I am sorry to say that I played hookey sometimes. Big dances were often held in the village; especially, when a war party came in with a scalp, there was great excitement. The scalp was raised aloft on a pole, and the women danced about it, screaming, and singing glad songs. Warriors painted their faces with charcoal, and danced, sang, yelled, and boasted of their deeds. Everybody feasted and made merry.
When I knew that a dance was going to be held, I would hide somewhere in the village, instead of going to school. The next day my teacher would say, “Where were you yesterday?” “At the dance,” I would answer. She would then tell me how naughty I was; but she never punished me, for she knew if she did, I would leave the school. My parents also scolded, but did not punish me. I am afraid I was a bad little boy!
One day, on my way to school, I was overtaken by a very old white man, with white hair. I had been going to school about a year and could talk a little English.
”What is your name, little fellow?” the old man asked. He had a friendly voice.
“My name is Goodbird,” I answered.
“But what is your English name?”
“I have none.”
“Then I will give you mine,” the old man said, smiling. “It is Edward Moore.”
It is a common custom for an Indian to give his name to a friend; so I did not know the old man’s words were said in fun. At the school, I told Mr. Hall what the old man had said, and he laughed. “I think Moore is not a good name for you,” he said. “Moore sounds like moor, a marshy place where mists rise in the air, but Edward is a very good name.“
So I have called myself Edward Goodbird ever since.