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ALEX POSEY, THE CREEK INDIAN POET 
 
 THE POEMS 
 
 OF 
 
 gllexanber Hatoreme 
 
 COLLECTED AND ARRANGED 
 BY 
 
 MRS. MINNIE H. POSEY 
 
 WITH A MEMOIR 
 BY 
 
 WILLIAM ELSEY CONNELLEY 
 
 Author of " Wyandot Folk-Lore," " The Ingalls Memorial Volume, 
 " Quantrill and the Border Wars," etc. 
 
 Crane & Company, Printers 
 
 Topeka, Kansas 
 
 iqio 
 

 Copyright 1910, 
 
 By Crane & Company, 
 
 Topeka, Kan. 
 
 ©CI.A273340 
 

 
 MEMOIR 
 
 OF 
 
 2Hexanfcer Hatorence 
 
MEMOIR 
 
 OF 
 
 gjlexanfcer Hafoxzutz iJogep 
 
 i. 
 
 Alexander Lawrence Posey was a Creek 
 Indian. 
 
 He was a poet of the first order, a humorist, 
 a philosopher, a man of affairs. He achieved 
 fame as an English- Indian dialect writer and 
 journalist. He was the leading man of the 
 Creeks and the one great man produced by 
 the Confederacy known as the Five Civilized 
 Tribes. 
 
 Posey was born in what is now Mcintosh 
 County, Oklahoma, eight miles west of Eu- 
 faula, August 3, 1873. He was accidentally 
 drowned in the North Canadian river, near 
 Eufaula, May 27, 1908. 
 
ALEX POSEY, THE CREEK INDIAN POET 
 
 Posey's father was Lewis H. Posey, a 
 Scotch-Irish native of the Indian Territory, 
 who claimed to be one-sixteenth Creek blood. 
 The elder Posey was born in the Creek coun- 
 try about the year 1841, and, his parents 
 having died when he was a child, he was 
 reared by a Creek woman who lived near Fort 
 Gibson. It is quite probable that he had no 
 Indian blood, for his children are officially 
 enrolled as of half Creek blood by the Dawes 
 Commission. His parents wandered into the 
 Creek country from Texas, and little is now 
 known of them. He was a jolly, mirth-loving 
 man, who never lost an opportunity to per- 
 petrate a practical joke. For some time he 
 was a Deputy U. S. Marshal at Fort Smith. 
 After his marriage to a Creek girl he estab- 
 lished himself on a large ranch at Bald Hill, 
 up the Canadian some eight miles west of 
 Eufaula, where he lived until his death. He 
 is said to have been the only white man of 
 
ALEX POSEY, THE CREEK INDIAN POET 
 
 his time who could speak the Creek language 
 perfectly. He attended a school taught by 
 one Lewis Robertson, and there learned to 
 read and write English, and he secured some 
 knowledge of arithmetic. He is said to have 
 been rather unruly at school, and it is re- 
 lated that when Robertson went away to get 
 married he left his school in charge of Mrs. 
 Mary Herod. She found it necessary to bring 
 Posey up to the front and seat him where she 
 could have an eye on him all the time, it be- 
 ing otherwise impossible to maintain any 
 semblance of order in the school. 
 
 The mother of the poet is still living. She 
 is the daughter of Pohos Harjo, but her Eng- 
 lish name was Nancy Phillips. She is a Creek 
 of full and pure blood. She belongs to the 
 Wind Clan, the strongest clan of the Creeks, 
 and is a member of the Tuskegee Town or 
 Band of the Muskogee Nation. She was 
 married to Lewis H. Posey about October, 
 
ALEX POSEY, THE CREEK INDIAN POET 
 
 1872, when but fifteen years old. Her famous 
 son was born when she was in her seventeenth 
 year. 
 
 The Harjo family is noted as one of big 
 warriors, and is the oldest of the Muskogees 
 or Creeks. It was also the largest as far back 
 as we have any knowledge of this people, the 
 tribal census of 1832 showing almost one- 
 fourth of the tribe as members of it. This 
 proportion diminished up to the time of mak- 
 ing the final rolls, but even these show the 
 family to be very large. 
 
 It is recorded of Mrs. Posey that she was 
 a devoted mother, as most Indian women are. 
 She gave her whole time to the comfort of her 
 family, and saw to it that her children had at 
 all times an abundance of wholesome food. 
 If there was little left from the midday meal 
 she would often bake an extra pan of bread, 
 that they might have all they wished to eat 
 until supper was served. She was a tidy 
 
ALEX POSEY, THE CREEK INDIAN POET 
 
 housekeeper, and the dirt supposed to be in- 
 digenous to an Indian dwelling was not to be 
 found in her home. She was careful of her 
 personal appearance, and had the Indian fond- 
 ness for decided colors. In hot weather she 
 would frequently put cold water on her head 
 and the heads of her children, believing it a 
 protection from extreme heat. She is a very 
 sincere and devout Christian and a member 
 of the Baptist Church. Once she was in the 
 house of a white woman who was dying, and 
 who requested that some one should pray for 
 her. Mrs. Posey offered the prayer, speaking 
 in her own tongue, and those present always 
 remembered the earnestness and eloquence of 
 her appeal for the dying woman. 
 
 Concerning his parents I find this written 
 by Posey: 
 
 "I was born near Eufaula, in the Creek 
 Nation, Indian Territory, August 3, 1873. 
 Both my parents were Creek Indians, but 
 
ALEX POSEY, THE CREEK INDIAN POET 
 
 they belonged to different clans, my father 
 being a Broken Arrow, and my mother a 
 Tuskegee. My father also possessed a per- 
 centage of Scotch-Irish blood, but my mother 
 is a pure-blood Creek Indian. My grand- 
 parents came from Alabama, the former home 
 of the Creek people. My father was a self- 
 educated man of uncommon intelligence, with 
 a philosophical and scientific turn of mind, 
 while my mother, though uneducated and un- 
 able to speak a word of English, is a woman 
 of rare native sense." 
 
 The statement that "Broken Arrow" and 
 "Tuskegee" are the names of clans in the 
 Creek social organization is a slip of the pen 
 of the poet. He had in mind the "Bands" or 
 "Towns" into which the tribe is divided for 
 the purposes of civil government. And I am 
 satisfied that his father had no Indian blood. 
 
 II. 
 
 Of these parents came the poet. He seems 
 to have been a child of deep feeling, very 
 quick and accurate observation, and often self- 
 
 IO 
 
ALEX POSEY, THE CREEK INDIAN POET 
 
 conscious and reflective. He was sensitive 
 and reticent and an enthusiastic lover of 
 nature — streams, hills, prairies, trees, flowers, 
 birds, animals, the tangled wildwood, the 
 heavens at night, and the magnificent cloud- 
 displays seen in his native land. But, with 
 all these, he was a genuine boy. From his 
 father he had inherited a sense of humor and 
 a love for practical jokes. He was in much 
 innocent mischief from the time he could run 
 about, and as the good old law of punishment 
 for disobedience was in vogue in the Posey 
 household, few months passed that did not 
 bring him a whipping. This punishment was 
 administered in a proper spirit and was whole- 
 some correction. The boy was not humili- 
 ated, nor was the natural inclination of his 
 mind repressed. He was never stubborn or 
 unreasonable, and resentment and malice were 
 not in him. If his dress became soiled the 
 least bit he would cry for a clean one. 
 
ALEX POSEY, THE CREEK INDIAN POET 
 
 The companion of the poet's childhood and 
 youth was Tom, a full-blood Creek boy, an 
 orphan taken into the Posey home and reared 
 as one of the family. Once Mrs. Posey set 
 these boys to work in the garden. After di- 
 recting them as to their task she went into the 
 house, saying that she would return in due 
 time to see what progress they made. In- 
 stead of bending to their work they spent the 
 time in digging a hole in the garden-path, 
 which they covered over with small sticks and 
 earth. When Mrs. Posey returned she fell 
 into this hole, to the great amusement of the 
 thoughtless and mischief - loving lads. But 
 there was a stout paling fence about the gar- 
 den, and they could not escape; they were 
 caught and soundly whipped. 
 
 On another occasion when she had put them 
 to some task, which they went about with 
 that deliberation which marks the labor of 
 boys on the old homestead, she remarked that 
 
ALEX POSEY, THE CREEK INDIAN POET 
 
 they moved about as though they had stones 
 tied on their backs. Here was a suggestion. 
 When she had gone back into the house the 
 boys went to the barn-lot and spent the time 
 until her reappearance tying stones on their 
 backs and carrying them about. 
 
 For summer wear Mrs. Posey made the 
 boys a single flowing garment which reached 
 to the heels. Memory of these remained with 
 the poet, and in after years he said of them: 
 
 "It is enough to say, concerning my youth, 
 that I was raised on a farm and was accounted 
 a pretty weedy crop. The cockle-burrs and 
 crab -grass grew all the more prolifically after 
 I had been given a good thrashing. Tom, an 
 orphan boy adopted by my father, was my 
 youth-long companion, and I often look back 
 to the 'days of the lost sunshine,' when we 
 romped in our long shirts, or 'sweeps/ as we 
 called them, which my mother fashioned for 
 our use. These shirts or 'sweeps' were long, 
 flowing garments, made on the order of a tunic, 
 but longer and more dignified. There was a 
 vast freedom in these gowns ; freedom for the 
 
 13 
 
ALEX POSEY, THE CREEK INDIAN POET 
 
 wind to play in, and they were so easily thrown 
 aside at the 'old swimmin' hole.' We looked 
 forward with regret to the time when we would 
 have to discard them for jeans coats and 
 trousers and copper-toed boots, though these 
 were desirable to chase rabbits in on a snowy 
 day. Those who have never worn 'sweeps' 
 have never known half of the secrets whispered 
 by the winds of boyhood." 
 
 Until he was some twelve years old Posey 
 spoke only Creek, the language of his mother. 
 Like her, he could understand English fairly 
 well, but its construction was so entirely dif- 
 ferent from his native tongue that he feared to 
 trust himself in the use of it. The Indian is 
 extremely sensitive to ridicule, and this often 
 prevents his efforts to speak the language of 
 the white man ; and this is especially true of 
 Indian women. They, and sometimes the men, 
 will pretend to an ignorance of English and sit 
 taciturn and unresponsive when addressed in 
 that language, though they may understand 
 
 14 
 
ALEX POSEY, THE CREEK INDIAN POET 
 
 it perfectly and speak it fairly. That Posey 
 so mastered a language which may be said to 
 have been alien to him that he wrote readily 
 and elegantly its most difficult form of com- 
 position, is a mark of the genius of the man. 
 His first use of English was compelled by his 
 father, and is thus described by him: 
 
 "My first teacher was a dried-up, hard-up, 
 weazen-faced, irritable little fellow, with an 
 appetite that caused the better dishes on my 
 father's table to disappear rapidly. My 
 father picked him up somewhere, and seeing 
 that he had a bookish turn, gave him a place 
 in our family as a private teacher. From him 
 I learned the alphabet and to read short sen- 
 tences, but I never spoke any English until I 
 was compelled to speak it by my father. One 
 evening, when I blurted out in the best Creek 
 I could command, and began telling him about 
 a horse-hunt, he cut me off shortly: 'Look 
 here, young man, if you don't tell me that in 
 English after supper I am going to wear you 
 out.' I was hungry, but this put an abrupt 
 end to my desire for the good things I had 
 heaped on my plate. 
 
 *5 
 
ALEX POSEY, THE CREEK INDIAN POET 
 
 "I got up from the table and made myself 
 useful — brought water from the well, turned 
 the cows into the pasture — thinking may- 
 be this would cause him to forget what he 
 had said. My goodness, however, was with- 
 out avail, for as soon as he came from the table 
 he asked me in a gentle but firm voice to re- 
 late my horse-hunt. Well, he was so pleased 
 with my English that he never afterward al- 
 lowed me to speak Creek." 
 
 Here we have the account of Posey's first 
 experience with a teacher and the progress 
 he made, which was limited enough. But it 
 must not be supposed that he had learned 
 nothing of worth in his childhood. His 
 mother is familiar with all the mythology and 
 folk-lore of the Creeks. She is far above the 
 average in intelligence, and as a story-teller 
 she is unsurpassed by any of her people. Sit- 
 ting about the blazing fagots in the open fire- 
 place on the long evenings of winter, she told 
 her children all the legends of the Creeks, — 
 their migrations, their simple and happy life 
 
 16 
 
ALEX POSEY, THE CREEK INDIAN POET 
 
 in the primitive forests before it was con- 
 taminated by the vices of the white man, their 
 proud tribal history of the days when they 
 were free men and lords of the earth, creation 
 myths, ghost and fairy stories, — all the lore 
 of an ancient and imaginative people. 
 
 It all depends on who hears a story. The 
 old parable of the sower is the law of the in- 
 tellect — most of the seed falls on stony ground 
 and brings forth nothing. A little falls on 
 fertile soil and yields increase an hundred fold. 
 To the sensitive mind of this Indian boy these 
 tales of ancient days revealed a new world, 
 peopled with characters as fascinating and 
 fantastic as any Shakespeare ever saw in the 
 magic realms of his creation. Had not death 
 intervened, these would sometime have stood 
 before us in the matchless array and imagery 
 of genius. Even as it was, they stirred the 
 soul of this Creek boy and became the in- 
 
 17 
 
ALEX POSEY, THE CREEK INDIAN POET 
 
 spiration of that delicate perception of nature's 
 charms which he has recorded for us. 
 
 III. 
 
 Posey did not begin to discover himself 
 until he was sent to the Indian University 
 (Baptist), at Bacone, in the suburbs of Musko- 
 gee. This school was founded in 1880, for 
 the training of native young men and women 
 for Christian work among the Indian people. 
 A. C. Bacone was its president and its mov- 
 ing spirit. Young Posey was sent there in 
 1890 — when he was seventeen. He was then 
 a reserved and timid boy, with no thought 
 whatever of the possibilities he possessed. 
 Under the direction of President Bacone, 
 Posey soon began to take good rank in the 
 life and work of the University. He de- 
 scribes his life there very briefly, saying: 
 
 " When I was old enough to leave home my 
 father sent me to a public school at Eufaula, 
 
 18 
 
ALEX POSEY, THE CREEK INDIAN POET 
 
 where I learned enough to enable me to enter 
 a second academic grade at the Indian Uni- 
 versity. I remained there about five years. 
 During my stay at the University I acted as 
 librarian on Sundays. I set type after school 
 hours on week days for a little paper called 
 the Instructor, published by the faculty." 
 
 Some copies of The B.I. U. Instructor have 
 come into my hands. The paper was a 
 monthly four-column folio, eleven by fourteen 
 inches in size. M. L. Brown and C. H. Maxon 
 were the editors, and the first number of the 
 paper must have been published in October, 
 1 89 1. Not only did Posey set type on this 
 paper, but his first literary efforts to see the 
 light were published in it. These were usually, 
 but not always, in verse. In the number for 
 October, 1892, he published "The Comet's 
 Tale," a poem of near three columns, which 
 gives the Indian tradition of the appearance 
 of a great comet previous to the coming of the 
 ships of the white men to discover America. 
 
 19 
 
ALEX POSEY, THE CREEK INDIAN POET 
 
 It is no inferior production, though not at all 
 equal to his later work. In the number for 
 December, 1892, he published "The Indian: 
 What of Him?" an optimistic article in prose. 
 Also "The Sea God," an Indian legend, in 
 verse. In the January, 1 894, number appeared 
 his " Death of a Window Plant," the first of his 
 poems to attract more than local attention. 
 This was published far and wide, with com- 
 ments most flattering to the young poet. In 
 the following March the Instructor contained 
 "The River Strange," a poem of some merit, 
 and "Fixico Yahola's Revenge," the story of 
 a warrior who assumed the form of a bear. 
 
 The numbers mentioned above are all that 
 I have seen of the Instructor, and judging 
 from the contents of those it is safe to say that 
 Posey wrote much for the paper. At the time 
 of his graduation (in 1895) ne was we ^ known 
 to all the people of the Five Civilized Tribes, 
 and he was in great favor with his own people. 
 
 20 
 
ALEX POSEY, THE CREEK INDIAN POET 
 
 IV. 
 
 When Posey left school he entered Creek 
 politics. In September, 1895, he was elected 
 to a seat in the House of Warriors, the popular 
 branch of the Creek Legislature. He was sent 
 a delegate to every council or conclave con- 
 vened in the Indian Territory to discuss the 
 status or policy of the Indians or to take con- 
 certed action in their interest. 
 
 V. 
 
 In 1896 Posey was Superintendent of the 
 Creek Orphan Asylum at Okmulgee. It was 
 in this year that he was married. Of this 
 event I find the following entry in his Journal, 
 under date of January 4, 1 897 : 
 
 "I have nowhere mentioned my 'better 
 half.' The story of our courtship and marriage 
 would make a readable romance. I was in- 
 troduced to her one morning, nearly two years 
 ago, by J. N. Thornton, 'ye' editor of the 
 Indian Journal, at breakfast in a hotel at 
 
 21 
 
ALEX POSEY, THE CREEK INDIAN POET 
 
 Eufaula. The beauty of the young school- 
 teacher thoroughly charmed me ; and, though 
 I saw her frequently, I could not sufficiently 
 overcome my Indian nature to talk with her. 
 She went away. I thought of her constantly ; 
 would sometimes grow anxious to declare my 
 love by letter. Two months passed, and she 
 returned to take up her work. One day I 
 made it convenient to pass the school-house. 
 I got a glimpse of her as I hurried by on 
 'Bailie,' and another as I returned. My love 
 grew deeper. Three months later I was 
 elected to the position I now hold. One night 
 I was at Eufaula, and by chance met her. I 
 offered her a place in my school; she ac- 
 cepted it, and, when summer was come again, 
 'two hearts beat as one.' " 
 
 The young lady was Miss Minnie Harris, 
 of Fayetteville, Arkansas, and the wedding 
 was on the 9th of May, 1896. Concerning 
 her acquaintance with Posey and her marriage 
 to him, Mrs. Posey wrote me as follows: 
 
 "I met Mr. Posey in Eufaula, in July, 1895. 
 I saw little of him, though, until in January, 
 1896, when I was employed by him to act as 
 
 22 
 
ALEX POSEY, THE CREEK INDIAN POET 
 
 Matron of the Creek Orphan Home at Okmul- 
 gee. He would read to me, and he asked my 
 opinion of all that he wrote. He also was fond 
 of having me read to him, or him to me, even- 
 ings, discussing the things we read, — mostly 
 poems. Mr. Posey spent most of the fore- 
 noons in his study, but often in the afternoons 
 he would ask me to accompany him in his 
 walks and drives. I think he admired me for 
 my practical ways. I saved him much bother 
 and vexation over details in looking after the 
 school." 
 
 Posey remained in charge of the Orphan 
 Asylum until October, 1897, when he resigned. 
 In the following December he was appointed 
 Superintendent of Public Instruction of the 
 Creek (or Muskogee) Nation, but he wished 
 to put in cultivation his farm, which consists 
 of several hundred acres, and so he soon re- 
 signed that office. From Okmulgee he moved 
 to his farm, near Stidham, Oklahoma, and 
 near that of his father, on which he had been 
 born and reared. 
 
 2 3 
 
ALEX POSEY, THE CREEK INDIAN POET 
 
 VI. 
 
 From the time of his marriage, in May, 
 1896, to October, 1897, Posey wrote many of 
 his best poems. When he moved to his farm 
 he continued his literary work. There he 
 passed the golden era of his life. Mrs. Posey 
 assumed the management of the farm — no 
 small matter, as there were a number of 
 tenants to reckon with. She never allowed 
 him to be disturbed in his work, in which he 
 was rather slow and very cautious. He had 
 a small select library — all favorite books — 
 which he read much, as reference to his 
 Journal shows. He did his best literary work 
 here. He would stroll about the farm in the 
 afternoons to observe the squirrels and birds. 
 He had a number of pet squirrels which in- 
 terested him much. He was fond of dogs, 
 and had a number of them. He even made a 
 pet of a large turkey-gobbler, which soon be- 
 came a terror to strangers and to the other 
 
 24 
 
ALEX POSEY, THE CREEK INDIAN POET 
 
 pets. He had fine flowers growing about the 
 premises, and these he loved to water and 
 tend. He spent some time almost every day 
 talking to droll characters who lived in the 
 neighborhood, and to old men and women of 
 his tribe. 
 
 Posey had great reverence and love for his 
 mother, and visited her frequently. He never 
 failed to spend the Christmas season with her. 
 Her other children were not so thoughtful of 
 her comfort, and after the death of her hus- 
 band she was often lonely. She almost wor- 
 shipped her gifted son, and his home-coming 
 was her joy. In their conversations with 
 others he would interpret what was being said 
 if he thought she did not fully comprehend all 
 that was spoken in English. 
 
 But Posey could not be permitted to remain 
 in pastoral peace on the Canadian. He had 
 
 25 
 
ALEX POSEY, THE CREEK INDIAN POET 
 
 fine executive ability, and was the most 
 learned man of all the Creeks. The National 
 High School at Eufaula was in need of com- 
 petent management, and his government 
 urged him to accept the superintendency of 
 it, which he finally did, though with much 
 reluctance. At Eufaula he was importuned 
 constantly for contributions of poems and 
 sketches for the Indian Journal, published 
 there. He always complied with these re- 
 quests when he found it possible to do so, and 
 here he began to be interested in newspaper 
 work. 
 
 When Posey had put the administration of 
 affairs at the Eufaula High School on a satis- 
 factory basis he was urged to do the same for 
 the Wetumpka National School, which he 
 finally consented to do. But he was never a 
 lover of official position, and he did not re- 
 main long at Wetumpka. He returned to 
 
 26 * 
 
ALEX POSEY, THE CREEK INDIAN POET 
 
 Eufaula and took editorial charge of the 
 Indian Journal. 
 
 VII. 
 
 It was as editor of the Indian Journal that 
 Posey began the production of those articles 
 which permanently fixed his fame in litera- 
 ture. The Dawes Commission was then clos- 
 ing up the affairs of the Five Civilized Tribes. 
 An era of graft and plunder began, the like 
 of which has not been seen in America. The 
 Indians became the prey of unprincipled law- 
 yers and scoundrels of the lowest order. These 
 plied their nefarious business openly and with 
 brazen assurance. Much plundering was done 
 with the knowledge and sanction of Federal 
 officials, high and low. Millions were stolen 
 through the medium of townsites. The In- 
 dians were conscious of the debauch of which 
 they were the victims, but they were utterly 
 helpless. Posey sought indirectly to call at- 
 
 27 
 
ALEX POSEY, THE CREEK INDIAN POET 
 
 tention to what his people were suffering. 
 Whether he accomplished his design is doubt- 
 ful. But in his humorously satirical letters 
 he developed an entirely new field in litera- 
 ture. To that time it had been supposed that 
 the Indian was incapable of humorous con- 
 ceptions. It was believed that he was too 
 grim and stoical to perceive any facetious al- 
 lusions to himself or others. These letters 
 were continued irregularly for .some years, and 
 in an English-Indian dialect dealt with those 
 events which were rapidly displacing the 
 Indian in his native land. They purported 
 to be conversations between Wolf Warrior, 
 Hot Gun, Kono Harjo, and Tookpofko Micco, 
 — old Creeks. Some of the prominent men 
 in the affairs of Oklahoma in that day were 
 spoken of by these names: Tarns Bixby was 
 " Tarns Big Pie." Pliny Soper was "Plenty- 
 so-far." Secretary Hitchcock was "Secre- 
 tary Its-cocked." Governor Haskell was 
 
 28 
 
ALEX POSEY, THE CREEK INDIAN POET 
 
 "Governor C. N. Has-it." Senator Owen was 
 "Col. Robert L. Owes-em." These letters 
 were copied by the press of the entire country, 
 and enjoyed by appreciative readers from 
 Maine to California. Reference is here made 
 .to "The Fus Fixico Letters" only as an in- 
 cident in the literary fame of Posey. It is 
 the design of the present editor to prepare 
 them for the press and have them issued in a 
 separate volume at some time in the future 
 if times are propitious. 
 
 VIII. 
 
 Posey edited the Indian Journal a little 
 more than two years. His growing fame 
 tended to draw him to Muskogee, the metrop- 
 olis of the Indian country. Many offers came 
 to him from people and institutions of that 
 town, and finally he and Ira L. Reeves took 
 charge of the Muskogee Times. However, that 
 venture did not prove to be satisfactory to 
 
ALEX POSEY, THE CREEK INDIAN POET 
 
 him. There was much work to be done by 
 the United Indian Agency which only a man 
 familiar with every phase of Indian life and 
 character could do, and Posey was induced 
 to take a place in the Agency. But at this 
 time knowledge of his influence and ability 
 came to the Dawes Commission, which was 
 in need of some one with exactly his quali- 
 fications. In each of the tribes were many 
 Indians who refused to accept their allotments 
 of land and surrender their tribal authority. 
 These, in the Creek tribe, were followers 
 of Chief Crazy Snake. Posey saw the in- 
 evitable. He realized that the Indians were 
 helpless. If any Indian failed to take his 
 allotment the tribal land would be disposed 
 of without much consideration for his interest. 
 If he could be prevailed on to accept his land 
 he could be allotted that on which he lived and 
 had improved ; otherwise his farm would go to 
 any who might choose to have it allotted to 
 
 30 
 
ALEX POSEY, THE CREEK INDIAN POET 
 
 himself. There were many "lost Indians" — 
 those who had married into other tribes, or 
 who had wandered away to live in secluded 
 and solitary places, as is the manner of 
 Indians. These were to be found and en- 
 rolled. And there were the Creek babies born 
 after the original rolls had been closed; they 
 were to be sought out and enrolled. Posey 
 was prevailed on to undertake this work. The 
 principal consideration with him was that he 
 could do much good for his people in the work 
 so necessary to be done. He was furnished 
 a stenographer and told to go about his duties 
 in his own way. I find in his Journal this 
 reference to his taking the field in this pur- 
 suit: 
 
 "Drennon C. Skaggs and myself constitute 
 what is officially known as the 'Creek Enroll- 
 ment Field Party of the Commission to the 
 Five Civilized Tribes.' I am Clerk in Charge 
 and Creek Interpreter, with Skaggs acting as 
 Notary Public and stenographer. Our busi- 
 
 3 1 
 
ALEX POSEY, THE CREEK INDIAN POET 
 
 ness is to secure additional evidence in appli- 
 cations for enrollment, search for ' lost Creeks,' 
 and conciliate the 'Snakes.' We were de- 
 tailed for this work in October of last year; 
 and though we have labored steadily and 
 strenuously ever since, the end is not yet. 
 There is more evidence to be secured, more 
 'lost Creeks' to be found, and more 'Snakes' 
 to be conciliated. This work cannot be ac- 
 complished in the office of the Commission 
 at Muskogee — 'lost Creeks' do not turn up 
 there to be identified — the ' Snakes' will not 
 be coaxed in to establish better relations with 
 the Government — important witnesses in citi- 
 zenship cases pending before the Commission 
 cannot go to Muskogee at their own expense 
 for the purpose of testifying — the work must 
 be done on the roadside, at the hearthside, and 
 in the cotton-patch. Hence the 'Creek En- 
 rollment Field Party.' 
 
 "The so-called 'lost Creeks' are persons 
 whose names appear on the tribal rolls, but 
 none of whom the Commission has been able 
 to identify. These people, of course, cannot 
 be allowed to participate in the distribution 
 of tribal property until their identify has been 
 established and their rights as citizens de- 
 termined according to law. 
 
 32 
 
ALEX POSEY, THE CREEK INDIAN POET 
 
 "The 'Snakes,' so called because of their 
 leader, Crazy Snake, are a faction of the 
 Creeks who are opposed to the allotment of 
 lands in severalty and the relinquishment 
 of tribal authority. They number several 
 hundred, and were arbitrarily allotted lands 
 by the Commission. They have persistently 
 ignored the work of the Commission and re- 
 fused to be governed by its decrees. They 
 wish to live in undisturbed enjoyment of their 
 old customs and usages and rights guaranteed 
 to them by former treaties with the Govern- 
 ment." 
 
 To show the painstaking care with which 
 he performed his duties I give here one depo- 
 sition taken by Posey: 
 
 C. I. 3177. 
 
 EN. 986. 
 EN. 764. 
 
 DEPARTMENT OF THE INTERIOR. 
 
 COMMISSIONER TO THE FIVE CIVILIZED TRIBES, 
 
 NEAR BUNCH, I. T., JANUARY 10, I907. 
 
 In the matter of the application for the enroll- 
 ment of Honechike, Cosarpe, Itshas Harjo, 
 Marley, Liley, Meivike, Polly, Mary, Tissie, 
 
 33 
 
ALEX POSEY, THE CREEK INDIAN POET 
 
 Warsarsie, Hoekapo, Sallie, Lydia and Alex- 
 ander, as citizens by blood of the Creek Nation. 
 
 Itshas Harjo, being first duly sworn by 
 and examined through Alex Posey, Notary 
 Public and official interpreter, testified as fol- 
 lows: 
 
 By the Commissioner. 
 
 Q. What is your name? A. Itshas Harjo. 
 
 Q. Are you known by any other name? A. 
 I am commonly known among my Cherokee 
 brethren as Old Creek Beaver, but my real 
 name is Itshas Harjo. 
 
 Q. How old are you? A. I have passed 
 through many days and traveled a long way, 
 the shadows have fallen all about me and I 
 can see but dimly, but my mind is clear and 
 my memory has not failed me. I cannot 
 count the years I have lived. All that I know 
 about my age is that I was old enough to draw 
 the bow and kill squirrels at the time of the 
 second emigration of the Creeks and Chero- 
 kees from the old country under the leader- 
 ship of Chief Cooweescoowee. I was born 
 near Eufaula, Alabama, and left there when 
 about fifteen years of age. I was about six- 
 teen years old when I arrived in this country, 
 
 34 
 
ALEX POSEY, THE CREEK INDIAN POET 
 
 for the peaches were green when we left Ala- 
 bama and the wild onions were plentiful here 
 when we arrived. 
 
 Q. What is your postoffice address? A. 
 Bunch ; but the mail I have received through 
 that office has not been of a kind to please me, 
 the same being official communications from 
 the United States Government relative to the 
 allotment of land. 
 
 Q. Are you a citizen of the Creek Nation? 
 A. I am a full-blood Creek Indian, but I 
 have never lived in the Creek Nation. 
 
 Q. Were you ever enrolled as a citizen of 
 the Creek Nation? A. Yes, sir; once upon 
 a time before the war I drew money at a per 
 capita payment made at Old Norfolk Town, 
 in the Creek Nation, but I have never par- 
 ticipated in any Creek payment since. 
 
 Q. Did you not draw money as a member 
 of Ketchapataka Town when the last Creek 
 per capita payment was made, in 1895? A. 
 No, sir ; as I have told you, I drew money only 
 once in the Creek Nation, and that was before 
 the war. 
 
 Q. On the 1895 Tribal roll of the Creek 
 Nation of Ketchapataka Town are found the 
 names of Honechike, Cosarpe, Itshas Harjo, 
 Marley, Liley, and Mewike, and there is an 
 
 35 
 
ALEX POSEY, THE CREEK INDIAN POET 
 
 application pending before the Commissioner 
 to the Five Civilized Tribes for the enroll- 
 ment as citizens of the Creek Nation of the 
 persons whose names appear in this list. Does 
 the Itshas Harjo in this list refer to you? A. 
 Evidently — because Marley, Liley and Me- 
 wike are my relatives ; but we do not belong 
 to Ketchapataka Town, and if our names ap- 
 pear upon the roll of that town they were 
 erroneously put there. The town to which 
 we belong is Arbeka Deep Fork. 
 
 Q. Who are Honechike and Cosarpe, ap- 
 pearing in this list with you? A. Honechike 
 was an old Creek woman who used to live 
 among the Cherokees; she returned to the 
 Creek Nation many years ago and died there. 
 I cannot account for Cosarpe ; I never heard 
 the name before. 
 
 Q. What relation is Marley, Liley and Me- 
 wike to you? A. Mewike was a brother of 
 mine, who died in March of last year. Marley 
 and Liley are my nieces, being the daughters 
 of my brother Mewike. Marley died about 
 two years ago, and only Liley is now living. 
 My brother was variously known as Mewike, 
 Ewike, and John Killer. Marley was some- 
 times called Meheley, and Liley is also known 
 as Tahkee. 
 
 36 
 
ALEX POSEY, THE CREEK INDIAN POET 
 
 Q. Do you know if they have been enrolled 
 and allotted land as Cherokees? A. I think 
 they are enrolled as Cherokees, but I am not 
 sure. 
 
 Q. Where was your brother living at the 
 time of his death? A. In Saline District. 
 
 Q. Had he always lived in the Cherokee 
 Nation? A. Yes, sir. 
 
 Q. Was never a resident of the Creek 
 Nation? A. No, sir. 
 
 Q. Have you resided continuously in the 
 Cherokee Nation ever since your removal from 
 Alabama? A. Yes, sir; I have lived in the 
 hollows of these hills ever since I established 
 a home for myself, and you are the first Creek- 
 speaking stranger that has visited me on my 
 own premises. If I had met you out in the 
 woods I would have spoken Cherokee to you 
 and you would not have known that I was a 
 Creek Indian. 
 
 Q. Are you enrolled as a citizen of the 
 Cherokee Nation? A. If I am I do not know 
 it. I have not been curious enough to in- 
 quire into that matter. 
 
 Q. Then you do not know whether an allot- 
 ment of land has been set aside to you as a 
 Cherokee or not? A. No, sir; I have never 
 filed upon any land. I am opposed to the 
 
 37 
 
ALEX POSEY, THE CREEK INDIAN POET 
 
 allotment of land among the Indians. If my 
 name appears upon either the Creek or Chero- 
 kee roll, and for that reason I am to be hedged 
 about with corner-stones, I want it stricken 
 from the roll. 
 
 Q. On the 1895 Tribal roll of the Creek 
 Nation, Weogufke Town, are found the fol- 
 lowing names: Polly, Mary, Tissie, Warsarsie, 
 Hoekapo, Sallie, and Lydia. Do you know 
 any such persons? A. Yes, sir; Polly was a 
 Creek woman, who died about twenty-five 
 years ago. Tissie is a son of Hully and Polly, 
 who died many years ago; his parents were 
 both Creeks. Tissie is living, and is known 
 both as Chissie and John Simmons. Warsar- 
 sie is a first cousin of Tissie ; he is living, and 
 is also known as Charles Rogers. Hoekapo 
 is a brother of Tissie ; he is also living, and is 
 sometimes known as George Simmons. Sallie 
 is a sister of Tissie and Hoekapo; she is liv- 
 ing, and is now the wife of my grandson, Clem 
 Beaver. Lydia was a sister of Sallie; she 
 died in 1903. 
 
 Q. Do you know if any of these people 
 were enrolled as Cherokee Nation? A. I have 
 heard that they were enrolled as Cherokees, 
 but I do not know it to be true of my own 
 knowledge. 
 
 38 
 
ALEX POSEY, THE CREEK INDIAN POET 
 
 Q Do you know Alexander, whose name 
 appears upon the Creek Tribal roll as a mem- 
 ber of Okfuske Deep Fork Town? A. Yes, 
 sir. He is now dead. He was known as 
 Alex Sunday here, and had been given land 
 as a Cherokee when he died. 
 
 Q. When did he die? A. January i, 1903, 
 and is buried in a graveyard near here. 
 
 Q. Who were his parents? A. Wechus 
 Harjo, of Okfuske Deep Fork, was his father, 
 and Lizzie Harjo, of Topofka Town, was his 
 mother. 
 
 J. B. Myers, being first duly sworn, states, 
 that as stenographer to the Commissioner to 
 the Five Civilized Tribes he recorded the testi- 
 mony in the foregoing proceedings, and that 
 the above is a true and correct transcript of 
 his stenographic notes thereof. 
 
 [Seal.] (Signed) J. B. Myers. ^ 
 
 Subscribed and sworn to before me, this 
 17th day of January, 1907. 
 
 (Signed) Alex Posey. 
 
 IX. 
 
 When the people of the Indian Territory 
 realized that single statehood was inevitable, 
 
 39 
 
ALEX POSEY, THE CREEK INDIAN POET 
 
 they saw that it was necessary for them to 
 take some action which would enable their 
 section of the coming commonwealth to act 
 in concert and thereby secure for it an equal 
 influence in public affairs. It was decided 
 that this could be best accomplished by an 
 effort to secure statehood for the Indian Terri- 
 tory. A constitutional convention was there- 
 fore called to meet at Muskogee, August 21, 
 1905. Of this body Posey was made the Sec- 
 retary. An excellent constitution was formu- 
 lated, and its simple, terse, clear English was 
 principally the work of Posey. He proposed 
 Sequoyah as the name of the Indian State, 
 and it was adopted, — a fitting tribute to the 
 famous Cherokee and one of the greatest men 
 that ever lived. Single statehood came, as the 
 Indians had foreseen, and the unification of 
 thought and purpose of the people of the Indian 
 Territory accomplished all for which the con- 
 vention had been called. The control of the 
 
 40 
 
ALEX POSEY, THE CREEK INDIAN POET 
 
 new State was completely wrested from old 
 Oklahoma. The result was a great tribute 
 to the statesmanship of Posey and General 
 Pleasant Porter, Chief of the Creeks, for they 
 mainly originated the movement for the State 
 of Sequoyah, and did much to make it the 
 success it afterward proved. 
 
 X. 
 
 When the work of the Dawes Commission 
 was completed in the particular field in which 
 Posey was employed, he thought to return 
 to Eufaula and buy the Indian Journal. 
 Statehood had come, and the tribes had been 
 broken on the wheel and ground to powder. 
 Posey's home was near Eufaula. There, too, 
 was the old homestead where he was born and 
 where his ancestors were buried. To no other 
 people does sentiment so appeal as to the 
 Indians, and it was one of the considerations 
 which inclined Posey to return to the Cana- 
 
 41 
 
ALEX POSEY, THE CREEK INDIAN POET 
 
 dian. Then, a new era had come for the 
 Indian. It was required of him that he 
 abandon communal life and try to live as an 
 individual unit of society. Posey felt the 
 change, though he was confident of his ability 
 to acquit himself well in the new order of 
 things. His knowledge of the country and 
 his people would enable him to deal honorably 
 and successfully in lands and timber, in oil, 
 natural gas, and coal. In furtherance of these 
 designs he made his connections for future 
 business at Muskogee, and set out for Eufaula. 
 Alas! it was a fatal journey! I shall permit 
 one who was his companion and who came 
 near death in the same catastrophe to tell of 
 it: 
 
 STORY OF POSEY'S DEATH AS TOLD BY ATTORNEY 
 R. D. HOWE. 
 
 R. D. Howe, the attorney who accom- 
 panied Alex Posey when drowned, made the 
 following statement to the Times-Democrat. 
 
 42 
 
ALEX POSEY, THE CREEK INDIAN POET 
 
 "So much as been said and written, and so 
 many have come to Mrs. Alex Posey with 
 different stories in regard to the death of her 
 husband, that I take it upon myself, being 
 with him and an eye-witness to his death, to 
 write the true story of this sad occurrence. 
 
 "On the morning of the 27th day of May, 
 1908, Alex Posey and myself started for the 
 town of Eufaula on the morning passenger, 
 to close up some business we had with each 
 other in the county court. When the train 
 had passed the town of Wells, or Cathey, it 
 stopped, and in a few minutes began to back 
 back to the siding at the town of Wells; here 
 Alex and myself got off, and walking down to 
 the front of the engine, met the conductor and 
 some other railroad men who had just come 
 from down the track in the direction of the 
 river. We both stepped up and asked the con- 
 ductor if he was going on to Eufaula. His reply 
 was 'no,' as there was a small washout in the 
 track down this side of the river, and though 
 it was not enough to keep a man from crossing 
 yet it would be dangerous for the engine to 
 cross the place. Just at that time another 
 railroad man stepped up and told us that the 
 dirt was washed out from under five or six 
 ties, but that any man could walk across them, 
 
 43 
 
ALEX POSEY, THE CREEK INDIAN POET 
 
 and added that it was only about three miles 
 to the town of Eufaula. Alex then turned to 
 me and said in a joking way: 'Bob, if you will 
 help me carry my grip, we will walk to the 
 town.' My reply was, 'Come ahead,' and we 
 then started down the track, but just before 
 starting the train pulled out and left us stand- 
 ing on the road-crossing. When we got down 
 the track about a half-mile we could see the 
 water up on the track, and on Alex saying that 
 he was afraid to go down too close, as the water 
 might take the track out, I replied that I would 
 go down and see the men who were with us 
 wade through, and if it was not deep we could 
 wade it as they did. In a few minutes these 
 men came back and said that they had gotten 
 to a place that they could not wade, but if 
 they had a boat they could easily row around 
 the place. I asked them how wide it was, and 
 they said about 10 or 15 feet. Alex then 
 turned to a negro sitting there and asked him 
 if he knew where we could get a boat. His 
 reply was that he had one, and he would go 
 and get it and row us around this bad place in 
 the road. 
 
 "This was about 8 o'clock in the morning. 
 While the negro was getting the boat, Alex 
 and myself went up to a farm-house to get our 
 
 44 
 
ALEX POSEY, THE CREEK INDIAN POET 
 
 breakfast, and while sitting there I told him 
 I had had my breakfast early in the morning 
 at home. He then said to me: 'As you have 
 had your breakfast, you go and see if that ne- 
 gro has gotten back with the boat, and don't 
 let the other men get it.' I then got up, and 
 going back down to the track, found the negro 
 standing there trying to get another negro to 
 go with him to help get the boat out of the 
 river. They were gone about three hours or 
 more, when I said to Alex that I believed I 
 would go over where they were and take a look 
 at the boat, which I did, and found it to be a 
 very neat little skiff about 16 feet long. When 
 the negroes came back with the boat, and 
 while coming through the water towards us, 
 I walked up to Alex and told him to let two of 
 the other men go, as they said they were good 
 swimmers and good boatmen. His reply was: 
 'No, Bob, it is safe enough, as Thornton and 
 myself have rowed down the river many a 
 time. Let's you and I go on, as it will take 
 at least two hours to cross that place, and if 
 we wait for anyone else we will be in the night, 
 but if we go across now we can attend to all 
 of our business this evening, as Thornton and 
 I are going up the river to McBurney to- 
 morrow and row down it,' and immediately 
 
 45 
 
ALEX POSEY, THE CREEK INDIAN POET 
 
 after making this statement he stepped into 
 the boat and walked across to the front and 
 sat down, and turning to me asked, 'Are you 
 going?' My reply was, 'If you are going, I 
 am going too,' and I immediately took my 
 place in the center of the boat. 
 
 ' ' We were at this time on the west side of the 
 track, and turning our boat in a southwesterly 
 course we started for an old house that stood 
 about 300 yards directly west of this dangerous 
 place in the track. When we got within about 
 a hundred yards of the house and about two 
 hundred yards from this opening in the track, 
 the negro who was sitting in the back of the 
 boat paddling, dropped his paddle. At this 
 time we were in pretty swift water, and when 
 the paddle was lost it caused the negro who 
 was rowing to get a little excited, and he, in 
 this swift water, commenced digging at his 
 oars for dear life. When he did this I stood 
 up in the boat behind him, and placing my 
 hands on his shoulder and slightly tapping it, 
 I said: 'Keep cool; don't get excited; make 
 every lick count, and though we may not get 
 to the house, yet we will get far enough 
 through this current to allow us to land on the 
 railroad just the other side of this dangerous 
 point.' 
 
 46 
 
ALEX POSEY, THE CREEK INDIAN POET 
 
 "At that time he seemed to quiet down, but 
 in a few seconds when the front of the boat 
 turned down-stream a little he commenced 
 again, and after making two or three licks 
 in this way dropped his oar on the east side. 
 
 "When this was done our boat immediately 
 got sidewise in the current and was going very 
 rapidly for the opening in the railroad. I then 
 reached down and got the oar that the negro 
 had laid down, and attempted to paddle out 
 of the heaviest of the current, but in a moment 
 saw that that was impossible, so I took the 
 oar and tried to pole out, but could not touch 
 the bottom of the stream. I then laid the 
 paddle down and told the men in the boat to 
 grab for the railroad right-of-way fence, and 
 not under any circumstances let the boat go 
 beyond that fence. 
 
 "When we got to the fence we all made a 
 grab for it, but when the boat struck it, it 
 immediately commenced to sink. 
 
 "At this time Alex was sitting in the front 
 end, apparently paying no attention to what 
 was going on, and the only evidence I have of 
 him hearing what was said was when we got 
 to the fence, he, like the rest of us, tried to 
 grab it. 
 
 "At the time the boat sank I got up, and 
 
 47 
 
ALEX POSEY, THE CREEK INDIAN POET 
 
 taking off my coat and hat, told them all to 
 jump over the fence on the east side, and we 
 all jumped over together about two feet below 
 the fence. We struck in water up under our 
 arms, and very swift, but from some cause 
 we could keep our feet by drifting with the 
 current. 
 
 11 While bobbing around this way Alex came 
 over right close to me, looking for something 
 to get hold of, and took hold of my hand. I 
 then told him that we must not take hold of 
 each other, but that we must get up to the 
 top of the water and swim right through the 
 center of the current. 
 
 "The negro was at this time going stand- 
 ing upright on through the current, and when 
 he came to the railroad he went under it. I 
 think at this time he was dead. 
 
 "I got up on top of the water and swam 
 directly through the current over the top of 
 the railroad and over the top of two wire 
 fences, in an easterly direction, passing the 
 r ght-of-way wire fence on the east side of the 
 track. Then I heard someone hollering, and 
 glancing back, I saw the negro who was fol- 
 lowing me sitting on the top of the post. I 
 swam on straight east in the current about 50 
 yards farther, when I saw, off to the right of 
 
 48 
 
ALEX POSEY, THE CREEK INDIAN POET 
 
 me, floating on his back with his feet down the 
 stream, the dead negro. I turned southeast 
 towards him. At that time I thought he was 
 an old settler in that country, and knew what 
 he was doing and was aiming to float out, 
 and I thought if he could float out, I could too, 
 but as a fact at that time I had given up all 
 hopes of ever getting out, and realized that 
 it was only a matter of time when I would 
 drown, as I was exhausted from coming 
 through this raging current at the rate of 
 about 75 miles per hour. But when I got out 
 to where this negro was, I saw that he was 
 dead, as his mouth was open and the water 
 was streaming into it; then it was I deeply 
 realized that there was not much chance for 
 me to get out, but at the same time I kept 
 swimming, and passed the negro about two 
 feet and turned south and swam about three 
 feet farther, when my left foot struck the 
 ground, and while struggling to get a foothold 
 the dead negro passed me, going on down the 
 stream. 
 
 "I stood up in the water, and looking back 
 saw Alex, as I thought, sitting on the railroad. 
 I then waded on about twenty yards and 
 stopped to rest, when on looking back again, 
 I saw the negro who was following me get off 
 
 49 
 
ALEX POSEY, THE CREEK INDIAN POET 
 
 the post and swim directly to where he had 
 seen me let down and touch bottom. 
 
 "I then turned, and going on south, waded 
 to a small peach tree, and looking back again 
 saw that the negro who was following me had 
 stopped and was washing his face. 
 
 "I called to him to come on, and while 
 calling, his father passed me on horseback and 
 went out to him and picked him up and 
 brought him out to a tent on the high ground 
 that I had just passed on my way back to the 
 railroad. 
 
 "I got on the railroad completely broken 
 down both physically and nervously, and 
 started up the road north to where I thought 
 Alex was sitting, and looking up, called to him 
 to come on and we would go on to Eufaula, 
 but when I looked up I saw that he was stand- 
 ing out in the current about thirty feet from 
 the track to the northwest and about twenty 
 feet from where this terrible current went over 
 and under the railroad, holding to a little 
 sprout not larger than the handle of an um- 
 brella, with three small prongs to it. 
 
 " I then turned and went back, and, re-wad- 
 ing the water next to the railroad, crossed over 
 to where this negro on horseback had de- 
 posited on the ground, as he thought in a dy- 
 
 50 
 
ALEX POSEY, THE CREEK INDIAN POET 
 
 ing condition, his son. I asked him to ride to 
 Euf aula and tell all the people that Alex Posey 
 was out here and about to be drowned and to 
 come out and bring about three or four hun- 
 dred feet of rope. He said he could not get 
 there on horseback. I then told him to come 
 over to the railroad and go on foot. He told 
 me that the man who he had just taken out 
 was his son, and that he was nervously pros- 
 trated by the shock, and that he could not 
 possibly walk there. 
 
 "I then waded back to the railroad and 
 started again to the place where Alex was. 
 When about halfway I met a little negro and 
 asked him to go. He said he had a sore foot 
 and could not possibly walk to the town. I 
 then left him and ran up in about ^ve steps 
 from where the track went into the water. 
 There I came across two negroes sitting down 
 looking at Alex in the water. I asked the 
 first one to go to Euf aula and get men and rope 
 out here to get him out. He said he had the 
 rheumatism and could not go. The second 
 one said he was afraid to cross the river bridge. 
 I then walked by these negroes, and stepping 
 out as close to the water as I could, called to 
 Alex and asked him if he could hold on to that 
 
 51 
 
ALEX POSEY, THE CREEK INDIAN POET 
 
 small twig until I could go to Eufaula and get 
 men and rope to get him out. 
 
 "He looked around over his shoulder and 
 smiling at me, said yes, and with his left hand 
 motioned to me to hurry to town. 
 
 ' ' I then started back up the track on a run 
 part of the time and part of the time walking 
 as rapidly as possible, and after going about 
 half a mile I came to the river. Running 
 across the bridge, I went up to the water tank 
 and there met John Simpson, Mike Sausman, 
 Jim Wadsworth and another man who I did 
 not know, and told them what I wanted. 
 
 "Some men had just taken a boat across 
 to an island to get a man out, and we called 
 them back. With that boat was Mr. W. C. 
 Coppick. We then went down to where Alex 
 was in the water, and Mr. Simpson stepped 
 up and was talking to him to encourage him 
 to hold on a while longer, as we would get him 
 out, while he was himself getting ready to go 
 out in the boat. 
 
 "Then it was that Mr. Simpson said to me: 
 'Mr. Howe, you are right; we need plenty of 
 rope; go and tell Jim Wadsworth to go to 
 town after it.' 
 
 "I ran back through the crowd that had 
 gathered, which consisted of about a dozen 
 
 52 
 
 
ALEX POSEY, THE CREEK INDIAN POET 
 
 men, and saw that Mr. Wadsworth had heard 
 what Mr. Simpson said, and was, with Mike 
 Sausman, running up the track in the di- 
 rection of Eufaula for the rope. 
 
 "In the meantime Mr. Coppick and Mr. 
 Simpson had taken the boat out to the fence, 
 but found out they could do nothing until the 
 men came with the rope. After the men had 
 been gone about 30 minutes the train crew 
 came up with about forty Italians. I went 
 to the conductor and asked him if he would 
 run to Eufaula and bring the rope out. He 
 said ' yes,' and, uncoupling the engine from the 
 cars, went back at a rapid rate. In about 
 twenty minutes he came back with about 400 
 feet of rope. 
 
 "Mr. Coppick, Mr. Simpson and a little 
 boy by the name of Pearl Gibson took the 
 rope, and, going out to the fence, tied it to 
 the boat. They could not get to a post directly 
 west of him, but tied it to one so that when the 
 boat was let down it came about five feet to 
 the south and about five feet to the west, 
 leaving Alex standing about five feet to the 
 northeast. 
 
 44 Mr. Coppick went down in the boat, while 
 Mr. Simpson stayed up at the post to hold the 
 boat and the Gibson boy stood at his post to 
 
 53 
 
ALEX POSEY, THE CREEK INDIAN POET 
 
 help hold the boat and pull it in. When he 
 got down there, Mr. Coppick got out and at- 
 tempted to push the boat over to him, then 
 Simpson and Gibson would let it down to 
 him; but the water was so swift that it was 
 impossible to push the boat as much as six 
 inches, so Mr. Coppick got over on the other 
 side and attempted to pull the boat over, but 
 came very near losing his hold on it, and had 
 to get back in. 
 
 "Mr. Simpson and I then told the men to 
 go out and help with the boat, but at that 
 time there was no one there who could swim 
 but Jim Simpson, and he immediately com- 
 menced taking off his clothes to go in, and at 
 the same time Jay Smith was getting ready 
 to go in with him. 
 
 ' ' In the meantime Alex had requested Mr. 
 Coppick to hand him one end of the rope and 
 he could pull him in. Before doing this Mr. 
 Coppick asked him if he was scared, and he 
 said no. He then asked him if he was excited 
 and he again said no. Then Mr. Coppick 
 handed him one end of the rope, at the same 
 time telling him not to turn loose that twig 
 unless he was sure he could hold the rope. He 
 said he could. Mr. Simpson then called to him 
 not to turn loose of the twig unless he could 
 
 54 
 
ALEX POSEY, THE CREEK INDIAN POET 
 
 hold the rope, and added: Tor God's sake, 
 Alex, don't do it.' He at that time had hold 
 of the rope with his left hand, but was holding 
 the twig with his right. He then told Mr. 
 Simpson that he could hold the rope, and then 
 at the same time he took hold of it with his 
 right hand. 
 
 "When he did the swift current threw him 
 out in the stream directly behind the boat 
 about four feet, but he still stood on his feet. 
 
 "Mr. Coppick asked him if he could pull 
 in. He said yes, and attempted to pull him- 
 self into the boat, but as he made the pull his 
 feet flew out from under him and left him 
 dragging behind the boat. He then raised his 
 head and told Mr. Coppick that he could not 
 pull himself into the boat. 
 
 1 ' Jim Simpson then started out to the fence 
 to get to the rope and go down to him, but be- 
 fore he could get to the fence Alex had re- 
 quested Mr. Coppick to pull him in. Mr. 
 Coppick told him to hold the rope and he 
 would pull him in or pull out the back end of 
 the boat. When he made the pull, Alex's 
 hands began to slip from off the rope. He then 
 turned his head and looked toward the bank 
 where we were standing, and turning and look- 
 ing back down the stream towards this awful 
 
 55 
 
ALEX POSEY, THE CREEK INDIAN POET 
 
 current that was going over and under the 
 railroad track, he opened his hands and passed 
 out of sight for the moment under the rail- 
 road. 
 
 "I saw him for a moment on the east side, 
 apparently dead, as I thought ; then his body 
 shot down the stream for the right-of-way wire 
 fence, and there it sank from my sight and I 
 saw him no more. 
 
 " A word here in regard to this water. The 
 river at this place formed a horseshoe ; on the 
 west side of the track there was about three 
 miles square of water, and about the same on 
 the east. The water had broken through the 
 track, leaving a space of about thirty feet, and 
 going through this on a four-foot fall in a dis- 
 tance of about one hundred yards, the track 
 was bent down, leaving the water to run about 
 twelve inches over the top of it and about 
 eight feet under it, with some of the ties hang- 
 ing down, and the bend in the railroad making 
 the water that ran over it run in a channel 
 about three feet wide, and was so swift that 
 when you threw in a sack of sand it would go 
 down the current about ten feet or more. 
 To strike any portion of that railroad was 
 instant death, so you can readily see that it 
 was an impossibility for anyone to go in to 
 
 56 
 
ALEX POSEY, THE CREEK INDIAN POET 
 
 where he was to attempt to let him come out 
 on a rope, or to lasso him and drag him out, 
 but the only way to possibly save him was to 
 put three good men with a boat and at least 
 fifteen men up at the fence to pull the boat in. 
 "This is the true story of the awful death 
 of the greatest Creek Indian of this country, 
 the most polished newspaper man in the State, 
 and a writer of prose and poetry whose equal 
 in his line we have never known." 
 
 XI. 
 
 The poems of Posey always appeared over 
 the nom de plume Chinnubbie Harjo. Chin- 
 nubbie Harjo, in the Muskogee mythology, 
 had changed character and was regarded as 
 the evil genius of the Creeks. In his original 
 conception he had been their hero, a mighty 
 man endowed with a supernatural powers, but 
 burdened with many of the foibles, limita- 
 tions, and weaknesses of humanity. He was 
 to the ancient Creeks what Hiawatha was to 
 the Iroquois — what Manabozho was to the 
 
 57 
 
ALEX POSEY, THE CREEK INDIAN POET 
 
 Algonquins. Posey seems to have accepted 
 him in his modified capacity, for I find four 
 articles or stories written by him of Chin- 
 nubbie. These were doubtless written while 
 Posey was at Bacone University and pub- 
 lished in the Instructor. I find them in pam- 
 phlet form, and they bear the following titles: 
 " Chinnubbie Harjo, The Evil Genius 
 
 of the Creeks," — 
 11 Chinnubbie Scalps the Squaws," — 
 " Chinnubbie's Courtship," — 
 " Chinnubbie and the Owl." 
 The portrayal of Chinnubbie Harjo by 
 Posey seems to assign him to the place which 
 in the ancient lore of the Creeks I have in- 
 dicated. Pagan religions usually concerned 
 themselves much more with the conciliation 
 of evil spirits than in the discovery and adora- 
 tion of beneficent ones. 
 
 The nom de plume was a good one, eupho- 
 nious and flowing, pleasant to the ear, and 
 
ALEX POSEY, THE CREEK INDIAN POET 
 
 genuinely Indian. After his graduation Posey 
 published no poem, that I have found, over 
 any other name; but it seems not to have 
 been his purpose to conceal his identity, for 
 it was generally known that these poems were 
 written by him. 
 
 XII. 
 
 Posey was a striking character — swarthy, 
 as Indians are, erect, and of fine presence. 
 Toward strangers he maintained an impene- 
 trable reserve, and reticence was habitual with 
 him. But to friends — those who had won a 
 place in his heart — his greetings were warm 
 and his manner cordial and gracious. By 
 nature he was gentle, kind, considerate. He 
 was modest in reference to his talents, and he 
 was fully aware of his deficiencies. He did 
 not take every friend to his soul, but some he 
 did. They were usually those who loved 
 literature as he loved it. These were his joy, 
 
 59 
 
ALEX POSEY, THE CREEK INDIAN POET 
 
 his constant delight. Their coming kindled 
 happiness, and they were not long with him 
 until he was reading with them and discussing 
 some favorite author. He rarely referred to 
 his own productions, and when he did so it 
 was in disparaging terms. 
 
 Posey was the best known man in the Five 
 Civilized Tribes, and was universally spoken 
 of "Alex" Posey. This name he preferred. 
 Indeed, he used no other, even when signing 
 legal documents. He disliked the name "Law- 
 rence," and while it was his name, he never 
 used it. To the Constitution of the State of 
 Sequoyah is signed the favorite form of his 
 name, Alex Posey. 
 
 In his home life Posey found true happi- 
 ness. As a husband he was devoted and af- 
 fectionate. As a father he was loving and in- 
 dulgent. By temperament he was never exact- 
 ing, but always appreciative. He possessed 
 the generous nature of the Indian and was a 
 
 60 
 
ALEX POSEY, THE CREEK INDIAN POET 
 
 free spender of money for the comfort of those 
 near and dear to him. While not improvi- 
 dent, he did not comprehend the full value of 
 money. He was very considerate of his 
 family, and if he had five minutes to spare he 
 would take down some favorite volume and 
 read to his wife. His children, a son and a 
 daughter, were his companions. When he 
 was absent from home his family received 
 from him an affectionate letter every day. 
 
 XIII. 
 Indians are poetical in their conceptions of 
 life and nature. As observers of the habits 
 of animals and the phenomena of nature they 
 surpass all other people. They are orators 
 by instinct, and no more eloquent people ever 
 lived. Speaking of this characteristic of his 
 people, Posey said: 
 
 "All of my people are poets, natural-born 
 poets, gifted with wonderful imaginative 
 
 61 
 
ALEX POSEY, THE CREEK INDIAN POET 
 
 power and the ability to express in sonorous, 
 musical phrases their impressions of life and 
 nature. If they could be translated into Eng- 
 lish without losing their characteristic beauty 
 and flavor, many of the Indian songs and 
 poems would rank among the greatest pro- 
 ductions of all time. Some of them are master- 
 pieces. They have a splendid dignity, gorgeous 
 word-pictures, and reproduce with magic effect 
 many phases of life in the forests — the glint 
 of the fading sunshine falling on the leaves, 
 the faint stirring of the wind, the whirring 
 of insects — no detail is too small to escape 
 their observation, and the most fleeting and 
 evanescent impressions are caught and re- 
 corded in most exquisite language. The 
 Indian talks in poetry ; poetry is his vernacu- 
 lar — not necessarily the stilted poetry of 
 books, but the free and untrammeled poetry 
 of Nature, the poetry of the fields, the sky, 
 the river, the sun and the stars. In his own 
 tongue it is not difficult for the Indian to com- 
 pose, — he does it instinctively; but in at- 
 tempting to write in English he is handi- 
 capped. Words seem hard, form mechanical, 
 and it is to these things that I attribute the 
 failure of the civilized Indian to win fame in 
 poetry." 
 
 62 
 
ALEX POSEY, THE CREEK INDIAN POET 
 
 Posey overcame the difficulties of which he 
 speaks and of which he was painfully con- 
 scious, and which required tremendous effort 
 and infinite patience and perseverance, for he 
 was a complete Indian. He inherited little 
 from the white man. That which he had from 
 us was mostly acquired. He belonged to a 
 people but two or three generations removed 
 from barbarism. But inherent in his soul was 
 the aspiration to commune with the infinite. 
 The emotions which stirred him he recorded 
 for us. He was the Apostle of Nature. As 
 long as men are moved by the beautiful in 
 nature they will read the words and bless the 
 memory of this bard of the Creeks — the poet 
 of America's aboriginal people. 
 
 XIV. 
 
 I forego the temptation to enter here upon 
 an analysis of Posey's work. Every reader 
 may do that for himself. It has been said that 
 
 63 
 
ALEX POSEY, THE CREEK INDIAN POET 
 
 Posey had no faith in a future life. It is im- 
 possible that this could be true. Of all people, 
 the Indians are strongest in their faith in a 
 Supreme Being and a future life. Posey was 
 too broad a man to attempt to set bounds to 
 Omnipotence. To him a Creator was so much 
 in evidence every time he lifted his eyes to be- 
 hold the beauties of the world and the heavens, 
 that to his mind no argument was required 
 to prove His existence. That his road was full 
 of reverence for the Supreme Architect of the 
 universe will be plain to all who may read what 
 he has said. In his heart he could find no re- 
 sponse to the theory that God was best sought 
 and only found by adherence to sects and de- 
 nominations. Posey's conception was that 
 God is best served and most reverently wor- 
 shipped by our expression of the gratitude 
 we feel for the beauties and blessings He so 
 bounteously pours out for us every day. This 
 conception inspired in Posey love for a life 
 
 6 4 
 
MRS. ALEX POSEY AND DAUGHTER 
 
ALEX POSEY, THE CREEK INDIAN POET 
 
 which was right and a deep reverence for God 
 as He manifests Himself to His children by 
 his beneficence and the beauties of His handi- 
 work. In this Posey was devout. In it he 
 found the hope of resurrection and a new 
 life — 
 
 "When Death has shut the blue sky out from me, 
 
 Sweet Daffodil, 
 And years roll on without my memory, 
 Thou 'It reach thy tender fingers down to mine of clay, 
 
 A true friend still, 
 Although I'll never know thee till the Judgment Day." 
 
 William Elsey Connelley. 
 
 816 Lincoln Street, 
 
 Topeka, Kansas, August it, 1910. 
 
 65 
 
THE POEMS 
 
 OF 
 
 aiexauber latorence 
 
THE POEMS 
 
 OF 
 
 ^ilexanber Hatorence ^o^ep 
 
 SONG OF THE OKTAHUTCHEE.* 
 
 Far, far, far are my silver waters drawn; 
 
 The hills embrace me, loth to let me go; 
 The maidens think me fair to look upon, 
 
 And trees lean over, glad to hear me flow. 
 Thro 1 field and valley, green because of me, 
 I wander, wander to the distant sea. 
 
 Thro 1 lonely places and thro' crowded ways, 
 Thro' noise of strife and thro 1 the solitude, 
 
 And on thro 1 cloudy days and sunny days, 
 I journey till I meet, in sisterhood, 
 
 The broad Canadian,^ red with the sunset, 
 
 Now calm, now raging in a mighty fret! 
 
 ♦Oktahutchee: Okta, sand; Hutchee, river. A name given 
 the beautifu' North Canadian by the Creek Indian. 
 fThe South Canadian. 
 
 6 9 
 
ALEX POSEY, THE CREEK INDIAN POET 
 
 On either hand, in a grand colonnade, 
 The cottonwoods rise in the azure sky, 
 
 And purple mountains cast a purple shade 
 As I, now grave, now laughing, pass them by; 
 
 The birds of air dip bright wings in my tide, 
 
 In sunny reaches where I noiseless glide. 
 
 O'er sandy reaches with rocks and mussel- 
 shells, 
 
 Blue over spacious beds of amber sand, 
 By hanging cliffs, by glens where echo dwells — 
 
 Elusive spirit of the shadow-land — 
 Forever blest and blessing do I go, 
 A-wid'ning in the morning's roseate glow. 
 
 Tho' I sing my song in a minor key, 
 Broad lands and fair attest the good I do; 
 
 Tho' I carry no white sails to the sea, 
 Towns nestle in the vales I wander thro' ; 
 
 And quails are whistling in the waving grain, 
 
 And herds are scattered o'er the verdant plain. 
 
 70 
 
ALEX POSEY, THE CREEK INDIAN POET 
 
 FLOWERS. 
 
 When flowers jade, why does 
 
 Their fragrance linger still ? 
 Have they a spirit, too, 
 
 That Death can never kill ? 
 Is it their Judgment Day 
 
 When from the dark, dark mould 
 Of April and of May 
 
 Their blooms again unfold? 
 
 71 
 
ALEX POSEY, THE CREEK INDIAN POET 
 
 WHEN LOVE IS DEAD. 
 
 Who last shall kiss the lips of love, when love is 
 
 dead ? 
 Who last shall fold her hands and pillow soft 
 
 her head? 
 Who last shall vigil keep beside her lonely bier? 
 I ask, and from the dark, cold height without, 
 
 I hear 
 The mystic answer: "I, her mother, Earth, 
 
 shall press 
 Her lips the last, in my infinite tenderness. 1 ' 
 
 72 
 
ALEX POSEY, THE CREEK INDIAN POET 
 
 TO A DAFFODIL. 
 
 When Death has shut the blue skies out from 
 me, 
 
 Sweet Daffodil, 
 And years roll on without my memory, 
 Thou'lt reach thy tender fingers down to mine 
 of clay, 
 
 A true friend still, 
 Although Til never know thee till the Judgment 
 Day. 
 
 73 
 
ALEX POSEY, THE CREEK INDIAN POET 
 
 MY FANCY. 
 
 Why do trees along the river 
 
 Lean so jar out o'er the tide? 
 Very wise men tell me why, but 
 
 I am never satisfied; 
 And so I keep my fancy still, 
 
 That trees lean out to save 
 The drowning from the clutches of 
 
 The cold, remorseless wave. 
 
 74 
 
ALEX POSEY, THE CREEK INDIAN POET 
 
 TO A ROBIN. 
 
 Out in the golden air, 
 
 Out where the skies are fair, 
 I hear a song of gladness, 
 
 With never note of sadness. 
 Sing out thy heart's delight, 
 
 And mine of every sorrow. 
 Sing, sweet bird, till the night, 
 
 And come again tomorrow. 
 
 75 
 
ALEX POSEY, THE CREEK INDIAN POET 
 
 THE DEW AND THE BIRD. 
 
 There is more glory in a drop of dew, 
 
 That shineth only for an hour, 
 Than there is in the pomp of earth's great Kings 
 
 Within the noonday of their power. 
 
 There is more sweetness in a single strain 
 That falleth from a wild bird's throat, 
 
 At random in the lonely forest's depths, 
 
 Than there's in all the songs that bards e'er 
 wrote. 
 
 Yet men, for aye, rememb'ring Ccesar's name, 
 
 Forget the glory in the dew, 
 And, praising Homer's epic, let the lark's 
 
 Song fall unheeded from the blue. 
 
 76 
 
ALEX POSEY, THE CREEK INDIAN POET 
 
 HUSSE LOTKA ENHOTULLE. 
 
 (The West Wind.) 
 
 From o'er the hills it comes to me, 
 
 The clouds pursuing, 
 With song of bird and drone of bee, 
 
 So soft and wooing; 
 
 From o'er the woods, thro' shade and sheen, 
 
 With fragrance teeming, 
 From o'er the prairies, wide and green, 
 
 And leaves me dreaming. 
 
 Across the fields of corn and wheat 
 
 In valleys lying, 
 It seems to sing a message sweet 
 
 Of peace undying. 
 
 I shout aloud — the wildwoods ring 
 
 As they have never — 
 " Blow, O Wind of the West, and sing 
 
 This song forever!" 
 
 77 
 
ALEX POSEY, THE CREEK INDIAN POET 
 
 BOB WHITE. 
 
 Bob—Bob White! 
 The joyous call falls like a silver chime; 
 And back across the fields of summer-time, 
 The echo, faint but sweetly clear, 
 Falls dying on the listening ear — 
 
 Bob— Bob White! 
 
 A nd when the cheery voice is dead, 
 And silence woos the wind to rest 
 
 Among the oak boughs overhead, 
 
 From valley, hill, or meadow's breast, 
 
 There comes an answering call — 
 Bob— Bob White! 
 
 And, once more, over all, 
 
 The golden Silence weaves her spell, 
 
 And light and shadow play 
 At hide-and-seek behind the high 
 
 Blue ivalls around the day. 
 
 73 
 
ALEX POSEY, THE CREEK INDIAN POET 
 
 A speck of brown adown the dusty pathway 
 
 runneth he, 
 Then whirreth, like a missile shot, into a neigh- 
 
 Wring tree. 
 Again, from where the wood and prairie meet, 
 Across the tasseled corn and waving wheat, 
 Awakening many tender memories sweet — 
 Bob— Bob White! 
 
 79 
 
ALEX POSEY, THE CREEK INDIAN POET 
 
 BROOK SONG. 
 
 If you 11 bill pause and 
 
 Listen, listen long, 
 There 1 re far-off voices 
 
 In a wee brook's song, 
 That come as voices 
 
 Come from out the years; 
 And you will dream you 
 
 Hear the voice once Hers, 
 Perhaps, and wend on, 
 
 Blinded by your tears. 
 
 80 
 
ALEX POSEY, THE CREEK INDIAN POET 
 
 ON PINEY.* 
 
 Far away from the valley below, 
 
 Like the roar in a shell of the sea 
 
 Or the flow of the river at night, 
 
 Comes the voice strangely sweet of the pines. 
 
 Snowy clouds, sometimes white, sometimes dark, 
 Like the joys and the sorrows of life, 
 Sail above, half becalmed in the blue; 
 And their cool shadows lie on the hills. 
 
 Here and there, when the leaves blow apart, 
 To admit sunny winds seeking rest 
 In the shade with their burden of sweets, 
 Piney Creek shimmers bright, with a cloud 
 
 Or a patch of the sky on its breast; 
 Here the din and the strife of the mart 
 And the gabble of lips that profane 
 Are heard not, and the heart is made pure. 
 
 * Piney— A stream in the Tulledega hills. 
 81 
 
ALEX POSEY, THE CREEK INDIAN POET 
 
 IN TULLEDEGA.* 
 
 Where mountains lift their heads 
 
 To clouds that nestle low; 
 Where constant beauty spreads 
 
 Sublimer scenes below; 
 
 Where gray and massive rocks 
 O'erhang rough heights sublime; 
 
 Where awful grandeur mocks 
 The brush } and poet's rhyme, 
 
 We saw the evening blush 
 
 Above the rugged range, 
 We heard the river rush 
 
 Far off and faint and strange. 
 
 * Tulledega— Border line. A name given a range of hills lying 
 along the Oktahutchee, west of the poet's home. 
 
 82 
 
ALEX POSEY, THE CREEK INDIAN POET 
 
 TO WAHILLA ENHOTULLE. 
 
 (To the South Wind.) 
 
 Wind, hast thou a sigh 
 Robbed from her lips divine 
 
 Upon this sunbright day — 
 A token or a sign ? 
 
 Oh, take me, Wind, into 
 Thy confidence, and tell 
 
 Me, whispering soft and low, 
 The secrets of the dell. 
 
 Oh, teach me what it is 
 The meadow flowers say 
 
 As to and fro they nod 
 Thro' all the golden day. 
 
 Oh, hear, Wind of the South, 
 And whispering softer yet, 
 
 Unfold the story of 
 The lone pine tree's regret. 
 
 83 
 
ALEX POSEY, THE CREEK INDIAN POET 
 
 Oh, waft me echoes sweet 
 
 That haunt the meadow glen— 
 
 The scent of new-mown hay, 
 A nd songs of harvest men; 
 
 The coolness of the sea 
 And forests dark and deep — 
 
 The soft reed notes of Pan, 
 And bleat of straying sheep. 
 
 Oh, make me, Wind, to know 
 The language of the bee — 
 
 The burden of the wild 
 Bird's rapturous melody; 
 
 The password of the leaves 
 
 Upon the cottonwood; 
 And let me join them in 
 
 Their mystic brotherhood. 
 
 84 
 
ALEX POSEY, THE CREEK INDIAN POET 
 
 ON VIEWING THE SKULL AND 
 BONES OF A WOLF. 
 
 How savage, fierce and grim ! 
 
 His bones are bleached and white. 
 But what is death to him ? 
 
 He grins as if to bite. 
 He mocks the fate 
 
 That bade, "Begone." 
 There s fierceness stamped 
 
 In ev'ry bone. 
 
 Let silence settle from the midnight sky — 
 Such silence as you've broken with your cry; 
 The bleak wind howl, unto the utmost verge 
 Of this mighty waste, thy fitting dirge. 
 
 85 
 
ALEX POSEY, THE CREEK INDIAN POET 
 
 WHENCE. 
 
 Whence come these sweet ceolian airs 
 
 Which, in the poet's inmost soul, 
 
 Awaken silent melodies? 
 
 I ask a wild rose blooming far 
 
 Afield, and thus it answered me: 
 
 " From places like to this, where love 
 
 Abides to start them with his breath." 
 
 I questioned then a stately tree, 
 
 With leaves a-ripple in the breeze. 
 
 "From lonely woods," it gave reply, 
 
 "Where Sorrow broods uncomforted." 
 
 And then I asked a meadow-lark, 
 
 A -bobbing on the waving grass. 
 
 As quick, as blithe, its answer came: 
 
 "From meadows where I meet the Sun, 
 
 And brown bees rove in quest of sweets." 
 
 The Tulledega, lying like 
 
 A purple shadow in the west, 
 
 Gave answer to my question, thus: 
 
 "From heights where stormy Passion speaks 
 
 In the language of the tempest." 
 
 86 
 
ALEX POSEY, THE CREEK INDIAN POET 
 
 SPRING IN TULWA THLOCCO * 
 
 Thro 1 the vine-embowered portal blows 
 The fragrant breath of summer-time; 
 
 Far, the river, brightly winding, goes 
 With murmurs falling into rhyme. 
 
 It is spring in Tulwa Thlocco now; 
 
 The fresher hue of grass and tree 
 All but hides upon the mountain's brow 
 
 The green haunts of the chickadee. 
 
 There are drifts of plum blooms, snowy white, 
 Along the lane and greening hedge; 
 
 And the dogwood blossoms cast a light 
 Upon the forest's dusky edge. 
 
 Crocus, earliest flower of the year, 
 Hangs out its starry petals where 
 
 The spring beauties in their hiding peer, 
 And red-buds crimson all the air. 
 
 * Tulwa Thlocco — A large settlement of people. This settle- 
 ment lies on the north side of the Oktahutchee. 
 
 87 
 
ALEX POSEY, THE CREEK INDIAN POET 
 
 ON THE CAPTURE AND IMPRISON- 
 MENT OF CRAZY SNAKE,* 
 JANUARY, 1900. 
 
 Down with him I chain him I bind him fast! 
 
 Slam to the iron door and turn the key ! 
 The one true Creek, perhaps the last 
 
 To dare declare, " You have wronged me!" 
 Defiant, stoical, silent, 
 
 Suffers imprisonment ! 
 
 Such coarse black hair! such eagle eye! 
 
 Such stately mien! — how arrow -straight! 
 Such will! such courage to defy 
 
 The powerful makers of his fate! 
 A traitor, outlaw, — what you will, 
 
 He is the noble red man still. 
 
 Condemn him and his kind to shame! 
 I bow to him, exalt his name! 
 
 * Crazy Snake— Chitto Harjo. The leader of a band of Creeks 
 who oppose the abolishment of their tribal rights. Several times 
 Harjo has been imprisoned because of his defying the United States 
 authorities. 
 
 88 
 
ALEX POSEY, THE CREEK INDIAN POET 
 
 SHELTER. 
 
 In my cabin in the clearing, 
 
 I lie and hear the autumn shower jailing 
 slow; 
 Afar, almost out of hearing, 
 
 I lie and hear the wet wind thro 1 the forest go. 
 
 Sense of shelter steals o'er me; 
 
 Into the evening dimness failing, 
 Into the night before me, 
 
 I lie and fancy I am sailing. 
 
 All night the wind will be blowing; 
 
 All night the rain will slowly pour; 
 But I shall sleep, never knoiving 
 
 The storm raps ceaseless at my door. 
 
 89 
 
ALEX POSEY, THE CREEK INDIAN POET 
 
 TO THE INDIAN MEADOW LARK. 
 
 When other birds despairing southward fly, 
 
 In early autumn-time away; 
 When all the green leaves of the forest die. 
 
 How merry still art thou, and gay. 
 
 01 golden-breasted bird of dawn, 
 
 Through all the bleak days singing on, 
 
 Till winter, wooed a captive by thy strain, 
 Breaks into smiles, and spring is come again. 
 
 90 
 
ALEX POSEY, THE CREEK INDIAN POET 
 
 NIGHTFALL. 
 
 As evening splendors fade 
 
 From yonder sky afar, 
 The Night pins on her dark 
 
 Robe with a large bright star, 
 And the new moon hangs like 
 
 A high-thrown scimitar. 
 Vague in the mystic room 
 
 This side the paling west, 
 The Tulledegas loom 
 
 In an eternal rest, 
 And one by one the lamps are lit 
 
 In the dome of the Infinite. 
 
 91 
 
ALEX POSEY, THE CREEK INDIAN POET 
 
 ASSURED. 
 
 Be it dark; be it bright; 
 
 Be it pain; be it rest; 
 Be it wrong; be it right — 
 
 // must be for the best. 
 
 Some good must somewhere wait, 
 And sometime joy and pain 
 
 Must cease to alternate, 
 Or else we live in vain. 
 
 92 
 
ALEX POSEY, THE CREEK INDIAN POET 
 
 TRYSTING IN CLOVER. 
 
 / laid amid the hum of bumblebees, 
 
 And 0, and 0, 
 
 Above me, to and fro, 
 The clover-heads were tossing in the breeze! 
 
 And 0, and 0, from meadow, wood or height, 
 
 Afar or near, 
 
 Came sweet the whistle clear, 
 Athwart the sunny silence, Bob — Bob — White! 
 
 The heaven in the south arched low and blue, — 
 
 Too low and blue, 
 
 For clouds to wander thro 1 , 
 And so they moored at rest as white ships do. 
 
 And 0, and 0, how cool their shadows lay 
 
 Upon the lea, 
 
 In dark embroidery! 
 How sweet the mock-bird sang, O perfect day! 
 
 93 
 
ALEX POSEY, THE CREEK INDIAN POET 
 
 My heart gave answer, Bird, for thee and me, 
 
 perfect day! 
 
 For she is on her way, 
 I know, to join me in my reverie 1 
 
 Between that time and now, lie many years 
 
 And 0, and 0, 
 
 And 0, time changes so! 
 The spring and summer wane and autumn seres. 
 
 Sing, Mockingbird, upon the bending bough, 
 
 Sing as of yore! 
 
 My heart responds no more — 
 She's listening to sweeter music now! 
 
 94 
 
ALEX POSEY, THE CREEK INDIAN POET 
 
 TO A MORNING WARBLER. 
 
 Sing on, till light and shadow meet, 
 Blithe spirit of the morning air; 
 I do not know thy name, nor care — 
 
 / only know thy song is sweet, 
 
 And that my heart beats thanks to thee. 
 Made pure by thy minstrelsy. 
 
 95 
 
ALEX POSEY, THE CREEK INDIAN POET 
 
 TO MY WIFE. 
 
 Tve seen the beauty of the rose, 
 
 I've heard the music of the bird, 
 
 And given voice to my delight; 
 
 Tve sought the shapes that come in dreams, 
 
 Tve reached my hands in eager quest, 
 
 To fold them empty to my breast; 
 
 While you, the whole of all Tve sought — 
 
 The love, the beauty, and the dreams — 
 
 Have stood, thro' weal and woe, true at 
 
 My side, silent at my neglect. 
 
 96 
 
ALEX POSEY, THE CREEK INDIAN POET 
 
 THE IDLE BREEZE. 
 
 Like a truant boy, unmindful 
 Of the herd he keeps, thou, idle 
 Breeze, hast left the white clouds scattered 
 All about the sky, and wandered 
 Down to play at leap-frog with the 
 Grass, and rest in the branches; 
 While, one by one, the white clouds stray 
 Apart, and disappear forever. 
 
 97 
 
ALEX POSEY, THE CREEK INDIAN POET 
 
 COME. 
 
 Above, 
 
 The stars are bursting into bloom, 
 
 My love; 
 
 Below, unfolds the evening gloom. 
 
 Come, let us roam the long lane thro\ 
 
 My love, just as we used to do. 
 
 The birds 
 
 Of twilight twitter, sweet and low, 
 
 A nd fly to rest, and homeward go 
 
 The herds. 
 
 Come, let the long lane lead us as it will, 
 
 My love, a-winding thro 1 the evening still. 
 
 Behold 
 
 How now the full-blown stars are spread, 
 
 Like large white lilies, overhead! 
 
 But fold 
 
 They must, and fade at gray daylight, 
 
 My love; they blossom but at night. 
 
 98 
 
ALEX POSEY, THE CREEK INDIAN POET 
 
 The moon, 
 
 My love, uncurls her silvry hair, 
 
 And June 
 
 Spills all her sweetness on the air. 
 
 Come, let us roam the long lane thro J , 
 
 My love, just as we used to do. 
 
 99 
 
ALEX POSEY, THE CREEK INDIAN POET 
 
 MY HERMITAGE. 
 
 Between me and the noise of strife 
 Are walls of mountains set with pine; 
 
 The dusty, care- strewn paths of life 
 Lead not to this retreat of mine. 
 
 I hear the morning wind awake 
 
 Beyond the purple height, 
 And, in the growing light, 
 
 The lap of lilies on the lake. 
 
 I live with Echo and with Song, 
 And Beauty leads me forth to see 
 
 Her temple's colonnades, and long 
 Together do we love to be. 
 
 The mountains wall me in, complete, 
 
 A nd leave me but a bit of blue 
 Above. All year, the days are sweet — 
 
 How sweet! And all the long nights thro' 
 
 I hear the river flowing by 
 
 Along its sandy bars; 
 Behold, far in the midnight sky, 
 
 An infinite of stars! 
 
 IOO 
 
ALEX POSEY, THE CREEK INDIAN POET 
 
 'Tis sweet, when all is still, 
 When darkness gathers round, 
 
 To hear, from hill to hill, 
 
 The far, the wandering sound. 
 
 The cedar and the pine 
 
 Have pitched their tents with me. 
 What freedom vast is mine ! 
 
 What room! What mystery! 
 
 Upon the dreamy southern breeze, 
 That steals in like a laden bee 
 
 And sighs for rest among the trees, 
 Are far-blown bits of melody. 
 
 What afterglows the twilights hold, 
 
 The darkening skies along! 
 And 0, what rose-like dawns unfold, 
 
 That smite the hills to song! 
 
 High in the solitude of air, 
 
 The gray hawk circles on and on, 
 
 Till, like a spirit soaring there, 
 His image pales and he is gone! 
 
 IOI 
 
ALEX POSEY, THE CREEK INDIAN POET 
 
 SEASHELLS. 
 
 / picked up shells with ruby lips 
 That spoke in whispers of the sea, 
 
 Upon a time, and watched the ships, 
 On white wings, sail away to sea. 
 
 The ships I saw go out that day 
 Live misty — dim in memory; 
 
 But still I hear, from far away, 
 The blue waves breaking ceaselessly. 
 
 I02 
 
ALEX POSEY, THE CREEK INDIAN POET 
 
 A VISION OF JUNE. 
 
 At last, my white Narcissus is in bloom; 
 
 Each blossom sheds a wondrous fragrance. Lot 
 From over bleak December's waste of snow, 
 
 In summer garments, lightly thro 1 the gloom, 
 
 Comes June to claim the truant in my room; 
 With her the airs of sunny meadows come, 
 And in the apple boughs I hear the hum 
 
 Of bees; in all the valleys, brooks resume, 
 
 9 Twixt greening banks, their mumurous melody; 
 
 The sunlight bursts in splendor in the blue, 
 And soon the narrow walls confining me 
 
 Recede into the distance from my view; 
 
 My spirit in the summer's largeness grows, 
 And every thorn is hidden by the rose. 
 
 103 
 
ALEX POSEY, THE CREEK INDIAN POET 
 
 THE HOMESTEAD OF EMPIRE. 
 
 Lot plain and sky are brothers; peak 
 And cloud confer; the rivers spread 
 
 At length to mighty seas! 
 The soul is lifted up 
 
 In room whose walls share God's; wherein 
 Empire has staked off a homestead ! 
 
 Roll on, ye prairies of the West, 
 Roll on, like unsailed seas away! 
 
 I love thy silence 
 
 And thy mysterious room; 
 
 Roll on, ye deserts unconfined, 
 Roll on into the boundless day ! 
 
 Roll on, ye rivers of the West, 
 
 Roll on, through canyons to the sea! 
 
 Ye chant a harmony 
 
 Whereto free people march ! 
 
 Roll on, Oregon, roll on! 
 
 Roll on, O thunderous Yosemite! 
 
 104 
 
ALEX POSEY, THE CREEK INDIAN POET 
 
 Ye are the grand-voiced singers of 
 
 The great Republic! Ye echo 
 Thro 1 the years the hymn of 
 
 Freedom and of power; 
 The song of union and of peace 
 
 For aye is in thy troubled flow I 
 
 Loom! loom, ye far cold summits of 
 
 The West! Cloud-girt, snow -cr own' d, shine 
 on ! 
 
 Keep watch toward the dawn; 
 Keep watch toward the night! 
 
 Loom! loom, ye silent sentinels, 
 O'er Freedom's vast dominions! 
 
 Move on, world of the Occident, 
 
 Move on! Thy footfalls thro' the globe 
 
 Are heard as thou mar chest 
 Into that larger day 
 
 Whose dawn lights up the armored front 
 In Cuba and the Philippines. 
 
 105 
 
ALEX POSEY, THE CREEK INDIAN POET 
 
 JULY. 
 
 The air without has taken fever; 
 Fast I feel the beating of its pulse. 
 The leaves are twisted on the maple, 
 In the corn the autumn 's premature; 
 The weary butterfly hangs waiting 
 For a breath to waft him thither at 
 The touch, but falls, like truth unheeded, 
 Into dust-blown grass and hollyhocks. 
 
 The air without is blinding dusty; 
 Cool I feel the breezes blow; I see 
 The sunlight, crowded on the porch, grow 
 Smaller till absorbed in shadow; and 
 The far blue hills are changed to gray, and 
 Twilight lingers in the woods between; 
 And now I hear the shower dancing 
 In the cornfield and the thirsty grass. 
 
 106 
 
ALEX POSEY, THE CREEK INDIAN POET 
 
 GONE. 
 
 Gone I leaving all her bright 
 Hopes scattered, shell-like, on 
 The shore of life. Gone! gone! 
 
 Like a white dove in flight. 
 
 There hangs the robe she wore 
 
 In matchless harmony 
 
 And perfect purity: 
 She needs it now no more. 
 
 She's but a memory 
 
 Of kind deeds and of 
 
 A life that was all love. 
 How sweet her rest must be. 
 
 Beneath the leaves that fall 
 From autumn branches bare 
 To slumber with her there, 
 
 In answer to her call I 
 
 107 
 
ALEX POSEY, THE CREEK INDIAN POET 
 
 EVENTIDE. 
 
 Beyond the jar-off waves the seagulls cry, 
 
 As twilight shades 
 
 The emerald glades 
 And zephyrs waft the strains of nightbirds nigh; 
 
 Now sinks the sun — 
 
 Its course is run — 
 
 The day is done — 
 // fades in the gold of the western sky. 
 
 Now high, in raven files, the mustering crows 
 
 Their wings display, 
 
 Thro' ether way, 
 And transient gleams and saffron bars disclose, 
 
 And beauties throng 
 
 The sky along; 
 
 And bugs of song 
 Now pipe among the vales of dew-kissed rose. 
 
 Now Night, on high, her spangled robe unfurls, 
 Unveils the moon — 
 The silver moon — 
 
 108 
 
ALEX POSEY, THE CREEK INDIAN POET 
 
 The orbs, the milky-ways, the circling worlds; 
 
 Now bright, sublime, 
 
 In clusters shine 
 
 The stars divine, 
 And 'cross the twinkling void the meteor whirls. 
 
 109 
 
ALEX POSEY, THE CREEK INDIAN POET 
 
 A RHAPSODY. 
 
 Oh, to loiter where 
 
 The sea breaks white 
 
 In wild delight 
 
 And throws her kisses evermore, 
 
 A slave unto the palm-set shore! 
 
 Oh, to wander where 
 
 The gray moss elings 
 And south wind sings 
 Forever, low, enchantingly , 
 Of islands girdled by the sea! 
 
 Oh, T 11 journey back 
 
 Some day; some day 
 
 Til go away, — 
 
 Forsake my land of mountain pine, 
 
 To win the heart that captured mine ! 
 
 no 
 
ALEX POSEY, THE CREEK INDIAN POET 
 
 TO THE CROW. 
 
 Caw, caw, caw, 
 
 Thou bird of ebon hue, 
 
 Above the slumberous valley spread in flight, 
 
 On wings that flash defiance back at light, 
 
 A speck against the blue, 
 
 A -vanishing. 
 
 Caw, caw, caw, 
 
 Thou bird of common sense, 
 
 Far, far in lonely distance leaving me, 
 
 Deluded, with a shout of mockery 
 
 For all my diligence 
 
 At evening. 
 
 in 
 
ALEX POSEY, THE CREEK INDIAN POET 
 
 THE CALL OF THE WILD. 
 
 Tm tired of the gloom 
 In a four-walled room; 
 Heart-weary, I sigh 
 For the open sky, 
 And the solitude 
 Of the greening wood; 
 Where the bluebirds call, 
 And the sunbeams fall, 
 And the daisies lure 
 The soul to be pure. 
 
 Tm tired of the life 
 In the ways of strife; 
 Heart-weary, I long 
 For the river' s song, 
 And the murmur of rills 
 In the breezy hills; 
 Where the pipe of Pan — 
 The hairy half-man — 
 The bright silence breaks 
 By the sleeping lakes. 
 
 112 
 
ALEX POSEY, THE CREEK INDIAN POET 
 
 EYES OF BLUE AND BROWN. 
 
 Two eyes met mine 
 Of heav'n's own blue- 
 
 Forgetmenots 
 Seen under dew. 
 
 My heart straightway 
 
 Refused to woo 
 All other eyes 
 
 Except those two. 
 
 Days came and went 
 A whole year thro\ 
 
 And still I loved 
 Two eyes of blue. 
 
 But when one day 
 Two eyes of brown, 
 
 In olive set 
 
 Beneath a crown 
 
 113 
 
ALEX POSEY, THE CREEK INDIAN POET 
 
 Of browner hair, 
 
 Met mine, behold, 
 The eyes beneath 
 
 The shining gold, 
 
 Love-lit and loved 
 
 In days of yore, 
 Grew dim, and were 
 
 Sky -blue no more! 
 
 114 
 
ALEX POSEY, THE CREEK INDIAN POET 
 
 TWILIGHT. 
 
 Twilight, fold me, let me rest within 
 
 Thy dusky wings; 
 For I am weary, weary. Lull me with 
 
 Thy whisperings, 
 So tender; let my sleep be fraught with dreams 
 
 Of beauteous things. 
 
 "5 
 
ALEX POSEY, THE CREEK INDIAN POET 
 
 THE RURAL MAID. 
 
 Said I, "Sweet maid, I do not know your name, 
 And you, most sure, a stranger are to me; 
 
 But birds sing sweeter for your presence here, — 
 My heart is captured by your witchery." 
 
 She fled from me, 
 In dread of me. 
 
 Said I, " Sweet maid, I did not know your name, 
 And you, most sure, a stranger were to me; 
 
 But birds sing sadder for your absence here, — 
 My heart is broken by your witchery." 
 
 ri6 
 
ALEX POSEY, THE CREEK INDIAN FOET 
 
 THE EVENING STAR. 
 
 Behold, evening's bright star, 
 Like a door left ajar 
 In God's mansion afar, 
 
 Over the mountain's crest 
 Throws a beautiful ray, — 
 A sweet kiss to the day 
 
 As he sinks to his rest. 
 
 117 
 
ALEX POSEY, THE CREEK INDIAN POET 
 
 THE BLUE JAY. 
 
 The silence of the golden afternoon 
 Is broken by the chatter of the jay. 
 What season finds him when he is not gay, 
 Light-hearted, noisy, singing out of tune, 
 High-crested, blue as is the sky of June? 
 'Tis autumn when he comes; the hazy air, 
 Half -hiding like a veil, lies everywhere, 
 Full of the memories of summer soon 
 To fade; leaves, losing hold upon the tree, 
 
 Fly helpless in the wintry wind's unrest; 
 
 The goldenrod is burning low and fitfully; 
 
 The squirrel leaves his leafy summer rest, 
 
 Descends and gathers up the nuts that drop, 
 
 When lightly shaken, from the hick'ry top. 
 
 118 
 
ALEX POSEY, THE CREEK INDIAN POET 
 
 WHEN MOLLY BLOWS THE DINNER 
 HORN. 
 
 'Tis twelve o'clock in Possum Flat; 
 The cabbage steams, and bacon's fat; 
 The bread is made of last year's corn — 
 When Molly blows the dinner -horn. 
 
 The shadows lengthen north and south; 
 The water wells up in your mouth; 
 You're neither sober nor forlorn, 
 When Molly blows the dinner -horn. 
 
 A quiet falls, the smoke curls up 
 Like incense from a censor cup; 
 It makes you glad that you were born, 
 When Molly blows the dinner-horn. 
 
 The cur, erstwhile stretched in a snore, 
 Lays stout siege to the kitchen door; 
 Nor will he raise it, or be gone, 
 When Molly blows the dinner-horn. 
 
 119 
 
iLEX POSEY, 'nil-: CREEK INDIAN POET 
 
 THE PLOWEB OF TULLEDEGA, 
 
 / know a Tulledegan flower rare 
 
 Thai lifts between the /inks a blushing face, 
 And doth with every ■wind its sweetness share 
 
 That bloweth over its wild dwelling-place. 
 
 It outliers beauty where the storms are rough 
 
 And clings devoted to the rugged bluff. 
 
 Far 'bove its sisters in the vale below t 
 It swings its censor like a ruby star, 
 
 And thither all the days of summer go 
 
 The mountain bees fierce knights of love and 
 
 war — 
 
 To seal in noontide hour -O hour of bliss! — 
 Each tender VOW of true love with a kiss. 
 
 And often, like a betiuteous blossom blown 
 By careless winds o'er heaven's opal floor, 
 
 The Butterfly entreats it, "Be my own"; 
 
 And never -would in valleys wander more. 
 
 Content to hang for aye enchanted there 
 
 Beside the frowning summit bleak and bare. 
 
ALEX POSEY, THE CREEK INDIAN POET 
 
 u Come sit with me in my green cedar tent, 
 Bright Flozver," said Tulledega long ago, 
 
 Whilst leaning o'er his lofty battlement, 
 And wooed I lie /lower from the vale below. 
 
 In vain the Oktahutchee pleaded, "Stay: 
 Abide here by my mossy brink alway" 
 
 A nd flashed on thro' the folded hills. ' l A bide, ' ' 
 The Valley said, "Upon my verdant breast." 
 
 11 'Tis bleak and cold up there," the Thrushes 
 cried. 
 "Nay, nay, I love the Tulledega best" 
 
 Replied the lovely Flower as it went 
 
 High up the Mountain' s rugged battlement. 
 
 "Alas! " the River sighed, and cast a tear 
 Upon a slender reed; while overhead 
 
 A passing cloud cast down a shadow drear 
 Upon the valley green in sunshine spread; 
 
 A nd softly sweet from every feathered throat 
 
 To music set, escaped a plaintive note. 
 
 A chilling breeze came o'er the forest trees, 
 And all the leafy branches shook with cold; 
 
ALEX POSEY, THE CREEK INDIAN POET 
 
 Stechupco* blew such tender melodies 
 
 As Pan blew from his oaten lute of old, 
 On fair Arcadia's sunny slopes, when Echo 
 Loved the youth Narcissus to her sorrow. 
 
 Abide, lovely Flower, in your home 
 Of pine and cedar on the mountain height; 
 
 To come and go, as I have come and gone 
 So often before, — let that be my delight. 
 
 ' Tis May, and winds that blow from where you 
 are, 
 
 Tell me you hang now like a ruby star. 
 
 * Stechupco — A legendary being, very tall, who inhabits the 
 woods and blows on a reed. The Indians believe that if you can 
 get a sight of this person, you will become a great hunter. 
 
 122 
 
ALEX POSEY, THE CREEK INDIAN POET 
 
 COYOTE. 
 
 A jew days more, and then 
 There 11 be no secret glen, 
 Or hollow, deep and dim, 
 To hide or shelter him. 
 
 And on the prairie jar, 
 Beneath the beacon star 
 On evenings darkening shore, 
 Til hear him nevermore. 
 
 For where the tepee smoke 
 
 Curled up oj yore, the stroke 
 
 Oj hammers rings all day, 
 
 And grim Doom shouts, " Make way!" 
 
 The immemorial hush 
 Is broken by the rush 
 Oj armed enemies 
 Unto the utmost seas. 
 
 L2 3 
 
ALEX POSEY, THE CREEK INDIAN POET 
 
 THE MOCKING BIRD. 
 
 Whether spread in flight, 
 
 Or perched upon the swinging bough, 
 Whether day or night, 
 
 He sings as he is singing now, — 
 Till evry leaf upon the tree 
 Seems dripping with his melody! 
 
 Hear him! hear him! 
 
 As up he springeth — 
 
 As high he wingeth 
 From roof or limb! 
 
 If you are sad, 
 
 Go cry it out! 
 If you are glad, 
 
 Go laugh and shout! 
 
 Hear him! What heart can shut him out? 
 
 He hath a song for every mood, 
 
 For every song an interlude, 
 To dry the tear or stem the shout! 
 
 124 
 
ALEX POSEY, THE CREEK INDIAN POET 
 
 Whether you work, whether you rest, 
 
 Hark I listen I hear him sing! 
 As careless as he builds the nest 
 
 For his mate in the spring! 
 
 "5 
 
ALEX POSEY, THE CREEK INDIAN POET 
 
 ON A MARBLE MEDALLION OF 
 DANTE. 
 
 Close-hooded as a monk; 
 High-cheeked as a Red Man; 
 High-nosed as a Hebrew; 
 Full-lipped as a Greek god. 
 
 The character revealed 
 In this bit of white stone 
 Is such as is not stamped 
 Upon a human face 
 Once in a thousand years. 
 
 126 
 
ALEX POSEY, THE CREEK INDIAN POET 
 
 VERSES WRITTEN AT THE GRAVE 
 OF McINTOSH.* 
 
 Oh, carol, carol, early thrush, 
 
 A song 
 Where Oktahutchee* s waters rush 
 
 Along! 
 In dewy bowers perched to greet 
 
 The dawn, 
 Sing on, songster ever sweet, 
 
 Sing on! 
 
 And, listening to thy ecstacy, 
 
 Oh, let me fancy that I hear, 
 An echo of that voice so dear, 
 
 Thrown on the morning air by thee! 
 
 An echo of the voice 
 
 Of Mcintosh, my friend 
 And Indian brother, true, 
 
 So true unto the end. 
 
 *Col. D. N. McIntosh was an influential member of the Creek 
 tribe. His grave is in a little Indian cemetery under big oak trees, 
 near the Oktahutchee. 
 
 127 
 
ALEX POSEY, THE CREEK INDIAN POET 
 
 Carol, carol, sing 
 
 O bird of melody; 
 Say as sweet a thing 
 
 Of him as he of thee! 
 
 Blossom, blossom, swing 
 
 Thy flowers lovingly, 
 Sweet wild rose of spring, 
 
 Here where his ashes lie! 
 
 As one by one the cold days pass, 
 
 And Life and Love come on a-wing 
 In early sens' ous days of spring, 
 
 Creep gently hither, modest grass, 
 
 Concealing every ugly cleft, 
 
 And cover up the wreck that's left 
 By winter rude and pitiless! 
 
 O April beauty, then, come too, 
 
 In snow-white bonnet, sister true 
 Of charity and tenderness I 
 
 Ye oaks that spread broad branches at the 
 Wind's behest, 
 
 Be thou his monument, the watchers o'er his 
 rest! 
 
 128 
 
FARM HOME OF ALEX POSEY 
 
ALEX POSEY, THE CREEK INDIAN POET 
 
 THE LEGEND OF THE RED ROSE 
 
 The Red Rose once was white 
 
 As any flake of snow can be; 
 The sum of her delight 
 
 Was knowledge of her purity — 
 As ev'ry Bee and nodding Poppy knows. 
 But, in a luckless hour, 
 
 There bloomed outside the garden wall 
 A common wildwood flow'r, 
 
 So wondrous fair and sweet and tall, 
 That envy flushed the white face of the Rose! 
 
 129 
 
ALEX POSEY, THE CREEK INDIAN POET 
 
 WHAT I ASK OF LIFE. 
 
 / ask no more of life than sunset's gold; 
 A cottage hid in songbird's neighborhood, 
 Where I may sing and do a little good, 
 
 For love and pleasant memories when Vm old. 
 
 If life hath this in store for me — 
 A spot where coarse souls enter not, 
 
 Or strife — Tm sure there cannot be 
 On earth a fairer heaven sought. 
 
 130 
 
ALEX POSEY, THE CREEK INDIAN POET 
 
 AUTUMN. 
 
 In the dreamy silence 
 Of the afternoon, a 
 Cloth of gold is woven 
 Over wood and prairie; 
 And the jaybird, newly 
 Fallen from the heaven. 
 Scatters cordial greetings, 
 And the air is filled with 
 Scarlet leaves, that, dropping, 
 Rise again, as ever, 
 With a useless sigh for 
 Rest — and it is Autumn. 
 
 13 1 
 
ALEX POSEY, THE CREEK INDIAN POET 
 
 TO THE CENTURY PLANT. 
 
 Thou art gloriously 
 Crowned at last with beauty; 
 And thy waxen blossoms, 
 Born of nameless patience, 
 Charm away the desert 's 
 Dreariness, as some great 
 Truth a benefactor y s 
 Cast in persecution 
 Sheds splendid glory 
 In another age. 
 
 132 
 
ALEX POSEY, THE CREEK INDIAN POET 
 
 THE SUNSHINE OF LIFE. 
 
 The smile of a mother, 
 The smile of a father, 
 The smile of a brother, 
 The smile of a sister, 
 
 The smile of a sweetheart, 
 When fondly you've kissed her, 
 
 The moment ere you 'part, 
 The sweet smile of a wife, 
 
 And the smile of a friend 
 
 Who proves true to the end, 
 Are the sunshine of life. 
 
 *33 
 
ALEX POSEY, THE CREEK INDIAN POET 
 
 TO A SNOWFLAKE. 
 
 This is no home for thee, 
 
 Child of the winter cloud. 
 I question God why He, 
 
 In blessing, has allowed 
 Thee to escape, unless 
 
 It were to have thee bear 
 To Earth, in sinfulness, 
 
 A sweet, white pardon there. 
 
 134 
 
ALEX POSEY, THE CREEK INDIAN POET 
 
 RED MAN'S PLEDGE OF PEACE. 
 
 / pledge you by the moon and sun, 
 As long as stars their course shall run, 
 Long as day shall meet my view, 
 Peace shall reign between us two, 
 
 I pledge you by those peaks of snow 
 As long as streams to ocean flow, 
 Long as years their youth renew, 
 Peace shall reign between us two. 
 
 I came from mother soil and cave,* 
 You came from pathless sea and wave, 
 Strangers fought our battles through, — 
 Peace shall reign between us two. 
 
 *The Creeks have a legend about their having originated from the 
 caves and earth. 
 
 135 
 
ALEX POSEY, THE CREEK INDIAN POET 
 
 TO A COMMON FLOWER. 
 
 Thy waxen blooms of yesterday 
 
 Today all wither and decay. 
 
 But, oh, so sweet a life is thine! 
 Never knowing ill words spoken, 
 Sorrow of a heart that's broken, 
 
 So full of days unlike to mine. 
 
 136 
 
ALEX POSEY, THE CREEK INDIAN POET 
 
 TWO CLOUDS. 
 
 Away out west, one day, 
 Two clouds were seen astray. 
 One came up from the sea, 
 
 Afar unto the south, 
 And drifted wearily; 
 
 One came out of the north. 
 Away out west that day, 
 A town was swept away. 
 
 137 
 
ALEX POSEY, THE CREEK INDIAN POET 
 
 TO A SEA SHELL. 
 
 What sea-maid's longings dwell 
 Upon thy lips, Shell, 
 
 Washed to my feet from the depths of the sea ? 
 Listening, I hold thee to my ear, 
 But the secret that I would hear 
 
 Blends with the ocean's mystery. 
 
 138 
 
ALEX POSEY, THE CREEK INDIAN POET 
 
 IN VAIN. 
 
 Blow I O Wind of the sea! 
 Oh, blow! until I see 
 The ship that went away 
 Sail safe into the bay! 
 
 Wind of the sea! Wind of the sea! 
 What tidings dost thou bring to me? 
 
 But there's no reply; 
 There's no sail in sight; 
 And the years go by 
 And her hair grows white. 
 
 139 
 
ALEX POSEY, THE CREEK INDIAN POET 
 
 MEMORIES. 
 (Inscribed to George R. Hall.) 
 
 What sweet and tender memories — 
 
 What joys and griefs are yours and mine ! 
 
 Hands rest that smote the iv'ry keys, 
 And still, the lips that sang divine. 
 
 Dear ones, near ones have wended 
 Homeward through the vale of tears; 
 
 The voice that charmed has blended 
 With the silence of the years. 
 
 O'er lips that cannot say, 
 
 O'er hearts that cannot beat, 
 The sky bends blue today, 
 
 And flowers blossom sweet. 
 
 Tho' far apart we've drifted, Hall, 
 
 ' Tween you and me there's but a single river 
 
 And but a single mountain-wall — 
 
 'Tween Rose and Jim and us, the vast For- 
 ever! 
 
 140 
 
ALEX POSEY, THE CREEK INDIAN POET 
 
 ON THE HILLS OF DAWN. 
 
 Behold, the morning-glory' s sky-blue cup 
 Is mine wherewith to drink the nectar up 
 That morning spills of silver dew, 
 And song upon the winds that woo 
 And sigh their vows 
 Among the boughs! 
 
 Behold, Tm rich in diamonds rare, 
 And pearls, and breathe a golden air; 
 My room is filled with shattered beams 
 Of light; my life is one of dreams, 
 In my hut on 
 The hills of dawn. 
 
 141 
 
ALEX POSEY, THE CREEK INDIAN POET 
 
 A VISION OF REST. 
 
 Some day this quest 
 Shall cease; 
 Some day, 
 For aye, 
 This heart shall rest 
 In peace. 
 Sometimes — ofttimes — / almost feel 
 The calm upon my senses steal, 
 So soft, and all but hear 
 The dead leaves rustle near 
 And sigh to be 
 At rest with me. 
 Though I behold 
 
 The ashen branches tossing to and fro, 
 Somehow I only vaguely know 
 The wind is rude and cold. 
 
 142 
 
ALEX POSEY, THE CREEK INDIAN POET 
 
 ENSAPAHUTCHE. 
 
 (Gar Creek.) 
 
 Now complaining and cross , 
 Through the reeds and the moss 
 I come down with a roar 
 To the green fields before. 
 From the hills of the old Doughty ranch, 
 From the valleys of pine where I branch, 
 From the hollows and coves where I lie 
 In the shade of the precipice high, 
 Through the days of the unclouded sky. 
 
 And I flow, 
 As I go 
 
 Through the hills, 
 Into rills, 
 Into many a pool, 
 Overshadowed and cool, 
 Where the white lily-bloom 
 Is a light in the gloom. 
 
 M3 
 
ALEX POSEY, THE CREEK INDIAN POET 
 
 Down the slope of the wild mountain-side 
 Come the grasses athirst to my tide, 
 By the Cardinal led aright. 
 Far away, like the roar in the shell of 
 
 the sea, 
 The sad voice of the pine on the crag 
 
 answers me, 
 As I fall on the rocks at night. 
 
 144 
 
ALEX POSEY, THE CREEK INDIAN POET 
 
 AT THE SIRENS' CALL. 
 
 / fancy that I sit beside 
 
 The shore of slumbers' phantom sea 
 And see sweet visions die, and hear 
 
 The siren voices calling me. 
 
 Am I a shell cast on the shore 
 
 Of Time's illimitable sea, 
 To hear and whisper evermore 
 
 The music of Eternity? 
 
 145 
 
ALEX POSEY, THE CREEK INDIAN POET 
 
 KATE AND LOU. 
 
 So wondrous fair are Kate and Lou, 
 And both return my love so true, 
 I cannot choose between the two. 
 And so the rolling years go by, 
 Nor ever halt to question why 
 I cannot bring myself to woo 
 Sweet Kate and not love fair Lou, too. 
 
 So wondrous fair are Kate and Lou, 
 And both return my love so true, 
 I cannot choose between the two, 
 And so, as the swift years roll by, 
 Alike Til love them till I die; 
 For I can't bring myself to woo 
 Fair Lou and not love sweet Kate, too. 
 
 146 
 
ALEX POSEY, THE CREEK INDIAN POET 
 
 NATURES BLESSINGS. 
 
 Tw mine to be in love with life, 
 And mine to hear the robins sing; 
 ' Tis mine to live apart from strife, 
 And kneel to flowers blossoming — 
 To all things fair, 
 
 As at a shrine — 
 To drink the air 
 As I ivould wine. 
 
 To Love Tve built a temple here, 
 
 Beneath the boughs of oak and pine, 
 Beside a spring that all the year 
 Tells of a harmony divine. 
 I own no creeds 
 
 Sweet Love beside — 
 My spirit's needs 
 Are satisfied. 
 
 147 
 
ALEX POSEY, THE CREEK INDIAN POET 
 
 TO THE SUMMER CLOUD. 
 
 Ever straying, 
 Never staying, 
 
 Never resting, e'er an aimless rover. 
 Wind, Shelley's spirit rise to thee, 
 Up from the cruel sea; 
 And dost thou bear it ever thro' 
 The vast unbounded blue, 
 Ever ranging, 
 Ever changing, 
 
 Ever yet the same the wide world over! 
 
 148 
 
ALEX POSEY, THE CREEK INDIAN POET 
 
 HOTGUN ON THE DEATH OF 
 YADEKA HARJO. 
 
 11 Well so," Hot gun he say, 
 
 "My oV -time frien\ Yadeka Harjo, he 
 Was died the other day, 
 
 Art they was no oV -timer left but me. 
 
 "Hotulk Emathla he 
 
 Was go to be good Injin long time 'go, 
 An 1 Woxie Harjoche 
 
 Been dead ten years or twenty, maybe so. 
 All had to die at las 1 ; 
 
 I live long time, but now my days was few; 
 'Fore long poke-weeds an grass 
 
 Be growin' all aroun 1 my grave-house, too." 
 
 Wolf Warrior he listen close, 
 
 An 1 Kono Harjo pay close 'tention, too; 
 Tookpafka Micco he almos 1 
 
 Let his pipe go out a time or two. 
 
 149 
 
ALEX POSEY, THE CREEK INDIAN POET 
 
 LOWENA. 
 
 Blue hills between us lie, 
 
 And rivers broad and deep; 
 But here, as there, a bird 
 
 Is singing me to sleep, 
 And love has bridged the mountains blue 
 
 And all the streams between us two. 
 
 Kind friends, they bid me stay 
 And make their homes my own; 
 
 But they cannot be you 
 To me, and Fm alone 
 
 Amid the music sweet, 
 And shall be till we meet. 
 
 However kind the friends, 
 
 The scenes hoivever fair, 
 My heart returns to thee, 
 
 Not happy anywhere 
 Save when thou art near to share 
 
 Life's light of joy or shade of care. 
 
 150 
 
ALEX POSEY, THE CREEK INDIAN POET 
 
 DRIFTING APART. 
 
 Upon Love's sea, our barques shall sail 
 
 No more together; 
 The darkening sky and rising gale 
 
 Bring stormy weather. 
 
 The cruel Fates, at last, sweetheart, 
 
 Our love must sever, — 
 Must furl our sails, drift us apart 
 
 For aye and ever. 
 
 I pray a sunny port be thine, 
 
 When storm is over; 
 I know whatever lot be mine, 
 
 Vm still thy lover. 
 
 151 
 
ALEX POSEY, THE CREEK INDIAN POET 
 
 'TIS SWEET. 
 
 ' Tis sweet, so sweet, when work is o'er, 
 At eve, to hear the voice of love 
 
 Shout welcome from the cottage door, 
 Embowered on the hill above. 
 
 From furrowed field, where all the day 
 You toil and sweat for little bread, 
 
 'Tis sweet to see the child at play 
 Drop toys and come with arms outspread. 
 
 152 
 
ALEX POSEY, THE CREEK INDIAN POET 
 
 EARTH'S LILIES AND GOD'S. 
 
 Earth's starry lilies sink to rest, 
 All folded in the mere at night; 
 
 But God's slip back, and slumber best 
 Sky-hidden in the broad daylight. 
 
 153 
 
ALEX POSEY, THE CREEK INDIAN POET 
 
 TO YAHOLA, ON HIS FIRST BIRTH- 
 DAY. 
 
 The sky has put her bluest garment on, 
 And gently brushed the snowy clouds away; 
 
 The robin trills a sweeter melody. 
 Because you are just one year old today. 
 
 The wind remembers, in his sweet refrains, 
 Away, away up in the tossing trees, 
 
 That you came in the world a year ago, 
 A nd earth is filled with pleasant harmonies, 
 
 And all things seem to say, 
 "Just one year old today." 
 
 154 
 
ALEX POSEY, THE CREEK INDIAN POET 
 
 TO OUR BABY, LAUGHING, 
 
 // / were dead, sweet one, 
 
 So innocent, 
 I know you'd laugh the same 
 
 In merriment, 
 And pat my pallid face 
 
 With chubby hands and fair, 
 And think me living, as 
 
 You'd tangle up my hair. 
 
 If I were dead, loved one, 
 
 So young and fair, 
 If I were laid beneath 
 
 The grasses there, 
 My face would haunt you for 
 
 A while — a day, maybe — 
 And then you would forget, 
 
 And not remember me. 
 
 iS5 
 
ALEX POSEY, THE CREEK INDIAN POET 
 
 THE DEER. 
 
 From out the folded hills, 
 
 That lie beneath a thin blue veil, 
 There comes a deer to drink 
 
 From Limbo's waters in the dale. 
 
 Then flies he back into 
 
 The hills; and sitting here, I dream 
 And watch, as vain as he, 
 
 My image lying in the stream. 
 
 156 
 
ALEX POSEY, THE CREEK INDIAN POET 
 
 THE ATHLETE AND THE PHILOSO 
 PHER. 
 
 In Greece, an athlete boasted once 
 That he could outswim anyone. 
 
 "So can a goose, 11 remarked a sage, 
 With eyes alive with wholesome fun. 
 
 The athlete boasted on, "And I 
 Can deeper dive than any man. 11 
 
 "So can a bullfrog, 11 said the sage. 
 But, heedless still, the fool began, 
 
 * 'And more than that, can higher kick 
 Than any living man in Greece. 11 
 
 "And so can any jackass, 11 said 
 The sage. The athlete held his peace. 
 
 *57 
 
ALEX POSEY, THE CREEK INDIAN POET 
 
 WHERE THE RIVERS MEET. 
 
 Lot what a vivid picture here, 
 
 Of sin and purity, 
 Here where the rivers join their 
 
 Floods and journey to the sea. 
 
 A dirty, earthly look hath one, 
 Reflects not back the sky; 
 But mark you, on the other's tide 
 The clouds are passing by! 
 
 15S 
 
ALEX POSEY, THE CREEK INDIAN POET 
 
 A REVERIE. 
 
 The sky bends over in a sweet 
 Forgiveness; earth is filled with light; 
 And mellow autumn hues, soft winds 
 That croon of summer lands; and thro' 
 The brooding stillness comes a strain 
 Of music, and, as leaves are swept 
 Upon the river's tide away, 
 My thoughts drift off and on to God. 
 
 159 
 
ALEX POSEY, THE CREEK INDIAN POET 
 
 IN THE MOONLIT WOOD. 
 
 / dream that it is snowing, 
 And, waking, do but find 
 
 The moonbeams softly glowing 
 Thro' branches intertwined. 
 
 160 
 
ALEX POSEY, THE CREEK INDIAN POET 
 
 LIFE'S MYSTERY. 
 
 I wander by the shore of life, 
 
 Enchanted by the voices from the sea; 
 
 Forever trying — like a child — 
 
 In vain, to understand its mystery. 
 
 161 
 
ALEX POSEY, THE CREEK INDIAN POET 
 
 MOTHER AND BABY. 
 
 Tired at length of crying, 
 
 Laughing, cooing, sighing, 
 The baby lies so quVt and still, 
 
 Scarce breathing in his sleep; 
 The mother watches, half-inclined 
 
 To hide her face and weep. 
 
 162 
 
ALEX POSEY, THE CREEK INDIAN POET 
 
 INGERSOLL. 
 
 When love and the fireside inspired, 
 Words dropped from his eloquent lips 
 
 Like music from the golden lyre 
 Swept by Apollo's finger-tips. 
 
 163 
 
ALEX POSEY, THE CREEK INDIAN POET 
 
 WHAT MY SOUL WOULD BE. 
 
 What mountain glens afar 
 And woodland valleys are 
 To echoes in the air, 
 My soul would be 
 To harmony. 
 
 164 
 
ALEX POSEY, THE CREEK INDIAN POET 
 
 AN OUTCAST. 
 
 Pursued across the waning year, 
 By winds that chase with lifted spear, 
 A leaf, blood-stained, fell spent at last 
 Upon my bosom, poor Outcast! 
 
 165 
 
ALEX POSEY, THE CREEK INDIAN POET 
 
 SUNSET. 
 
 By coivard clouds forgot, 
 By yonder 's sunset glow, 
 
 The Day, in battle shot, 
 Lies bleeding, weak, and low. 
 
 166 
 
ALEX POSEY, THE CREEK INDIAN POET 
 
 THE HAUNTED VALLEY.* 
 
 Ever, somewhere in the boundless blue, 
 Floats a cloud, like a ship at sea; 
 
 Ever a shadow lies on the hills, 
 
 And a wind from the south blows free. 
 
 Ever is heard the voice of the pines 
 As they weep o'er a long-lost love, 
 
 And ever, like the path of a star, 
 Floivs the stream with hills above. 
 
 Ever the glens betray, passing sweet, 
 Secrets of brown lovers no more; 
 
 Ever the huntsman lingering there 
 At eve hears the dip of the oar; 
 
 Behold on .the moonlit wave afar, 
 Two vague forms in a light canoe, 
 
 That is lost anon in the shadow 
 Where the river bends out of view. 
 
 *The Haunted Valley is a spot in the Tulledega hills along the 
 Oktahutchee. The legend is that the spirits of the lost lovers haunt 
 the valley and stream. 
 
 167 
 
ALEX POSEY, THE CREEK INDIAN POET 
 
 A VISION. 
 
 In pensive mood she stood, 
 In garments white like snow, 
 
 Beside the darksome wood. 
 Amid the twilight glow; 
 
 As if she held communion there 
 
 With spirits in the fading air. 
 
 And, loath to break the spell — 
 The sweet enchantment that 
 
 She seemed to love so well — 
 / backward stept; thereat, 
 
 The beauteous vision fled from me, 
 
 In strange and silent mystery. 
 
 168 
 
ALEX POSEY, THE CREEK INDIAN POET 
 
 MORNING. 
 
 The cloud-dikes burst, and lot 
 The night is swept away 
 
 And drowned in overflow 
 Of Light at break of day! 
 
 169 
 
ALEX POSEY, THE CREEK INDIAN POET 
 
 THE OPEN SKY. 
 
 / look up at the open sky, 
 
 And all the evils in 
 My heart the instant pale and die, 
 
 For, lot I cannot sin! 
 
 70 
 
ALEX POSEY, THE CREEK INDIAN POET 
 
 THE POET'S SONG. 
 
 The poet sings but fragments of 
 
 A high-born melody — 
 
 A few stray notes and castaways 
 
 Of perfect harmony 
 
 That come to him like murmurs from 
 
 The sea of mystery. 
 
 171 
 
ALEX POSEY, THE CREEK INDIAN POET 
 
 MIDSUMMER. 
 
 / see the millet combing gold 
 
 From summer sun, 
 In hussar caps, all day; 
 
 And brown quails run 
 Far down the dusty way, 
 
 Fly up and whistle from the wold; 
 
 Sweet delusions on the mountains, 
 Of hounds in chase, 
 
 Beguiling every care 
 Of life apace, 
 
 Though only fevered air 
 That trembles, and dies in mounting. 
 
 172 
 
ALEX POSEY, THE CREEK INDIAN POET 
 
 A SIMILE. 
 
 Like bits of broken glass, 
 Chance scatters in the sun, 
 Our deeds reflect the light 
 We carry in the world. 
 
 173 
 
ALEX POSEY, THE CREEK INDIAN POET 
 
 JUNE. 
 
 O maid, of shape divine, 
 Who holds, in aet to sup, 
 
 An over-brimming cup 
 Of sensuous sunshine. 
 
 174 
 
ALEX POSEY, THE CREEK INDIAN POET 
 
 A VALENTINE. 
 
 Your cheeks are garden-spots 
 
 Of Touch-me-nots; 
 
 Your hair the gathered beams 
 
 Of sunny dreams; 
 
 And that your soul looks thro' 
 
 Are hits of fallen blue. 
 
 No wall hath circled yet, 
 
 Nor dews have wet, 
 
 A red rose like your lips. 
 
 To steal sweet kisses from your brow, 
 
 A lightsome zephyr I would be, — 
 
 A brook to murmur you a vow 
 
 Of love and constancy. 
 
 175 
 
ALEX POSEY, THE CREEK INDIAN POET 
 
 MOUNT SHASTA. 
 
 Behold, the somber pines have pitched their tents 
 At Shasta's base, like hosts of Night; 
 
 For aye besieging in his battlements — 
 For aye hi vain — their monarch, Light! 
 
 Though seas dry up and empty deserts bloom; 
 
 Though races come and pass away 
 From earth, it still, it still is seen to loom, 
 
 And to flash back God's smile for aye! 
 
 176 
 
CHILDREN OF ALEX POSEY 
 
ALEX POSEY, THE CREEK INDIAN POET 
 
 PITY. 
 
 / pity him who never dreams, 
 Who has no castles in the air. 
 
 Denied my fancies, life would be 
 A burden more than I coidd bear. 
 
 I pity him who never hears 
 
 The high-born perfect harmony 
 
 That haunts the air of loneliness: 
 How very dead his soul must be! 
 
 I pity him who cannot feel 
 
 The thrill of rapture but in lust; 
 
 Who cannot rise above himself, 
 And only lives because he must. 
 
 T 77 
 
ALEX POSEY, THE CREEK INDIAN POET 
 
 FRAIL BEAUTY 
 
 The raven hair of youth turns gray; 
 
 Bright eyes grow dim; soft cheeks grow pale; 
 The joyous heart becomes less gay: 
 
 For beauty is a thing so frail, 
 If once Times fingers touch it in caress, 
 It droops, and loses all its loveliness. 
 
 178 
 
ALEX POSEY, THE CREEK INDIAN POET 
 
 TO A HUMMINGBIRD. 
 
 Now here, now there; 
 
 E'er poised somewhere 
 
 In sensuous air. 
 
 I only hear, I cannot see, 
 
 The matchless wings that beareth thee. 
 
 Art thou some frenzied poet's thought, 
 
 That God embodied and forgot ? 
 
 179 
 
ALEX POSEY, THE CREEK INDIAN POET 
 
 MEANINGLESS. 
 
 Till baby lips have spoken "papa, mama" 
 There is no meaning in the words at all; 
 
 The house is but a pile of brick or lumber, 
 Till baby feet have pattered thro 1 the hall. 
 
 1 80 
 
ALEX POSEY, THE CREEK INDIAN POET 
 
 THE CONQUERORS. 
 
 The Ccesars and the Alexanders were 
 But men gone mad, who ran about a while 
 Upsetting kingdoms, and were slain in turn 
 Like rabid dogs, or died in misery. 
 Assassins laid in wait for Caesar; wine, 
 Amid the boasts of victory, cut short 
 The glory of the Macedonian; 
 Deception cooled the fever Pompey had; 
 Death was dealt to Phyrrus by a woman 's 
 Hand; Themistocles and Hannibal drank 
 Deep of poison in their desolation. 
 
 181 
 
ALEX POSEY, THE CREEK INDIAN POET 
 
 k GLIMPSE OF SPRING. 
 
 Overcast is the sky, 
 And the wind passes by, 
 
 Breathing blight. 
 Yet, afar in the gloom, 
 In the desolate room, 
 
 Cold and white, 
 Where December is king, 
 I hear a lone bird sing. 
 
 And the gloom, 
 Ere my glad lips can say, 
 From the earth melts away, 
 In the warm smile of Spring, 
 And the frosty winds bring 
 
 Sweet perfume. 
 In the vast waste of snow, 
 I see the roses bloom. 
 
 182 
 
ALEX POSEY, THE CREEK INDIAN POET 
 
 MOTHERS SONG. 
 
 / hear a distant melody, 
 
 And years come crowding back to me, 
 Thro' vistas dim of memory, 
 
 A s ships to haven from the sea; 
 
 Each freighted with the dreams of youth 
 And moor them in the restless bay 
 
 About my heart a while, and then 
 Each sails away — so far away! 
 
 I hear it ever; 
 It ceases never; 
 On land and sea 
 It follows me, 
 
 So soft and low and far away, 
 
 Like echoes dying in the folded hills. 
 
 I hear it there, go where I may, 
 A cure for all the sad heart's ills. 
 
 183 
 
ALEX POSEY, THE CREEK INDIAN POET 
 
 ODE TO SEQUOYAH.* 
 
 The names of Waitie and Boudinot — 
 The valiant warrior and gifted sage — 
 
 And other Cherokees, may be forgot, 
 
 But thy name shall descend to every age; 
 
 The mysteries enshrouding Cadmus' name 
 
 Cannot obscure thy claim to fame. 
 
 The people's language cannot perish — nay, 
 When from the face of this great continent 
 
 Inevitable doom hath swept away 
 The last memorial — the last fragment 
 
 Of tribes, — some scholar learned shall pore 
 
 Upon thy letters, seeking ancient lore. 
 
 Some bard shall lift a voice in praise of thee, 
 hi moving numbers tell the world how men 
 
 Scoffed thee, hissed thee, charged with lunacy I 
 And who could not give 'nough honor when 
 
 At length, in spite of jeers, of want and need, 
 
 Thy genius shaped a dream into a deed. 
 
 ^Sequoyah —The Cherokee who invented the Cherokee alphabet. 
 ,84 
 
ALEX POSEY, THE CREEK INDIAN POET 
 
 By cloud-capped summits in the boundless 
 west,^ 
 
 Or mighty river rolling to the sea, 
 Where'er thy footsteps led thee on that quest, 
 
 Unknown, rest thee, illustrious Cherokee! 
 
 t Sequoyah wandered away from his tribe, and died somewhere in 
 the southwest part of the United States or in Mexico. 
 
 185 
 
ALEX POSEY, THE CREEK INDIAN POET 
 
 POIIALTON LAKE. 
 
 Thick heavy leaves of emerald lie 
 
 Upon Pohaltons waters blue, 
 
 Overspread with lustrous drops of dew, 
 Dashed from my oar, as I glide by 
 
 In my swift light canoe. 
 
 Large water-lilies, virtue-pure, 
 
 Bright stars that with Pohalton fell 
 From heaven where the angels dwell, 
 
 Drive back the shadows that obscure, 
 And, siren-like, my fancies lure. 
 
 Huge frightened turtles disappear; 
 And as the ripples widen o'er 
 The lake toward the reedy shore, 
 
 The dragon-fly, a wise old seer, 
 Drops down upon the log to pore — 
 
 Unmindful of the moccasin 
 
 That, swift with darting tongue, slips by 
 And climbs a sunny drift to dry, 
 
 Reposing half awake, his tawny skin 
 Scarce revealed to the searching eye. 
 
 186 
 
ALEX POSEY, THE CREEK INDIAN POET 
 
 And, ever and anon, the breeze 
 From piney mountains far away, 
 Steals in; and waters kiss the day, 
 
 And break the image of the trees 
 
 That looking downward, sigh dismay. 
 
 The wood spirit* is wandering near, 
 Wrapt in old legend mystery; 
 I drift alone, for none but he 
 
 And nature's self are native here 
 Of me to know. But now I see 
 
 The patient heron by the shore 
 Put down his lifted leg and fly, 
 While echoes from the woods reply 
 
 To each uncanny scream, low o'er 
 The lake into the evening sky. 
 
 Vast brooding silence crowds around; 
 Dark vistas lead my eye astray, 
 Among vague shapes beyond the day 
 
 Upon the lake, I hear no sound; 
 I go ashore, and hasten 'way. 
 
 *The Stechupco. 
 
 187 
 
ALEX POSEY, THE CREEK INDIAN POET 
 
 HAPPY TIMES FOR ME AN' SAL. 
 
 Hear the happy jays a-singin ; 
 
 Leaves a-driftin' in the medder; 
 
 See the ' simmons turnin' redder, 
 An' the farmer boy a-grinnin' 
 At his copper toes. 
 
 Happy times fer me ari Sal; 
 Happy times fer Jim an' Al; 
 We've raised a sumshus crop, 
 An' we're upon the top, 
 
 In our new-bought clothes. 
 
 More an' more it's gittin' cooler; 
 Frost is makin' purtier pictures 
 On the winder -panes. By victers! 
 
 I am feelin' like a ruler 
 
 Over all this earth. 
 
 Happy times fer me an' Sal; 
 Happy times fer Jim an' Al; 
 We've raised a sumshus crop, 
 
 188 
 
ALEX POSEY, THE CREEK INDIAN POET 
 
 An were upon the top, 
 Settin' by the herth. 
 
 Nights are havin' longer hours; 
 
 Sleep is surely growin 1 finer; 
 
 Dreams becomin 1 sweeter, kiner, 
 Since the season of the flowers. 
 Winter days fer me. 
 
 Lots o } time fer liberal thought; 
 Lots o> time to worry not, 
 When snow's knee-deep outdoors, 
 An 1 driftin on the moors, 
 Like a silver sea. 
 
 189 
 
ALEX POSEY, THE CREEK INDIAN POET 
 
 DEATH OF A WINDOW PLANT. 
 
 The air was chill, 
 
 The leaves were hushed, 
 
 The moon in grandeur 
 
 Climbed the spangled 
 
 Walls of heaven, 
 
 When the angel came 
 
 That whispers death; 
 
 Unseen, unheard, 
 
 To lisp that word, and 
 
 Leave my window 
 
 Sad when night should 
 
 Blossom into day. 
 
 The moon had ivaned, 
 
 And each bright star, 
 
 Like visions of a 
 
 Dream. Up rose the 
 
 Sun on wings of 
 
 Gold, and soared thro 1 fields 
 
 Of light serene; 
 
 All earth seemed gay, 
 
 And banished from it 
 
 190 
 
ALEX POSEY, THE Cl'EEK INDIAN POET 
 
 Sorrow; birds sang 
 Songs of summer 
 In the clear sweet sky. 
 But I was sad, 
 And song of bird 
 Nor sky of splendor 
 Could for one brief 
 Moment bring a 
 Solace to my heart. 
 I mourned, and all 
 Was dark and drear 
 Within my chamber, 
 Lorn and bare, where 
 Sweetness was and 
 Beauty for a day. 
 My window-friend, 
 I'll dig thy grave, 
 Inter thee grandly. 
 No sod shall lie, 
 Nor blossom there 
 Thy kindred flowers. 
 Within my soul's 
 Deep core is built 
 
 [9 
 
ALEX POSEY, THE CREEK INDIAN POET 
 
 Thy tomb enduring. 
 Ah, morn shall kiss 
 Thee nevermore 
 In purple of dawn; 
 And stars shall rise 
 And twinkle in 
 Vain and pass away. 
 Should all thy race 
 Thus disappear, 
 In death forsake the 
 Soil in which you 
 Grew, the world would 
 Then be sad as I. 
 
 192 
 
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