On the larger islands of this tropical swamp are found the fertile hommocks, the home of the Seminole Indians. Approaching such a home one sees marks of labor; a clearing is made, the wigwams built, sugar cane, sweet potatoes and squash are growing. Chickens and pigs run about and an air of contentment pervades all.
A visit to these Indians is still fresh to memory. After an arduous journey, the village is reached. It was the occasion of the Green Corn Dance and preparations were going on. The hunters were out for game, the corn was ripening and an air of festivity was all around.
Dogs barked as the white guests approached, but a commanding Seminole reprimand soon drove them away; pickaninnies came around with timid advances, squaws greeted with handshaking. A wigwam was built for us by the hospitable hands, and the visitors were assigned to this part of the camp.
What a world of interest, both romantic and tragic, hangs around the wigwams of a Seminole family!
To Tallahassee was assigned the greatest part of the entertaining, and he it was who directed the movements that would add to the pleasure of the guests.
Without giving thought to it, the team was hitched to a pole that stood in the open. It proved to be the festal pole for the dance, and the spot was sacred for that occasion, but the innate courtesy of the old chief prevented his showing any offense, and in the morning he waved his hand in the direction of the horses and asked, “Horses, you want ’em there?” Learning what the pole was for, we were the ones to beg pardon and feel chagrin. Then came the attention to the guests, in showing around the little fields, telling the names and kinship of the various members as they came into camp. This devolved on Tallahassee, and the honor was two-fold.
As the shadows fell and the camp fire flickered, the old chief regaled the company with history dating back one hundred and fifty years. The old patriarch and warrior rambled on in low monotone, living over in dreamy reminiscence his hunting days, and with the record of seventy bear, to say nothing of panther, deer, ’coon, possum and turkey. How the enthusiasm of the twentieth century hunter was put on fire.
As the old chief drew closer his tunic, we asked, “Tallahassee, last winter, cold much; Kissimmee City, ice come; what you do?” A young brave spoke up, “Tallahassee old, get cold heap, blankets put on him and big log fire make.” Then came the jokes as told by one member on another and how these children of the forest would laugh as the tales were recounted. They are children only in mind, but full of discernment and strong in character.
A present of a picture containing Tallahassee’s picture had been sent to the old chief a year before, and this must now be brought out to show the visitors. Spelling and copybooks were the occasion of much comment and much praise from the white friends. The older Indians say, “Me no write—old too much. Little Tiger make letters by-and-by; write good—keep store.”