In a room overlooking the broad Connecticut valley, a student, wearing cap and gown, stood by the window watching the clouds as they floated in filmy drapery above the long rows of corn, tobacco and rhubarb which paralleled each other on either side of the historic stream that divides western Massachusetts. Chiquita, as she surveyed the scenery, then the room and then herself, heaved a sigh of satisfaction. The same old routine of registering, getting the trunks unpacked, studies and classes arranged, had come to an end. Greetings by classmates, introductions to new professors, salutations to members of the faculty and respects to the dean had taken their regular order, and now the daughter of Yamanatz gazed wistfully into the deep waters which reflected the clouds above. The room was gorgeous in Indian blankets, draperies, spears, arrows, pottery, beaded scarfs and long war bonnets, gold and silver-mounted leather trappings of bridles, lariats, saddle skirts and pistol holsters adorned the walls, while the floor and furniture were smothered in lion, beaver, wolf, bobcat and fox skins. Busts of Powhatan and Massasoit looked down from pedestals upon the young Indian girl as she reflected the advancing stages of education and refinement which make the civilized world. Well she remembered the lonesome, world forgotten time when she first registered in the great reception room, seven years before, after two years' private tutorship in her effort to master the English language and learn her A, B, C's.
Oh! the days and nights of study, study, study! Nothing but knowledge, for breakfast, dinner, supper and dreams. And as she looked forward to the easy senior year and honors which awaited her upon graduation day, she smiled a little and then waxed serious.
"Me, Chiquita, the daughter of a red devil, mistress of English, French, German, Russian, Spanish, Greek and Latin. Winner of prizes in literature, elocution and music, as well as first lady at all class parties! For two years no function by any great society or college demonstration has been complete without Chiquita, and this is to be my last year. Then adios to my alma mater forever—yes, forever. It is little satisfaction to fill one's mind with knowledge. It is poverty. The mind is dull that is oppressed with wisdom. Chiquita is not as happy here as she expected. But, ah, happiness will surely come when I visit the sick, the maimed, and comfort the dying. In that life where the 'medicine man' of the paleface cuts out big chunk in sick man and pale-faced sister in 'medicine clothes' nurse 'em 'til all well. Ah, Jack, you told me the 'medicine' story in such simple language that I understood it far easier than I now interpret the oppressive wisdom dispensed at clinics or lecture room, by those who fetter themselves to profound and awe-inspiring dissertations, until human intelligence seems a fallacy. With this vast amount of knowledge how little we know! But that reminds me: what will be the theme for my valedictory? There is no one who can, no one who will expect this honor but Chiquita. And I will discuss 'Ambition,' something after this fashion:
"'A soul lay fettered at the portals of heaven. The long, winding stairway reached down into space, through worlds of worlds, and countless millions ascended toward the great white throne, each unconcerned as to the fate of the other. On a bier, with body swathed in burial robes, lay the inanimate clay from which the soul fled after its imprisonment of the allotted threescore and ten years. Around the bier were gathered the few of the endless millions left behind, who remembered the departed a brief season and then became absorbed in the great race of life against death. Science is constantly establishing new guideposts in the chaos of obscurity and winning converts to the domain of enlightened intelligence.'
"There, that is what comes of educating a Ute chief's daughter, and about six pages of that will be proof positive that the savage is infinitely happier with the worship of the sun, the wind, the water as animate objects, than we in the realm of knowledge with our defunct moons and birdless heavens."
Chiquita spent a great portion of her senior year in day dreaming and imaginings, often putting her thoughts into manuscript form. Not that she expected to use them, but because she read the stories she thus improvised over and over to herself, occasionally sending one to Jack for his inspection and criticism. If Jack said it was good she kept it, but if he made objections to any portion, she destroyed the whole. In one of these she wrote of her people and herself and the utter folly of any attempt on the part of the Indians to regain their lost hunting ground and lands. She wrote thus:
"Alas! for my people! The Great Spirit of the white man is probably the same as the Great Manitou of the red man, the Buddha of the Hindoo and the Mahomet of the Arab. All worship a divine being, all nations and tribes of the earth acknowledge a power, mysterious, ever present but unseen, who rules the world, the elements and the actions of his followers. The white races are intellectual, far outranking the black man of Africa, the yellow man of eastern Asia and the red man of America. In the end I see but one result, the occupation by them of the entire world and ultimate blotting out of all religion except the Christian belief in the Messiah, who in the form of man was crucified to do away with the offerings, sacrifices and consecrated rites established by the Hebrews and observed by them without dissension until the commencement of the Christian era. But there are Jews today still looking for the King promised by the old prophets of the Bible, and while prophecy upon prophecy has been fulfilled in a most marvelous manner, these people with no country, no flag, no standing as a nation are promised the earth and fulness thereof and a new Jerusalem.
"Do not the followers of Buddha look forward from the death of Gaudama, who became incarnate 500 years B. C., to the thousands of years which must pass before another Buddha appears to restore the world from ignorance and decay? Do not the noble red-skinned tribes of the great American continent pray to their Manitou for the restoration of the land where the buffalo roam and the paleface cannot molest them?
"But, alas, my people! The heathen world must succumb before the strides of education, science and civilization. It is useless to hope for the return of those days, and while the children of the forest cannot in one generation adapt themselves to the ways and habits of industry, education and social life of their white brethren, the time is not far distant when the blanket Indian will be as the buffalo, and the noble red man become a farmer, mechanic or politician.
"The 'home, sweet home' of the people is the place where they spent their early youth, and no matter where their other years are passed, no matter what their successes, no matter what their failures, the sweetest spot on earth is the home of their younger days, to which millions return and from which millions die far away, but with 'fatherland' a vision still bright before them."