Gather him to his grave again,
And solemnly and softly lay
Beneath the verdure of the plain,
The warrior's scattered bones away.
--_Bryant._
The subject of this brief sketch died, January --, 1899, at an
advanced age. He was a full-blood Indian, and a hereditary chief of
the Pottowattomies. As author of "The Red Man's Greeting," a booklet
made of white birch bark and entitled by the late Prof. Swing, "The Red
Man's Book of Lamentations," he has been called the "Red-skin poet,
bard, and Longfellow of his race." He himself said that his object in
having the book printed on the bark of the white birch tree was out of
loyalty to his people, and "gratitude to the Great Spirit, who in his
wisdom provided for our use for untold generations this remarkable tree
with manifold bark used by us instead of paper, being of greater value
to us as it could not be injured by sun or water." Out of the bark of
this wonderful tree were made hats, caps, and dishes for domestic use,
"while our maidens tied with it the knot that sealed their marriage
vow." Wigwams were made of it, as well as large canoes that out-rode
the violent storms on lake and sea. It was also used for light and fuel
at the Indian war councils and spirit dances. Originally the shores of
the northern lakes and streams were fringed with it and evergreen, and
the "white charmingly contrasted with the green mirrored from the water
was indeed beautiful, but like the red man, this tree is vanishing from
our forests." He quotes the sad truth:
"Alas for us! Our day is o'er,
Our fires are out from shore to shore;
No more for us the wild deer bounds--
The plow is on our hunting grounds.
The pale-man's sail skims o'er the floods;
Our pleasant springs are dry;
Our children look, by power oppressed,
Beyond the mountains of the west--
Our children go--to die."
The dedication of the little book is characteristic of the grateful
appreciation of a man of lofty spirit, who was acquainted with the
history and traditions of his race. It is: "To the memory of William
Penn, Roger Williams, the late lamented Helen Hunt Jackson, and many
others now in heaven, who conceived that noble spirit of justice which
recognizes the brotherhood of the red man, and to all others now living
defenders of our race, I most gratefully dedicate this tribute of the
forest."
Chief Pokagon's father sold the site of Chicago and the surrounding
country to the United States in 1833 for three cents an acre. Chief
Simon was the first red man to visit Mr. Lincoln after his inauguration
as president. In a letter written home at the time, he said: "I have
met Lincoln, the great chief; he is very tall, has a sad face, but he
is a good man; I saw it in his eyes and felt it in his hand-grasp. He
will help us get payment for Chicago land." Soon after this visit to
Washington a payment of $39,000 was made by the government.
In 1874 he visited President Grant, of whom he said: "I expected he
would put on military importance, but he treated me kindly, gave me a
cigar, and we smoked the pipe of peace together."
In 1893 the chief secured judgment against the United States for over
$100,000, which still remained due on the sale of Chicago land by his
father. This judgment was paid and the money divided pro rata among
members of the tribe, who soon dissipated it, however, and became as
great a charge upon the chief as ever.
Pokagon was honored on Chicago Day at the World's Fair by first ringing
the new Bell of Liberty and speaking in behalf of his race to the
greatest multitude, it is believed, ever assembled in one inclosure.
After his speech, "Glory Hallelujah" was sung before the bell for
the first time on the fair grounds. The little book, "The Red Man's
Greeting," above referred to, was prepared for this occasion and read
for the first time. It was well received, and many papers referred
to it in terms of extravagance. It was undoubtedly full of eloquence
characteristic of the aborigines.
Chief Pokagon's contributions to bird literature have been numerous and
original. That he was a lover of nature is manifest through all his
writings. And he was a humane man, like Johnny Appleseed, after quoting:
"An inadvertent step may crush the snail
That crawls at evening in the public path;
But he that hath humanity, forewarn'd,
Will tread aside, and let the reptile live."
"In early life," he says, "I was deeply mortified as I witnessed the
grand old forests of Michigan, under whose shades my forefathers lived
and died, falling before the cyclone of civilization as before the
prairie fire. In those days I traveled thousands of miles along our
winding trails, through the wild solitude of the unbroken forest,
listening to the song of the woodland birds, as they poured forth their
melodies from the thick foliage above and about me. Very seldom now
do I catch one familiar note from those early warblers of the woods.
They have all passed away, but with feelings of the deepest gratitude
I now listen to the songs of other birds which have come with the
advance of civilization. They are with us all about our homes and,
like the wild-wood birds which our fathers used to hold their breath
to hear, they sing in concert, without pride, without envy, without
jealousy--alike in forest and field; alike before the wigwam and the
castle; alike for savage and for sage; alike for beggar and for prince;
alike for chief and for king."
Writing of the wild goose, he says: "I begged my father to try and
catch me a pair of these birds alive, that I might raise a flock of
them. He finally promised me he would try, and made me pledge myself
to kindly care for them. He made me a stockade park to put them in,
enclosing one-half acre of land. One corner ran into the lake, so as
to furnish plenty of water for the prospective captives. He then made
a brush box, three feet square, trimming it with rice straw from the
lake and left it at the water's edge for future use. He then waded
into the lake where geese were in the habit of feeding, finding the
water nowhere above his chin. On the following morning a flock was
seen feeding in the lake. We went quietly to the shore; father placed
the box over his head and waded carefully into the water. Soon I could
see only the box; it appeared to be floating and drifted by the wind
toward the geese. At length it moved in among the great birds. I held
my breath, fearing they would fly away. Soon I saw one disappear, then
another, both sinking like lead into the water. Not a sound could I
hear. The rice box began to slowly drift back. On nearing the shore
father emerged from it with a live goose under each arm. They seemed
the most beautiful creatures I had ever seen." The young chief in three
years raised a fine flock of geese, which, he says, he treated as
prisoners of war, and was as kind to as a mother to her children. He
taught them to eat corn from his hand and each one to recognize a name
given to it. After the first year he gave them their liberty, except in
fall and spring, when they were determined to migrate. If he let them
out with wings clipped, so they could not fly, they would start on the
journey afoot for the south or northland according to the time of year.
It is believed that the old chief left behind him many interesting
manuscripts. One of thirty thousand words is known to the present
writer. It is autobiographical and historical of the Pottowattomie
tribe of Indians, and will doubtless be printed, sooner or later, if
not on white birch bark, then on good white paper.