of Home Missions of the Presbyterian Church 
 156 Fifth Avenue, New York 
 
IfnUtan Cjnlfc 3t tfe 
 
 My Dear Little Friends : 
 
 So many children have said to me, “ Tell us about the Indian 
 boys and girls,” that I am going to write you a letter about these 
 people who in some ways are quite unlike you. 
 
 To begin with, the Indian child is very shy; so shy indeed that 
 I had been among the Indians for some weeks, and had become a 
 welcome visitor in many homes, before I managed to get near 
 enough to a little Indian to see what he looked like. I remember 
 
 how surprised I was when I found that Sarah Scott had children. 
 I had been to see Sarah a number of times, but the little hut was 
 always quiet, and Sarah never' seemed disturbed or nervous as our 
 mothers sometimes are when company arrives too suddenly. 
 
 One afternoon I had been down by the river calling upon some 
 Indians, when I decided I would follow the river a short distance 
 and call upon Sarah. I did not usually go to Sarah’s house this 
 way, as it was a long way around, but the day was so warm that I 
 wanted to keep near the water as long as possible. As I approached 
 the hut I thought I just caught a glimpse of little bare feet dis- 
 appearing in the underbrush, but when I reached the door all was so 
 
quiet that I decided I must have been mistaken. Sarah was at 
 home sitting upon the floor, weaving a basket. When we go to see 
 the Indians they never ask us to be seated, but we know they do not 
 mean to be impolite, so we hunt up an old box, turn it on edge and 
 balance ourselves while we talk. This day I looked for a box, but 
 could not find one. The only furniture in the room was the bed. I 
 did not quite like to sit on it, as it had not been made that day. 
 Finally I seated myself very carefully upon its edge. Did I say 
 seated ? I made a mistake ; I had not fairly touched that bed when 
 the most piercing shrieks rent the air ! I jumped up and looked at 
 Sarah. Sarah might have been carven in stone, so indifferent was 
 
 she, while the walls of her hut bade fair to tumble about her. 
 “Sarah, what is the matter?” I asked, in great distress. Sarah 
 shrugged her shoulders and murmured : “ Dey ’fraid.” “ Who is 
 
 afraid ? ” I asked. “ Ma papoose.” “ Your papoose ; you have no 
 children.” “ We get t’ree ; dey unner bed ; dey ’fraid ; metink you 
 bet go now.” I thought so, too, and decided to follow Sarah’s 
 advice. 
 
 It is hard to win the friendship of a little Indian, but when you 
 have once won him he remains your friend forever. Only once have 
 I found that this was not true, and then it was because of a sad 
 mistake on my part. About a week after little Leo had begun to 
 be friendly with me, some one sent me one of those little rubber pigs 
 that you blow up and then watch die while their squeak grows 
 fainter and more faint. 
 
One afternoon I went calling and took the pig with me. The 
 old Indians liked it as well as did the children. They would roll 
 over and over in the dirt, in their delight, and beg me to “do it 
 again.” Finally I reached Leo’s house. The door was open and a 
 number of old Iudians were stretched out on the porch. They told 
 me Leo’s mother was not at home. I supposed Leo was with her — 
 the children nearly always go with the mother — and was sorry to 
 miss my little friend. 
 
 I blew up the pig, but the chuckles of the old people could not 
 be heard because of a wild howl that came from the house. Leo 
 had been peeking through a crack in the door and the pig frightened 
 him. Often after that unlucky day I would be startled by a howl ; 
 
 sometimes as I stepped from my canoe to draw it up on the sand, 
 sometimes while walking along the road, I would be frightened by 
 a loud howl. But I never again saw Leo. He saw me and that 
 was enough. 
 
 You know with white children the people who pay the most 
 attention to them, who talk with them and show them pictures, are 
 the people they like the most. It is just the opposite with the Indian 
 child. I used to call upon Rachael’s mother quite often. Always 
 I would find Rachael on the floor behind her mother. I never 
 noticed the child in any way, but upon leaving, I would give the 
 mother a picture card and tell her to give it to her little girl. One 
 day, after I had called many times, the little girl came from be- 
 hind her mother’s back and placed a bunch of flowers in my lap. 
 After that we grew to be very good friends. 
 
 The Indian child respects his elders. He is taught to obey 
 almost from babyhood. He would no more think of refusing to do 
 his parents’ bidding, or of even asking why he must do thus and so, 
 than he would think of going without eating. 
 
There are never loud tones in an Indian home, never quarrel- 
 some voices. In winter, when the doors are closed, all is so quiet 
 that the only way of finding whether the family is at home is by 
 the smoke issuing from the stove-pipe. 
 
 There are seldom more than three or four children in an Indian 
 family. As you enter a hut, the children will probably be playing 
 together in a corner. If it is your first visit, they will run and 
 hide. If you have been there often, and they have learned that 
 you will not try to touch them, they will go on with their game. But 
 if they have decided to be friendly they will sit at your feet and 
 look up into your face while you talk. But it matters little whether 
 they hide, or play, or listen to you, the lowest tone from the parent 
 — a tone that you could hardly hear — will bring them to their feet 
 
 instantly , and before you realize that an order has been given, the 
 children will silently leave the hut and as silently return, with an 
 armful of wood, a bucket of water, or a basket of acorns, as the case 
 may be. I wish that our white children might cultivate this habit 
 of instant obedience, and of reverence for parents and grandparents. 
 
 Indian parents do not whip their children ; they consider it dis- 
 graceful to have to do such a thing. An Indian said to me: “ I not 
 whip my boy, I ’ shamed . I want my boy go school, I say, ‘ You go 
 school.’ He go. My boy mind me ; my boy not mind me, that 
 make me 'shamed." 
 
 The Indian child is a lover of nature. While you white children 
 are studying books the Indian child is studying the clouds, the trees, 
 the insects and the river currents. He loves to wander through the 
 woods, to lie down under a tree and dream, or sit on the river banks 
 
and watch the current. He 
 knows every weather signal ; 
 he is familiar with every bush 
 and tree ; he knows the 
 wild lilac, “ that make good 
 Injun soap that wash poison 
 oak away.” He knows 
 the madrone, “that make 
 good hot fire,” the witch 
 hazel, “ that good medicine,” 
 the hazel nut, “that make 
 good basket,” and so on of 
 everything that grows. 
 
 The Indian child loves 
 flowers. Every Indian has 
 
 a bunch of flowers in his hut, as long as there is a flower to 
 gathered. The little tots know just when and where to look for 
 certain flowers, and they never make a mistake. 
 
 Most of us think that Indian children are cruel. Let me tell 
 you a secret : I have seen white boys pull the legs and wings off of 
 
 Hies. I have seen them hang a kitten to a clothes-line and tie tin 
 cans to dogs’ tails, but I never saw an Indian boy do any of these 
 things. An Indian boy takes his sling, or his bow and arrow and 
 goes hunting, hut he never kills more than he needs. When he is 
 hunting quail, he does not come back with a chipmunk, a squirrel, 
 a bluejay, a woodpecker, and a rabbit in his bag. 
 
 The Indian child is very brave. He will endure any amount 
 of pain and suffering without a murmur. Once I saw some Indian 
 children vaccinated. Did they have to be held while the doctor 
 scratched their arms ? No indeed ! They stood in line with their 
 arms bared awaiting their turn ; and when it came they marched up 
 to the doctor and held out the arm as much as to say, “ I’d like to 
 see you make me cry.” The children seem to glory in deeds of 
 bravery. Little Mary met with a terrible accident: her hair was 
 caught in some moving machinery, and she was scalped as com- 
 pletely as if an Indian had done it. 
 
 The doctor decided to graft skin upon Mary’s head and asked 
 the child’s friends to volunteer portions of their skin. The little 
 primary girls were among the first to offer patches of skin from 
 their arms. There was so much grafting to be done that it took 
 some weeks. Yet the children remembered their appointments 
 
and were always at the doctor’s office at the right time. One day, 
 as I passed the hospital, a little girl came running out, crying as if 
 her heart would break. I thought that she had been hurt more 
 than she had anticipated and began to comfort her. When she saw 
 what I thought she was quite cross, and would have nothing to do 
 with me. Then the doctor told me that when Lulu went to the 
 hospital, Mary was feeling cross and said she “guessed she 
 wouldn’t have any of Lulu’s old skin on her head.” Mary was too 
 sick to be argued with, so the doctor sent Lulu away without taking 
 a piece of her skin! Was Mary grateful to those who had suffered 
 that her head might have a skin upon it ? No indeed! Mary thought 
 that they were honored. 
 
 Many Indian women have ugly black marks upon their chins. 
 Some have only one line, while others have the chin completely 
 covered. These marks are put on the girls when they are quite small 
 and remain with them through life. The chin is pricked with a bit 
 of broken glass and a dark liquid poured into the bleeding wound. 
 This is continued, line after line, until the little girl cries, then it is 
 stopped. So those women who have their chins completely covered 
 were the bravest little girls. The Indians do not do this now, but it 
 shows how much they think of bravery. 
 
 An Indian child will listen to reason. He loves to argue, but 
 he will listen to your side of the story without interrupting, and 
 
 when you have finished he will 
 give his. If he see that you 
 have the best of the argument, 
 he is not ashamed to tell you so. 
 
 Little Ray used very bad 
 language ; sometimes when he 
 was angry he would swear. He 
 had been spoken to about his 
 bad habit many times, and 
 finally he was told that if he 
 used such language again he 
 would be punished. I think 
 Ray tried to overcome his habit, 
 but you know when a habit is 
 once formed it is very hard to 
 get rid of. 
 
 One day Ray got very 
 angry and forgot all his good 
 
resolutions. The teacher, true to her prom- 
 ise, punished him. I think she felt as badly 
 as did Ray. Ray’s little friends looked very 
 
 sad and kept saying : “ Miss had to 
 
 punish Ray.” 
 
 The teacher explained to Ray that she 
 had not punished him because she was angry 
 with him, but to help him to remember not 
 to use such bad words. Then she said : “If 
 I were a little boy and used bad words and 
 did naughty things, and no one asked me 
 to stop, or told me how bad it was, I would 
 go on doing these things until I became a 
 man and when I died I would be so bad 
 that I could not go to heaven. I would a 
 great deal rather some one would punish me 
 when I was little and so help me to remem- 
 ber ; then I would keep trying to be good 
 until I died and when I died I could go to be with Jesus.” Little 
 Ray looked up into the teacher’s face and said : “I would, too ! ” 
 
 Do you not think an Indian boy with such a fine spirit is worth 
 helping? You may all have a hand in helping them if you will. 
 You need not wait until you are men and women ; you may help 
 while you are yet boys and girls. How would you like to send one 
 of these children to school ? There are many who would be glad to 
 go if some one would pay their way. Ask the older people about it 
 and they will tell you how you may be of help to these little ones 
 while you are yet children. 
 
 Cordially yours, 
 
 Nellie Tichenor McGraw. 
 
 The cuts in this issue are used “by courtesy of the Santa Fe.” 
 
 No. 324— 1st Ed.— 5, 1905. 
 
 Price, five cents each, $4.00 per 100. 
 
Digitized by the Internet Archive 
 in 2016 
 
 https://archive.org/details/indianchildlifeOOxmcg