Upon one occasion Miss McFarland’s mother gave a Christmas dinner to the old people of her mission. It is a custom of the Indians to carry away from the feast all of the food which has not been eaten. One old man had forgotten his basket, but what matter, Indian ingenuity came to his aid. Stepping outside the door he removed his coat and taking off his dress shirt triumphantly presented it as a substitute in which to carry home his share of the good things of the feast.
These Indians believe that earthquakes are caused by an old man who shakes the earth. Compare this with Norse Mythology. When the gods had made the unfortunate Loke fast with strong cords, a serpent was suspended over him in such a manner that the venom fell into his face causing him to writhe and twist so violently that the whole earth shook.
When Miss McFarland left her home in Hoonah last fall to attend Mill’s college every Indian child in the neighborhood came to say good-by. They brought all sorts of presents and with many tears bade her a long farewell. “Edna go away?” “Ah! Oh! Me so sorry.” “Edna no more come back?” “We no more happy now Edna gone,” “No more happy, Oh! Oh!” “Edna no more come back.” “Oh, good-by, Edna, good-by.”
Every Christmas brings Miss McFarland many tokens of affection from her former playmates. Pin cushions, beaded slippers, baskets, rugs, beaded portemonnaies. Always something made with their own hands.
Miss McFarland’s name, through that of her parents, is indissolubly connected with Indian advancement in Alaska.
One meets curious people, too, in traveling. In the parlor at the hotel one evening a party of tourists were discussing the point of extending their trip to Alaska. The yeas and nays were about equal when up spoke a flashily dressed little woman, “Well,” said she, “what is there to see when you get there?” That woman belongs to the class with some of our fellow passengers, both men and women who sat wrapped in furs and rugs from breakfast to luncheon and from luncheon to dinner reading “A Woman’s Revenge,” “Blind Love,” and “Maude Percy’s Secret,” perfectly oblivious to the grandest scenery on the American Continent, scenery which every year numbers of foreigners cross continents and seas to behold.
One of our fellow travelers is a German physician who is spending the summer on the coast. He is deeply interested in the woman question in America. He is quite sure that American women have too much liberty. “Why,” said he, “they manage everything. They rule the home, the children and their husbands, too. Why, madam, it is outrageous. Now surely the man ought to be the head of the house and manage the children and the wife too, she belongs to him, doesn’t she?”
“Not in America,” we replied, “the men are too busy, and besides they enjoy having their homes managed for them. Then, too, the women are too independent.”
“That is just what I say, madam, they have too much liberty, they are too independent. They go everywhere they like, do everything they like and ask no man nothings at all.”
My German friend evidently thinks that unless this wholesale independence of women is checked our country will go to destruction. The war with Spain does not compare with it. I am wondering yet if our critic’s wife is one of those independent American women.