourtesy, rudeness, and selfish disregard for the thoughts and rights of others? With the Indians these things never occur. In looking at ceremonies in which they have no part, their manner betokens the profoundest respect and reverence. If not for the worship itself, it is yet shown to the feelings of those who do worship. I have photographs in my collection of Indian youths standing at the door of a Christian church while the priest within intoned the mass, or performed some part of the appointed ritual. The rapt expression of intent earnestness and seriousness is so far removed from the flippant, indifferent, careless expression and attitude of many young men of my own race that I long for the latter to know somewhat of the feeling and reverence of the former.

THE CHIEF PRIEST OF THE ANTELOPES MARCHING TO THE DANCE PLAZA.

THE CIRCUIT OF ANTELOPE PRIESTS BEFORE THE KISI IN THE HOPI SNAKE DANCE.

THE ANTELOPE PRIEST PRAYING BEFORE THE
SHRINE OF THE WEAVER OF THE CLOUDS.

Then in the religious ceremonies in which they take part, their demeanor is remarkable in its intent seriousness and earnestness. I have seen Indians at their shrines, when they thought they were entirely alone, pray with an agony of seriousness and fervor that I have never seen equalled or at least surpassed. The priests of the Snake Dance and the Lelentu (prayers for rain and that water will flow freely into the springs) are as earnest and sincere and devout as the most consecrated Christian minister or priest I ever saw. And the dancers of the Acomas, Lagunas, Hopis, Navahos, Zunis, etc., enter into these, their religious ceremonies, with an earnestness and reverence that put to shame the flippant, bustling, looking-around, whispering congregations of many of our so-called Christian churches.

CARRYING THE SNAKES IN THEIR MOUTHS IN THE HOPI SNAKE DANCE.

Nor is this all. The Indian’s every-day attitude is one of reverence for the Powers Above. He does everything with these before his mind. The first thing he does on awakening is to propitiate all the powers of the five or seven cardinal points. When the sun rises he makes his offering to the powers behind it, that control and direct it, that it may be a blessing throughout the day. Indeed, every act of his life may be said to have a religious thought attached to it, so powerfully is the religious instinct developed within him. If you offer him a cigarette he will propitiate the Powers Above and Around and Below before he gives himself up to the full enjoyment of it. He does this, however, with such apparent unconcern that the stranger would never dream of it, even though he were looking straight at him. But the knowing will understand. When he sees the Indian quietly blow a puff of smoke to the East, he knows that is for the purpose of reminding the good and evil powers that reside there that the smoker wishes their good influences to rest upon him, or, at least, that the evil influences shall pass him by. And the same thing when the smoker puffs to the North, the West, the South, and the Here. For the Navaho Indian believes that there are powers that need propitiating just here, while the Hopis add the powers of the Above and the Below, thus making seven cardinal points.

The secret prayers and rites of the underground kivas, or the medicine hogans of Hopi and Navaho are marvels of sincerity, earnestness, and reverence. One is impressed whether he understands them or not, and the white man comes away, or at least I do, with this feeling, viz., that I would to God the white race, so long as they worship at all, would do so with such outward decorum, reverence, and earnestness that would imply their real inward belief that the thing is more than a meaningless, perfunctory ceremony that they must go through.

Another remarkable thing I would that the white race would learn from the Indian is his habit of teaching the victim of a misfortune of birth that his misfortune is a mark of divine favor. Let me explain fully. A hunchback or a dwarf among the Indians is not made the butt of rude wit, ghastly jokes, or of cruel treatment, as is generally the case with such a one of our own race, but is treated with special consideration and kindness. I knew a Mohave boy who was humpbacked when born. The shaman or medicine man explained how the deformity came. He was a special child, a gift from the gods above. He came from the Above to the Here on the exquisite pathway of a rainbow. But, unfortunately, the rainbow rested over a very sharp, rugged mountain peak, which the gods did not see, and, as the child slid down to the earth, his poor, little, naked back caught on the sharp peak and was thus deformed. With such a story of his origin his parents were made happy, and as he grew older, he was treated with kindness and consideration by his boy companions. Now, while I would not gain this end by the superstitious story of the Mohave medicine man, I would that we could in some way teach our boys to look with compassion upon the misfortune of such as happen to be afflicted at birth, or to be light-witted, or in some way not the equal of the majority.

DRINKING THE EMETIC AFTER THE HOPI SNAKE DANCE.

If an Indian be afflicted with hysteria, or fits of any kind, he is better treated as the result of his affliction rather than worse. Too often the white race makes these afflictions the cause of brutal and indifferent treatment, and adds sorrow to the already overburdened and distressed souls of the suffering.

CHAPTER XXVI
THE INDIAN AND IMMORTALITY

To the materialist immortality is a foolish dream, to the agnostic an unjustified human craving, to the simple Christian a belief, and to the transcendentalist a confident hope, but to the Indian it is as positive an assurance as is life. The white race has complicated its belief in the future life with many theological dogmas. The Roman Catholic church has its purgatory, as well as its paradise and hell; the first as a place of purging for the sins committed in the body and that must be burned away, the second the abode of the blest, and the third the place into which the damned are cast. The Seventh Day Adventists believe that only those who are saved by “the blood of Christ” and obedience to his commands are blessed with the gift of immortal life. They contend it is a free gift as an act of God’s grace and is not inherent in the soul or spirit of mankind. Those who refuse to accept salvation by the vicarious atonement of Christ, they believe, will be annihilated. The Presbyterian believes that a certain number of mankind are foreordained for salvation and heaven, and another number for damnation and hell, from the foundation of the world. The Universalist believes that all men will ultimately be saved and therefore enjoy heaven, whilst others have a belief in a “conditional” immortality.

The Indian believes in immortality without any admixture of complex theological ideas. His is a simple faith which he accepts as he accepts life. He believes that when he dies his spirit goes to its new life just as at birth he came into this life. And he believes that all the objects he used on earth—food, clothing, articles of adornment, baskets, horses, saddles, blankets—have a spirit-life as well as he has. Hence, when one dies, his friends throw upon his funeral pyre his clothing, blankets, and other personal belongings, utensils for his comfort, food for his nourishment on the way to the “under world,” or land of the future, and strangle his horse that its spirit may aid him on his journey. When death approaches he faces it with calmness, equanimity and serenity. Fearless and unafraid he awaits the coming of the last great enemy. In effect, he cries out with Browning:

“I would hate that death bandaged my eyes,
And forbore, and bade me creep past.
No! let me taste the whole of it; fare like my peers,
The heroes of old.”

No shirking for him; as calmly as Socrates took the bowl of fatal hemlock, the Indian awaits death and proudly passes on to the new life. Those who are left behind may wail for their loss, but the one who departs asks for and receives no sympathy.

Now, it is this simple acceptation of death as a natural thing that I would have the white race learn. And yet it can never come to us as an act of simple faith as it is with the Indian. Our civilization has spoiled us for “simple faith.” That is practically impossible, save to a few souls who, unlike the rest of us, have “kept themselves unspotted from the world” of speculative thought, or theological dogma. It can come (and does with many) as the result of religious training, or as it did to Browning and Whitman. What wonderfully different minds these two men had. One an aristocrat, the other a democrat, yet both full of love for mankind, and each teaching with vigor and power the Fatherhood of God, the real brotherhood of man, and the immortality of the soul. Read Browning’s Prospice, part of which I have already quoted, Evelyn Hope, Abt Vogler, and these three stanzas with which he opens his La Saziaz, and elsewhere calls a Pisgah Sight:

“Good, to forgive:
Best, to forget!
Living we fret;
Dying, we live.
Fretless and free,
Soul, clap thy pinion!
Earth have dominion,
Body, o’er thee!

Wander at will,
Day after day,—
Wander away,
Wandering still—
Soul that canst soar!
Body may slumber:
Body shall cumber
Soul-flight no more.

Waft of soul’s wing!
What lies above?
Sunshine and Love,
Sky blue and Spring!
Body hides—where?
Ferns of all feather,
Mosses and heather,
Yours be the care!”

Compare these utterances with Whitman’s rugged and forceful words:

“Passive and faltering,
The words, the Dead, I write,
For living are the Dead,
(Haply the only living, only real,
And I, the apparition, the spectre.)”

Again, in his To One Shortly to Die, what a triumphant note is in the last two lines:

“I exclude others from you, there is nothing to be commiserated,
I do not commiserate, I congratulate you.”

How perfectly Indian, this attitude, this refusal to be sorry, and to offer congratulations rather than regrets. In his Night on the Prairies his perfect assurance as to the future is clearly expressed, and while measuring himself with the great thoughts of space and eternity that fill him as he gazes upon the myriads of globes above, he exclaims:

“Now I absorb immortality and peace, I admire death....
O, I see now that life cannot exhibit all to me, as the day cannot,
I see that I am to wait for what will be exhibited by death.”

In one poem he speaks of “awaiting death with perfect equanimity,” and in another says:

“Thee, holiest minister of Heaven—thee, envoy, usherer, guide at last of all,
Rich, florid loosener of the stricture knot call’d life,
Sweet, peaceful, welcome Death.”

And the reason for all this restfulness as to Death and the Future is expressed in his Assurances:

“I do not doubt that the passionately-wept deaths of young men are provided for, and that the deaths of young women and the deaths of little children are provided for. (Did you think life was so well provided for, and Death, the purport of all life, is not well provided for?)

I do not doubt that wrecks at sea, no matter what the horrors of them, no matter whose wife, child, husband, father, lover, has gone down, are provided for, to the minutest points.

I do not doubt that whatever can possibly happen anywhere, at any time, is provided for in the inherences of things.

I do not think Life provides for all, and for Time and Space, but I believe Heavenly Death provides for all.”

So, reader, I care not how it comes into your soul, so that you have it there, a rich and precious possession, this living, active, potential belief in immortality. If you know you are now, and that you will never end, you will find that life itself becomes more enlarged and dignified. You will not be content with mere earthly aims, you will not rest satisfied to be a mere money-getter, but, realizing the immensity of your own capacities and powers, you will reach out for the eternal things, the realities that abide forever. For Joaquin Miller never wrote a truer word than when he said:

“For all you can hold in your dead cold hand,
Is what you have given away.”

This forever settles a thoughtful man’s conception of mere acquisitiveness. Such gatherings-together are unworthy the soul that feels and knows its own immortality. It needs a larger aim, a more worthy object.

Another thing in connection with what we call death, the white race may well learn from the Indian. How often does press and pulpit expend itself in finding superlatives to pour out in lavish eulogy over the dead, who, while alive, never did a thing to win the love of their fellows. Such eulogy is unknown among the Indians. The “preacher of an Indian funeral sermon” would no more dare wrongfully praise or laud his subject than he would falsely execrate him. He must speak the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, and while he is not called upon to expatiate upon the wrong-doings, the foibles or weaknesses of his subject, he must say no word of praise that is not justly earned and strictly true.

If this law were applied to the white race, what different funeral sermons and orations we should hear and read; and what different inscriptions we should read upon the tombstones found in our grave-yards.

CHAPTER XXVII
VISITING THE INDIANS

Occasionally I meet with people who would like to visit real Indians in their real homes,—not the dressed-up Indians in a made home, like those of the Midway Plaisance of the World’s Fair or of a “Wild West” show, and they ask me how they can do so. To the ordinary traveler of to-day, who requires all the comforts of a Pullman and a dining car, and who is not willing to forego them for the hardships of a camping-out trip, my advice is don’t, although the hardships are more so in name than in fact. If one likes old clothes, fresh air, the great outdoors, lots of sunshine, desert roads, and meals al fresco,—sleeping at night under the stars,—this is just the country for such things. Given a good team, a careful driver who can cook “frontier style,” and an agreeable traveling companion, and you will have a new thrill—no matter what the weather is. Five dollars a day each person will cover average cost of outfit; meals extra.

Yet there are some Indians who may be seen without leaving the luxuries of our modern civilization. Two great railway systems in our Southwest pass through the regions where live the Indians to whom I have referred in the foregoing pages. These are popularly known as the “Santa Fe” and the “Southern Pacific.”

In crossing the continent from Chicago to the Pacific Coast on the Santa Fe route, one strikes the “Indian country,” to which I refer, about half a day before reaching Albuquerque, New Mexico. Here is what might be termed “the heart of the Pueblo Indian country.” The word “pueblo” is Spanish for “town,” so the name merely means the stay-at-home town Indians as distinguished from the nomad or wandering tribes of the great plateaus.

At Albuquerque one may see, in Fred Harvey’s collection in the Mission-style depot, a rare and precious gathering of Indian baskets, blankets, silverware, etc., that is one of the finest in the West. It ranks with the highest, and was largely gathered and placed under the personal direction of Dr. George A. Dorsey, the eminent ethnologist of the Field Columbian Museum. Nearly all the pueblos may be reached with this city as a radiating center, though Taos and the Indian villages of the northern Rio Grande valley are more accessible from Santa Fe. Isleta and Laguna are passed a few miles further west. A three hours’ drive from Laguna, by way of the Enchanted Mesa, brings you to the sky city of Acoma. Zuni is a day’s stage ride south of Gallup, New Mexico. At Winslow, or Canyon Diablo, Arizona, one may leave the railway for the 70 or 90 mile ride across the Painted Desert to the region of the Hopis, the snake-dancing Indians to whom I have often referred. At Williams, a little further west, on the branch line to the Grand Canyon, one may visit the Havasupais, and at Kingman, the Wallapais. At Needles, on the Colorado River, the boundary line between Arizona and California, one may see the Mohaves, and on the river, reached by boat from Needles, some forty miles below, are the Chemehuevis. In California, on the San Diego branch of the Santa Fe, one may reach various villages of Mission Indians; Pala, Rincon, and several others from Oceanside; and San Ysabel, Mesa Grande, Los Coyotes, etc., from San Diego by team to Warner’s Ranch. Saboba is reached on the San Jacinto branch, and Temecula on the Temecula branch.

The Santa Fe passenger department publishes a beautifully illustrated and well written book on the Indians of the Southwest, and it is well worth sending fifty cents to their general offices in Chicago for a copy.

The Southern Pacific also passes through a country where many Indians reside. The Apaches are reached from several of their Arizona stations, and the Pimas and Maricopas from Phœnix. At Aztec a stage takes one to Palomas, where an interesting band of Apaches are to be seen. The Indian reservation for the Yumas is just across the railway bridge at Zuma, and from Mecca, near the Salton Sea, one may reach the desert Indian villages of Martinez, Agua Dulce, Santa Rosa, etc. Palm Springs is the station for the Palm Springs Indians, five miles away, and at Porterville, north of Los Angeles, one starts for the drive to the Yokuts and other basket-making Indians.

This brief chapter makes no pretense to full treatment. It is merely a suggestion of help to those who wish to follow the Indian to his real home.

CHAPTER XXVIII
CONCLUSION

In the foregoing chapters I have attempted to present in helpful form ideas that have slowly sifted into my own mind as my contact with the Indian has become less formal and restrained. In my case “familiarity” has not “bred contempt.” I have learned many, and to me most important, lessons. In the hurry and whirl of our money-mad age and our machine-driven civilization, we have scarce time to sit down calmly and contemplate anything, hence my earnest plea for a return to the simple things, to the outdoors, to the quiet contentment of the Indian. Doubtless I have often said things both crudely and harshly, but I can truthfully affirm that I have never intended to be harsh, though I am less careful that my utterances be polished and refined than that they should find lodgment in earnest hearts.

To those who are honest and sincere in their desire to get the good out of what I have said, the flaws in my work will be generously passed by, and kindly disregarded. I have felt too intensely in the writing of some of these chapters to be able to judge what I have written by the cool, critical standard of the rhetorician. I have learned from the Indian that the real thing to be desired in oratory is to get one’s thought into the other man’s mind and heart so that it will influence his action. This has been my aim in writing these pages; so, in conclusion,

I thank thee, dusky brother of the plains, the mountains, the forests, and the canyons, for this lesson and all the other lessons you have taught me. I am grateful for the lessons of the higher civilization. I prize and treasure them, but equally am I under obligation to thee, thou red-skin, for recalling to me some primitive principles which civilization ignores at its peril.