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Title: The Middle Five: Indian Boys at School
Author: Francis La Flesche
Illustrator: Angel De Cora
Release Date: May 14, 2020 [EBook #62094]
Language: English
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THE MIDDLE FIVE
[Illustration]
THE MIDDLE FIVE
Indian Boys at School
BY FRANCIS LAFLESCHE
[Illustration: Decoration]
Boston
Small, Maynard & Company
1909
_Copyright, 1900, by_
SMALL, MAYNARD AND COMPANY
(INCORPORATED)
Entered at Stationer's Hall
THE UNIVERSITY PRESS, CAMBRIDGE, MASS., U. S. A.
TO
THE UNIVERSAL BOY
Contents
CHAPTER PAGE
PREFACE ix
I. THE MISSION 1
II. BRUSH 15
III. EDWIN 30
IV. LITTLE BOB 45
V. WARREN 51
VI. LESTER 63
VII. THE SPLINTER, THE THORN, AND THE RIB 77
VIII. FRAUDULENT HOLIDAYS 93
IX. WILLIAM T. SHERMAN 104
X. A RUNAWAY 121
XI. A NEW STUDY 140
XII. PONKA BOYS 152
XIII. THE SECRET OF THE BIG SEVEN 163
XIV. A REBUKE 182
XV. JOE 195
XVI. THE BREAK 210
PREFACE
_As the object of this book is to reveal the true nature and
character of the Indian boy, I have chosen to write the story of my
school-fellows rather than that of my other boy friends who knew only
the aboriginal life. I have made this choice not because the influences
of the school alter the qualities of the boys, but that they might
appear under conditions and in an attire familiar to the reader. The
paint, feathers, robes, and other articles that make up the dress of
the Indian, are marks of savagery to the European, and he who wears
them, however appropriate or significant they might be to himself,
finds it difficult to lay claim to a share in common human nature. So
while the school uniform did not change those who wore it, in this
instance, it may help these little Indians to be judged, as are other
boys, by what they say and do._
_It is not my purpose to give a continued story with a hero in
the following pages, but, in a series of sketches, to present the
companions of my own young days to the children of the race that has
become possessed of the land of my fathers._
_This introduction is a genuine one, for all the boys who appear in
these sketches have really lived and played a part in the incidents
herein recorded. Each little actor, including the writer, made his
entrance upon the stage of life in the "tee-pee" or in the dome-shaped
earth lodge; for, in the years when we boys were born, only the
aboriginal dwellings were in use among our people, the Omaha tribe of
Indians. Like all the infants for countless generations in the line of
our ancestry, we too had to pass through the cradle-board period while
our bones "ripened," as the Indians say, and grew strong enough to bear
the weight of our bodies. When at last our mothers gave us liberty to
creep and to toddle about, we promptly used that freedom to get into
all sorts of mischief as we explored the new and wonderful world in
which we found ourselves._
_Among my earliest recollections are the instructions wherein we were
taught respect and courtesy toward our elders; to say "thank you" when
receiving a gift, or when returning a borrowed article; to use the
proper and conventional term of relationship when speaking to another;
and never to address any one by his personal name; we were also
forbidden to pass in front of persons sitting in the tent without first
asking permission; and we were strictly enjoined never to stare at
visitors, particularly at strangers. To us there seemed to be no end to
the things we were obliged to do, and to the things we were to refrain
from doing._
_From the earliest years the Omaha child was trained in the grammatical
use of his native tongue. No slip was allowed to pass uncorrected,
and as a result there was no child-talk such as obtains among
English-speaking children,--the only difference between the speech of
old and young was in the pronunciation of words which the infant often
failed to utter correctly, but this difficulty was soon overcome, and a
boy of ten or twelve was apt to speak as good Omaha as a man of mature
years._
_Like the grown folk, we youngsters were fond of companionship and
of talking. In making our gamesticks and in our play, we chattered
incessantly of the things that occupied our minds, and we thought it a
hardship when we were obliged to speak in low tones while older people
were engaged in conversation. When we entered the Mission School, we
experienced a greater hardship, for there we encountered a rule that
prohibited the use of our own language, which rule was rigidly enforced
with a hickory rod, so that the new-comer, however socially inclined,
was obliged to go about like a little dummy until he had learned to
express himself in English._
_All the boys in our school were given English names, because their
Indian names were difficult for the teachers to pronounce. Besides, the
aboriginal names were considered by the missionaries as heathenish,
and therefore should be obliterated. No less heathenish in their
origin were the English substitutes, but the loss of their original
meaning and significance through long usage had rendered them fit to
continue as appellations for civilized folk. And so, in the place of
Tae-noo'-ga-wa-zhe, came Philip Sheridan; in that of Wa-pah'-dae,
Ulysses S. Grant; that of Koo'-we-he-ge-ra, Alexander, and so on. Our
sponsors went even further back in history, and thus we had our David
and Jonathan, Gideon and Isaac, and, with the flood of these new names,
came Noah. It made little difference to us that we had to learn the
significance of one more word as applied to ourselves, when the task
before us was to make our way through an entire strange language. So we
learned to call each other by our English names, and continued to do so
even after we left school and had grown to manhood._
_The names thus acquired by the boys are used in these sketches in
preference to their own, for the reason that Indian words are not only
difficult to pronounce, but are apt to sound all alike to one not
familiar with the language, and the boys who figure in these pages
might lose their identity and fail to stand out clearly in the mind of
the reader were he obliged to continually struggle with their Omaha
names._
_In the talk of the boys I have striven to give a reproduction of the
peculiar English spoken by them, which was composite, gathered from
the imperfect comprehension of their books, the provincialisms of the
teachers, and the slang and bad grammar picked up from uneducated white
persons employed at the school or at the Government Agency. Oddities
of speech, profanity, localisms, and slang were unknown in the Omaha
language, so when such expressions fell upon the ears of these lads
they innocently learned and used them without the slightest suspicion
that there could be bad as well as good English._
_The misconception of Indian life and character so common among the
white people has been largely due to an ignorance of the Indian's
language, of his mode of thought, his beliefs, his ideals, and his
native institutions. Every aspect of the Indian and his manner of
life has always been strange to the white man, and this strangeness
has been magnified by the mists of prejudice and the conflict of
interests between the two races. While these in time may disappear,
no native American can ever cease to regret that the utterances of
his fathers have been constantly belittled when put into English,
that their thoughts have frequently been travestied and their native
dignity obscured. The average interpreter has generally picked up
his knowledge of English in a random fashion, for very few have ever
had the advantage of a thorough education, and all have had to deal
with the difficulties that attend the translator. The beauty and
picturesqueness, and euphonious playfulness, or the gravity of diction
which I have heard among my own people, and other tribes as well, are
all but impossible to be given literally in English._
_The talk of the older people, when they speak in this book, is, as
well as I can translate it, that of every day use._
_Most of the country now known as the State of Nebraska (the Omaha name
of the river Platt, descriptive of its shallowness, width, and low
banks) had for many generations been held and claimed by our people
as their own, but when they ceded the greater part of this territory
to the United States government, they reserved only a certain tract
for their own use and home. It is upon the eastern part of this
reservation that the scene of these sketches is laid, and at the time
when the Omahas were living near the Missouri River in three villages,
some four or five miles apart. The one farthest south was known as
Ton'-won-ga-hae's village; the people were called "wood eaters" because
they cut and sold wood to the settlers who lived near them. The middle
one was Ish'-ka-da-be's village, and the people designated as "those
who dwell in earth lodges," they having adhered to the aboriginal form
of dwelling when they built their village. The one to the north and
nearest the Mission was E-sta'-ma-za's village, and the people were
known as "the make-believe white men," because they built their houses
after the fashion of the white settlers. Furniture, such as beds,
chairs, tables, bureaus, etc., were not used in any of these villages,
except in a few instances, while in all of them the Indian costume,
language, and social customs remained as yet unmodified._
_In those days the Missouri was the only highway of commerce. Toiling
slowly against the swift current, laden with supplies for the trading
posts and for our Mission, came the puffing little steamboats from the
"town of the Red-hair," as St. Louis was called by the Indians, in
memory of the auburn locks of Governor Clark,--of Lewis and Clark fame.
We children used to watch these noisy boats as they forced their way
through the turbid water and made a landing by running the bow into the
soft bank._
_The white people speak of the country at this period as "a
wilderness," as though it was an empty tract without human interest or
history. To us Indians it was as clearly defined then as it is to-day;
we knew the boundaries of tribal lands, those of our friends and those
of our foes; we were familiar with every stream, the contour of every
hill, and each peculiar feature of the landscape had its tradition.
It was our home, the scene of our history, and we loved it as our
country._
The Middle Five
Chapter I
The Mission
Leaning against the wall of a large stone building, with moccasined
feet dangling from a high wooden bench on the front porch, sat a little
boy crying. His buckskin suit, prettily fringed and embroidered with
porcupine quills of the brightest colors, indicated the care bestowed
upon him by fond parents. Boys and girls were at play around the house,
making the place ring with their merry laughter as they chased each
other among the trees, but the little boy sat all alone, sobbing as
though his heart would break. A big boy came and sat by his side, put
an arm around him, and in a kindly tone said, in Indian:
"What are you crying for? Don't cry,--I'll play with you and be your
friend. I won't let the boys hurt you."
"I want my mother! I want to go home!" was all the homesick little
chap could say, crying harder than ever.
"You will see your mother soon, we can go home every bathing-day,
(Saturday). It is only three days to wait, so don't cry. I have
to go away, but I will be back soon. Play with this dog until I
come,"--putting into the hands of the little boy a wooden dog.
A bell rang, and from every direction came boys and girls, crowding
and pushing one another as they entered two of the large doors of the
building. The big boy came running, and grasping the little one by the
hand, fairly dragged him along, saying: "Come, quick! We are going to
eat."
They entered a large room filled with people. Parallel to the walls
stood tables of great length, at one of which the two boys took seats.
After considerable hard breathing and shuffling by the children, they
suddenly became very still, every one bowed his head, then a man with
gray hair and whiskers, who sat at the end of one of the tables, spoke
in a low tone. He finished speaking, then followed a deafening clatter
of a hundred tin plates and cups. Young women carrying great pans of
steaming food moved rapidly from table to table. One of these girls
came to the two boys, and put into the plate of the younger a potato.
"Give him two, he's hungry," whispered the big boy to the girl.
Everything was strange to the little new-comer and he kept looking all
around. The lamps that were fastened to the walls and posts, the large
clock that stood ticking gloomily on a shelf, and the cupboard with its
tin door perforated in a queer design were objects upon which his eyes
rested with wonder.
The supper over, the boys and girls who sat on the inner side of the
tables turned to face the centre of the room, and folded their arms.
Then they all sang. When this was done, they dropped on their knees and
the gray-haired man began to talk again. The little boy watched him for
a while, then laid his head on the hard bench,--the tones of the old
man grew fainter and fainter until the boy lost all consciousness of
them. Suddenly there burst upon him a noise like thunder. He arose to
his feet with a start, and, bewildered, he looked around. Everything
seemed to be in a whirl. He took fright, ran to the door that first
caught his sight, and went with a thud down to a landing, but did not
lose his balance; he took another step, then fell headlong into a
dreadful dark place. He screamed at the top of his voice, frightened
almost into a fit. A woman picked him up and carried him in her arms
up a flight of stairs, speaking to him in a language that he could not
understand.
This was my first experience at the boarding school established by
the Presbyterian Board of Foreign Missions for the instruction of the
children of the Omaha tribe of Indians.
The Mission school, the founding of which had marked an epoch in
the tribe, was located among the wooded bluffs of the Missouri on
the eastern part of the reservation. The principal building was of
stone, plain and substantial, and plastered inside and out. It was
three stories high and had an attic. This attic was perhaps the most
interesting part of the structure, for we boys were quite sure it was
tenanted by ghosts, and that the devil, who figured considerably in the
instruction given us, had full sway in this apartment.
There was a large square hole close to the head of the stairs that
led up to the attic. This hole had the greatest terror for us; there
was a constant whistling within it, and out of it came sounds like
distressing moans and sighs. I remember once, when Gray-beard had sent
me up to the attic for something, that I never hurried so on any other
errand as I did on that one. I found the article he desired, put it
under my arm, and cautiously approached the head of the stair, keeping
an eye on the dark hole, then suddenly I made a dash past it, and with
amazing rapidity thundered downstairs. "Lad, you will break your neck!"
exclaimed Gray-beard. I told him I liked to run downstairs!
Under the attic was the boys' dormitory. The beds were placed close
together, and some were wide enough for three boys. The room was
large, and in the middle of it stood a post. I have reason to remember
this, for one night I got up in my sleep and ran with all my might
against this post, making such a noise as to awaken Gray-beard and the
superintendent, who came up in great haste with candles in their hands.
I was laid up for days after this exploit, but I never ran in my sleep
again.
Beneath our dormitory were the parlor and the bedroom of Gray-beard,
our teacher and disciplinarian. This name was not inherited by him, nor
was it one of his own choosing; the boys gave it to him because his
beard was iron-gray, and the Indians adopted it from the boys. In his
room at night he might have heard strange noises from the cherubs in
the dormitory above, in fact he came up there quite often, rod in hand,
as a reminder that such sounds made sleep impossible.
Under Gray-beard's rooms was the schoolroom where we struggled with
arithmetic, geography, history, and A B C, up to the Fifth Reader. This
room corresponded in size to our dormitory, but it had no middle post.
The dining-hall, where on my arrival I had taken fright and stampeded
head foremost into the cellar, was in the middle of the first story. It
was very large and held, beside the three long tables, a big stove in
the middle between two large posts. I remember these posts very well,
I kept close company with one of them, on my return from a run-away
expedition; and it was on this occasion that I had my first love
adventure--but I must not anticipate.
The rooms on the two stories above the dining-hall were occupied, one
as play-room for the girls, the others by the various employees.
On the same floor with the school-room and the dining-hall, at the
north end of the building, was the chapel. Here we sat in rows on
Sunday mornings, afternoons, and evenings, and on Thursday evenings,
ranged on long, high, wooden benches without backs, our feet scarcely
touching the floor, and listened (sometimes) to sermons which were
remarkable for their length and sleep-enticing effects. I had many
delightful dreams in this chapel, about Samson and his jaw-bone war
club, the fight between David and Goliath, and of the adventures of
Joseph the dreamer,--stories that were the delight of my boyhood.
Brush, one of my dearest friends at the school, knowing my weakness,
secured a seat back of mine on purpose to support me when I was in a
slumberous mood. I shall never forget his goodness; he now sleeps in
the cemetery just above the Mission.
The two large rooms over the chapel were occupied by our superintendent
and minister. Above his apartments was the girls' dormitory, while over
all stretched the haunted, ghostly attic.
There were other buildings grouped around: to the back stood the
store-house and the smoke-house; out of the latter came our delicious
hams and our sermons, for a part of this building was used as the
minister's study. Then there was the great barn where we boys played
hide-and-seek in the hay-mow; the corn-crib with its yellow wealth
showing between the boards; and the dusty wheat-bins with padlocked
doors. Below on the bottom were the Government saw and grist mills,
where we often went to see the grinding of the Indians' grain and
the large trees sawed into lumber for Agency use or for the Indians'
houses. The carpenter and blacksmith shops were also down there, and a
long wooden house for the occupancy of the Government employees. All of
these buildings stood for the fulfilment of the solemn promises made by
the "Great Father" at Washington to his "Red Children," and as a part
of the price paid for thousands and thousands of acres of fine land.
Although there were high hills just back of the school, from which one
could get excellent views of the surrounding country, we boys preferred
to go up into the belfry on the top of the main building for our
observations. We did not go often; two difficulties were in the way:
the securing of permission from the superintendent, as but few boys
could be trusted up there; and we must go through the haunted attic
to get to the belfry. No boy during my school days ever went up there
alone.
My friend Brush, being quite a favorite with the superintendent, often
had permission to go, and took me with him. When we were once in the
belfry, we felt safe from the annoyances of the devil and the other
horrible things in the attic. The superintendent, without the asking,
let Brush have a big spy-glass, which the other boys were not permitted
to use, and with it we could see far beyond the river and the valley
that stretched in the distance to the opposite bluffs, that were always
nearly hidden in a bluish haze. Bringing the glass to a closer range,
we could see below, on our side of the river, the rich fields of the
Mission and of the Indians; and we used to watch the Indians and the
hired men of the school at work there. Sometimes we caught sight of a
steamboat far down the river coming up, trailing a long line of smoke;
then, with great excitement, we would run down and tell the boys, and
all of us would hasten to the highest point near the school and watch
the "mystic boat" as it slowly made its way along the winding stream.
To the south of the Mission, overlooking the Missouri and a small lake,
stood the highest bill for miles around. This was known by the Indians
as "the hill on which Um'-pa-ton-ga (Big Elk) was buried." He was one
of the greatest chiefs of the Omahas.
Before schools of any kind were known among the Omahas, Indian parents
warned their boys and girls against a free association with the
children of persons who did not bear a good character. "Who was that
you were playing with?" a father or mother would ask. "Nobody knows the
child's family,--beware of him, do not go with him, he will throw upon
you the habit of lying or stealing. Go with children whose parents are
respected by the people." Such advice would be given by the reputable
men and women of the tribe to their children as to choosing their
playfellows.
At the school we were all thrown together and left to form our own
associates. The sons of chiefs and of prominent men went with the sons
of the common people, regardless of social standing and character. The
only distinction made was against cowardice; the boy who could not
fight found it difficult to maintain the respect of his mates, and to
get a place among the different "gangs" or groups of associates the
boys had established among themselves. I learned this from my friend
Brush, to whom I complained one day of being abused by the boys when he
was not near. "You must look out for yourself now," he said. "If the
boys know you won't fight, they will tease you all the time. You must
fight."
So the next boy who rudely shoved me aside and knocked my hat off
received a painful surprise, for my right fist came so hard against his
cheekbone that he stood for a moment as though stunned. Then he moved,
and I moved, and the boys standing near could hardly tell which was
which until we separated, pretty well bruised. After that the boys were
careful not to knock my hat off my head; if they did, they took pains
to let me know that it was not intentional.
I told Brush about this set-to, and he approved of it. "That's right,"
he said; "fight any of them, even if you know that you're going to get
licked; then they won't tease you."
My father was the principal chief of the tribe and leader of the
village of the "Make-believe white-men;" he had plenty of horses, the
standard of Indian wealth, yet that did not entitle me to a place
in any of the different "gangs" in the school; I had to show that I
was not afraid to stand up and fight. Even good-natured Brush had to
bristle up at times and engage in a lively tussle, else there would
have been no peace for him. Now I was wanted by the smaller "gangs" and
invited by them to their places of sport; but Brush held on to me and
kept me out.
Among the boys there was the "gang" of the "Big Seven" which Brush
had been trying to enter; but, for some reason which I did not then
understand, they would not admit him. He did not care to go into any
of the "gangs" of smaller boys, of which there were quite a number. I
thought the "Big Seven" did not want him, because he was too small; but
later I found out there was another reason for it.
As time passed, I learned more and more of the peculiar ways of the
boys at the school, of the teachers, and of my books. It was not long
before I felt quite at home and independent; but Brush and I were still
without a "gang."
Chapter II
Brush
"Frank, you're learning fast!" said Brush one afternoon as I was
laboriously writing my lesson on a slate with his help. "I'm glad; I
want you to catch up with me so we can be in the same classes."
I felt proud of his praise and worked all the harder. We had gone
through the alphabet swimmingly, and once, when I said it without a
break, he slapped me on the shoulder and exclaimed, "That's good!" When
I was able to read short sentences, I felt quite sure that I should
soon take my place among the advanced pupils.
In and out of school Brush helped me along; in our play and when our
work brought us together, he always managed to teach me something of
the English language, and I was a willing student because he taught me
in a way that made the work a pleasure. Gray-beard, not knowing what a
kind and patient assistant he had in Brush, thought he had in me an
exceptionally bright scholar, for I made rapid headway in learning to
speak English, won several promotions, and soon found myself in the
Second Reader class.
Brush was a bright fellow and quite a student. He and I sat at the
same desk in the school-room, side by side at the dining-table, and
we were bed-fellows. From him I learned many things he had gleaned
from the superintendent's library, for he was a great reader, and the
superintendent, who liked the boy, favored him in various ways, loaned
him books to read, and talked with him about them.
Of all the stories he used to tell me, and he knew a great many, I
liked best to hear him recount the old stories out of the Bible. He was
familiar with them all, and told them in a way that delighted me, for
he fitted them to my notions. He made them very real. One day he read
to me a story, but I could not understand it as well as when he told it
in his own simple way, so I asked him not to read them to me any more.
The time for the telling of stories was at night after Gray-beard had
gone downstairs to his own rooms, having warned us against loud talking.
My friend always seemed happy, yet at times, particularly on Saturdays,
I noticed he would appear sober, almost melancholy. He did not go home
as the rest of us did, and I wondered at this very much. He had a way
of disappearing about the time I was ready to start home, so I never
had a chance to invite him to my house, as I had often intended to do.
I tried a number of times to bring him to speak of himself, but he
would throw me off that line of talk, and my curiosity went unsatisfied
for a long time.
"Say, Brush, where do you live?" I asked one afternoon as we were in
the belfry. "You don't go home Saturdays like the rest of us."
"There's a man on the top of the hill near Big Elk's grave," he said
evasively as he looked through the spy-glass.
I could see the man with my naked eyes as he stood on the topmost point
against the clear, blue sky.
"Take the spy-glass and look at him," continued Brush, as though to
put off my question.
"Do you live on the other side of that hill?" I persisted.
"Frank, I live here, I don't live anywhere else. This is the only home
I have," said the boy sadly. "Do your father and mother ask you who you
play with at the Mission?"
"N-o, they never did, maybe they will sometime, I don't know."
"I think they will, that's why I'm going to tell you who I am, then
they will know," said Brush, seriously. After a pause he went on,
"My father and mother died when I was very small, but I remember my
grandfather. He was a very old man. He used to go to your father's
house; maybe you have seen him, but I guess you can't remember. He was
one of the chiefs, Tae-son' was his name. Once we went to Omaha to buy
a lot of things, and coming home we camped just this side of the town;
there he died. He was the last relative I had. Now I have no mother, no
father, no sister, nothing--no home." He uttered the last word slowly
as though thinking. "That's why the Big Seven--that man's gone, you
take the spy-glass and look for him."
"If you have no home, why don't you go home with me?" I asked, looking
through the spy-glass. "I know my father and mother would like you the
same as I do."
"If I go home with you, I know I'll have a good time, but I haven't any
home to ask you to. All the boys in the Big Seven do that way."
"I don't care what the Big Seven do, I want you to go home with me."
Saturday came. At breakfast I was anxious to have prayers over, Brush
was to go home with me, and we anticipated much pleasure for the day.
"Don't eat much," I whispered to him; "we're going to eat again when we
get home. My mother will give us something good, she always does."
After breakfast Brush went to the barn and filled the stalls with hay
for the horses, which was part of the work assigned him. Then he ran up
to the superintendent to report, and as soon as he came down we were
off.
On the hill we were joined by two white boys, children of one of the
Government employees at the mill. "Hello! Going home?" asked one of
them. "We're going to the village. They say they're going to have a
horse race there to-day. We want to see it."
Instead of taking the well-beaten path to the village, we all turned
off into one that led directly to my father's house, and that passed
by the burial-place on the bluffs. The two white boys were ahead, and
when they came to a freshly made mound surrounded by a neat fence they
stopped, and peered between the palings. "Pemmican!" exclaimed one of
them. When Brush and I came up, we too looked in and saw on the grave a
wooden bowl of pemmican. It was tempting these white boys, for they had
learned to like this peculiar food.
"Jack, give me a boost?" said one of them, and soon he was over
the fence filling his pockets out of the bowl. Then he offered the
remainder to the other boy.
Brush and I were amazed and horrified at this action. We went straight
on, taking no notice of the offer made by the boys to give us some of
the stolen food. "I bet one of those boys will die before the year is
gone," said Brush, turning and looking back at the irreverent little
rascals, who were now tipping their heads backward and putting pinches
of the meat into their mouths.
"I bet so too!" I added. "It was awful the way they did. Let's go on
fast; I don't want to be with them." And we sped down the hill on a
brisk run.
At the door of the house my mother met us and led us into her room.
We both began to tell her about the dreadful thing the white boys had
done, and expressed the belief that before the year was out one or both
of them would die.
We sat down on the floor, and mother placed between us a pretty wooden
bowl filled with freshly made pemmican, smiling at our childish notion
that food taken after the spirits had tasted it meant death within
the year. As we were eating with relish the food placed before us,
my mother said, "You do not understand why the bowl of pemmican was
placed on the little grave, and I must tell you. The spirit of the
person buried in that grave, or the spirit of any other person dead and
buried, cannot eat food; but people love their dead relatives; they
remember them and long for their presence at the family gathering: it
is this desire that makes them go and put a share of the food on the
grave of those who have become nothing, and not the belief that the
dead can return and partake of food the same as the living."
We listened with respectful attention as my mother explained to us this
custom which arose from the tender longing that prompted the mourner to
place on the little mound the food that might have been the share of
the loved one who lay under the sod; but I am afraid we failed to grasp
the meaning of her words, and clung to the commonplace idea entertained
by less thoughtful persons.
In the afternoon there was a general movement throughout the village,
men, singly and in groups, walked with stately tread toward the edge of
the bluff back of my father's house. Women, too, no less dignified,
made their way in the same direction, followed by their grown-up
daughters dressed in their gayest attire, their ornaments glinting in
the sun. Little boys and girls chased each other hither and thither as
they drifted that way, and soon there was a great gathering of people,
all bent upon enjoying the excitement of the race. Brush and I mingled
with the boys, and took part in their lively games, as preparations
were going on for the sport of the day.
My father was in his corral trying to lasso a young horse to put on the
track, a spirited little animal with bald face and large white spots on
his sides. When, with some difficulty, he was caught and bridled, he
stood pawing the ground, impatient to go, tossing up his head from time
to time and moving his ears excitedly. My father led him up to where
the people were gathered; other men had already brought their horses
there. Boys about Brush's size, lithe of figure, stood by the racers
ready to mount when it was time to start.
My father looked around, and finally his eyes rested upon Brush. "Boy,
can you ride?" he asked.
"I can," was the prompt answer.
My breath was fairly taken away at this reply. I did not know that
Brush could ride well enough to mount a running horse at a race.
"I want you to ride my horse in this race," said my father.
"All right," replied the lad, taking off his school uniform. In a
moment he was ready, stripped naked, with only a breech cloth.
Taking the reins and grasping the horse by the mane, Brush attempted
to spring on his back, but the animal, all excited, trotted round and
round. Father seized him by the bit, Brush lifted his right foot,
father caught it, and in a twinkling the boy was on the horse. The
mount was superb; the fiery creature sprang forward at a brisk gallop,
but was checked by a skilled hand.
"Give him a canter a short distance; he'll quiet down," said father.
Brush did so and soon returned, the horse prancing about most
gracefully.
The course was on the bottom and as smooth as a floor. The twelve
horses which were to run were taken to the farther end, about a mile
away, and with them went the two men who were to manage the race. When
the horses reached the starting point, they were ranged in line, and
their riders were told to gallop them slowly and evenly to a point
marked on the course. The two men rode along to see that the line
was kept fairly; when the marked place was reached, the men shouted,
"Ah--hu!" then every boy put his horse on the run.
To us on the hill, the horses looked like small specks in the distance;
but, by the sudden rising of a cloud of dust, we knew when the
signal was given to run. For a time they were too far away for us to
distinguish those in the lead; but, as the horses came nearer, we began
to recognize them; two in the front were well ahead, neck and neck.
"It's the roan!" shouted a tall man.
"No, it's the bald face!" cried another.
"Hurrah! Brush is in the lead!" yelled the freckled-faced white boy,
swinging his ragged hat in the air as he ran up to where I was
standing. "Gee whiz! look at him! look at him! My! I wish I could ride
like that!"
Brush leaned forward a little, loosened the reins a bit; the horse
gathered fresh speed and gained a length. The boy on the roan leaned
forward too, and, raising his right arm, brought down his whip on
the flank, the animal bravely sprang forward, but his strength was
exhausted, he could do no more. On came the bald face, and reached the
goal nearly three lengths ahead.
The men shouted themselves hoarse, and the women, with long-drawn
breaths, praised the plucky little rider. Brush trotted up to my
father, and delivered the horse.
"Who are you, little brother?" asked father.
For a moment Brush looked embarrassed, then lifting his eyes to
father's face answered, "I am Tae-son's grandson and Sas-su's friend."
"Your grandfather was my friend," said my father, looking kindly at the
lad; "I am glad you like the company of my boy. You must always come
with him on his visits home from the House of Teaching."
Brush was touched by this recognition, and the tears started to his
eyes. Seeing this, I intercepted the white boys who were running toward
him. When I thought Brush had had time to master his feelings, I took
the two boys to him, and they put their arms around him exclaiming,
"Brush, that was grand!"
As this was his first visit to my home Brush did not feel quite easy,
and long before the usual hour for my returning to the Mission, he
suggested our going back. When we entered the school yard, which was
deserted, for the boys and girls had not yet returned, we noticed a
woman at the front gate holding a horse by a lariat and close beside
her stood a colt mounted by two boys. She called to us and said she
wanted to see the superintendent. Brush went to find him, and soon
returned with that official.
"Tell the White-chest," said the woman to Brush, "that I have brought
my two boys to stay here. They wanted to come, so I have brought them.
Their father is dead; they have been my only comfort; but they want to
learn to write. I hope he will be kind to them."
"They are bright-looking boys," said the superintendent, shaking hands
with the mother. "I will take good care of them."
The boys dismounted, and the woman prepared to go. She kissed each of
the little fellows and wiped a tear from her eyes.
"Don't cry, mother," said the older boy; "we'll be all right. We will
come home often to see you."
We watched the mother as she went down the hill, leading her horse and
the colt, until she disappeared at a turn on the bottom.
"Well, Brush, here's a job for you and Frank," said the superintendent.
"Take these boys to the dormitory and give them a good wash, then bring
them to the store-room, and I will see if I can fit them each with a
suit of clothes."
We did as we were told, and while the superintendent was busy fitting
the boys, Brush and I went into a large room and selected a bedstead
for them. We put it together alongside of our bed, and began to cord it.
"Brush, why do the Omahas call the missionaries 'White-chests'?" I
asked, as I pressed the cord from the foot to the head of the bed to
tighten it.
"It's because the men wear stiff white shirts, and they show on their
chests, that's why," he answered, throwing the mattress on the bed.
Brush and I soon became much attached to Lester and Warren, as the
new-comers were named, and we lost no time in helping them along in
their English. By our assistance and persistent use of the language
with them, the two boys made rapid progress, and it was not long before
they were chattering in broken English, like the rest of us.
Chapter III
Edwin
In one of the little houses of the village of the "Make-believe
White-men" there sat on the floor of the room, which served as parlor,
kitchen, dining, and bedroom, a man and a woman. There was but one
window to the room, and, the weather being warm, the door stood wide
open to let in more light for the workers within. The man was cutting
with great care a large piece of moistened rawhide into narrow strips
to be braided for a long lariat, and from time to time he softly
whistled a tune that was running through his head. Directly under the
window sat the woman; around her were strewn little workbags, awls,
bits of deer-skin, and shreds of sinew. Patiently she worked, pushing
the point of the sharp awl through the edges of the leggings she
was making, and drawing the finely twisted sinew thread through the
perforation.
"We are the only ones in the village who haven't sent any children to
the House of Teaching," said the woman, without looking up from her
sewing, continuing a conversation the two were having. "Ma-wa'-da-ne
has sent his boy, the only one he has. The man is lame, you know, and
needs help; yet he wanted the boy to go, because he thinks some good
will come of it to the child in the future. Then look at your friend
E-sta'-ma-za, a man of great knowledge and foresight, he has sent his
only boy and three daughters. There must be some good in it; we ought
to send one of our boys at least."
The man took up a round stone and whetted his knife; then, as he felt
the edge with his thumb, he replied, "I don't want the little one to
go. Why don't you send the two big boys; they're hardly ever home
anyway, and they might as well be at the house of the White-chests as
anywhere else. What would the house be without the little one? We'd be
very lonely, at least I'd be."
"I am just as fond of him as you are, and would miss him just as
much; but he is the brightest of them all," said the woman, rising
and stirring something that was boiling and sputtering in a pot on
the stove. "He could learn faster than either of the older boys," she
continued. "Before many years have gone, our dealings will be mostly
with the white people who are coming to mingle with us; and, to have
relations with them of any kind, some of us must learn their language
and familiarize ourselves with their customs. That is what these men
who send their children to the White-chests are looking forward to, and
they love their boys as much as we do ours."
There was silence for some moments. The man fastened the ends of the
rawhide strips to a peg in the floor and began to braid them. At length
he said, "Where is the boy; he hasn't been in all the morning. When do
you want him to go?"
"He might as well go now, to-day, the sooner the better. Of course he
's down by the creek with his little bow and arrows."
"Well, wife, I wish you would go and call him. I don't want these
strips to dry on me while I am braiding them."
The woman went to the banks of the little stream that ran by the
village, and called in a shrill voice, "Oo-ma'-a-be! Oo-ma'-a-be!"
"I'm coming!" shouted a bareheaded, black-eyed little boy, just as he
shot a blue-joint grass arrow at a frog that had poked his head above
the surface of the water to see what was going on in the outer world.
Forgetting the call, the lad went stealthily on up the stream with
another arrow strung, looking for other frogs that might be hunting for
flies or mosquitoes, or enjoying the kisses of the warm sunshine in
some pleasant nook.
"What can the boy be doing?" said the woman to herself, then she called
again, this time emphasizing the first syllable of the name to indicate
that she was losing patience, "Oo'-ma-a-be!"
With reluctant steps the boy made his way toward his mother, peering
as he went into the tall grass to see if a grasshopper or any other
creature might be exposing itself to the arrows of a sport-loving lad.
"Why did you not come when I first called you?" asked the woman as she
took the child by the hand and led him with quickened steps toward the
little house.
As the mother and son entered, the father looked up with a pleasant
smile, and addressing the boy said, "Your mother went to call you
because she wants us to go to the house of the White-chests, where you
are to stay and learn to write. Now wash your hands and face, and make
yourself look nice, so they will be pleased with you; then we will go."
The mother had the water ready, and began scrubbing the face and neck
of the lad, while the candidate for scholarship was pressing his lips
tightly together and squinting his eyes to exclude the soap that
persisted in getting into them. Then followed the brushing of the hair,
which was equally irksome to the boy, and he unconsciously leaned
farther and farther away until he was pulled to again by the fond
parent.
When both face and hair shone, the mother kissed her boy and announced
to her husband that the child was ready. The father rose to go with
him, but the boy held back.
"What is it?" asked the father; "are you not willing to go?"
"I am willing to go," answered Oo-ma'-a-be, "but I want to put on my
embroidered moccasins and leggings and my little buffalo robe."
The husband and wife looked at each other smiling, and let the
youngster have his own way, so he was decked out in his gorgeous
costume. He folded himself up in his robe, which was beautifully
ornamented with porcupine quills of exquisite colors, he twisted his
body and neck to see if he looked well, then said he was ready to go.
In the school-room a class of big boys and girls were learning to read
in concert:--
"The boy stood on the burning deck,
Whence all but he had fled."
Again and again the teacher made them read the lines, but each time
some one would either lag behind or read faster than the others. While
this was going on I was busy with my spelling lesson, as my class came
after the one now hard at work with the boy "on the burning deck."
There was a click; I raised my eyes and looked toward the door; it
slowly opened, then a tall man and a boy silently entered. I recognized
them at once; the man was a friend of my father and the lad one of
my playmates on my weekly visits home. The class on the floor was
dismissed with a lecture on reading, and Gray-beard turned to call,
"Next class," when he discovered the man and boy sitting on a bench
near the door.
"How do you do, Wa-hon'-e-ga?" said Gray-beard, approaching the Indian
with outstretched hand.
"Ka-gae'-ha!" (Friend) responded the Indian, his face brightening.
Then in a low tone he called me to him and said, "I have brought your
grandfather here to stay with you. Be as good to each other as you have
always been, and try to learn the language of the White-chests."
The boy was a distant relative, and, following the peculiar system of
kinship among the Indians, there was no impropriety in my addressing
him as my grandfather, although we preferred to call each other friend.
"What does Wa-hon'-e-ga want?" asked Gray-beard, putting his hand on my
shoulder.
"My friend," replied the Indian, looking with a kindly smile into the
face of the teacher, "my wife wishes her son, this boy, to learn to
speak the language of the Big-knives, [English] so I have come with
him. We have brought him up with great care, and I think he will give
you no trouble."
"Tell him," said Gray-beard, "I am very glad he has brought the boy,
and we will do our best for him."
The Indian turned and with silent dignity left the room.
"Now, children," said Gray-beard, taking out the school register and
looking at us, "we have a new boy here, and we must select a good name
for him; what have you to suggest?"
We promptly called him Edwin M. Stanton, and he was registered by that
name.
Brush and I were detailed to take Edwin to the store-room and fit him
with a new suit of clothes. When he was dressed; we tied up his fine
Indian costume in a neat bundle to be returned to his father.
At the supper-table Edwin and I sat together. I showed him how to
bow his head when the blessing was asked, and to turn his plate. He
silently followed my whispered instructions, and was very quiet while
supper was going on, but during the religious exercises which followed,
when we dropped on our knees, he became very anxious to know why we did
so. He shuffled a good deal in his position, and after a while stood up
and looked around. I pulled him down, and he demanded out loud, "What
are we hiding for? This is the way we do when we are hiding in the
grass."
I gave him a good dig in the ribs. "That hurts!" he cried. I whispered
to him to be quiet, but before long he was fidgeting again. Just as the
superintendent lowered his voice at an earnest passage in his prayer
Edwin spoke out again, in a louder tone than before, "I've got a dog;
he can catch rabbits!"
Gray-beard lifted his head, and the superintendent paused in his
fervent appeal and looked toward us; he rapped with his knuckles on
the table, and said, in a severe tone, "Boys, you must be silent and
listen when I pray."
I whispered to Edwin that he must keep still until we got out.
As we were going to bed that night Edwin said, "Ka-gae'-ha [Friend],
let you and me sleep together; I don't want to sleep with any one else."
Lester too wanted to sleep with me; so it was arranged among us that
Brush and Warren should have the double bed, and Edwin, Lester, and I
were to have the wide bed for three.
After we had settled down, Edwin began talking, "When we finished
eating," he said, "we turned around and the old man began to talk, then
you all sang. I like to hear you sing; you've got a good voice. Then
we went down on our knees, just as though we were hiding in the grass;
what did we do that for? The old man talked a long time; was he telling
a story? I know a great many of them; I know one about a dog. He was a
man, but he was turned into a dog. I'll tell it to you."
I didn't say anything, so Edwin began:
"Far back in the earliest times there dwelt in a little village a man
and his wife. They had only one child living, a son whom they loved to
adoration. He was so handsome a youth that whenever he walked through
the village all eyes were turned upon him with admiration. One day
he asked his mother to make him a separate tent. When it was done
he went into it, and there spent four days and nights in solitude,
neither eating nor drinking. Then he came out and spoke to his father
and mother and said, "I am going away to be gone a long time, perhaps
never to return. I go to meet the White-swan, the magician who sent my
brothers to the abode of shadows, and, in conflict, with magic opposing
his magic, I will destroy him or die as my brothers have died." The
father and mother, remembering the fate of their other children, wept
and pleaded with their son not to leave them, but he was determined to
go.
The young man travelled many days, when one morning he beheld a maiden
sitting on the brow of a hill. He went to her and asked why she sat
there all alone. Without lifting her eyes, modesty forbidding her to
return his gaze, the maiden replied, "I go to marry Hi_n_-hpe'-ah-gre."
The youth was seized with fear lest the young woman might be the
White-swan transformed to beguile him; but being struck by her maidenly
bearing, and becoming enamoured of her beauty, he turned aside from
suspicion and permitted himself to be persuaded that the fair creature
before him was in reality one of his own kind. And so he spoke and
said, "I am he, Hi_n_-hpe'-ah-gre, the man whom you seek to follow." In
reply the maiden said, "It makes my heart throb with delight to meet
and to see with my own eyes the man I am to marry. Sit down and rest
your head in my lap, and when the weariness of travel has left you, I
shall follow you wherever you may lead." Joy filling the heart of the
youth, and no longer troubled with misgivings, he laid his head upon
the lap of the maiden and soon fell fast asleep.
"Tha! Tha!" exclaimed the woman, using a word of magic, and four times,
in quick succession, she pulled the ears of the young man. He awoke
with a start and attempted to rise, but a transformation had taken
place, instead of a man standing upright, he found himself to be a
four-footed beast. His body had changed, but his reason was still that
of a man. He turned to see his companion, and lo! he beheld, not the
beautiful maiden in whose lap he had fallen asleep, but one who looked
down upon him with contempt, and whom he knew to be the White-swan. The
thought that he had been outwitted came to the young man like a flash,
and as swiftly his magic word returned to his mind. He tried to utter
it, but he only yelped and gave a dismal howl like that of a dog. A
cringing, mangy, lop-eared dog, he now followed the White-swan and--Are
you asleep?"
I was almost asleep, so I did not answer him, then he became silent.
When I awoke Edwin was gone; I called him but he did not answer. Brush
and I went downstairs and called softly in the school-room, but the boy
was not there, then we went to the large door of the hall and found it
unbolted. We returned to the dormitory and went to bed, and I soon
fell asleep again.
Toward morning I was awakened by strange sounds on the stairs leading
up to our dormitory. I recognized the footsteps of a human being, but
there were other footsteps that were like those of a four-footed beast.
They approached my bed; they came near, and a voice said in Indian in a
loud whisper, "Lie down, lie down!"
"Is it you, Oo-ma'-a-be?" I asked.
"Yes, I've been after my dog," he answered, getting into bed with his
clothes on.
"Get up and undress; you can't sleep with your clothes on! What did you
go after the dog for?"
"I wanted you to see him, and I thought we'd keep him here. He is a
fine dog; he can swim too!"
"But were you not afraid? It was dark."
"I forgot all about being afraid, and I went right by that big grave
too,--the one they say a ghost comes out of and chases people. I ran,
though, all the way to my house. The dog was lying near the door; he
was so glad to see me he almost knocked me down."
It was nearly morning, and we went right off to sleep. Suddenly we were
aroused by a furious barking. Brush, Edwin, and I sprang out of bed,
and rushed for the dog that with legs spread was defending the top of
the stairs.
"Boys, what have you up there?" called Gray-beard from the foot.
"Edwin went after his dog last night," answered Brush. "He wants to
keep it here."
"He does, eh! Will it bite?"
"No, it won't bite; you can come up."
Chapter IV
Little Bob
The afternoon session was over; Gray-beard tapped his bell; we put away
our books, folded our arms, and when there was silence the teacher
spoke: "Frank will remain here until he finishes correctly the sum he
is working on. He has neglected his arithmetic lesson during school
hours, so he will have to do the work after school."
Such punishment had not happened to me before. It had frequently come
to other scholars, and I had felt sorry for them; but now the disgrace
had fallen on me, and I felt it keenly.
Gray-beard led the song about "The Little Brown Church in the Wild
Wood," and the whole school sang; but just then I did not care for
brown churches or churches of any other color, so my voice did not
mingle with that of the other pupils. Then they sang "Lord dismiss
us," but as I was not dismissed I did not join in the singing of that
familiar hymn.
Brush, Edwin, and the rest of my companions lingered awhile in the
school-room to keep me company; but as they had work to do they could
not stay long, so I was left alone to struggle with a lot of ugly
fractions. My thoughts ran in every direction, off to my home, to the
boys at play, and anywhere but on my task. I made a desperate effort to
bring myself around to the problem that held me a prisoner by keeping
a steady gaze into the deep blue sky through the open window, and then
slowly the solution of that detestable sum came to my mind, and I
had it. I put it on my slate, compared it with the answer left me by
Gray-beard, found it correct, and my work was done.
I arose, put my books away, and stood near the teacher's desk wondering
what to do next, when all of a sudden the door burst open and in rushed
a little boy, crying. He was without his hat, his coat unbuttoned, and
shoestrings untied. Following swiftly on the little chap came a large
boy who, for some reason, was angered at the fleeing lad, and was now
pursuing to punish him. The little boy ran around the stove, then
toward me and got behind me. The big boy pushed on in his vengeful
pursuit, and reached to grasp the object of his anger when I struck at
him with my fist. The blow fell on his forehead, he stood for a moment
stunned; then he sprang at me; we dealt each other blow after blow, and
in our mad charges we knocked over benches and desks. How it happened I
do not know, for in my excitement I could not tell where I struck him,
or where he struck me, but suddenly my antagonist put his hands to his
stomach, doubled over and could not breathe. I became frightened. At
length, with a succession of hiccoughs, the boy recovered his breath,
picked up his hat, and went out.
I straightened out the benches and desks that we had knocked over,
and then sat down to cool off. When I had rested, I called to the
round-headed little chap who stood trembling in the corner holding up
his trousers, for in his attempts to escape he had lost the buttons to
his pants, "What did you do to that boy; what did he want to hit you
for?"
"I didn't do nothin'," he answered, hitching up his garments as he came
toward me.
"What's your name?"
"Robert Brown."
"Where you live?"
"In your village, in that little house near Ou-ni-ja-bi's."
"That's Ne-ma-ha's house."
"Yes, that's my father."
And so it was the son of that man for whom I was all bruised up.
Ne-ma-ha was the poorest man in my father's village, and had no
recognition among the prominent men of the tribe, although he had been
the priest or hereditary keeper of the sacred tent of war. It was only
by the performance of valorous deeds that men won honors in the tribe;
but this man had no ambition to win such honors. As a hunter he was
also a total failure, consequently his worldly possessions were not
such as could give him distinction. Like his brother, who was struck by
lightning, he deserted his sacred charge through craven superstitious
fear, and, having lost his priestly position, he had become a useless
member of the tribe.
"What's your Omaha name?" I asked, as I pinned his trousers to his
suspenders with sharp sticks and nails.
"They call me Hae-th'na'-ta," he replied, wiping his face with the end
of his coat sleeve.
The youngster belonged to the Elk band of the tribe, hence the boy's
name, the English translation of which is, horns forked, meaning the
forked-horned elk. How he came by his English name I do not know.
From this time on the lad was always near me, and gradually became
my devoted follower. Although at first I did not care for him much,
he finally won my friendship by his faithfulness and good nature. He
always assisted me as far as his strength would permit in the work
assigned me about the school; thus it was that Little Bob, as he was
familiarly known, became a satellite to the group to which I belonged,
and so safe from the attacks of the other boys.
Brush, Edwin, Warren, Lester, and I were now recognized by all the
boys of the school as a "gang," and were spoken of as "the Middle
Five." We had fallen into this close companionship without any formal
arrangement, and we were regarded as the strongest group between the
Big Seven and the other "gangs."
Chapter V
Warren
Brush was a genius as a whittler. He had only one tool, and that was a
rusty jack-knife with a single broken blade, and that blade was kept
sharp almost to the keenness of a razor. He would take a shapeless
piece of wood, out here, out there, scrape at one place, then at
another, and go through a series of twists and turns of his strong,
deft hands, and at last, with a triumphant smile, hold up to view a
wooden horse, buffalo, or some other animal. He had just now finished
a little plough which he had been carving for some time, and we, the
Middle five, sat in the shade of a tree noisily discussing the accuracy
of the work.
"Brush, that's pretty good, it's just like the ploughs I've seen," I
remarked as I passed the toy to Edwin.
"'Tain't good," said Edwin, after he had examined it a while. "I think
the handles are too straight."
"This ought to be kind of crooked, come down like this," put in
Lester, indicating with his finger the outline of the beam as it should
have been, according to his notion.
Our heads were close together looking at the plough, when a sudden
consciousness as of the presence of something disagreeable stole upon
us. A sound like the snapping of a twig made us all look up, and there
stood Jim, a big boy, one of the worst that ever entered our school,
and who had been excluded from all the "gangs" on account of his
vicious, meddlesome disposition. With a contemptuous grin, he passed
his eyes from one boy to the other, as though to discern the character
of each one. When this unpleasant stare fell upon Warren, he bristled
up, gave back a defiant look, and kept it steadily upon the unwelcome
visitor. Without relaxing the mirthless smile, so characteristic of
him, Jim addressed the boy, "Warren, I just come from the spring, where
a lot of boys was talking. I heard Gid say that he could lick you. I
told him I'd come and tell you what he said. Then he says, 'I don't
care, I ain't 'fraid of him!'"
"You go and tell Gid," said Warren, springing to his feet, "I can lick
two like him, and I'll show him any time he wants me to."
The mischief-maker had read well the character of Warren, and had won
from him the expected reply.
We resumed our examination of the plough thinking that our interview
with the tale-bearer had ended. Jim thrust his hands into his pockets,
and walked uneasily about; he came to where little Bob was sitting,
and, pulling out a warty hand, he pointed his finger at the boy's face,
making a hissing sound between his teeth. Jim never passed by a chance
to tease a smaller boy. Bob put his hands to his face and began crying.
We all rose to our feet; Edwin moved forward in a threatening attitude,
and said, "Jim, you let that boy alone. What you want to tease him for?"
Jim turned away, looked up into a tree, threw a stone at a bird, and
then slowly sauntered off.
We sat down again to resume our talk about Brush's little plough, but
our minds seemed to turn in another direction.
"I don't want Warren to fight Gideon," said Edwin; "he's a bad fellow,
that Gideon is. He don't fight fair."
"But he can't back out," spoke up Lester, "and I don't want him to. I
don't want the rest of the boys to think he's 'fraid."
"Warren's got to fight Gid," exclaimed Brush. "If he only kept quiet
and didn't say anything when Jim told him what Gid said, it would be
all right and no fight; but now everybody knows what Warren said, and
he can't back out without the boys thinking he's a coward. We will
see that Gid fights fair, and, if he don't, we will thrash his whole
'gang.' Warren can use his arms and fists all right; but he can't
wrestle very good. Frank, you'd better show him some of those new
holds."
Warren and I took several rounds in which I showed him a number of new
tricks I had learned from a good wrestler. There was quite an important
one of which he was ignorant; I gave him some lessons in that; then we
sat down to talk over the challenge again with the rest of the boys.
"I think Warren can throw Gid right easy," I said; "if he can remember
that waist and chin trick, and the way to break it, he can down Gid
every time."
"Remember that!" warned Lester, looking at his brother. "If Gid plays
that waist and chin trick, you do just what Frank showed you to do to
break it."
While we were talking, we heard the slapping of bare feet upon the
hard ground, and soon a boy appeared before us, imitating the actions
of a spirited horse. "Whoa'p! Whoa'p!" he called repeatedly, as with
loud snorts the imaginary steed reared and plunged about; finally the
excited animal came to a standstill. Looking at Warren, the boy said,
"Gid told me to come and tell you, he will meet you down below the
barn, at the east gate, right after school this afternoon. He told me
to tell you again he can lick you good."
After some prancing about, the boy ran off, clapping his hips with his
hands to imitate the sound of galloping hoofs.
Gideon had accepted Warren's challenge, and we had no misgivings as
to the outcome, for we had every confidence in Warren's courage and
strength. What concerned us most was Jim's meddling with us and the
means by which we could prevent his farther interference with our
peace. He had made trouble with other "gangs" just in this way. We were
still discussing this matter when the school-bell rang, and we went to
the house together.
The boys who had already taken their seats looked up at us as we
entered the school-room, then they turned their glances upon Gideon
to see how he would behave. The two boys, Gideon and Warren, stared
at each other defiantly; the rest saw there was no courage lacking
in either, and they expected a lively battle between the two. Jim
pretended to be studying; but we knew that he was closely watching
the victims of his machinations to see how they would act. Jim never
studied; he was always at the foot of his class, and boys younger than
he were far in advance of him.
At last the monotonous recitations came to an end. We sang a song about
"Pretty little zephyrs," then Gray-beard closed the school with the
usual religious exercises.
The boys gathered in groups and walked down to the place designated
for the combat. We followed slowly, as we wanted time to give all
the instructions necessary to Warren. A large ring had been formed
by the boys, and Gid was already in the centre with his coat off and
his sleeves rolled up. Jim glanced at us as though impatient for our
coming. As we neared the ring, some one said, in a voice loud enough
for us to hear, "They're not coming very fast. I guess they're 'fraid!"
Brush stepped hastily forward and asked, "Who said we're afraid?
Whoever said it, let him come out here and I'll show him whether we're
afraid or not!"
No one answered. There were few boys in the school who would without
fear accept a challenge from Brush.
A place was cleared for us, and Warren, after handing me his coat,
entered the ring. The two boys approached each other and stopped within
a few feet.
"Did you tell Jim you could lick me?" asked Warren, looking his
opponent square in the eye.
"Yes. And I can do it too," was the bold reply.
"You can't do it!" exclaimed Warren, striking Gideon in the chest.
Then followed an exciting scene. Gideon rushed at Warren, and aimed
blow after blow at his face, but our boy skilfully parried each attack.
Round and round within the ring the two boys carried on their strife,
neither one prevailing. For a while no serious blows were dealt,
finally, in an unguarded moment Warren received a hard thrust in the
left side which made him gasp; whereat Gid's gang shouted in chorus,
"Choo-ie!" (An exultant exclamation in Omaha.) After this success
Gideon grew reckless and struck wildly, and Warren was a little too
anxious to put in a good hit before the proper moment. Gid made another
effort at his antagonist's ribs, but the blow fell short; then Warren
made a lunge at Gid's face; he dodged, but not quickly enough to save
his ear from a bad scraping from Warren's knuckles. "Choo-ie!" cried
Lester and the rest of us at this success; but Gid's next movement
threw us into dismay, he had suddenly seized Warren around the waist
while his arms were uplifted. Gid put his chin against Warren's chest
and began pulling in his back. Warren tried to twist Gid's neck; but
there was no use in that, Warren was slowly giving way. If he should
fall the battle would be won by Gideon.
"Put your arms under his and push!" I said to Warren in an undertone. I
couldn't help doing it.
Isaac, a blustering little chap and one of Gid's "gang" overheard me;
stepping forward and pointing his finger at me, he angrily exclaimed,
"Frank, you know that ain't fair, we don't do that way."
"You do worse than that," I retorted. "The whole four of you jumped on
me in the school-room; that wasn't fair, but I licked you! Wait till
Warren and Gid get through, then I'll see you!"
Warren had heard my words, and acted on them at once, and so released
himself from Gideon's dangerous grasp. Then they went to sparring
again. In making a thrust Warren stumbled on a round stone and fell on
one knee, before he could rise Gid put in a blow that cut Warren's
under lip. "Choo-ie!" exclaimed the friends of Gid. It seemed for
a moment as though the victory would be against us. The struggle
now became desperate. Gid was blowing hard, but there was still
considerable reserve of strength in Warren. Gid repeatedly tried to
grasp his antagonist's waist, but was every time cleverly brought about
again to fists.
Warren's shirt front was bloody and his short hair stood straight up,
giving him a frightful aspect. Gid's thrusts and parries now grew
visibly weaker, but he showed no signs of yielding. He lowered his
fists to give an under cut, thus leaving his face unguarded, quick as a
flash Warren's right arm shot out, and with a sickening thud his fist
landed square on Gid's nose. The blood spurted; the boy was stunned,
and, before he could recover, he received another blow on the eye.
The fight was ended, and Gid's friends dragged him away more dead than
alive.
Warren came to us smiling as widely as his swollen lip would permit.
"You did first rate, old boy!" said Brush, slapping Warren's back.
"He'll never want to fight you again," added Lester.
I helped Warren to put on his coat, then I looked around to see where
Edwin was. I saw him standing before Jim, who was watching us with his
wicked grin. They both spoke, but I could not hear them for the noise
of the talk around me. Suddenly Edwin's long arm darted out, his fist
came square on Jim's cheek with a resounding whack. Jim's face became
livid, and the spot upon which the blow fell twitched convulsively.
When the natural color returned to his face, Jim deliberately pulled
off his coat; he was going to fight Edwin. It was an uneven match; Jim
stood a head taller and was heavier than Edwin.
"What's the matter?" asked Brush, as he came up; "what are you going to
do?"
"We're going to fight," replied Edwin; "I hit him because he made that
trouble."
"Jim," said Brush, stepping forward and rolling up his sleeves, "I
don't think it would be unfair for two of us to fight you. You are
bigger than any of us, so I am going to help Edwin to thrash you.
You've been making mischief for others, now it's going to come to you."
The boys gathered around the three to see another fight, but were
disappointed. Jim made no further demonstration, but stood looking at
the two boys; at last he muttered something to himself, and, picking up
his coat, pushed his way out of the crowd.
All the boys pointed their fingers at Jim, and shouted, "Ah, coward!"
Jim turned his head and looked at them sulkily, but went on, and no one
cared to follow him.
Chapter VI
Lester
The hands of the little clock on Gray-beard's desk indicated the hour
of two. The midsummer's sun hurled its rays with unrelenting force to
the earth, and the wind, as though consenting to the attack, withheld
its refreshing breezes. All the windows of our school-room were thrown
wide open, and the hum of busy insects and the occasional cry of a bird
were the only sounds that relieved the monotonous stillness outside.
A class, with Warren at the head, was on the floor. The girl at the
foot was reading in a tone that made it difficult to resist the
drowsiness that attacked every one in the room. She came to a hard
word, and, according to our custom, she spelled it. Gray-beard, who
was sitting with eyes shut, pronounced it for her through a suppressed
yawn. A few more words brought her to the end of the paragraph.
A long pause followed; Warren stood with book uplifted, but was gazing
intently on something outside. The teacher, recovering from an
overbalancing nod, opened his eyes slowly, and lazily called, "Warren!"
The boy did not stir. Brush and I looked up from our desk, and shuffled
our feet to attract his attention. "Warren!" again called Gray-beard,
in a louder tone. Still there was no response.
Brush tore a fly-leaf out of his book, rolled it hastily into a ball,
and threw it at Warren's head, but missed it.
Gray-beard turned in his chair, his eyes rested upon the boy, who was
still looking fixedly out of the window. Then he rose, stepped softly
up to Warren, seized him by the shoulders and shook him violently,
saying, "Are you asleep?"
"Swarming!" rang out the last word of the sentence which Warren was
making a desperate effort to utter.
Gray-beard, following the eyes of the lad, looked out of the window,
"Quick, boys, to the dining-room, take anything you can make a noise
with!" he exclaimed, as he sprang to the door, threw it open with a
bang and disappeared.
We leaped over desks, and tumbled over each other as we rushed with
impetuous haste to the dining-room. Brush caught up an enormous tin
pan, Edwin a milk pail, and I the school triangle; the rest of the
boys took tin pans and plates, or whatever they could lay their hands
on, and we all ran out into the yard. Warren was already following
the humming black cloud, ringing the school-bell with all his might.
We caught up with him, and began beating on the tin pans with our
knuckles, keeping up a constant yelling like a lot of savages. The
noise we made was enough to drive the bees and ourselves insane. It was
bedlam let loose. On we went through the barnyard, up the hill, and
into the woods, closely following the flying black mass. Three boys
carrying small mirrors kept throwing flashes of light into the swarm.
The bees made a straight line for a tall oak, hovered over the end of a
high branch, and then settled on it. We gathered around the tree, and
continued our unearthly noise until Gray-beard, with a box and a saw on
his shoulder, and a coil of rope on his arm, came up puffing and all
in a perspiration.
"Have they settled?" he asked, shading his eyes and looking up into the
tree.
"Yes, there they are," answered Brush, pointing to the writhing black
mass on the branch.
"Who can climb?" said Gray-beard, looking around among the boys. No
one answered. After a while Edwin spoke up, "Lester climb tree like
wild-cat."
Lester turned and looked daggers at him. Brush and I nudged each other
and giggled. Edwin was playing a joke on Lester.
"Come," said Gray-beard, "there's no time to be lost." And he proceeded
to tie the end of the rope around the waist of Lester, who had not
recovered from his astonishment and was given no time to put in a
disclaimer to the title of climber.
Gray-beard lifted the lad up as high as he could, then the boy began to
climb. He went up slowly but surely, dragging the rope after him. Edwin
shouted words of encouragement. "That's good, go ahead!" he would
exclaim as the climber made now and again six inches or so.
"Wait till I get down, I show you!" Lester called back. Then Edwin
turned to us and grinned.
The limb upon which the bees had settled was at last reached; the boy
pulled up the hand-saw that was tied to the other end of the rope.
He looked down at us with mischief in his face, then straddled the
branch with his face toward the trunk of the tree and began to saw.
Gray-beard, seeing this, called up in great excitement, "Stop! stop!
Lester, stop! Turn the other way." The boy, having had his fun, turned,
and, moving as near to the bees as he dared, began sawing slowly until
the branch hung down, then he severed it. It did not fall because
before he began to saw he had tied one end of the rope near to the
bees, and had fastened the other part near to the place where he was
sitting, so that he was able gradually to lower the bees to the ground.
We did not know that anything had happened to Lester until he came
down, then we saw that he was stung on the eyebrow and his face was
swollen. Brush moistened a bit of earth and smeared it around the
injured part to prevent further swelling, but it did no good.
Gray-beard put the box over the bees and began pounding the top, "Look
under there, Frank, and see if they are going up," he said; "if the
queen goes, they will all go."
I crouched to the ground and looked into the box; there was great
activity and noise. "I think they are going up," I said.
Suddenly the pounding on the box ceased; I heard an outcry and a groan;
I looked up, and there was Gray-beard rolling on the ground. He was
badly stung in the face. Brush went to his assistance and painted his
wounds with mud. I went to the box and pounded as Gray-beard had done.
"Look under, Warren, and see what they are doing," I said.
Warren put his head to the ground and looked, "I guess that old king
went up; they're all gone," he said; "I can't see them."
Having recaptured our bees, we securely fastened the box so that the
wind could not blow it over; we gathered up our pans, milk pails,
and bells and formed a homeward procession. Brush headed it, leading
Gray-beard, whose eyes were now both closed and bandaged with his white
handkerchief, and in this way we reached the Mission building.
The ladies and the school girls were waiting on the porch for our
return, and as we approached the gate a number called out, "How many of
you are stung?"
"Two!" cried the boys; "teacher and Lester."
When we were passing the girls on the porch to go to our quarters,
pretty little black-eyed Rosalie, my sweetheart, came up to me and
asked, "Frank, was you stung?"
"No; but the bees wouldn't go in the box for anybody but me," I
answered proudly.
"But I wish you was stung like Lester," she said; "his girl is telling
the rest of them all about it, and they think he's right smart because
he got stung."
Some of the big girls, overhearing this confidence, put their aprons up
to their faces to hide their laughter. The teachers never knew that
there were lovers among the pupils and that little romances were going
on right under their eyes.
Gray-beard could not see us to bed that night, so the superintendent
took his place.
"Good-night, boys, keep quiet and go to sleep," he said as he went
downstairs after he had heard us say our prayer.
"Warren, you've earned ten cents to-day," said Brush; "I think Lester
earned something too. I don't know how much it's going to be, but I'll
go and see the superintendent about it to-morrow."
"Say, Brush, I think that bee that stung Lester was a drone; that's why
his face is all swelled up," I said.
"Oh! go 'long!" he answered. "Whoever heard of a drone having a sting.
They have no sting, and they can't sting. It's only the working bees
that have a sting."
"But those drones are big fellows, two times as big as the working
bees. The superintendent showed me one when he was moving a swarm to a
new box in the bee house."
"They haven't any sting, though. There are three kinds of bees:
there's the queen, then there's the drone, and there's the working
bees. When the drones get too many, and eat too much, the working bees,
they get mad and they sting them to death."
"I think that work bee thought Lester was drone," remarked Edwin.
"Wait till I get well," threatened Lester; "I'll show you drone!"
"What is the queen?" asked Warren. "And what does it do?"
"Why a queen is a female king," explained Brush, who was authority on a
great many things. "She doesn't do anything but sit on a big throne and
tell people what to do. If they don't mind her, she makes her soldiers
cut their heads off. It's the same with bees: they have a queen,--I
don't think she sits on a throne, but she tells the rest of the bees
what to do; and if they don't mind her, she gets up and goes; then all
the rest have to follow her, because they won't know what to do unless
she tells them. That's what that old queen did to-day."
"Why don't the 'Mericans have a king?" asked Edwin. "They got a
President, but I don't think he's big like a king."
"They had one," said Brush; "but they didn't like him, because he put
a terrible big tax on tea. The 'Mericans are awfully fond of tea, and
when they saw they'd have to pay the trader and the king, too, for
their tea, they got mad; and one night, when everybody was asleep, they
painted up like wild Indians, and they got into a boat and paddled
out to the tea ship and climbed in. They hollered and yelled like
everything, and scared everybody; then they spilted the tea into the
ocean."
"What did the old king do?" asked Lester.
"Well, he was hopping mad, and he lifted his great big sceptre, and he
went up to the man that brought the news, and knocked him over. Then he
walked up and down talking loud, and when he got tired he went to his
throne and sat down hard."
"What is a sceptre?" I asked, interrupting the story.
"Why, it's something like a war club; when the king tells people to do
things, he shakes it at them, so they will get scared and mind What he
says."
"I wouldn't mind him," said Warren; "I'd make a big sceptre for myself
and shake it at him."
"Well," continued Brush, "the old king sat still for a long time; then
he said to his soldiers, you go and fight those 'Mericans. And they
did fight, and had the Rev'lution. That war lasted eight years, and
the king's soldiers got licked. Then the 'Mericans made General George
Washington their President because he couldn't tell a lie."
The next morning Brush went to the superintendent's study, and soon
came out calling for Warren and Lester. Edwin and I waited under the
walnut-tree in front of the school. When the three came to us, they
showed us a bright silver dime and an equally bright quarter of a
dollar. According to our notions, Warren and his brother were rich, the
former having earned the reward offered for the discovery and report
of the swarming of the bees, and the latter earning the quarter by
climbing the tree on which the swarm had settled.
Brush announced to us that Lester and Warren had been detailed to go
after the mail. The post-office was in the trader's store three miles
away from the school, and boys were always very glad to be sent on this
errand.
In the afternoon, when school was out, Brush went up to the
superintendent's room to borrow the spy-glass, while Edwin and I went
in search of Lester and Warren, who had slipped away from us. We could
not find them, so we returned to the school-room, where we met Brush,
and we all went up to the belfry.
The Indians were at work in their fields, and we each took the glass
in turn to see if we could recognize our friends. Suddenly Edwin said,
"Something's going to happen; look at those girls."
Two girls were going through the yard arm in arm, now and again
glancing over their shoulders toward the boys' play-ground. They
reached the farthest corner of the yard, then turned and looked along
the dividing fence. Two boys sauntered towards them on the other side,
following a narrow path.
"There's Lester and Warren," said Brush; "they're up to something, keep
your eyes upon them."
We did. The four met at the corner, sat down and appeared to be talking
to each other. When they had been there for some time, the boys handed
through the palings to each of the girls a brown parcel.
"I see now why those boys wanted to go after the mail this morning,"
said Brush.
The girls arose and walked toward the house, opening their parcels,
and we saw through the spy-glass that they were eating candy. The boys
slowly returned, one following the other along the narrow path. Edwin
thrust his fingers into his mouth and whistled, imitating the cry of
the robin, which was the signal we five had adopted. The boys stopped
suddenly as the sound reached them, and looked all around. Seeing no
one, they went on. Again Edwin whistled; then I touched the bell very
lightly with the clapper. The boys looked up to the belfry; but we kept
out of sight.
At breakfast the next morning the two girls appeared at the table with
their hair neatly done up in bright-colored ribbons. Edwin leaned over
toward Lester and said in a whisper, "Your girl's got a right pretty
ribbon!"
"Yours hasn't got any!" retorted Lester.
Chapter VII
The Splinter, the Thorn, and the Rib
"Oh! oh! oh! Aunt, that hurts. Oh!"
"Keep still, now, keep still! You have a big stick in your toe, and I
must take it out. If you keep pulling like that, I might run the point
of this awl into your foot."
I lay flat on my back on the ground with my sore foot in the lap of
this good woman whom I called Aunt, while she probed the wound to
withdraw a splinter. After considerable wincing on my part, the cause
of my agony was removed and held to view. The splinter was long and
very large; the relief was great, and already I felt as though I could
walk without limping. The kind woman took from her work-bag a bit of
root, chewed it, and put it on my sore toe; then she bandaged the foot
with a piece of white cloth which also came from the handy bag.
My Aunt laid the splinter on a piece of wood and cut it into fine
bits, just as I had seen men cut tobacco for smoking. "Now," said she,
as she scattered the bits in every direction, "that thing cannot do any
more harm. But what is this?" she asked, holding the old bandage up
between the tips of her thumb and index finger of her right hand, and
in her left the bit of pork that had been tied on my toe.
"Why, Aunt," I replied, "that thing in your right hand is the old
bandage, and that in your left is the pig-fat that was put on my toe."
"Why did they put pig-fat on your poor sore toe; who put it on? Bah!
It's nasty!" she exclaimed, as she threw it away as far as she could.
"The white woman who takes care of the children at the school put it on
to draw the splinter out."
"To draw the splinter out!" she repeated in a tone of contempt. Then
she tossed up her fine head, gave shouts of laughter, and said between
the paroxysms; "Oh! this is funny! This is funny! Your White-chests
might as well hitch a bit of pig-fat to their wagon and expect it to
draw a load up the hill! And how long has this pig-fat been tied on
your foot?"
"About four days."
"Without bathing the foot and renewing the bandages?"
"Yes."
"If this white woman takes as much care of the other children as she
has of you,--I'm sorry for them. No children of mine should be placed
under her care,--if I had any."
My Aunt gathered her awl, knife, and other little things into her
work-bag; I looked all about to see if any boys were watching, then I
put my arms around her dear neck and kissed her.
"Are you going to see my mother to-day?" When she answered yes, I said,
"Tell her to come and see me,--very soon."
"I will; but don't keep her running over here all the time," and she
started to go. She had not gone very far when she turned and shouted to
me, "Wash your foot to-morrow morning and turn the bandage over. You
will be well in a day or two."
A boy passing by cried out, "Bell has rung!" and I limped into the
school-room to attend the afternoon session.
When school was out, Lester suggested that we go on the hill to sit
and talk. Turning to me, he asked if I could walk as far as that; I
assured him that I could, so I hobbled along with the boys up the hill.
We found a beautiful grassy spot, and three of us--Lester, Warren, and
I--lay down and looked up into the deep blue sky. Brush sat near by,
carving a horse's head out of a piece of oak. Clouds lazily floated far
above.
"Say, Lester," I called, "you take that one that looks like a buffalo;
Warren, you take that one that is shaped like a bear; and I will take
this one that's like a man smoking a pipe. Now, let's rub them out!"
So, fixing our eyes upon the clouds, we began rubbing the palms of our
hands together.
"Mine is getting smaller, right away, now!" cried Warren.
"Mine too!" echoed Lester.
Brush gave us a look of disgust, and said, "Boys, I think you are the
biggest fools I ever saw,--rubbing out clouds, the idea!"
But we rubbed away, and paid no attention to the contemptuous glances
our friend gave us. My hands began to come down lower and lower; and
then I felt myself rising from the ground, higher and higher I went,
just like a big bird, and suddenly landed on a heavy black cloud. I
looked down; there were the boys still rubbing away, and Brush still
carving. I could see the winding river far below and the birds flitting
about. I wondered what it all meant. I felt the cloud moving away with
me; the boys were growing smaller and smaller, and I noticed that I was
passing over the Indian village. Where is the cloud going with me, and
will it ever stop? I heard a sound that seemed familiar to me,--is it a
bell? Could there be bells in the cloud? I asked myself.
"Wake up, you fools! Supper-bell has rung! Rubbing out clouds, were
you!" said Brush, in derisive tones.
Warren sat up, blinking his eyes, and asked, "Where are we?"
That night, when the boys had settled down in their beds and Gray-beard
had gone downstairs, Edwin asked, "Boys, where've you been this
afternoon? You came to supper late; Gray-beard looked hard at you."
"We've been up the hill," I answered; "I told the boys to hurry along
and leave me; but they wouldn't."
"Who was that Indian woman talking to you before dinner-time?"
"That was my aunt; she saw me when she was going by, and she made me
sit down and she looked at my foot. She took a great big splinter out
of my toe. My! it hurt."
"You're going to get well now. Why didn't you put that splinter in some
buffalo hair, then 't would've turned into a baby."
"Nonsense!" said Brush, "who ever heard of such a thing."
"There's a story like that," replied Edwin.
"Tell that story! tell that story!" cried the boys in chorus.
"But you don't listen; you go to sleep, or you ask fool questions and
stop me."
"We won't stop you; we're going to lie awake."
"All right. I'll tell you that story. Say 'ong!' pretty soon, then I'll
know you're awake."
We all snuggled down, then in chorus cried, "Ong!" and Edwin began:
"'Way long time ago, four brothers lived on earth. Good hunters, they
shoot straight, kill deer, buffalo, elk, and all kinds of animals. They
got plenty of meat and skins. One night, the youngest man came home
very lame; his foot was all swelled up; he had to use his bow for a
cane, and he was groaning, groaning all the time. He lay down and was
real sick, one, two, three days. The other men, they went hunting. When
they were gone, the youngest man got up, took his knife, cut open his
toe, and took out a big thorn, a great big--"
Whack! whack! whack! Quick as a flash the boys put their feet against
the foot-board and pulled the bedclothes taut so that the rest of the
blows fell harmless upon us. We had been surprised by Gray-beard.
Edwin, in his earnestness, and in his belief that a foreign language
can be better understood when spoken loudly, had been shouting his
story in a voice that reached Gray-beard and woke him up. After warning
us against loud talking, the old man went downstairs as stealthily as
he had come.
"Well, boys," said Brush, "that came like a cyclone, didn't it?"
We all agreed that it did.
"Frank, did he hurt your foot?" asked Warren.
"No, the boys kept the quilt up, so he couldn't hit me."
"What did I say last?" asked Edwin.
"You said," I reminded him, "that he cut open his toe and took out a
big thorn."
"Oh, yes," he continued; "he took out a big thorn, a great big thorn.
He wanted to show it to his brothers, so he pulled out some buffalo
hair from his robe and put the thorn inside and laid it away, way
back in the middle of the tent. Then he went after some water to wash
his foot. When he was coming back, he heard something crying like
everything; not like raccoon, not like any kind of bird or animal,
something different. He stood still and listened; it sounded like
coming from inside the tent! So he went slow, easy, and looked in the
tent; there was something moving and crying loud. Then the young man
went inside the tent, and he saw a baby, a little girl baby, and no
thorn. He knew that thorn had turned into a girl baby, crying like
everything. The young man was very glad; he danced on his one well
foot; he took up the girl baby in his big arms and moved like a tree
when the wind blows, and he sang soft, and the girl baby shut her eyes
and went to sleep, e-a-s-y,--just like you!"
"No! We ain't asleep. Go on."
"Well, those big brothers came home, and they were all very glad. They
took the girl baby all round. Then the oldest brother, he said, 'She is
going to be our sister. I wish she would grow right up and run round
the tent.' Then he lifted her four times, and the girl baby grew quick,
and ran round the tent, talking. Then another brother, he said, 'I wish
my sister would grow up and get big enough to go after water.' Then he
lifted the little girl four times, and she got big enough to go after
water. Then the next one, he said, 'I wish my sister would grow big
enough to make moccasins and cook and make lots of things.' Then he
lifted her four times, and the girl grew right up and knew how to make
lots of things. Then the youngest man, he said, 'I wish my sister grown
up woman now.' Then he lifted her four times, and she was a big woman
right away. So in one night that thorn girl baby grew up, and she was
the first woman."
"Why!" said Brush, "that's just like the Bible story of Adam and Eve.
You remember it says, that Adam was the first man God made, and He put
him in a big garden full of flowers and trees. He told him he could eat
everything there except the berries of only one tree, and He showed him
that tree. God made Adam go to sleep, and then He cut open his side and
took out one rib, and out of that bone He made a woman, and He named
her Eve."
"Did He whittle that rib bone just like you whittle a piece of wood
and make men, and horses, and dogs, and other things?" asked Lester.
"Yes, I think He did. Then in that garden there were elephants, and
lions, and tigers, and camels, and lots of other animals; but they
didn't eat each other up. God gave Adam the camels to ride, so he
wouldn't get tired. Camels ride easy, easier than a horse. You know
a horse goes trot! trot! trot! and makes your stomach ache; but a
camel goes just as e-a-s-y, like rocking, like that boat, you know,
when we went on the river and the wind blew, and the boat went up
and down. Why, you know, the difference is just like this: you ride
in a big wagon and it shakes you like everything; you ride in the
superintendent's carriage, and it rides just as easy as anything."
"How do you know?" broke in Warren. "You never rode a camel, and you
never rode in the superintendent's carriage."
"Yes, I have too. I've ridden in the superintendent's carriage that
time I went to interpret for him down to the big village. I rode with
him in his carriage."
"You boys said you wouldn't stop my story," protested Edwin, yawning.
"Say, Brush," I asked, "when that bone was whittled, and it became Eve,
what did she do?"
"Well, one morning she went down to the creek to swim, and, just as she
was going to step into the water by a big willow-tree, she saw a snake
in the tree with a man's head on, and the snake--"
"It wasn't a snake," interrupted Warren; "it was the serpent, the
Sunday-school teacher said so."
"Well, it's the same thing,--the snake and the serpent is the same
thing."
"No, they're not. The serpent is the kind that's poisonous, like the
rattle-snake; and the snake is like those that don't poison, like the
garter-snake and the bull-snake."
"Brush, go on with your story," I broke in impatiently. "Don't mind
Warren; he doesn't know anything!"
"No, he doesn't. Well, the serpent was Satan, and Sa--"
"How can Satan be a serpent and a snake?" asked Lester. "First you
said it was a snake; then you said it was a serpent; now you say it was
Satan!"
"You boys are bothering my story all the time. I'm going to stop."
"Go on, Brush," I urged; "don't mind those boys; what do they know?
They're all way back in the Second Reader, and you are in the Fifth,
and I am in the Third."
"All right, I'll go on; I don't care what they say. Well, the Devil
spoke to Eve and said--"
"Your snake has turned into a Devil now," sneered Edwin. "Boys, why
don't you let me go on with my story; Brush doesn't know how to tell a
story."
"Yes, I do too. Boys, you don't know anything; you don't know that
the Devil and Satan and the serpent and the snake are the same thing;
they're all the same. If you would listen when the teacher talks to you
in the school-room, and when the minister speaks to us in the chapel,
you would learn something. All you got to do is to listen, but you
don't. When you are forced to sit still, you go to sleep; and when you
are awake you tickle those that are asleep with straws, or stick pins
in them. How are you going to learn anything when you do like that?
You must listen; that's what I'm doing. I want to know all about these
things so I can be a preacher when I get big. I'm going to wear a long
black coat, and a vest that buttons up to the throat, and I'm going to
wear a white collar, and a pair of boots that squeaks and reaches to my
knees, and--"
"Edwin, go on with your story, I want to hear that," called Warren.
"He's asleep," said I.
"Only last Sunday," resumed Brush, "the minister told us that the Devil
went about like a roaring lion seeking whom he may de--de-- What's the
rest of that word, Frank?"
"Vour."
"Yes, 'vour, devour. The Devil went about like a roaring lion seeking
whom he may devour."
"Bully for you, Brush!" exclaimed Lester. "That's good; you didn't
cough big though, like the preacher does."
"Don't make fun of the old man, boys, he is here to help us; he wants
to do us good."
"Yes," answered Warren; "I guess he wanted to do you good last week,
when he switched your back for you!"
"I think I deserved it."
"No, you didn't. You didn't do anything; you only threw Phil Sheridan
down and made his nose bleed."
"I shouldn't have done it. I saw a good chance and I did it, and the
old man was looking at me. Now, boys, what did the preacher mean when
he said the Devil went around like a roaring lion?"
"I s'pose," said Edwin, "he means the Devil is like some of our big
medicine men who can turn themselves into deer and elk, and any kind of
animal, and the Devil can change himself into a hungry, howling lion
and--"
"And into a Satan," suggested Lester.
"And into a serpent," added Warren.
"Into a snake," I chimed in.
"And put a man's head on!" ejaculated Edwin.
"And talk to women when they go swimming!" said Lester, with a laugh.
"There's no use talking to you boys. I'm going to sleep," and Brush
turned over.
One by one, sleep overcame these boys. Brush made a peculiar noise as
he breathed, and Lester puffed away like a steamboat.
A Whippoorwill sang in one of the cottonwood-trees near the corner of
the house. Fainter and fainter grew the sound, and so the day passed
into yesterday, and the morrow began to dawn.
Chapter VIII
Fraudulent Holidays
"Third Reader," called Gray-beard, and some ten or twelve boys and
girls marched to the place of recitation, and put their toes on a
straight crack in the floor. The reading lesson was some verses on
"Summer," prettily illustrated with a picture of a boy and a dog, the
lad racing over a meadow, and the dog frisking at his side.
"Now, Robert, begin!" said Gray-beard to little Bob, who in some
unaccountable way had reached the head of the class.
The boy put his index finger on the first word, and slid it along as he
read, in a low, sing-song tone, "Come, come, come, the Summer now is
here."
"Read that over again," said Gray-beard. "Read it loud, as though you
were out of doors at play."
Bob read again, but in the same manner, and had hardly gone through
half the line when the sharp crack of Gray-beard's ruler on the desk
made us all jump.
"That's not the way to read it!" he exclaimed with some impatience; and
he repeated the lines to show how they should be given. "Now, begin
again."
Bob began, but in the same lifeless tone, never taking his finger from
the words.
"Next!" interrupted Gray-beard. "The same verse; read as though you
were wide awake and calling to your playmates, not as if you were going
to sleep."
The boy addressed straightened himself up and shouted out:
"Come, come, come, the Summer now is here!" going through the verse
without a break, then he glanced proudly toward the girls, only to see
them giggling behind their books.
"Silence!" cried Gray-beard, striking his desk. "That was well done!"
The door slowly opened, and the farmer entered, hat in hand, and
addressed Gray-beard, "I want to transfer a sow with a litter of pigs
from one pen to another, and I've come to ask if you could let me have
the help of some of the boys?"
When permission had been granted, a number of willing hands went up,
and as many faces turned with eager expectancy to the farmer, who
looked around, and then said, "Brush, Frank, Lester, and Warren will
do."
We followed the farmer to the pen, and at once jumped in, each one
seizing a little pig; but, before we could turn, the sow made such
an onslaught upon us that we dropped the pigs and scrambled over the
fence; but Lester, who was last, left a piece of his trousers in the
jaws of the angry beast. After this exciting experience, at which the
farmer could hardly stop laughing, we held a consultation with him, and
agreed upon a plan which we immediately proceeded to carry out.
We threatened the sow with our hats; she retreated into a corner with
her young; then Brush slyly went up, and, reaching his hand through the
fence, caught one of the little pigs by the legs and held it fast; it
squealed lustily, and the infuriated mother made savage attacks upon
the fence. Then Lester, Warren, the farmer, and I sprang into the pen,
caught the frightened little pigs, and ran with them to the new pen.
Brush released his prisoner, and the cry of the transported little ones
brought the mother to the pen, where she was secured.
While the farmer was fastening the gate, we boys walked around the
hog-yard; Warren, who was ahead, discovered a weak place in the fence,
and beckoned excitedly for us to hasten.
There were times when the pupils became very tired of their books, and
longed to take a run over the prairies or through the woods. When this
longing came upon them, they sought for ways and means by which to
have the school closed, and secure a holiday. I remember once, it was
in the fall, the members of the Big Seven loosened the joints of the
long stove-pipe during recess. When school opened in the afternoon,
and their class was called, they marched to the place of recitation,
keeping step and jarring the room so that the sections of the pipe fell
rattling to the floor, filling the room with smoke, and covering floor
and desks with soot. As it would take some time for the pipe to cool
and be put up again, and the room cleaned, the school was dismissed,
giving us a half holiday.
Now, in the weakness of the hog fence, there was a chance for an
afternoon out of school, and Warren saw it. He told us his plan, and
the rest of us fell in with the scheme. After dinner we took some corn
and scattered it outside of the fence at the weak place; then we went
to the school-room, where Gray-beard, when he came to ring the bell to
summon the scholars, found us hard at work on our arithmetic lessons.
The geography class was up, and Brush was describing the rivers of
South America, when the door was thrown open by the superintendent, who
exclaimed, "Hurry, boys! The pigs are out and going to the Indians'
cornfield!"
We did not wait to be ordered a second time; but, snatching our hats
from the pegs in the hall, we ran down the hill with wild shouts and
cries. All the afternoon we chased pigs, and had a glorious time, while
the girls had to stay in school and be banged at by Gray-beard.
It was almost supper-time when we finally drove the pigs into the yard
and repaired the weak places in the fence. Flushed with our exciting
chase we entered the dining-room when the bell rang, and took our
places at the table for the evening meal; then the superintendent,
looking at us with a kindly smile, thanked us for the good service we
had rendered that afternoon!
The few hours' release from the tasks of the school-room had brought
about a general good feeling among the boys; so, when we had partaken
of the simple fare, we gathered on our play-ground and joined in a
number of lively games in the long twilight. So interested and excited
had we become in our play that we took no notice of the fading light
and the lateness of the hour until the first bell for bed sounded.
Our school was an industrial one, and in the assignment to the larger
boys and girls of various duties in and about the building, I was given
the care of the hydraulic ram that pumped the water from the spring
to the house. In the morning I started it, and in the evening shut it
off. The ram was located in a wooded ravine a quarter of a mile from
the school, and I usually stopped it while it was yet light, for, like
many a foolish boy, I was afraid to go away from the house alone in
the dark. Now in the excitement of play I had forgotten all about the
ram until I heard the bell calling us to prepare for bed, nor had I
realized till then that it was dark, and that the sky in the west was
black with storm clouds through which the lightning zigzagged, and that
there was an incessant rumble of thunder. The myriad of fireflies that
filled the air with flashes of red light only made the darkness seem
yet darker.
Stricken all at once with fear, I called loudly for Brush and the
rest of the boys, but none of them responded. I was afraid to go to
the ram alone in the dark, but if I should let it pump all night the
water would overflow the kitchen, and that would mean a disgraceful
punishment for me. I went from boy to boy, trying to secure a
companion; but not one of them dared to go with me, they were all
afraid of ghosts. Marbles could not tempt them, nor could a much
coveted gun-lock, which for the first time I was willing to part with,
induce any boy to go. The time for the last call for bed was fast
approaching, and I dared not wait longer trying to secure an escort, so
I started on a run, frightened nearly out of my wits at everything I
saw, but on I went as if racing for life.
I reached the place and stood over the square pit in which the ram
was placed, and was about to go down the ladder into it, when I saw
something move rapidly at the bottom. I nearly fell over backwards as I
jumped away. I ran toward the house, but the thought of the overflow in
the kitchen, and the punishment that was sure to follow, came back to
my mind. For a moment I struggled between a known and an unknown fate,
and decided to meet the latter. With set teeth and clenched fists I
jumped into the pit, backed into the nearest corner, yelled at the top
of my voice, while I struck right and left with my fists and kicked out
with my feet. Let it be ghost or beast, I was determined to fight it
and die game. I kept on striking, kicking, and yelling, but nothing put
itself in my way. I dropped to the ground, panting, but kept an eye
on the white thing which had also moved into a corner. I made a feint
at charging upon it and it fled-to another corner; then I put my head
close to the ground to discover the shape of my enemy, when, to my joy,
I discerned the outline of a rabbit. With a long-drawn breath of relief
I stood upright, turned off the ram, made a rush upon the rabbit and
caught it. Hastily rolling it up in my jacket, I climbed the ladder,
ran up the hill as though a dozen ghosts were after me, and reached my
bed just in time to say "Amen" to the evening prayer.
When Gray-beard had gone down, I whispered to Lester and Edwin, "I've
caught a white rabbit!"
"Let's scare the boys," said Lester.
So we dropped the little creature on the floor, and it ran around
the room as hard as it could go, while one of us cried out in a loud
whisper "Ghost!" Then every boy in the room pulled the bedclothes over
his head, and did not dare to uncover again.
We kept the rabbit for a pet, and made a box for it. We liked to watch
it eat, and it did not suffer for want of food so long as we had
it. One of the "gangs" among the small boys came to us one day while
we were feeding our pet, and offered us some clay marbles for it. We
looked upon their offer with contempt, for we all knew how to make clay
marbles ourselves, and had all we wanted.
"I'll tell you what we'll do though," said Brush to the would-be
purchasers. "If you will give each one of us seventeen cakes, you can
take the rabbit."
The boys retired and held a private consultation, then came back, and
the leader said, "We'll take the rabbit."
These boys must have coveted the rabbit very much, for there was not
a boy in the school who did not love cake, and the one slice of brown
ginger-cake we were each given for Sunday noon lunch was the only
delicacy we tasted. This cake became a currency among the boys, and all
contracts for cakes were faithfully kept. I know of only one instance
where a boy failed to keep his bargain, and he was so persecuted by the
other scholars that he was obliged to pay his debt in order to live in
peace.
Brush thought he had put the price of the rabbit so high that it would
not be accepted; but as we could not back out of our agreement, we were
obliged to part with our ghost rabbit for eighty-five cakes.
As the number of the "gang" purchasing the rabbit was the same as ours,
for seventeen Sundays these five boys went without their cakes, while
each one of us enjoyed a double share.
Chapter IX
William T. Sherman
He stood on the third board of the fence from the ground, and leaned
with his elbows on the top one, now and again kicking with his
moccasined foot a loose panel. How long he had been standing there
rattling that loose board no one knew, but in time one of the boys
noticed him, and suddenly he became an object of the greatest interest
among the boys of all sizes at the school. Boys who were playing down
by the river, up by the spring, and over by the saw mill came running
to see the stranger; and how the word reached them was as much of a
mystery as the appearance of the little figure on the fence.
Every one was eager to pelt him with a question, and get as close to
him as possible. He answered the questions in monosyllables; but he
showed objection to any near approach, by freeing his bare arms from
his little buffalo robe and pointing a wooden pop-gun at the eye of the
boy who was inclined to be too familiar. We kept at him until we found
out that his name was Thin'-je-zhin-ga, which, translated into the
language of the Missionaries, signified Little Tail.[1]
He had come over from the village to see the school, and was as much
interested in us as we were in him. All at once something attracted his
attention; his black eyes sparkled, out came one arm from under his
robe, and he pointed with a very dirty little finger and said, "Give me
one of those!"
The coveted object was a brass button on the jacket of one of the small
students. When Little Tail was asked what he wanted to do with it, he
said, "Tie it to my scalp-lock." This sounded very funny to us, and we
all laughed. The little chap retreated into his robe, covered his head,
and looked out at us with one eye.
The bell rang for dinner; and there followed a general scramble to
appear promptly at the table, and no thought was given to the queer
little visitor. Being the last boy to enter the house, I turned to look
back at him, and there he stood perched upon the fence, staring after
us as though he wondered why he was so suddenly deserted.
When we came out from dinner, he was still on the fence, but he was
busy. He had an ear of roasted corn and was shelling the kernels; when
he had nearly a handful he tipped his head back, poured the grains into
his mouth, and ate them with relish. After he had stripped half of
the cob, he seemed to be satisfied, and the remainder disappeared in
the recesses of his robe. As he finished his corn dinner, one of the
school-boys said to him, "Little Tail, how would you like to stay and
live with us here?"
"I would like it," he promptly replied.
"Will you stay?"
"Yes."
It was soon reported to the superintendent that a new pupil had come.
When the afternoon session opened and the pupils were seated, Little
Tail was given a seat at one of the desks, but to our delight he slid
down and sat on the floor. The teacher rapped the top of his desk with
a ruler and cried, "Silence!" and order was restored.
"What is the name of the new boy?" he asked.
"Thin'-je-zhin-ga," answered one of the boys.
Gray-beard tried to repeat the name, but only set the whole school
laughing. While this was going on, Little Tail reached down to his
belt and drew out a roll of milkweed fibre. It was his ammunition. He
tore off enough to make a bullet, chewed it, and, bringing the breach
of the pop-gun to his mouth, inserted the ball, twisting the gun with
his hands while he pressed the wad in with his teeth, making many
motions with his head. By pounding the butt of the rammer on the floor,
he drove the ball to the firing point; then raising the gun he began
forcing the ball with vigorous thrusts, aiming it at a mischievous
boy who sat opposite making faces at him. Bang! went the weapon; the
bullet, instead of hitting the object aimed at, struck Gray-beard in
the face, and made him throw his head back. We covered our faces to
suppress the giggles that bubbled up at this mishap. The wounded man
looked sharply at the young artillerist, who, seeing the mischief he
had done, very slyly thrust his gun into his robe, and, keeping an eye
on his victim, sat perfectly still.
The teacher looked serious, then we became scared. After a moment his
face relaxed, and he said in a pleasant tone, "We must have the name
of the new boy on the Register, but we cannot have any name that is
unpronounceable. We shall have to give him an English name. Will you
suggest one?"
A number of hands went up and as many historic names were offered and
rejected. Finally it was determined to call him William T. Sherman and
that name was entered upon the Register.
After school a few boys were detailed to wash and dress the new
arrival; so, with arms full of clothing, towels, and other bathing
appliances, the lad was taken up to the boys' dormitory. The first
thing to be done was to cut his long hair. A towel was put around his
neck, and soon the shears were singing a tune about his ears. He seemed
to enjoy it, and laughed at the jokes made by the boys; but when by
some chance he caught sight of his scalp-lock lying on the floor like a
little black snake, he put his fists into his eyes and fell to sobbing
as though his heart would break.
"Pshaw!" said little Isaac, rubbing his closely cropped head, "mine was
longer than yours when it was cut off, but I didn't cry!"
"Mine too!" exclaimed Abraham, picking up the braided look and putting
it where his had been; at which the rest of the boys laughed.
When the bath was over, William T. Sherman was dressed. He was
delighted with his brand-new clothes, particularly with the long row
of brass buttons that adorned the front of the jacket. When it came to
the shoes, his grief for the lost scalp-lock was clean forgotten, and
he strutted about to show the boys that his shining black shoes sang to
his satisfaction.
William T. Sherman was quick to learn, and by the time winter was over
he was speaking the peculiar English used by the boys of the school;
he said, "fool bird," for quail; "first time," for long ago, and other
Indian expressions turned into English. He was fond of arithmetic,
and spent much time ciphering on his slate; he would write down the
figure 1, 2, or 3, add to it a string of aughts, and then try to read
them off. Grammar he abhorred, and in the spelling class, he held a
permanent place at the foot. In out door sports he excelled; he could
beat any boy of his size in leaping and running, and we had yet to
learn other things in which he was expert.
One day, during the great June rise, all the boys were at the river
watching the huge drift logs floating down the muddy Missouri.
"Say, boys!" exclaimed Ulysses S. Grant, thrusting his hands deep
into his pockets; "I bet one hundred dollars that river is strong. I
wouldn't like to swim in it; I'm sure the eddies would pull me under."
Gideon, who was always boasting of what his father could do, shouted,
"My father could swim clear acrost and back again; he ain't 'fraid of
eddies. He--"
"What's that?" cried a number of boys, startled by a heavy splash in
the water. We all watched, and two brown feet came to the surface,
wiggled, and disappeared. After a moment a round black head slowly
arose. "Ha! Ha! I'm not 'fraid eddy!" shouted William T. Sherman, for
it was he. A few vigorous strokes brought him to shore again.
"Take off your shirts and pants, boys, let's swim," he said.
We did so, and timidly splashed about the shallow edges of the water.
A large tree was drifting down near the middle of the river. William
ran up along the bank for quite a distance, and then plunged into the
water. It was a beautiful sight to watch him as he threw his arms up
and down, moving swiftly toward the tree; he reached it, dived under
it, and came up on the other side; then he scrambled on the trunk and
shouted for us to come, but none of us dared to go. After a moment he
stood up on the tree, flourished an imaginary whip, and cried, "Git
up, there!" with a succession of swear words,--genuine swear words. He
was imitating the Agency teamster, and did not know what he was saying.
He had heard the servant of the Government urge on his horses by such
terms, and he was merely repeating them. Those of us who had been at
the Mission a long time, and had all the Shorter Catechism in our
little heads, and were orthodox by compulsion, if not by conviction,
were horrified to hear those dreadful words uttered by a pupil of our
school; for we knew some severe punishment awaited the little sinner
should there be a traitor among us to make it known to Gray-beard.
Before we had fairly recovered from our shock at hearing this swearing,
we were startled by a cry, "Job is drowning!" Not one of us moved, we
were so frightened; but, quick as a flash, William T. Sherman sprang
from his imaginary wagon, swam swiftly to the boy, caught him by the
hair as he was going down for the last time, and brought him to the
surface. "Kick! Kick!" he shouted; "make your arms go! Don't stop!"
And after a hard struggle the two boys landed.
Job had swallowed considerable water, and become very sick. We didn't
know what to do for him; but after we had rubbed and pommelled him, and
held him by the heels head downward, he felt better; then we took him
to the Mission and put him to bed.
On our way back Sherman spoke very little, but those of us who had been
frightened into helplessness had much to say as to what we did or might
have done to save Job.
At supper Gray-beard as usual counted the boys, and found one missing,
"Where's Job?" he asked.
"He's got the th'tomick ache," said Daniel, his mouth full and his
spoon raised half way with a new supply.
School went on the next morning as though nothing had happened. The
teachers had not heard of the drowning and the rescue; but the girls
had learned all about it and threw admiring glances at Sherman: to them
he had become a hero, and each of the different gangs among the boys
now wanted this hero as a member.
The recitations for the afternoon session were over, and the bell was
tapped as a signal to put away our books and slates, and struck again
to call us to order. When all arms were folded, there followed an
ominous silence. Gray-beard slowly looked around the school-room, as
though to read every face turned up to him, then he spoke:
"I have been told that some of the boys in this school are in the habit
of swearing; that is one of the things you are forbidden to do. It is
wicked to swear, and any boy that I find has been doing so I shall
punish very severely. I want you to remember this. After the closing
exercises William T. Sherman will come to my room; I have something to
say to him."
All eyes on the boys' side turned toward William as we chanted the
Lord's prayer; then Gray-beard made his usual supplication, during
which the big girls twisted their necks to look at their hero.
The exit from the school-room was quite orderly, but as soon as the
groups of boys passed into the hall, they set up a shouting and
singing, and made off to their different resorts for play. We, the
Middle Five, were the last to go; and, as had been hastily arranged
between us, I went to Gray-beard and asked some trivial question in
order to give time for Brush to go and advise Sherman as to what
answers to make if he was asked as to his being guilty of swearing.
"When he asks you if you been swearing, say, 'No, sir, I don't know
what swear is,'" said Brush to Sherman.
"All right."
"Then tell him you been saying what you heard Agency man say to horses;
but you don't know what those words mean, maybe they're swear words,
you don't know."
Gray-beard went up to his room, followed by William T. Sherman, who
for the first time entered that apartment. Boys who committed serious
offences were disciplined in that place. I was taken there for fighting
Andrew Johnson; Brush took his punishment there when he nearly cut
Jonathan's ear off with a wooden sword. Most of us had had peculiar
experiences in that room.
William T. Sherman had come to us direct from a tent; our bare
school-room and play-room were all that he had seen of the
furnishings of a civilized dwelling, so when he was suddenly ushered
into Gray-beard's room he was quite dazzled by the bright draperies,
pictures, and the polished furniture. He stood with hands in his
pockets, mouth and eyes wide-open staring at the things, although twice
requested by his host to sit down.
William timidly took the chair assigned him. It rocked backwards, and
up went his feet; he clutched wildly at the arms, and the chair rocked
forward; he got his footing, then sat perfectly still, fearing the
chair would fall over with him.
Gray-beard took a seat facing the boy, and began to question him, "I
was told that you had been swearing; is it true?"
Bewilderment at new sights, and the flight of the rocking-chair had
put Brush's promptings out of Sherman's head, and in his confusion he
answered, "Yes, sir--ma'am."
"It is wicked to swear, and you must be taught to know that it is. Now
say what I say," and Gray-beard repeated the third commandment, until
Sherman could say it without assistance, and then bade him to keep on
until told to stop.
Poor William sat in the treacherous rocking-chair repeating this
commandment, while Gray-beard wrote at his desk. William might as well
have sat there imitating the cry of some animal or bird, for his mind
was not dwelling upon the words he was uttering, but following his
eyes as they moved from one strange object to another,--the pictures,
the gilt frames, the sea shells, the clock on the mantelpiece, then
something hanging near the window absorbed his attention, and his
tongue and lips ceased to move as he drew with his finger on his
knee the figure 1, adding to it a number of aughts. Gray-beard noted
the pause, and said, "Go on, William, don't stop." After some little
prompting, the boy resumed, but his finger kept moving, making the
figure 1 and a string of aughts after it.
When Gray-beard and William T. Sherman left the school-room, Brush and
I and the rest of the five went toward the spring and sat under the
large elm. Brush lay down on the grass and read a book he had borrowed
from the superintendent, while the rest of us talked.
"I'd like to see that boy who told on William T. Sherman; I'd give him
a licking," said Warren.
"I'd kick him hard," added Edwin.
"I bet it's that tell-tale Edson; he ought to be thumped!" I suggested.
While we were talking, William came and sat down with us. Every now and
then a quivering sigh would escape him, although he tried not to show
that he had been crying. Little Bob, believing as we did that William
had been whipped, and, desiring to express sympathy, said, "Say, did it
hurt?" William did not answer; nobody ever answered Bob.
"What did Gray-beard do to you?" I asked, turning to William.
"He made me sit down and say a commandment one hundred times."
"Which one was it? Say it to us."
"I don't want to say it; I said it enough." After a pause he asked,
"What is swear?"
"When you call God names, that's swear," said Warren.
"I don't do that. I know God, it's the same Omahas call Wa-kon-da; but
I don't know what means lord."
"It's a man just like big chief," explained Lester; "he has plenty of
horses and lots of money. When he tells anybody to do anything, he got
to do it; that's a lord."
"Is Gray-beard lord?"
"No, Gray-beard isn't lord."
"Say, boys, a one and six aughts is one million, ain't it?"
"Yes," we answered in chorus.
"Gray-beard is lord. He's got one million dollars. I saw it on a book
hanging by his window; it had a name, I can't say it, then Bank and
Cap'tal, and then a one and six aughts,--that's a million. He's got one
million dollars!"
Brush threw his book down, raised himself on his elbow and looked at
us with a smile; then he said, "I know that book William T. Sherman
saw, it's the book Gray-beard counts the days by, and it's got on it
what they call advertisement. That bank wants people to know it has
one million dollars capital to go by; I learned that in my arithmetic.
Gray-beard isn't a lord; he's a missionary,--the same kind that goes to
Africa and Greenland's icy mountains."
FOOTNOTE:
[1] He belonged to a band in the Omaha tribe known as
Mon'-thin-ka-ga-hae, people of the underground world; in other words,
animals that burrowed and lived in the earth; such had small tails, and
the name Little Tail referred to this peculiarity.
Chapter X
A Runaway
Vacation had come, and the Indians were about to start on their annual
summer buffalo hunt. Some of the scholars were to accompany their
parents, and others, after a brief home visit, were to return to the
school and continue their studies while the tribe was away.
In the three villages there was great hurry and bustle in every family.
Pack saddles were brought out of the caches where they had lain through
the winter. The task of mending them fell to the older people of the
household, while the younger folk busied themselves in retrimming their
more ornate trappings. Goods not necessary for the journey were stored
away, and the dwellings were made ready for the long absence.
At last there remained but one day before the time set for the
departure of the tribe. In the afternoon I bade my parents good-by, and
reluctantly returned to the school. Quite a number of the boys and
girls had already come back, among them Lester and Warren. Brush had
not left the school, so on my arrival I received from the three boys
the usual greetings we accorded each other when one returned after an
absence. We four paced the long front porch, arm in arm, for a while,
and then went and sat down in the shade of a tree.
"Where is Edwin?" asked Brush; "isn't he coming back?"
"No," I replied; "his mother wanted him to; but his father didn't want
to leave him behind, so he's going on the hunt."
"He'll have lots of fun," said Warren; "I wish I could go!"
The next morning, immediately after breakfast, Brush borrowed the
superintendent's spy-glass, and we went to a high point whence we could
watch the movements of the people in the village nearest the school.
We took turns in looking through the glass. Already the head of the
great caravan had gone behind the first hill, but my family had not yet
started. We looked toward Edwin's house, and saw that the people were
just moving. It was a wonderful sight to us, the long procession on the
winding trail, like a great serpent of varied and brilliant colors. At
last I saw my father mount a horse and move forward, the rest of the
family followed him, and I watched them until they finally disappeared
beyond the green hills. It was nearly noon when the end of the line
went out of sight.
While the movements were going on in the village, we could hear the
neighing of horses, the barking of dogs, and the hum of voices, but
now there was a stillness in the deserted village which brought upon
us a sense of loneliness that was hard to overcome. We slowly returned
to the Mission and ate our noonday meal without speaking. There seemed
to be a general depression among the remaining pupils at the school.
A silence pervaded all the surroundings which made each boy wish to
retire from the other and to be alone.
At breakfast, the next morning, there was the same sense of stillness;
even the superintendent and the teachers at their table seemed to be
homesick, and they passed the dishes to each other in silence. The
reading of the Scriptures and the prayer of the superintendent was in
a tone that added to the gloominess which had taken possession of our
simple little souls.
As we were slowly marching out of the dining-room, when the worship was
over, the superintendent stopped Brush and said to him:
"I want you to go after the mail this morning; go on horse-back so as
to get back soon. I have some work for you to do this afternoon. Take
Dolly, and use the large saddle; the other one needs mending."
"Let's go down to the spring," said Lester to Warren and me.
So while Brush went to the barn to saddle up, we three went to the
spring and sat under an elm that stood near by.
"Say, boys, I 'm going to the hunt!" said Lester, startling us with
the sudden announcement; "I heard that two families down at the
Wood-eaters' village can't get away for two days yet, and I'm going
down there so I can go with them. The Omahas always wait on the Wa-tae
(Elkhorn River), for those that are last."
"If you're going, I'm going too," spoke up Warren; "I don't want to
stay here."
"If you two go, I'm going!" I exclaimed.
"All right, let's all go then," said Lester, rising. "We must hurry up;
some one might see us!"
We followed a narrow path that led through a ravine just beyond the
spring. We were in the greatest excitement; every little sound aroused
within us the fear of detection, and we frequently sought for a hiding
place, while we carefully avoided all well-beaten paths. Silently we
plodded our way through the bushes until we came to a hill where there
were no trees, then we ran as fast as our legs could carry us for
another wooded place.
We stopped a moment when passing to take a look at the village. Silence
prevailed. Not a living thing was astir. Three whirlwinds chased each
other along the winding paths between the houses, making funnel-shaped
dust clouds as they sped on.
"The ghosts have entered the village," said Lester, in our own
language, and in a melancholy tone; "they always do that as soon as the
living leave their houses!"
Entering the ravine for which we were making, we continued our journey.
The nettle weeds caused us much suffering, for we were barefooted, and
wore short trousers. We came to an opening; before us lay the road to
the Agency; we looked cautiously around, then started to cross it to
go into another ravine that headed toward the big village, when the
snorting of a horse was heard with startling distinctness.
"Quick! quick! get down!" exclaimed Lester in a loud whisper, as he
dropped into the gully of the old abandoned wagon-road.
Warren and I followed hastily, pulling the tall grass over us. We heard
the footsteps of the horse come nearer and nearer to our hiding place.
It stopped and reached its head down, and began to nibble the grass
under which I lay concealed. I looked up through a slight opening,
and, behold! there on the horse sat Brush with one leg thrown over the
pommel of the saddle, busily reading a book. I could see the boy's eyes
and his lips moving as he read, and at times it seemed as though his
eyes were looking right into mine. I was in great suspense while the
horse stood there, but at length Brush picked up the rains and urged
Dolly on. As soon as he disappeared at the bend of the road, we rose
and darted across and ran down to the ravine.
We entered the big village of sod houses through which we had to pass.
Here, too, we felt the sense of desolation that pervaded even the hills
around. Somewhere from the midst of these peculiar dwellings came the
doleful howl of a stray dog, the only sound that broke the stillness
of the place. What sensations my companions experienced upon hearing
the melancholy wail of that deserted beast I do not know; but, like
the rapid advance of a fire over the prairie, a thrill that made the
very roots of my hair creep vibrated through my body. Involuntarily we
paused to listen; the long-drawn moan came to a close, and the ghostly
echoes carried on the sound as though to mock the lost creature.
"Let's run!" exclaimed Lester, in a frightened tone; "let's get away
from here!"
And so we sped on until, all out of breath, we were far beyond the
limits of the village.
The shadows of the hills and the trees were beginning to grow long
as we reached the foot of the bluffs where lay the village of the
Wood-eaters. We followed a narrow but well-beaten path, wending our way
among the tall trees. Suddenly a dog, with tail rigid and erect, and
hair bristling, came barking at us with savage fury.
"'Shta-du-ba! 'Shta-du-ba!" called Lester, as he came near. "It is I,
don't you know me?"
The dog, on hearing his name from a familiar voice, relaxed his
aggressive appearance and assumed one of joyous welcome. He jumped upon
us, licked our hands, wagged his whole body as well as his tail, and
preceded us with leaps and barks of delight.
We came to a clear space, and there before us against the deep shadows
of the woods stood a solitary sod house, the smoke lazily ascending
to the sky from the top of the dome-shaped roof, making a picture of
simple contentment. In the projecting doorway stood a man looking
intently in our direction. The serious expression of his face changed
to one of pleasure and amusement as he descried the three school-boys.
When we were near enough for him to fully recognize us, his smile burst
into a mirthful laugh in which we could not help joining, though to us
our business was full of seriousness.
"Woo-hoo!" he mildly exclaimed, "what important thing is it that has
brought you here at this time, when all are about going away? Your
mother left yesterday," he said, addressing my companions, then turning
to me remarked, "Your father must have gone to-day."
"We ran away from school because we want to go on the hunt," explained
Lester. "I know my mother has gone; but my uncle has not left yet, so
we are going to him."
"He is still here, we all go to-morrow morning early; but you should
have stayed at the House of Teaching; you would get more good there
than by going on the hunt. You know the way to Me-chah'-pe's house,
just follow that path."
We trudged along to Me-chah'-pe's house. The family had gathered
about an outside fire, and were eating their supper in the dusk.
Upon our coming into the light of the fire we were recognized; the
mother and grown daughter greeted us with exclamations of surprise and
sympathy; while the father and the two sons glanced at each other with
expressions of amusement. A place was assigned us in the circle, and
soon we were busily engaged with the simple fare placed before us by
the good and hospitable mother.
"Why do parents when they go away leave their children at the House
of Teaching, I wonder?" commented the woman, as she apportioned the
food for us. "Some people show no signs of affection for their sons
and daughters until they sicken and die; then they tear their hair and
rend the air with their loud wails. It is well enough while the parents
are at home that they should place the young ones in the care of the
White-chests; but, when going on a long journey like this, they should
take the children with them."
By the side of every Indian house stands a raised platform made of
poles, elevated upon posts, some seven or eight feet high, planted
firmly in the ground. This platform is used for drying corn and squash,
at the time of harvesting; but, through the summer when the people are
at home, the young men and boys take possession of it, for sleeping
in the open air. As weariness began to be felt, one by one, the
family arose, and, without formality, each sought his place of rest.
We school-boys and the sons of Me-chah'-pe repaired to the platform,
climbing the "stairs" made of a single log, with notches cut in it for
steps.
This was the first night I had ever spent out of doors. The novel
experience, and the excitements of the day, filled my mind with strange
speculations, and I lay awake long after my companions had gone to
sleep. Now and then, I heard the chatter of birds and the whirring of
their wings, as they flew by far above me, and I wondered if they could
see in the darkness. The roar of the river filled the still air, and
the crash of a tree uprooted by the current sent its echoes far and
wide; then the sounds about me grew to faint murmurings, until I was
conscious of them no more.
When I awoke, the dawn was coming, and the stars were beginning to turn
pale. There was a gentle stir in the tent near by; a tall man came out,
and his shadowy form passed from view into the slowly rising mist. A
woman moved noiselessly to the fire-place, and, bending over, began
to gather the embers together, blowing them to life with her breath.
The gray streak along the horizon slowly turned to a rosy hue; here
and there the birds began drowsily to peep and twitter, then, when the
sun shot its rays through the heavens, a thousand voices burst into
rapturous song.
My companions awoke, and one by one we climbed down the rude ladder to
the ground.
When we gathered for breakfast, the mother, as she helped the food,
asked, "Where is Na-zhe'-de-ah?" (Lester.)
Warren and I looked at each other; neither of us could explain his
absence.
"Call him," said the good woman, addressing her son; "we must hurry,
the sun is up!"
No response came to the young man's call. It was evident that Lester
had slipped away before any one was awake.
Breakfast over, Me-chah'-pe and his sons saddled and packed the horses,
while the wife and daughter gathered the various utensils. Warren and
I tried to make ourselves useful by holding up the packs with our
shoulders, as they ware being placed on the horses.
Me-chah'-pe looked at Warren, then at me, as he shouldered his rifle,
and said, "I am sorry that I have not enough horses for all of us to
ride. You see those I have are heavily burdened; so we will have to do
as our fathers did, take one step forward, then another, and keeping
stepping forward until we get to the place where we are going. Are we
ready? Here we go!"
And we did go,--horses, dogs, and all. Soon we were joined by the man
of the lonely sod house and his family, and together we made quite a
cavalcade as we went up hill and down hill, and up hill and down hill
again. By and by, we reached a long ridge, called by the Indians "the
tortuous ridge," which zigzagged in a westerly direction, and along it
lay the hunting trail.
The sun grew hot; Warren and I were drenched with perspiration as we
plodded on. Every now and then Me-chah'-pe gave us an encouraging word,
when we showed signs of lagging. We were determined to keep on, for
were we not going to a buffalo hunt! The heat increased. The dogs did
not now chase each other and run after birds as when we started out,
but let loose their tongues and panted, keeping close to the shadows of
the horses. On we all trudged, while the one baby slept on its mother's
back, its little head rocking from side to side with the motion of her
steps.
As we reached an elevated point on the ridge, Me-chah'-pe shaded
his face with his hand and scanned the horizon. Far ahead of us his
experienced eye caught sight of an object, like a mere speck. He
pointed it out to us, saying, "There's somebody coming."
Warren and I looked at each other in alarm, and then kept our eyes on
the speck, which grew larger and larger as the distance between it and
us lessened.
"The horse looks like one of your father's," said Me-chah'-pe to me. "I
think it is some one looking for you!"
My heart sank When I recognized the horse as father's, and the rider as
my uncle, and, for the first time in my life, I was not glad to meet
him.
Warren and I were captured, and there was no escape. We tried to
be brave when Me-chah'-pe shook hands with us, as his party moved
westward; but we were far from happy when, ignominiously mounted on
father's horse, one behind the other, we followed my uncle, who walked
so rapidly that the animal had to trot now and then to keep up. The
road over which we had so laboriously travelled on our outward way was
soon retraced, and the sun still high when my uncle, who had wandered
all night in search of us, turned us over to Gray-beard.
It was thought best to punish us; so Warren was taken to the top of
the house and locked up in the attic, where he was to reflect upon
the wrong he had committed in running away. But I am quite sure he
thought more about the devil and the ghosts in that horrid place than
of anything else.
As for me, I was marched to the dining-room, placed with my back to one
of the posts, and my arms brought around it and tied; then I was left
alone in this uncomfortable position,--to repent.
The afternoon was close and hot; the windows and doors were open, but
the place was very quiet. Now and then I heard the cry of a bird, or
the laughter of the happy wren. The time seemed very long as I stood
there, with my arms thrown back around the post and my hands tied so
that I could not defend myself against the flies that attacked my bare
feet. A rooster came to the back door and entered the dining-room.
He shied on discovering me; but, as I did not move, he began picking
in the cracks of the floor. He spied my toe, looked at it curiously,
turning his head from side to side, then stretched his neck and gave
it a dab. I was in no mood to be amused by his actions, so I sent him
flopping and squawking under the table. Recovering from his surprise,
he ran around, sprang on the table, then on the sill of the open
window, tossed up his head, flapped his wings, gave a lusty crow, and
hopped out.
Immediately I saw eight little fingers hook themselves on the outer
edge of the window-sill, and a head with black hair held back by a
rubber comb rise higher and higher until two bright eyes gazed right
into mine. The head disappeared, and shortly after a little figure
cautiously approached the door, looked all around, and then came up to
me. It was Rosalie. Her bright smiling face threw a sunbeam into my
gloomy little heart. Without saying a word she wiped the perspiration
from my face with the corner of her apron; then she went away softly in
the direction of the kitchen. Soon she returned with a tin cup having
in it bits of ice. She took a lump and put it in my mouth, then stood
looking in my face. After a while, she said, "I like you, don't I?"
"'M h'm!" I assented with my mouth closed, nodding my head.
"When we get big, we're going to be married, ain't we?"
"'M h'm!" again I answered.
"We won't send our children to this horrid old place, will we?"
"'M'm! 'M'm!" I replied with emphasis, shaking my head and stamping the
floor.
The little sweet-heart, seeing that the flies troubled my ankles, went
out and came back with a linden branch and brushed away the pests. I
slid to the floor and sat down with my legs stretched out. Rosalie
dropped down too, and sat whisking away the flies.
Gradually things took on queer shapes, and the sounds seemed to come
from afar; there was a moment of confusion and then,--I found myself
on a wide prairie. Heavy clouds were swiftly approaching; the thunder
rolled long and loud, and the lightning darted hither and thither. Off
in the distance I saw a forest. I pushed toward it with all my strength
so as to take shelter before the storm should come upon me; but as I
labored on there crept over me a consciousness of a weight upon my
back which, hitherto, I had not noticed. It retarded my progress, and
from time to time I was obliged to stop and give a little spring to
shift the burden higher up. A cry of terror came from the thing I was
carrying; then I knew it was little Rosalie. I tried to speak words of
encouragement to her, but my strength was fast failing. Great drops of
rain fell, and the wind drove the dust into my face, blinding me. I
tottered on with my load, but the timber was still far away. A vivid
flash, a deafening crash, and I fell to the ground with a cry. I tried
to rise, but my legs and arms were as though dead.
With a start I opened my eyes. The room was darkened; there was a great
commotion; all through the house, windows were being rapidly closed and
the doors swung to with a bang. A terrific storm had arisen, and the
building was in danger of destruction. Rosalie lay asleep with her head
resting on my knees.
Chapter XI
A New Study
It was a hot September afternoon; our gingham handkerchiefs, which
matched our shirts, were wet with mopping our faces. We all felt cross;
Gray-beard was cross, and everything we did went wrong.
Warren, who had been sent to the spring for a pail of cold water,
leaned over his desk to Brush, and whispered loud enough for the boys
around us to hear, "A big black carriage came up to the gate just now,
and the Agent and three other big fat men got out. The super'tendent
shook hands with them, and they went to his room."
While Gray-beard was shaking a boy to make him read correctly, the news
of the black carriage and the fat men went from boy to boy. The girls
were dying to know what word it was the boys were passing around; but
the aisle that separated them from us was too wide to whisper across.
Warren's girl made signs to him which he at first did not understand;
when he caught her meaning, he tore a fly-leaf out of his book, wrote
on it, rolled it into a ball and threw it to the girl, who deftly
caught it; these two were adepts at such transmission of messages. The
girl unfolded the paper, read it, and passed it on; then the girls felt
better and resumed their work.
The class in mental arithmetic took the floor. Not one of the boys
knew his lesson. As the recitation went on Gray-beard's face darkened
and his forehead wrinkled; he came to a timid youngster with a hard
question. I knew there was going to be trouble for the little chap; so,
to save him pain and distress, I thought of a plan by which to distract
Gray-beard's attention. I reached under my desk and took hold of a
thread which I carefully drew until my thumb and finger touched the
stiff paper to which it was attached, then, as the boy stammered out
the wrong answer and Gray-beard made an impatient movement toward him,
I gave the thread a gentle pull, "Biz-z-z-z-z!" it went.
"Who's making that noise?" asked Gray-beard, turning toward our end of
the school-room.
I loosened the pressure, and the noise ceased. When Gray-beard returned
to the boy, I again pulled the thread, "Biz-z-z-z-z!" Something was
wrong this time; the buzzing did not cease, it became louder and
angrier.
"Who's doing that?" exclaimed Gray-beard.
Every boy and girl looked up to him as though to say, "I did not do
it." The buzzing went on; I alone kept my eyes on my book, and so
aroused suspicion. I did not dare to put my hand under the desk again
to stop the buzzing, for I had lost the thread. Gray-beard came towards
me and asked, "What have you there?" I did not answer.
"Stand up and let me see!" he exclaimed. Before I could give him any
warning, he put his hand in the desk and felt about; he sprang back
with a cry, "Ah! I'm bitten! Is it a snake?"
"No, it isn't," I answered; and, peering carefully into the desk, I
drew out the buzzing thing and showed it to him; it was only a wasp
fastened by its slender waist to a sheet of paper.
Although he felt relieved of his fright, the pain of the sting was
arousing his anger, and I saw that there was trouble coming to me; but
at that moment, the door opened and in walked the superintendent and
the four fat men. Gray-beard went forward and was introduced to them.
There was a scramble by three of the large boys to get chairs from
the dining-room for the visitors. When the gentlemen had made a quiet
survey of our faces, they sat down and questioned Gray-beard about the
branches taught at the school, and the progress made by the pupils. In
the meantime I had released my prisoner; it went buzzing around the
room, and then manoeuvred over the bald head of one of the visitors,
who beat the air with his hands to ward it off.
"Frank, catch that wasp," said Gray-beard.
I caught the troublesome creature in my hat and turned it out of doors.
When the questioning of the visitors was over, Gray-beard turned to us
and said, "Now, children, pay strict attention; these gentlemen want
to see what you have learned. I will put some questions to you."
We became so silent that we could hear a pin drop. The visitors smiled
upon us pleasantly, as though to encourage us.
"Who discovered America?" asked Gray-beard. Dozens of hands went up.
"Abraham, you may answer."
An expression of amusement spread over the faces of the scholars as the
great awkward boy stood up. Gray-beard must have been bewildered by the
sting of the wasp and the sudden appearance of visitors, else he would
not have made such a blunder; for he knew very well what every boy and
girl of the school could do; however there was no help for it now;
Abraham Lincoln, standing with his hands in his pockets, had the floor;
he put his weight on one foot and then on the other, the very picture
of embarrassment; he cleared his throat, looked helplessly at me, and
then at Brush,--"Come," said Gray-beard, "we are waiting."
"George Washington!" answered Abraham.
A titter ran around among the pupils. Gray-beard's face turned red,
then white, as he said, "Abraham, take your seat. Brush, can you tell
us who discovered America?"
"Columbus," promptly answered the boy. Then a series of questions were
asked, which the children answered voluntarily, and did credit to
their teacher. The visitors nodded approvingly to each other. When the
examination was over, the Agent arose and, addressing the school, said:
"You have acquitted yourselves well in this sudden and unexpected test;
I will now ask you to spell for me. Here is a book," said he, turning
the leaves of a pretty gilt edged volume, "which I will give to the
scholar who can spell best."
Taking a spelling book, he gave out the words himself. We all stood up,
and those who misspelled a word sat down. One by one the pupils dropped
to their seats, until only Brush, a big girl, and I remained on the
floor; finally I went down, and the girl and Brush went on; they were
now in the midst of the hard words. At last Brush failed; the girl also
misspelled the word; but as the prize book could not be divided, it
was given to her.
"Are the children taught music?" asked one of the strangers.
"No," replied the superintendent; "but they can sing nearly all of the
Sunday-school hymns."
"They should be taught music as well as reading and spelling," remarked
one of the gentlemen, then, addressing the children, he asked:
"Have your people music, and do they sing?"
"They do," answered one of the large boys.
"I wish you would sing an Indian song for me," continued the man. "I
never heard one."
There was some hesitancy, but suddenly a loud clear voice close to me
broke into a Victory song; before a bar was sung another voice took up
the song from the beginning, as is the custom among the Indians, then
the whole school fell in, and we made the room ring. We understood the
song, and knew the emotion of which it was the expression. We felt, as
we sang, the patriotic thrill of a victorious people who had vanquished
their enemies; but the men shook their heads, and one of them said,
"That's savage, that's savage! They must be taught music."
So it came about that every afternoon after this visit we spent an
hour on a singing lesson. We learned quite a number of songs, but we
sang them by ear, as it was difficult for us to understand the written
music. We liked some of the songs we learned very much, and enjoyed
singing them almost as well as our own native melodies. Although there
were boys with richer voices, Brush was fond of hearing me sing a
certain song we had been taught; we always had to give it when visitors
came to the Mission. I can remember only the chorus:
"Laura, Laura, still we love thee,
Though we see thy form no more,
And we know thou'lt come to meet us,
When we reach that mystic shore."
One day the teacher said that we must learn to sing in parts; hitherto
we had been singing in unison as the Indians do; so he assigned the
different parts to those scholars whom he thought could carry them. He
met with no difficulty in selecting the soprano, contralto, and the
tenor; but he could not find any boy who was willing to try the bass.
He had given me the tenor, but as he could not find a bass, he said I
must take that part as I was less timid about singing. I protested, but
there was no escape for me. We learned fairly well to sing in parts
a few pieces, but one day the teacher gave us a new song in which,
at certain places in the chorus, the bass was unsupported. Our first
attempt to render this song resulted in a failure, on account of my
embarrassment. The teacher threatened and coaxed before I consented
to make another trial. We sang very well together until we came to
the chorus; when the leader indicated to me to remain silent, while
the others drawled out the first two bars and came to a rest; then he
motioned quickly to me, and I croaked, "Daisy Lee!" very much like a
bull-frog. A smile rippled over the school, but the leader went on
waving his arms and nodding to the others, who again drawled out, "My
dar-ling Dai-sy Lee-e-e-e." This time I knew when to come in; so as
soon as they reached the rest, from the very depths of my chest I again
croaked, "Daisy Lee!" This time the whole school went into convulsions;
the teacher himself could not control his laughter; it was fun for
everybody but me. For weeks afterwards whenever the boys saw me, they
would mischievously shout in a bass voice, "Daisy Lee!"
This was not my only singing experience at the school. One afternoon
the superintendent, Gray-beard, and all the rest of the men at the
Mission were called away on some urgent business, and were not expected
to be home for supper. At the table one of the ladies presided and
asked the blessing over the evening meal. It being warm, the windows
were thrown wide open while we ate. When supper was over, the children
shifted their positions and waited as usual for the announcement of
the hymn. The lady made the selection, but there was no one to lead; a
hasty consultation was held at the first table, then she came over to
me with her hymn-book, "Frank, you must lead the singing," she said;
"none of us can do it."
I could not understand why I should be selected to lead the singing;
but I took the book and looked over the hymn that was chosen. I knew
it by heart, and could sing it; but I was embarrassed by the prominent
position given me; however, my pride would not permit me to make an
excuse, so I struck an attitude, and thinking it the proper thing to
do, I imitated the music teacher as well as I could, and searched
for the pitch by making a sound like the whinnying of a horse. I was
half-conscious that I had provoked some amusement at the teachers'
table by this performance, but I boldly struck out, in a clear, loud
voice. All joined in, and with an effort sang the first line. The
second line began with two or three very high notes, difficult to
reach even when the tune was sung at the proper pitch; I struck at
them bravely, and just managed to reach them, only one voice, that of
a girl, was with me; no one else had ventured. We two went on and
finished the line; at the beginning of the next we were joined by a
third voice; but it sang a very different tune. I turned to see who
it was, and there, with his paws on the window-sill, was Edwin's dog
howling with all his might!
Chapter XII
Ponka Boys
"Woo-hoo! Noo'-zhin-ga pa'-hon ba ma kae don'-ba i ga!" (Oh! boys, get
up and look at the snow!) exclaimed a new student, ignorant of the rule
against speaking Indian.
We scrambled out of bed and rushed to the windows. Sure enough, there
was snow on the ground, and the trees that the frost had stripped of
their verdant beauty now stood resplendent in a mantle of white.
Summer had gone. The myriads of little creatures that only a short time
ago enlivened the hills and valleys had withdrawn into the recesses
of the earth, or other places of safety, each according to its own
peculiar habit.
Winter had come. And the school-boy, defying its chilling blasts,
dances about in the crisp snow, or on the ice, shouting to his
playmates. Delighting in the exercise of every muscle, he races to the
hill-top, blows his hot breath on his tingling finger-tips, mounts his
little sled, then dashes down the hill with merry shouts of laughter,
though the snow whirls and flies about his ears and beaming face. Again
and again he takes this wild descent until he hears the calling of
the school-bell; then, with reluctant feet, he enters the class-room,
to study the divisions of the earth either by natural boundaries, or
by the artificial ones made by aggressive man, to learn about weights
and measures, or to memorize the great events that have changed the
conditions of nations and of peoples.
Every one was up and dressed that morning when Gray-beard came to the
dormitory; and, after repeating our prayer, we hurried down the two
flights of stairs, making a noise like thunder. We ran into the yard,
where we wrestled for a while, then rubbed our faces and hands with
snow.
One of the teachers asked why the boys did so. "All boys do that,"
answered Brush. "The old folks tell them to do it, because then their
faces and hands won't get frozen."
When breakfast was over that morning, and the students had shifted
their positions so as to face the centre of the dining-room, and had
folded their arms, the superintendent, marking with his forefinger the
chapter he had selected to read at the morning worship, looked up and
spoke, "We want the boys to learn the use of tools, and to make things
for themselves, so we have provided the boards out of which every boy
in this school can make a sled for himself. The carpenter will give to
any boy who asks, the materials and show him how to use the tools to
make his sled. Of course this must be done before the school hour."
We looked at each other and smiled. The reading of the Scripture and
the prayer seemed to us to be unusually long, but at last they came to
an end. Then every boy hurried and scurried to the carpenter's shop.
Soon dozens of hammers were going crack, crack, and the saws zip, zip.
"Be careful, boys! Look out for nails, or you will ruin your saws,"
said the carpenter, and he smiled good-naturedly as he went on marking
the boards for the next applicant.
Suddenly, in the midst of all the din some one exclaimed, "Hong!"
which is Indian for Ouch! and a big boy danced about, shaking his hand
violently in the air, then he brought it down and pressed it between
his knees, twisting his body into all sorts of shapes, howling the
while. The hammering and sawing ceased, and a dozen voices asked,
"What's the matter?" Peter, who was always clumsy in his movements,
instead of hitting the nail he was driving, had struck his thumb and
smashed it. The traditional "Indian stoicism" was not in him, so he
kept up his howling until the carpenter had put on a tobacco poultice
and bandaged the injured thumb.
After a lively coasting on our new sleds one afternoon, we were
gathered in the school-room, and every one was busy preparing lessons.
The arithmetic class was before the blackboard, answering questions put
by the teacher.
"Ulysses Grant," said Gray-beard, "suppose the boards, nails, and work
upon your sled cost you fifty-five cents, and you sold it to Edwin
Stanton for sixty-three cents, what would be your profit?"
Ulysses moved uneasily, then began counting rapidly with his fingers.
"Stop counting your fingers. Do the sum with your head," said
Gray-beard.
Just at this moment something like a shadow appeared at one of the
windows, and all faces, except Gray-beard's, turned in that direction.
We soon made out that the shadow was the face of an Indian boy with
his buffalo robe drawn over his head and spread against the glass to
exclude the glare of the sun, so as to give him a better view within
the room. His black eyes peered at us, and at every object within
sight. The figure withdrew; then we heard a voice speaking in our own
language, "Come quick! Come and look at them!"
Soon the windows were darkened by dozens of the queerest-looking heads
we had ever seen. Over each face hung two long braids. As the boys
pressed their noses against the glass, and wrinkled their brows in
trying to see, they made the strangest and most comical of pictures.
They pushed and climbed over each other in their eagerness to observe
what was going on inside. We could not help laughing at their
appearance.
Edwin nudged me and whispered, "They're Ponka boys; they wear their
scalp-locks in front, and they always have two."
"Don't they look funny?" shouted a Ponka boy at the middle window.
"See, see that one!" and he pointed at Warren; "he looks just like a
little owl; his hair stands straight up, and he has such big eyes."
Study became impossible, and the class in arithmetic made horrible
blunders. Gray-beard was disgusted; in vain he rapped the desk with
his ruler; and his patience found a limit when Andrew Johnson said
that Ulysses' profit would be eleven cents, if he sold his sled for
sixty-three cents. He gave the boy a vigorous shaking. This act of
discipline delighted the little savages at the window; they shouted
with laughter and the ends of their little braids fluttered with the
breath of every peal. They interspersed their merriment with comments
on our appearance, our clothing, and the absence of scalp-locks on our
heads.
"What are they saying?" asked Gray-beard, looking toward the windows.
"They're calling us names," answered Warren, who felt sore at being
compared to an owl.
Gray-beard went to the door; as he opened it, the intruders ran swiftly
to the fence, and sat astride of the top board.
"Get away from here!" said Gray-beard, in a loud voice. "Go home!"
"How do do! Goo-by!" shouted back some of the little rascals with
boisterous jeers.
"Class in history," called Gray-beard as he closed the door; and a
number of us stood in line at the usual place.
"Philip Sheridan, can you tell me something of George Washington?"
All eyes turned toward the youngster who answered to the name of George
Washington, and who, neglecting his lessons, was now busy drawing on
his slate a caricature of a boy against whom he had a grudge. Hearing
his name, and thinking he had been caught in his mischief, he looked up
with a startled expression, and rose to make a denial, when Sheridan,
fixing his eyes upon him, slowly answered, "He chopped his father's
choke-cherry-tree."
The little savages returned to the windows, and began chattering
noisily. Suddenly a number of them stood in line, imitating the history
class, while one of the big boys took a place before them, mimicking
the actions of Gray-beard and the tones of his voice, by giving the
peculiar rhythm of English to his own Indian words.
"Ah'-bru-zhe-dae!" he asked; "do you ever wash your face?" And the
make-believe class went into fits of laughter.
"Ten sleeps ago," angrily retorted the boy addressed, "you stole some
honey, and the smirches of it are still on _your_ face!"
The boys were convulsed at this reply, and so were the boys in the
school-room; but the mock teacher took a different view of the matter,
and sprang at his impudent pupil, boxing his ears, whereat the two fell
on each other in a lively tussle. We stretched our necks to see the
struggle, and Gray-beard also watched the scene.
All at once a Ponka boy shouted, "I've found something! Come, come!"
and the crowd moved away, leaving the two to finish their wrestling.
Before long we heard a great clatter in the hall-way, and then the
Ponka boys were seen marching out of the yard with our sleds. We heard
them coasting down the hill, and this made us very restless, so that we
could not pay any attention to our lessons. By and by the shouting on
the hill-side ceased, and Warren leaned over to Brush and whispered,
"They're going off with our sleds!"
Brush raised his right hand; Gray-beard saw him, and asked what he
wanted.
"Those Indian boys are going away with our sleds, and we want to go
after them."
Permission being given, in a twinkling there were twenty or thirty
school-boys charging up the hill, all mad as hornets. We overtook the
Ponkas midway between the school and the village. The little savages
turned and came to meet us.
"What do you want?" said the big boy who had played teacher.
"We want our sleds," said Brush.
"Come and get them!" was the defiant answer of the Ponka boys.
"That we will do!" answered Brush.
We all moved forward, and then followed a scene hard to describe. A
terrific battle took place between us and the robbers; it was hand to
hand, and shin to shin, for hands and feet were the only weapons used.
The Ponkas made a determined resistance. I cannot very well relate
what happened around me; for I was engaged in a lively bout with
an impish-looking little chap for whom I had taken a sudden and
unreasonable spite. It was hard to get at him, for he was quick as a
wild-cat in his movements, and he gave me a number of vicious blows
before I could touch him. I noticed that he was more afraid of my
brogans than of my fists; taking advantage of this, I pretended to lift
my foot for a fierce kick; he hopped backwards, and, in so doing, bent
his body toward me. Quick as a flash, I grasped his two braids, pulled
his head down, and brought my right knee up against it with tremendous
force, and he went sprawling in the snow.
"Frank, Frank, come here, quick!" It was Brush calling. I turned, and
there he lay under two of the Ponkas, who were dealing him heavy blows.
In a second I had dragged one of them off, and Brush had his footing
again. Some one shouted, "They're running! they're running!" and the
boys we were fighting broke loose. Then all of us school-boys chased
the Ponkas, and drove them into their camp.
We were a bruised lot when we came back to the school; but we had our
sleds.
Chapter XIII
The Secret of the Big Seven
The small boys had been marched to bed at eight o'clock. We, the Middle
Five, who, for the first time, were permitted to stay up until ten,--a
privilege hitherto enjoyed only by the Big Seven,--sat around the fire
listening to Indian tales told by Edwin in his animated way. There
was no light in the room save that which came through the open door
of the stove, in front of which the story-teller had taken his place.
The flickering fire cast a ruddy light upon the fine features of the
boy, and the shadows on the wall danced to the caprice of the restless
flames. We laughed heartily at the mishaps of Ish-te'-ne-ke, a comical
character that figures in the folk-tales of the Omahas, as they were
vividly portrayed in language and gesture.
Outside the wind was moaning and sighing through the trees around the
house, at times rattling the windows vigorously, as though threatening
to rush in upon us; and from the neighborhood of the graveyard came
the mournful sounds of the hooting owl.
In the back part of the school-room, where it was dark, sat the Big
Seven, carrying on an earnest conversation in low tones, as though to
exclude us from their confidence.
The leader of this "gang" was a youth of peculiar appearance and
manner. He was tall and muscular, with prominent nose and cheek-bones.
Although he took an active part in the amusements and sports of the
school, often inaugurating them himself, we never knew him to change
the expression of his face, either in pain, anger, or mirth. We five
often had talks about the peculiarities of this singular youth. Brush
said that "Aleck" (the boys addressed him by this name, for he was
called after the Macedonian conqueror) was turned outside in, that all
his laugh, anger, and sorrow were inside and couldn't be seen. Edwin
declared that the boy had ceased laughing since the killing of his
father by the Sioux, and that he was reserving his laugh for the time
when he should take revenge.
The mysterious consultation in the back part of the school-room came
to an end, and one by one the Big Seven approached the stove and
mingled with us. Aleck, who was the last, did not sit down in the
space left for him, but drew up a desk and perched on one end of it,
resting his feet on the bench where he should have sat. He leaned over,
supporting his body with his elbow on his knee, and shaded his eyes
with his hand. We could feel that for some purpose he was looking into
the faces of the Middle Five.
As the Seven took their places among us, Edwin brought his story to a
close, and we fell into silence. After a few moments Aleck cleared his
throat, and, without change of attitude, said in the Omaha language,
fearlessly breaking one of the rules of the school:
"Boys, to you of the Five I speak. There is not a 'gang' in the school
that has not its secrets. You of the Five have yours, no doubt; we
of the Seven, who now sit with you, have ours. We respect yours, and
we have every confidence that you respect ours. Ordinarily we do not
interfere with each other's affairs; but now that you have the same
privilege that we have had, and we are thrown together, we of the Seven
think that your 'gang' should unite with ours in a secret that up to
this time has been ours alone, and share in its pleasures. Are you
willing to join in it?"
"Yes," answered Brush, knowing as the rest of us did, what this secret
was; "we are willing."
"You of the Seven, are you satisfied with the answer?"
There was silence. "Then," continued the leader of the Seven, "I must
have the answer of each one of the Five."
Brush again signified his assent, and the rest of us followed. Having
arrived at a mutual understanding which awakened in each one a
fraternal feeling, there ensued among all the boys a lively chattering.
When the fervor of the friendly demonstration abated, Aleck, in his
deep voice, said, "Wa'-tha-dae shu-ge'ha!" (The Word of Command
approaches.)
Immediately there was silence, and each one held his breath
expectantly, for we recognized the ritual words of "the Leader" in the
game, "Obeying the Command," words which had been sacred to generations
of boys who had preceded us.
"Those are the very words," whispered Edwin to me; "now listen, hear
where the Command will come from, and where it will go."
"The Word of Command approaches," continued Aleck, with unmoved face;
"from the head of the Ne-shu-de [the Missouri] it comes, wrapped in
a black cloud, the mantle of thunder, like the mighty whirlwind it
comes; the great trees of the pine-clad mountains bend to its fury;
its voice echoes through the valleys, and the animals, big and little,
tremble with fear. On it comes, sweeping over the wide plains; the
angry lightnings dart from the cloud; it approaches the village of
the Ponkas, at the mouth of the Niobrara, passes it and continues its
course down the Ne-shu'-de; now it has come to the pictured rocks;
it reaches the bluffs of the Cut-lake; but on it comes, swifter and
swifter it comes; it is now at the old Omaha village, at the graves of
the little ones; it comes--it is here!"
There was a pause, and we all waited in suspense. Just then the wind
rattled the windows and the owl up in the graveyard hooted.
"George!" called the leader, in a solemn tone.
"Present!" promptly responded George in English, as though answering
Gray-beard's roll-call. A ripple of suppressed laughter spread among
the boys. Aleck, I doubt not, was giggling inside.
"Edwin!" continued the leader, in the same tone.
"Ah-ho!" said Edwin, giving the response and imitating the voice of a
grown-up and serious warrior.
"The Word of Command is before you two," continued Aleck, "the Leader;"
"and it is, that soon after Gray-beard has gone to bed you are to go
to the village and enter the house of Hae'-sha-ra-gae, where you will
see a woman making pemmican. You will say to her, 'Woman!' we are the
commanded and the bearers of the word of Command. Of you we demand a
bag of pemmican. Give willingly, and you shall go beyond the four
hills of life without stumbling; there shall be no weariness in the
pathway of life to hinder your feet, and your grandchildren shall be
many and their succession endless!' Fail not in your mission. Your way
out of the house shall be through one of the windows in our dormitory,
and by a rope."
"It is bed-time, boys, come right up," called Gray-beard, from the head
of the stairs. "See that the large doors are bolted."
When we were in bed, Gray-beard went softly downstairs, and we heard
him open his door, close it, then lock it. Some of the youngsters were
still awake, and, when they heard the closing of Gray-beard's door,
began to talk. It seemed as though they would never stop and go to
sleep, so that we could carry out the Word of Command. After a while
Aleck thought of a plan, and started a game often played by small boys
at night; he said, loud enough for the little boys to hear, "Tha'-ka!"
Brush and the rest of us repeated the word, one after the other, and
each of the wakeful little fellows, according to the rules of the game,
was obliged in his turn to utter the word, and then there was silence,
for no one can speak after he has said the word. Soon heavy breathing
among the little ones gave sign that they had entered the land of
dreams.
It was near the middle of the night when one by one the members of the
Big Seven and the Middle Five noiselessly arose. George tiptoed to a
corner and brought out a large coil of rope. We went with it to the
window directly over that of Gray-beard's bed-room. I do not know why
we selected that window, the only dangerous one in the dormitory, but
there seemed to be a fatality about it. Very softly the window was
raised; George slipped the noose at the end of the rope around his
body, then climbed through the window. Slowly we let him down the three
stories to the ground. Then we hauled the rope up again, and let Edwin
down in the same manner. We closed the window, leaving space enough for
the rope, which remained dangling.
On entering the village, the two boys were met by a pack of noisy curs
that snapped and snarled at their heels. As the dogs became bolder in
their attacks, the lads struck right and left with the heavy sticks
they carried; one dog limped away yelping, and another lay thumping his
tail on the ground, stunned.
The door of the house designated by the leader of the Big Seven
squeaked loudly on its rusty hinges as the boys swung it open without
the ceremony of knocking. A woman at work in one corner of the room
looked up at them, smiled good-naturedly, and said in a sympathetic
tone:
"Such a dark night as this! On what errand do they come, and little
White-chests, too?"
Four men were sitting on the floor around a flickering candle playing a
game; they too looked up at the sound of the door.
"Oho!" said the man of the house, who was one of the players, "for a
long time you have not entered my dwelling on a visit; I fear you will
make it rain! Walk around the stove and break the charm."
"Don't mind him," said the woman, kindly; "tell me what you want. Won't
you sit down?"
The two boys stood hesitating, then George began in a sepulchral voice,
"Woman, we are the commanded, the bearers of the Word of Command. We
come to demand of you a bag of pemmican. Give plenty--"
"Willingly," corrected Edwin, in a whisper.
"Willingly, and you shall go beyond the four hills of life
without--without--"
"Stumbling," prompted Edwin.
"Stumbling; there shall be no weariness in the pathway of life--" and
so on to the end of the ritual.
The woman clapped her hands, and shouted with laughter, as she
exclaimed, "If your cloud and lightning and thunder do all you say they
will do, they have more power than I supposed they had! Sit down and
wait a while, and I will have some pemmican ready for you."
"Did those old White-chests teach you all that?" asked the husband. "If
they did, they have been stealing the rituals of some of our priests,
and--"
"Oh, let them alone!" said the wife; "they came to see me."
"They came in without knocking on the door; that's bad luck!" the
husband continued in his banter; "before entering a house they should
knock, as the White-chests do."
"Be careful, and don't spill it!" said the wife, as she handed a bag to
George, who thanked her.
"There they come!" said one of the Seven in a loud whisper, as he felt
a tug on the rope that was tied to his arm.
We hastened out of bed, being careful not to make any noise. George and
Edwin sent the bag of pemmican first, then they were each pulled up and
safely landed.
We had built a fire in a vacant room adjoining our dormitory; into
this warm room we repaired with our bag, and sat in a circle on the
floor, Indian fashion. On a little table stood the one candle allowed
us, shedding a feeble light. Two of the boys had stolen down to the
dining-room for plates. Alexander, before whom the bag was placed,
divided the pemmican equally, while we listened to George and Edwin's
account of their adventure. The plates were passed around; I put out
my hand to help myself from my plate, when a member of the Big Seven
stopped me. "Wait," said he; "there is something more to be done."
Aleck looked up; we all became silent; then he took a tiny bit of the
pemmican, and held it toward the sky for a moment as a thank offering
to Wakonda, then placed it with great solemnity on the floor in the
centre of the circle. This done, we fell to eating, telling stories as
we feasted, and had one of the most enjoyable nights of our lives.
From time to time through the winter we had these nocturnal banquets,
taking turns in going to the village for our supplies; but misfortune
overtook us before the season was fairly over.
One dark night we had our meeting as usual, and the Word of Command
came to Lester and to Joel of the Big Seven. When the small boys had
gone to sleep, we brought out our rope and let Joel down through the
window. Then we put the noose around Lester and proceeded to lower him.
It chanced that Gray-beard had lain awake from toothache, and was at
that very moment looking through his window, the curtain of which
he had neglected to pull down when he retired, and he saw, slowly
descending outside, two dark objects; they grew longer and longer, then
they suddenly ceased to move. For an instant he felt a slight shock of
fright; but quickly recovering, he gradually made out the form of two
feet and two legs without a body. He sprang out of bed, threw open the
window, and in a severe tone demanded, "What's this! Who are you; what
are you doing?"
Lester struggled frantically to climb the rope; we tried to help him,
but a large knot caught the edge of the window-sill, and we could not
lift it over, nor could we let Lester down, for one of the Seven had
entangled his legs in the coil, and before he had extricated himself,
it was too late to save our companion.
"Who are you?" again called Gray-beard, grasping the boy by the
trousers.
"It's me, Lester," replied the lad.
Seeing that the game was up, we gently let Lester farther down, and he
entered Gray-beard's room through the window.
In the mean time one of the boys had run softly downstairs to open the
hall door for Joel, who had not been discovered.
Gray-beard woke us up in the morning at the usual hour, but of the
disturbance during the night he said nothing. At breakfast the subject
was not mentioned, although we listened with anxious expectation.
To the twelve boys who were engaged in the escapade of the night,
it seemed as though the preliminary exercises of the morning school
session would never end, so desirous were we to have the punishment,
whatever it might be, come quickly and we be rid of suspense. The last
name on the roll was called; Gray-beard slowly closed the Register, put
it in his desk, and during an impressive silence turned his eyes upon
us to scan our faces.
"Lester!" said he, at last, "you will step up to my desk, if you
please."
If there was a serious matter on hand, Gray-beard always said, "If you
please."
Notwithstanding the very polite invitation extended to him, Lester
reluctantly walked to the desk. Every eye but two, those of Alexander,
was fixed upon Gray-beard and Lester. Aleck had taken out his
writing-book and was carefully copying the example given at the head of
the page, "Honesty is the best policy." He took particular pains with
the capital H, finishing the last part with concentric circles.
"What were you doing last night," asked Gray-beard of Lester, "when I
caught you outside of my window?"
"I was going down to the ground."
"Were you running away?"
"No, sir."
"Where were you going?"
"I was going to the village."
"What were you going to the village for?"
No answer.
"Who was letting you down; some one must have held the rope in the
dormitory, who was it?"
No reply.
"If you don't answer my questions, I shall have to whip you; who else
was going with you?"
Lester looked appealingly to Brush, then to Alexander. Aleck was
writing the sentence in his book; but, when he heard Gray-beard's
threat to whip Lester, he arose without finishing the last word. All
eyes turned upon him, and there was a stir among the pupils.
"What is it, Alexander," asked Gray-beard, "what do you know about this
strange performance?"
"Lester is not to blame, sir; I made him go out of the window, and I
held the rope to let him down."
"And I helped him to do it," came from a voice in another part of the
room; it was Brush, who had silently risen; "we compelled the two--we
compelled Lester to go out of the window."
"You said there were two boys who were going out of the window, who
was the other?" asked Gray-beard, determined to find out all the
participants in the mischief.
Those of us who knew, looked toward Joel; an expression of fear stole
over his face and he anxiously awaited Brush's answer.
"I did not say that, sir," he replied; "Lester was going down alone."
Joel gave a sigh of relief.
"What made you force the boy to go out of the window; where were you
sending him?"
"We were sending him to the village."
"What were you sending him to the village for?"
"I refuse to answer," was the bold reply.
Gray-beard, seeing that there would be no use in questioning Brush,
turned to Alexander and asked, "What were you sending Lester to the
village for?"
"I was sending him to go there and return."
"Alexander, I want no foolishness; tell me what you were sending Lester
to the village for?"
"I refuse to answer."
"This abusing of smaller boys by the large ones, and making them do
things that are improper, must be stopped; it has gone far enough.
Lester, you may take your seat. Frank, take this knife and get me two
good hickory switches. Do you know a hickory-tree?"
"Yes, sir," I answered, as I took the knife. I knew every kind of
tree growing around the school, and I had a suspicion that Gray-beard
did not know the difference between a hickory sapling and some others.
I cut two formidable-looking switches of linden, closely resembling
hickory. I had time to fully doctor only one of the switches, by
driving the knife-blade deep into the wood every two or three inches.
When I entered the school-room, Gray-beard took a glance at the
switches, then said:
"Alexander and Brush will step to my desk and take off their coats."
The two boys stood in their shirt sleeves; I kept watch of Gray-beard's
eyes, and saw that he was going to take Brush first; so when he was
ready I handed him the fully doctored switch.
"Is that hickory?" he asked, trying it on the air; "I suspect it isn't."
I made no reply.
"Stand in the middle of the floor," said Gray-beard to Brush.
He did so. Gray-beard brought down the stick heavily on Brush's
shoulders, an inch of the sapling broke; then he struck faster and
faster, and at each stroke a piece flew off. Brush stood with clenched
fists, determined not to show any flinching; but we could see that he
felt keenly the blows. He went to his desk, and buried his face in his
arms.
"I am afraid this isn't hickory," said Gray-beard, throwing on the
floor the stump of the switch. "I know this one is," and he dealt
blow after blow on the broad shoulders of Alexander, who gave no sign
of pain. The boy stood unmoved, every muscle relaxed, even his hands
were open, showing no emotion whatever. The stick was worn out, and
Gray-beard threw the stump on the floor.
Aleck put on his coat, then, with head uplifted and unfaltering steps,
went to his desk, took his pen, and completed the unfinished word of
the motto.
Chapter XIV
A Rebuke
It was Saturday, a day of delight for the boys and girls of the Mission
school, for to them it was a day of rest from the toil of study, and
a visit home was permitted. On this morning the allotted chores were
performed with redoubled energy; for the sooner the tasks were done,
the earlier would be the start for home, the sooner the pleasures laid
out for the day would begin.
The boys who had finished their work and had reported to the
superintendent were already on their way to the village, shouting and
singing as they went. Edwin watered the horses, and I started the
hydraulic ram; then, having received our formal leave to go, we chased
each other up the hill toward the village, and wrestled until we came
to the place where the path branched; he took one way and I the other,
but we continued to chaff back and forth until we were out of hearing.
After greeting my father and mother, the first thing I did was to run
over to the barn and see the horses. When I had rubbed the noses of
Kushas and Hintu and the rest, and had pitched down from the loft a lot
of hay for them, I stepped over to Ka-he'-num-ba's house and looked
in at the door, which stood wide open. His wife was sitting near the
stove, quietly working on a pair of moccasins.
"Where is Ga-im'-ba-zhe?" I shouted.
"Oh! how you startled me!" she said. "Your uncle has gone to the stable
with other boys; he left word for you to go there when you came."
Hardly had she finished speaking before I was off like the wind. On
the ground by a fire sat Ga-im'-ba-zhe and the boys, all busy making
game sticks, the Indian name of which we Mission boys translated into
English as "bone slides." These were made out of willow saplings. After
cutting the stick the proper length, the bark was removed, and a narrow
strip of it wound around the peeled stick, which was then held over
the blaze of the fire until the exposed part was scorched. When the
binding was removed, the game-stick presented a mottled appearance,
something like a snake.
The brown bodies of these partly nude little savages glistened against
the sun as they worked, while the breezes played with their black
totemic locks. They were not aware of my approach until I pitched a
corn-cob into their midst, when they all threw up their heads to see
who was coming.
"Ho! Little White-chest!" exclaimed Ga-im'-ba-zhe. "Have you come home?"
"Yes, I have come home," I replied; "but I don't want you to call me
White-chest."
"Sit down," said one of the little brownies. "When we have done, we
will give you some, then you can play with us."
When the sticks were finished, I was given five or six of them. The
tallest boy led the game. He grasped the small end of the game-stick
with his right hand, bracing the top with a finger, then he took two
or three quick side-long steps and threw the stick against the ground
with all the force he could command; it bounded up and shot through the
air like an arrow. The next boy threw one of his sticks in the same
manner, and from the same place. All the others played, each in his
turn. Then one of the boys shouted, "Your turn, little White-chest.
Throw hard!"
I was familiar with the game, and by practice had acquired some skill
in throwing the sticks. I selected one that seemed to have the proper
weight and feeling, took the usual position, and crouching almost to
the earth, I threw my stick with all the force that I could muster.
We watched its flight until it touched the ground and slid along, far
beyond any stick that had been thrown.
"Woo-hoo!" exclaimed the boys, "he has beaten us all; he's won all our
sticks!"
"Kill him! kill him! He's nothing but a thieving Winnebago!" This cry
came from the west end of the village, not far from where we were
playing. Startled by the angry words, we paused in our sport, and
looked in that direction. A crowd began to gather and move along the
path that led out of the village.
"What are they doing? Let's go and see," cried Ga-im'-ba-zhe.
We all rushed forward on a keen run, and reached the crowd; there we
saw a lad, a little larger than we were, struggling to get away from a
swarm of boys and young men who were throwing stones and sticks at him.
He was a pitiful object, and why they should abuse him so was more than
we could understand. His legs and feet were bare; he carried on his arm
something that resembled a worn-out blanket, and in his hand he held
tightly a piece of bread. He belonged to the Winnebago tribe, against
whom at that time there was much prejudice among the Omahas. Mud was
thrown at him; he was pushed and jostled by the crowd, and some persons
kicked him. Slowly the boy retreated, at times stopping to look with
pleading eyes at his merciless persecutors. When he started to run,
some one threw a stick of wood before him; he struck his foot against
it and fell; then the crowd laughed.
"They are doing wrong!" exclaimed Ga-im'-ba-zhe. "They ought not to do
that!"
"I think so, too," I added; "but what can we do?"
Just then I felt a tug at my sleeve. I turned to see who it was, and
there stood the boy that did errands for my father. "Your father wants
you to come home," he said.
I was a little troubled at this, for the boy spoke in a frightened
tone. At that moment a man came up and cried in a loud voice:
"You are commanded to cease molesting the boy!"
Recognizing the speaker as a messenger coming from the chief, the
rabble dispersed in groups, like angry wolves.
My mind was uneasy as I went toward home, and I felt guilty, though I
could not understand why. As I entered the house I was ushered into
my father's presence. He was talking earnestly to a number of men who
sat on the floor smoking a pipe which they passed from hand to hand.
Among them I recognized Ka-he'-num-ba (the father of Ga-im'-ba-zhe),
Te-o'-ke-ha, Du'-ba-mo-ne, Wa-hon'-i-ge (Edwin's father), and other
prominent men of the village. My father seemed to take no notice of my
entrance, but kept on talking. When he had finished speaking, his eyes
rested on me, and after a moment's pause, he said, "Son, step to the
middle of the floor." I did so. Then in a low tone he began:
"I speak not boastfully; all who are here have known me from boyhood,
and will know what I am about to say to you is true. Even before I
grew to be your size I was left to face the difficulties of life.
I have felt the pangs of hunger and the chills of winter, but, by
ceaseless struggles, I overcame poverty and gathered about me, as I
grew to manhood, many of the things that make life bearable; yet I
did not cease to struggle. I have won honors and position among our
people, and the respect of the tribes having friendly relations with
us. Success has attended me; but, remembering my early struggles, I
suppressed vanity, and gave help to the poor. When journeying with my
people, if I saw any of them weary and footsore, I gave them horses,
and sent them away singing for joy. The stranger who entered my door
never left it hungry. No one can accuse me of having tormented with
abuse the poverty-stricken man. Early I sought the society of those who
knew the teaching of the chiefs. From them I learned that kindness and
hospitality win the love of a people. I culled from their teachings
their noblest thoughts, and treasured them, and they have been my
guide. You came into existence, and have reached the age when you
should seek for knowledge. That you might profit by the teachings of
your own people and that of the white race, and that you might avoid
the misery which accompanies ignorance, I placed you in the House of
Teaching of the White-chests, who are said to be wise and to have in
their books the utterances of great and learned men. I had treasured
the hope that you would seek to know the good deeds done by men of
your own race, and by men of the white race, that you would follow
their example and take pleasure in doing the things that are noble and
helpful to those around you. Am I to be disappointed?"
As his talk progressed, he grew eloquent, and louder and louder became
his tones. My eyes were riveted upon him. In every feature of his
handsome face there was reflected a mind, a will, a determination that
nothing could break. He arose to his feet and continued, pointing his
finger at me:
"Only to-day there crept to the door of my house a poor boy driven
thither by hunger; he was given food by my command. Having satisfied
for the time being his craving, he went away happy. Hardly had he left
the village, when a rabble gathered about him and persecuted him. They
threw mud at him, pointed at him their fingers in derision, and laughed
rudely at his poverty, and you, a son of E-sta'-ma-za, joined the
tormentors and smiled at the poor boy's tears."
I winced at this accusation. He could accuse me of almost anything; but
of this I was not guilty. A hesitating small voice at the door said,
"He did not join them!" It was the little boy that came after me who
spoke. I was grateful for this defence, but, as though he had not heard
it, my father continued.
"By your presence you aided and encouraged those wicked boys. He who
is present at a wrong-doing, and lifts not a hand to prevent it, is
as guilty as the wrongdoers. The persecution of the poor, the sneer at
their poverty is a wrong for which no punishment is too severe. I have
finished. Go, and think of my words."
Those at the door made way for me; I passed out and entered my mother's
room. She looked up at me with a kindly smile; but I flung myself down
on her bed, buried my face in the pillows, sobbing. My mother did not
speak, but went on with her work. When I had regained my composure,
she bade me come and sit beside her. I did so. She put an arm around
me, and said in a caressing tone, "What is it that makes my little boy
cry?" I told her. She sat in silence for a while, and then spoke:
"Your father is right; you must be guided by his words. You had a
chance to do good; you let it slip away from you. That poor boy came
and sat at the door, the humblest place in your house; he did not
beg, but the eyes he turned upon your father and on me told a tale of
suffering. At your father's bidding, I placed food with my own hands
before the boy; when he had finished eating he arose without a word
and, taking with him what was left of the food, he went out, giving me
a look that bespoke his gratitude. My boy must learn to be good and
kind. When you see a boy barefooted and lame, take off your moccasins
and give them to him. When you see a boy hungry, bring him to your home
and give him food."
The mild words and the gentle touch of her hand were like ointment to
my wounds. When she had finished speaking, I put my arms around her
neck and kissed her.
On my way back to the Mission I saw a lad standing at the fork of the
paths. It was little Bob. "Come, hurry!" he said; "I've been waiting
for you." Together we returned to the school.
After supper I went out and lay on the grass, looking up into the blue
sky, thinking. Twilight came, then darkness. A bell rang, and all the
boys went upstairs to bed. I followed. We knelt by our beds; Gray-beard
rapped on the banister with his penknife; when there was silence, he
said slowly, and in a low tone, "Our Father who art in heaven, Hallowed
be Thy name." We repeated with him this prayer that was taught over a
thousand years ago. The tardy ones with labored breathing cut almost
every word; but I repeated them carefully, and, although I had said
them a hundred times before, now, for the first time since I had been
in the school, I began to wonder what they meant.
Lester, Edwin, and I got into bed; my place was in the middle.
"Frank, what makes you so quiet?" asked Lester, nudging me with his
elbow.
Before I could answer Edwin began tugging at the sheet, saying,
"Lester, you've too much sheet over there!"
They both pulled the bedcovers and kicked at each other good-naturedly
for a while, and then quieted down. I received some of the kicks too,
but did not join in the fun. There was silence for a time, and then
Edwin said, "Say, boys, I've been feeling bad this afternoon. When I
got home from the river, my father scolded me like everything. He said
something about my being with some boys who teased a poor Winnebago
boy, and he talked to me a long time. He never give me chance to say
I didn't see a Winnebago boy to-day; I was all the morning down to the
river swimming. I couldn't understand it, and I don't now. Say, Frank,
does your father scold you sometimes?"
"Edwin, tell us a story," I said.
"Do!" exclaimed the other boys. "Tell us a story."
Chapter XV
Joe
It was recess. The laughter and shouts of the boys, as they chased
each other and wrestled, mingled with the song of the wren and other
birds that inhabited the woods surrounding the school. Not less merry
or boisterous were the laughter and calls of the girls, although
their territory for play was limited and fenced in, to keep them from
too free a communication with the rougher sex. Study and work were
forgotten, and every boy and girl romped in the sunshine, and the
atmosphere around seemed to be alive with happiness.
Suddenly the boys began to gather curiously around two objects upon
the ground. The girls, seeing this unusual stir, came running to their
fence, climbed up as far as they dared, and asked the nearest boys what
it was that attracted so large a crowd.
It was a pitiful scene,--there, sitting on the green grass, was a
crippled old woman of about seventy or eighty years, speaking in the
kindest and gentlest of tones, with inflections of the voice hard to
describe, but which brought to one's mind the twittering of a mother
bird to its young, and passing her crooked fingers and wrinkled hands
over the brown back of a miserable, naked, little boy who was digging
his chubby fists in his eyes to squeeze away the tears that flowed
incessantly.
"Don't cry! my little grandson," she was saying; "don't cry! These
White-chests are kind; they will clothe and feed you. I can no longer
take care of you, so I must give you to them. See these boys, what nice
caps and coats and pants they have! You will have these things, too,
and you will have plenty to eat. The White-chests will be good to you;
I will come and see you very often. Don't cry!"
But the boy cried all the harder, twisting his fists into his eyes, and
the old woman continued her caressing twittering.
The bell rang, and there was a rush for the school-room. When the hard
breathing, coughing, and shuffling into position at the desks had
ceased, the door was gently pushed open, and the old woman entered,
tenderly urging the unwilling little brown body forward into the room,
still weeping. Addressing Gray-beard, who was watching the scene with a
queer smile on his lips, the old woman said:
"I have brought my little boy to give him to the White-chests to raise
and to educate. On account of my age and feebleness, I am no longer
able to care for him. I give him to you, and I beg that he be kindly
treated. That is all I ask."
Without waiting for an answer, the poor creature, with tears streaming
down her furrowed cheeks, limped out of the room, making a cheerless
clatter with her heavy stick as she moved away. The little boy,
recovering from his bewilderment, turned to see if his grandmother was
still near by, and, finding that she had gone, gave a piteous wail, and
fell to the floor, sobbing violently.
Who was this wretched little boy? He was his mother's son, that's all.
He had no father, that is, none to caress and fondle him as other
boys had. A man had presented the name of the boy to the Agent to be
entered on the annuity rolls, only to that selfish extent recognizing
the lad as his son.
The mother died while the child still needed her tender care, and the
little one was left all alone in this great world that plays with the
fortunes of men and nations. The place of death was in a dreary little
tent, the rags of which flapped and fluttered in the force of the
merciless winds, as though in sympathy with the melancholy situation.
No loving husband or father was there to prepare the body for its last
resting-place, and to give the helpless babe the nourishment for which
it cried. Not even a relative was there; the dead woman had none among
the people; she belonged to another tribe.
As the mother lay an unburied corpse, and her child wailing, a figure
bent with age was plodding by. It was an old woman; slowly she put
her heavy stick forward, then took a step, as though measuring every
movement. When she came near the tent, she stopped, for the distressing
wail had pierced her ears. She raised her trembling hand to her brow,
looked up to the tent, then to the surroundings. The wailing went on,
and the decrepit old woman hastened toward the tent as fast as she was
able to go, and entered. For a moment she stood still, contemplating
the scene before her, then from the fountains of her tender heart arose
tears, impelled not by the sympathy that naturally springs from the
love of friend or kindred, but by that nobler and higher feeling which
lifts one toward God,--the sympathy for human kind.
Thus it was that this kind-hearted old woman took the homeless little
child to her tent and cared for him. The two were inseparable until
the grandmother, as she was called by the boy, felt that she was fast
approaching the time when she would be summoned to join her fathers in
the spirit-land; so, to provide for the child's future, she had brought
him to the school.
The naming of a new pupil was usually an occasion for much merriment,
but this time there was no enthusiasm. The school seemed to be in
sympathy with the grandmother who went away weeping. Instead of raising
their hands, as was their wont, to suggest names, they sought to hide
their feeling by poring over their books.
"Come," said Gray-beard, "we must have a name for this youngster. Be
quick and suggest one."
There was no response. Finally a big boy, who was busy over his
lessons, said without lifting his head, "Call him Joseph."
So Gray-beard entered that name on the school Register.
Joe, as he was called by the boys, grew rapidly, but the helplessness
of infancy clung to him. Because he could not fight, he became the
butt of every trick a school-boy could devise, and there was no one
who would do battle for him. If a big boy looked hard at him he would
howl, and if one of his size rushed at him threateningly, he would
shrink with fear. He was incapable of creating any mischief, yet he was
continually stumbling into scrapes.
One sultry afternoon as I was sitting in the shade of the walnut tree
in front of the school, busy making a sling for Bob out of an old
shoe, Joe came up to us, and dropped on his hands and knees. With the
greatest interest he watched me cut the leather into a diamond shape;
after a while he ventured to ask, "What yer makin'?"
"Wait and see," I answered, and went on working. When I had finished
the sling-strap or pocket, I cut from the lappets of my buckskin
moccasin two strings, making a noose at the end of one, and then
fastened both strings to the sling-strap. Although I did not say
anything about it, I had determined to make one for Joe as soon as I
had shown Bob how to use the sling. He tried to find out from Bob what
I was making; but that little chap would not speak to him.
When the sling was finished, I told Bob to gather some rusty nails and
pebbles. He was off with a jump, and returned with a good supply in an
amazingly short time. Joe still sat watching, with eyes and mouth wide
open. I put a nail in the sling-strap, and, to show Bob how to use the
sling, swung it around three or four times, then threw out my arm with
force, letting one end of the string slip, and the nail sped on its way
through the air, singing. Bob clapped his hands with delight.
A crow was flying lazily over head, croaking as he went. I sent a stone
whizzing up to him; it barely missed his head, and he turned a complete
somersault in the air, to our great amusement.
"I'm goin' to make one too!" said Joe, suddenly rising and hunting
around for materials.
I paid no attention to him, but went on teaching Bob how to throw
stones with the sling, little thinking that we were drifting toward an
incident which gave Joe much pain temporarily and left an impression
on my immature mind unfavorable to the White-chests which lasted many,
many years.
"Mine's done!" exclaimed Joe, holding up a sling he had made out of
rotten rags.
"Don't use it," I made haste to say, "and I'll make you a good one."
He paid no heed to my words, but went on trying to balance stones in
the old piece of rag. The stones dropped before he could swing the
sling and throw them. Bob kept me busy throwing stones for him, for he
was afraid of hitting the boys who were on the hillside near by playing
tag, or of sending a pebble over the fence, where the girls were
singing and chatting over some of their games.
"Look now, look!" cried Joe. I turned to see what he was doing. He had
succeeded in balancing a clod of earth nearly as large as his head in
the rag sling, and was about to swing it.
Just at this moment Gray-beard came out of the carpenter's shop and,
shading his eyes with a newspaper, he called loudly to one of the boys
who was playing tag, "Ulysees! Ulysees!" He inflated his lungs to call
for the third time, and with greater volume of voice. Joe had swung
the clod of earth around for the second time, and it was half way up
for the third round when the string broke; released from its holdings,
the clod flew into the air, revolving, and dropping loose particles as
it went. I held my breath as I watched it, for I saw just where it was
going to strike.
In throwing a stone at some object, I used to imagine that by keeping a
steady eye on the stone and bending my body in the direction I desired
it to go, I could make the missile reach the place aimed at. In this
instance, although I did not throw the clod, I unconsciously bent my
body sidewise, keeping my eyes steadily on the lump of earth to draw it
away from the spot for which it was making. The two other boys watched
with frightened faces.
Gray-beard, with head thrown back, lips parted, and chest expanded,
called, "Uly--!" when the diminutive planet, which I was trying to
guide by my force of will, struck him in the chest, and burst in a
thousand bits. For a moment there was coughing and sputtering; then
Gray-beard drew out his handkerchief, dusted his beard, and his white
shirt front. He looked around to see where the missile that struck him
came from. I wished that we three could sink into the earth, or else
turn into nothing, as Gray-beard's eyes rested upon us.
"Come here!" he demanded with a vigorous gesture. Like so many guilty
curs we walked up to him.
"Which one of you did it?" he cried, grasping me by the collar and
shaking me until my teeth chattered.
Joe cringed and cried; it was a confession. I was about to say, "he
didn't mean to do it;" when the infuriated man turned, went into the
shop, and in a moment came back with a piece of board.
"Hold out your hand!" he said, addressing the shrinking boy.
Joe timidly held out his left hand, keeping his eyes all the while on
the uplifted board, which came down with force, but not on the little
hand that had been withdrawn to escape the blow. Gray-beard sprang
at the boy, caught his hand, and attempted to strike it; but the boy
pulled away and the board fell with a vicious thud on the wrist of the
man, who now turned white with rage. Catching a firm grip on the hand
of the boy, Gray-beard dealt blow after blow on the visibly swelling
hand. The man seemed to lose all self-control, gritting his teeth and
breathing heavily, while the child writhed with pain, turned blue, and
lost his breath.
It was a horrible sight. The scene in the school-room when the naked
little boy was first brought there by the old woman rose before me; I
heard the words of the grandmother as she gave the boy to Gray-beard,
"I beg that he be kindly treated; that is all I ask!" And she had told
the child that the White-chests would be kind to him.
Poor Joe, I did what I never would have done if a boy of his own size
had thrashed him, I took him by the hand and tried to comfort him, and
cared for his bruises.
As for Gray-beard, I did not care in the least about the violent
shaking he had given me; but the vengeful way in which he fell upon
that innocent boy created in my heart a hatred that was hard to conquer.
The day was spoiled for me; I partly blamed myself for it, though my
plans had been to make the two little boys happy, but misery came
instead. After supper I slipped away from my companions, and all alone
I lay on the grass looking up at the stars, thinking of what had
happened that afternoon. I tried to reconcile the act of Gray-beard
with the teachings of the Missionaries, but I could not do so from any
point of view.
All the boys had come together in the yard, and some one called out,
"Let's play pull." So they divided into two groups, grading each
according to the size of the boys. Two of the strongest were selected,
one from each side; they held a stout stick between them, then on
each side the boys grasped each other around the waist. When all were
ready, they began to pull, every boy crying, "Hue! Hue!" as he tugged
and strained. In the dusk the contending lines looked like two great
dark beasts tearing at each other and lashing their tails from side
to side. Bob and Joe were at the very end of one side; Bob had tied a
bit of rope around his waist, and Joe had hold of that with his only
serviceable hand. The pulling lasted for quite a while; finally one
side drew the other over the mark; the game ended, and the boys noisily
disbanded.
"Frank! Frank!" I heard; it was Edwin and the rest of the "gang."
"Here I am," I called out, and they gathered around me.
"Joe's hand is awful swelled up," said Bob, as he threw himself down
on the grass.
"What's the matter with him?" asked Warren.
"Gray-beard beat Joe's hand like everything; he was so mad I thought
he'd kill the boy." Then I recounted the scene, adding, "I can't think
of anything else; it was awful!"
"Did he do anything to you?" asked Edwin.
"He shook me right hard when he asked me who did it; but when he saw
Joe crying he knew who it was; then he let go of me and whipped him."
Brush had been listening to my story without a word; now he arose and
said, "Boys, stay here till I come back."
He went into the house and knocked at the superintendent's door.
"I'm glad to see you Brush," said the superintendent, kindly. "Have you
finished the book, and do you want another?"
"No, sir; I wish to speak to you about something that happened to-day,
which I don't think is quite right, and I thought you ought to know
about it." Then he told in a simple straightforward manner the story of
Joe's punishment.
When Brush had finished, the superintendent sent for Gray-beard. For
a long time the two men talked earnestly together. At length Brush
returned, and said, as he took his seat among us:
"Boys, that will not happen again. Gray-beard says he's sorry he did
it, and I believe him."
Chapter XVI
The Break
"Brush! Brush! Brush!" I ran calling one morning soon after breakfast,
down to the barn, to the spring, and back to the house, but I could not
find the boy; then I thrust my fingers into my mouth and blew a loud
robin call, and the answer came from under a tree up on the hillside. I
ran hurriedly to the place; there lay Brush in the shade on the green
grass reading.
The occasion of this excited search and call was the announcement by
the superintendent that the school would be closed that day, and the
children dismissed, so that they might go and see their parents, it
being reported by an Indian who had come for his little girl that the
people had just returned from the hunt.
"I been everywhere trying to find you," I said to Brush. "My folks have
come home. Put that old book away and come go with me to see them.
There isn't going to be any school to-day."
"Frank, it's right good of you to ask me, but I don't feel very well; I
think I better not go," he replied, in a tone of disappointment. "All
my bones ache, and I don't know what's the matter with me; but you go
'long, boy, and have a good time; you can tell me all about your visit
when you come back."
"I'm sorry you can't go, Brush; but I'll come back soon and bring you
some buffalo meat," I said, starting to go; "you better think about it
again and come."
"I think I better stay home and be quiet," he answered, opening his
book.
I spent all the forenoon with my parents, and in the afternoon I went
in search of some of my village playmates. I found a number of them on
the hillside shooting with their bows and arrows. They gave me a noisy
welcome in mock English, which made me laugh heartily; then I had to
wrestle with one or two of them, and when our peculiar greetings were
over, the boys resumed their play, in which they let me join, one of
them lending me his bow and arrows.
Our shooting from mark to mark, from one prominent object to another,
brought us to a high hill overlooking the ripe fields of corn on the
wide bottom below, along the gray Missouri. Here and there among the
patches of maize arose little curls of blue smoke, while men and women
moved about in their gayly-colored costumes among the broad green
leaves of the corn; some, bending under great loads on their backs,
were plodding their way laboriously to the fires whence arose the
pretty wreaths of smoke.
"They're making sweet corn," exclaimed one of the youngsters whose
little naked brown back glinted against the afternoon sun, and he
pointed to the workers in the field.
As we stood watching the busy, picturesque scene below us, one little
fellow held his bow close to his ear and began strumming on the string,
then all the rest played on their bows in the same manner, until one of
them suddenly broke into a victory song, in which the others joined.
At the close of the song they gave me a graphic description of the
attack on the camp when it was pitched on the Republican river.
Although the enemy was repulsed, and the hunting ground secured to our
people, the battle cost many lives, several of the enemy's warriors
were left on the field, and the Omahas lost some of their bravest men.
While yet the boys were telling of the thrilling incidents of the
battle, we arose with a sudden impulse and rushed down the hill
with loud war-cries, as though attacking the foe, the tall grass
snapping against our moccasined feet as we sped along. We were rapidly
approaching a house which stood alone, when one of the older boys who
was running ahead suddenly stopped and raised his hand as though to
command silence. Immediately our shouts ceased, and, seeing the serious
look on the lad's face, "What is it?" we asked in frightened tones as
we gathered about him.
Without a word he pointed to a woman who was cutting the tall sunflower
stalks that had almost hidden her little dwelling with their golden
blossoms. Her long black hair flowed over her shoulders unbraided, a
sign of mourning. Now and again she would pause in her work to look
up at the humble home and utter sighs and sobs that told a tale of
sorrow. Mingled with these outpourings of grief came often the words,
"My husband! my little child!" with terms of endearment and tenderness
for which I can find no equivalent in English. On a blanket spread over
the ground near by sat a tot of a child babbling to itself and making
the beheaded sunflowers kiss each other, innocently oblivious of its
mother's grief. It was a sad home-coming for the woman; the spirit of
her husband had fled to the dark clouds of the west to join the host
of warriors who had died on the field of battle, and his bones lay
bleaching in the sands of a far-off country.
"It is Gre-don-ste-win weeping for her husband who was killed in the
battle last summer," whispered the big boy; "let us go away quietly."
When we had withdrawn to a distance where we were sure our noise would
not disturb the mourner, one of the boys called out, "Let's play
Oo-hae'ba-shon-shon!" (Tortuous path). Years after I learned that this
game was played by the children of the white people, and that they
called it, "Follow my leader."
We graded ourselves according to size, the biggest boy at the head as
leader. Each one took hold of the belt of the boy in front of him, and
then we started off at a rapid jog-trot, keeping time to this little
song which we sang at the top of our voices.
[Music: CHILDREN'S SONG
"FOLLOW MY LEADER."
Yo hay yo ae ha ra o ha.
Ya hay yo ae yo ha o ha.]
Whatever the leader did, all were bound to do likewise. If he touched
a post, we touched it too; if he kicked the side of a tent, all of us
kicked it; so on we went, winding around the dwellings, in and out
of vacant lodges, through mud puddles and queer, almost inaccessible
places, and even entering the village, where we made the place ring
with our song.
At last, tired out, the boys broke line and scattered to their homes.
It was then that I suddenly realized the lateness of the hour, and
remembered my promise to Brush. I ran to the house, took a hurried
leave of my parents, picked up the package of buffalo meat my mother
had prepared for my schoolmate, and fairly flew over the hill between
the village and the Mission.
As I came running down the hill to the school I saw Lester, Warren, and
Edwin sitting in a row on the fence.
"Hello!" I shouted, "what you sitting on that fence for, like a lot of
little crows?"
No answer came, nor did the boys move. I began to wonder if they were
displeased with me, although I could not think of anything I had done
to give them offence. As I drew near, I noticed that the expression
on their faces indicated alarm rather than displeasure, and, becoming
anxious in my turn, I hurriedly asked, "What's the matter; what's
happened; where's Brush?"
The boys looked at one another, then at me; finally Lester replied,
almost with a sob, "Brush is awful sick; he's been raising blood; they
sent for the Doctor."
"Where is he? I must go see him," I said, springing over the fence, and
starting toward the house.
"He's in that little room next the girls' play-room; but they won't let
anybody see him," said Warren.
I went to the room in which Brush lay, and knocked very gently on the
door. There was a rustling movement inside, then the door slowly opened
and one of the lady teachers stood before me.
"What is it, Frank?" she asked in a low tone.
I tried to look over her shoulder to see the bed, but she was too tall
"I want to see Brush; can't I see him? They say he is sick. I want to
see him a moment," I pleaded. "I'm just come back from the village, and
brought some buffalo meat I promised him."
"No, Frank, you cannot see him," was the reply. "He is very sick. The
superintendent is with him trying to relieve his suffering. Run away
now," said the lady, stroking my bare head with her small hand. "Don't
make any noise, and tell the rest of the boys to be very quiet."
I went away reproaching myself for not coming back from the village
soon, as I told Brush I would. When I rejoined the boys, they looked
anxiously into my face, and Edwin asked, "Did you see him?"
"No, they would not let me." After a pause, I asked, "When did he get
sick; who was with him?"
"It was under the walnut-tree," said Lester; "he was reading to us
about Joseph, out of his little black Bible he always carries. He began
to cough hard and choke; he dropped the book all covered with blood,
and took hold of my brother's arm. I ran to tell the superintendent.
Just as they carried Brush into the house, Edwin came back and we told
him about it."
In the evening, after the small boys had gone to bed, the' doctor came,
a tall gray-haired man. At the gate he was met by the superintendent,
and the two walked slowly up the steps, talking earnestly. We four had
been watching for the doctor on the porch; as he came along we caught
now and then a word, but we did not understand its meaning. We judged
by the shaking of the doctor's head that he thought Brush's case was
serious.
Days passed; the doctor came and went; yet Brush's door was closed
to us, nor had we any hopeful news of him. We missed him sadly; we
missed his whittling, his harmless scolding; and our play was only
half-hearted.
Indians who came to the school on business missed his ready offer of
help. There was no one to take his place; no one who could interpret
for them as well as he. Each one, as he went away, left a word of cheer
for the lad, with expressions of hope for his recovery.
As school was dismissed one afternoon, the teacher gave special
injunctions to the scholars not to make any noise as they passed out,
or while moving about the house, so as not to disturb the sick boy. We
four strolled toward the spring. Frost had come, and the leaves were
beginning to turn red and yellow. Wild geese flew noisily overhead,
fleeing from the coming winter to sunnier climes. While we were
counting, as we often did, the gray birds, floating through the air
like a great V, Warren suddenly exclaimed, "Say, boys, plums!"
We looked at him inquiringly. "Let's go get plums for Brush!" he
continued excitedly. Then we remembered that we had pre-empted a small
grove of choice plum bushes at the head of the ravine, as against all
the boys of the school, and acquired a right in it which even the Big
Seven respected.
Edwin ran to the kitchen and borrowed from one of the cooks a small tin
pail. We hurried to our orchard, where we saw no signs of trespass;
the bushes were laden with beautiful ripe fruit. We filled the little
pail with the choicest, then each one picked for himself. It was nearly
supper-time when we appeared at Brush's door. The three boys looked at
me; so I tapped very gently, and the teacher who was nursing the sick
boy opened the door.
"We've brought some plums for Brush," I said, offering the tin pail.
"That's very nice," said the lady, softly; "I will give them to him."
She was about to close the door, when I whispered, "Can we take just a
little look at him?"
"Yes," she answered, throwing the door open.
We four leaned forward and looked in. A smile lit up Brush's face as he
saw us. "How are you now?" I asked, in a loud whisper.
"I'm all right," he whispered back, although his hollow eyes and cheeks
told a tale that stole away all our hopes. We withdrew, and the door
was slowly closed.
Next morning as I was coming down from the dormitory I paused at
Brush's door to listen. I heard footsteps moving about softly, then
the door opened and one of the big girls came out with a white pitcher
in her hand. I started to go on downstairs, when she called to me in
a whisper, "Frank, go down to the spring and get some fresh water for
Brush, will you, that's a good boy?"
I took the pitcher and went quietly downstairs. As soon as I was
outside the yard, I ran as hard as I could to the spring, glad at the
prospect of a chance to see my friend again. Warren and Lester met me
as I was coming up the hill.
"Did you see him?" one of them asked.
"No, but I'm going to," I answered.
"Ask him if we can do anything for him?" said Lester.
Just as I reached the head of the stairs the same big girl appeared. I
handed her the pitcher; she took it and was about to enter the room,
when I caught her arm. "Just let me take a look at Brush, will you?" I
whispered.
"No, Frank, I can't. Superintendent says to let nobody in."
I heard a cough, then a feeble voice say pleadingly, "Maria, let him
in, just a minute!"
The girl looked cautiously around, then said to me, "Come, but don't
let anybody see you. Don't stay long, be quick!"
I stepped in, and a thin hand was stretched out to receive me. "I can't
talk much, I'm so weak," said Brush. Overcome with emotion, I could
not speak but stood holding his hot hand. The girl at the door moved
uneasily.
"Tell the boys I'm all right," said Brush. "They mustn't worry. Come
nearer." I bent over him and he whispered, "To-night, when everybody is
asleep, come down and see me. I want to talk to you when I'm alone."
As night came on we four sat under the walnut-tree watching Brush's
window. A candle was lit, then the curtain was drawn. Below in the
dining-room, the large girls moved quietly to and fro, busy with their
evening work. When this was finished, they gathered at the door, and
softly sang that beautiful hymn, "Nearer my God to Thee." We joined in
the chorus, the wind waiting the words to the broad skies. The singing
came to a close; the dining-room lights were put out, and we were
called to bed.
As we knelt by the side of our beds to repeat the Lord's prayer, I
could not keep back the tears that came, thinking of the emaciated
little form that I was to see once more that night.
One by one the boys fell asleep, and I alone, among the forty or fifty
in that big room, remained awake. The clock down in Gray-beard's room
struck eleven; the only sounds that came to my ears were those of the
heavy breathing of the boys, the soughing of the wind through the
trees, the rushing of the waters in the river, and now and then the
calls of the wild geese, migrating in the night.
The clock struck the hour of twelve; I sat up listening. There was a
stir and the sound of a voice that startled me. It was only Warren
moving and talking in his sleep. I went stealthily to the head of
the stairs, then listened again. I could only hear the throbbing of
my heart, and the rasping pulsations in my ears. After a pause which
seemed interminable, I put one foot down the first step, the board
sprang under my weight, and creaked. Again I paused to listen; there
was no stir, and I went on. Every little sound in the stillness of the
night seemed exaggerated, and I was often startled, but I went on and
reached the door of Brush's room. I scratched the panel three times.
There was a movement within, and a slight cough. Slowly I turned the
knob and opened the door. I entered, closed the door, but left it
unlatched.
A candle stood burning in the midst of a number of bottles on a little
table near the head of the bed. I knelt by the bedside, and Brush
put his arm around my neck. We were silent for a while, finally he
whispered in the Omaha tongue:
"I'm glad you came; I've been wanting to talk to you. They tell me I am
better; but I know I am dying."
Oppressed with ominous dread, I cried out, interrupting him, "Don't say
that! Oh, don't say that!"
But he went on, "You mustn't be troubled; I'm all right; I'm not
afraid; I know God will take care of me. I have wanted to stay with you
boys, but I can't. You've all been good to me. My strength is going, I
must hurry,--tell the boys I want them to learn; I know you will, but
the other boys don't care. I want them to learn, and to think. You'll
tell them, won't you?"
He slipped his hand under the pillow, brought out his broken-bladed
jack-knife, and put it in my hand, then said, "I wish I had something
to give to each one of the boys before I go. I have nothing in the
world but this knife. I love all of you; but you understand me, so I
give it to you. That's all. Let me rest a little, then you must go."
After a moment's stillness the door opened very gently, and the floor
near it creaked as though there were footsteps. A breath of wind came
and moved the flickering flame of the candle round and round. The
boy stared fixedly through the vacant doorway. There was something
strange and unnatural in his look as, with one arm still around me, he
stretched the other toward the door, and, in a loud whisper, said, "My
grandfather! He calls me. I'm coming, I'm coming!"
There was a sound as of a movement around the room; Brush's eyes
followed it until they again rested upon the open door, which swung to
with a soft click; then he closed his eyes.
I crept closer to the sick boy; I was quivering with fear. Brush
opened his eyes again, he had felt me trembling. "Are you cold?" he
asked.
Just then I heard footsteps in the girls' play-room; this time they
were real; Brush heard them too.
"Superintendent," he said with an effort.
When I crept into my bed the clock below struck one. For a long while
I lay awake. I could hear noises downstairs, Gray-beard's door open
and close, and the door of Brush's room. I heard a window raised, then
everything became still.
We did not know how fondly we were attached to Brush, how truly he had
been our leader, until we four, left alone, lingered around his grave
in the shadowy darkness of night, each one reluctant to leave.
The Mission bell rang for evening service, and with slow steps we moved
toward the school--no longer "The Middle Five."
End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of The Middle Five: Indian Boys at School, by
Francis La Flesche
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