PUGET SOUND INDIANS.
The saddest sight in the streets of the young cities of Puget Sound, is the remnant of the great tribes of Indians who once possessed the land. These descendants of the ancient forest kings and warriors come wandering from their reservations into Seattle, Tacoma, and Olympia in blankets and moccasins, in yellow paint and rags.
They crouch down in the shadows of alley-ways and street corners, and wonder at all the strange progress that is going on around them. Every passer-by reminds them of their inferiority.
Or, borne into the noisy town on his little Cayuse pony, the dusky pensioner of a vanishing race ambles his way along, amid crowding vehicles and electric cars, and vaguely comprehends that the steam whistle has forever drowned the war-whoop of the old forest days.
Wherever he goes he sees the giant trees, two hundred feet high, with trunks so large that a house might be made within them, tumbling around him beneath the axe, the blasting powder and fire. Even the stumps vanish as the domes and spires and flagstaffs rise.
It is all going, the romantic and heroic barbarism; it will soon be gone, and become a painter’s dream and a poet’s legend.
The old Snohomish tribe still lingers amid the valleys of the snow-crowned mountains, as do the Spokanes and the Nez Perces. The tribes of the Walla Wallas and Wallulas or Walloas fall like leaves, bequeathing to the system which succeeds them only their poetic names. The Yakimas still hold a considerable territory, as do the Klickitats. But one fate awaits them all. Their feet vanish wherever the white man builds his road.
The savage traits and evil dispositions of these Indian races have long been the subject of sensational writing. Let us speak of what was and is noble in them,—as a Schoolcraft or a Longfellow would see them. If the new country is filled with legends of their ignorance and barbarism, it is also full of beautiful stories of their gratitude, fidelity, and benevolence.
“Why does not the wonderful city of Seattle in some way pension the daughter of old Seattle, the chief?” I once asked a wealthy ex-mayor of that city. “She is a beggar in the streets.”
“Oh,” said the millionnaire, “it would do her no good. She would give it all away to her own people. Give her fifty dollars to-day, and she would have nothing to-morrow.”
The reply gave me a feeling of respect for poor old Angeline, the rag-picking princess of Seattle.
WOMAN’S BUILDING.
Among the homesteading pioneers, there came to the great timber lands a New England family by the name, we will say, of Brewster, as it is a good one. The young people had a battle with the great pines and firs and the bears, and with a clearing. They had a rich aunt in old Massachusetts; and as young Brewster was her favorite, she decided to come and make her home with him.
She was a benevolent old lady, such as are to be found in all the village churches of New England. Her first concern, upon arriving in the new country, was to find a way to invest a part of her money in missionary enterprises.
She saw an Indian graveyard in the trees. Then she met some Flatheads, and was at once happy in the thought that a special providence had directed her here, as a pioneer in a mission field.
She secured as a first pupil an Indian by the name of Curley. Finding that he and his family lived in a tent of skins, she thought that she would build for him a house, and promised him that she would go and visit him when it was completed.
“What kind of a house would you like to have, Curley?” she asked, one day after he had been especially teachable.
“Oh, a white house like the Great Father’s at Washington.”
“Aunt Boston” gave Curley one hundred dollars to build a white house, and he rode away delighted, on his little Cayuse horse.
Weeks passed; Christmas came, and good Aunt Boston thought that she would ride over to the reservation and surprise Curley in the new white house, which she had not yet seen. The thought greatly pleased her, as Curley had told her that he was raising a Cayuse colt as a present for her.
So she set out on Christmas morning in a mountain wagon. The air was clear and warm, for the Puget Sound atmosphere is an almost continuous springtime. The tops of the giant firs were filled with sunlight instead of snow. Here and there a deer bounded across the way.
She came at last to a clearing, and saw the white house.
There was no mistaking it. Close by was a tent of skins, which she took to be the former habitation of Curley. She rode up to the white house. The window was open.
The rattle of the wheels had caused a commotion in the interesting place. A pretty Cayuse colt put his head out of the window of the white house, and Curley at the same time opened the fold of the tent.
Aunt Boston was quite outdone in her plan of benevolence. Curley had made the white house a stable for her colt, and was as happy as she in his plans of benevolence and charity.
An Episcopal missionary recently told me, to his own disadvantage, the following story, which illustrates the same generous trait in the Puget Sound Indians:—
“There once came to the mission station on a visit an old Christian Indian, and he continued to make the mission his home. In my early work in the territory I had lived with him, and had found him very brotherly and benevolent. He had shared everything with me.
“A month or more passed, and as he gave me no hint of departure, and did nothing toward the support of himself or the cause, I said to him,—
“‘Mountain Pine, you have been here two moons; how much longer do you intend to stay?’
“‘It may be one week, it may be one month, it may be one year, it may be one life.’
“‘But, Mountain Pine, the Good Book says that if a man do not work, neither shall he eat.’
“Mountain Pine rose slowly, and drew his blanket around him. He raised his arm and pointed to the chapel.
“‘Do you wah-wah over there?’
“‘Yes, you know, Mountain Pine, there is where I worship.’
“‘Brother, you wah-wah over there. You came a stranger to me in my cabin. I say, “You have half; you may stay one week, you may stay one moon, you may stay one year, you may stay one life. I hunt and give you half my venison.” I come to your cabin. You say, “How long you stay?” You say, “You go work!”’
“‘You wah-wah over there. You heap wah-wah, but you no good!’
“He drew his blanket closer around him, and majestically strode out of the house, and I never saw Mountain Pine again.”
The favorite chiefs of the early settlers were Seattle and Pat Keanim, of the Snoqualmees. Seattle was appointed chief by a territorial governor, but Pat Keanim had the heart of his people. He espoused the cause of the pioneers and fought for them, and though often distrusted, was true in the dark days of the war. He had a poetic and really beautiful face.
The hop harvest in the Puyallup valley yearly gathers the Indians there, as they used to meet, according to the old legend, in the happy valley of the Olympic mountains. The harvest begins in August, and lasts a month.
The days are bright, and at night the moon hangs clear over the waters. Working people, young and old, Indians, Chinese, white people, black people, every one desiring much money for light work, congregate here.
All is gay and happy. The nights are festivals. Hither the Indians come on Cayuse horses and in canoes. Their boats fill the harbors. And here the dying races renew their primitive life.
CHINESE THEATRE.