WHAT boy would not be an Indian for a while when he thinks of the freest
life in the world? This life was mine. Every day there was a real hunt.
There was real game. Occasionally there was a medicine dance away off in
the woods where no one could disturb us, in which the boys impersonated
their elders, Brave Bull, Standing Elk, High Hawk, Medicine Bear, and
the rest. They painted and imitated their fathers and grandfathers to
the minutest detail, and accurately too, because they had seen the real
thing all their lives.
We were not only good mimics but we were close students of nature. We
studied the habits of animals just as you study your books. We watched
the men of our people and represented them in our play; then learned to
emulate them in our lives.
No people have a better use of their five senses than the children of
the wilderness. We could smell as well as hear and see. We could feel
and taste as well as we could see and hear. Nowhere has the memory been
more fully developed than in the wild life, and I can still see wherein
I owe much to my early training.
Of course I myself do not remember when I first saw the day, but my
brothers have often recalled the event with much mirth; for it was a
custom of the Sioux that when a boy was born his brother must plunge
into the water, or roll in the snow naked if it was winter time; and if
he was not big enough to do either of these himself, water was thrown
on him. If the new-born had a sister, she must be immersed. The idea
was that a warrior had come to camp, and the other children must display
some act of hardihood.
I was so unfortunate as to be the youngest of five children who, soon
after I was born, were left motherless. I had to bear the humiliating
name “Hakadah,” meaning “the pitiful last,” until I should earn a more
dignified and appropriate name. I was regarded as little more than a
plaything by the rest of the children.
My mother, who was known as the handsomest woman of all the Spirit Lake
and Leaf Dweller Sioux, was dangerously ill, and one of the medicine men
who attended her said: “Another medicine man has come into existence,
but the mother must die. Therefore let him bear the name ‘Mysterious
Medicine.’” But one of the bystanders hastily interfered, saying that an
uncle of the child already bore that name, so, for the time, I was only
“Hakadah.”
My beautiful mother, sometimes called the “Demi-Goddess” of the Sioux,
who tradition says had every feature of a Caucasian descent with the
exception of her luxuriant black hair and deep black eyes, held me
tightly to her bosom upon her death-bed, while she whispered a few words
to her mother-in-law. She said: “I give you this boy for your own. I
cannot trust my own mother with him; she will neglect him and he will
surely die.”
The woman to whom these words were spoken was below the average in
stature, remarkably active for her age (she was then fully sixty), and
possessed of as much goodness as intelligence. My mother’s judgment
concerning her own mother was well founded, for soon after her death
that old lady appeared, and declared that Hakadah was too young to live
without a mother. She offered to keep me until I died, and then she
would put me in my mother’s grave. Of course my other grandmother
denounced the suggestion as a very wicked one, and refused to give me
up.
The babe was done up as usual in a movable cradle made from an oak board
two and a half feet long and one and a half feet wide. On one side of
it was nailed with brass-headed tacks the richly-embroidered sack, which
was open in front and laced up and down with buckskin strings. Over
the arms of the infant was a wooden bow, the ends of which were firmly
attached to the board, so that if the cradle should fall the child’s
head and face would be protected. On this bow were hung curious
playthings--strings of artistically carved bones and hoofs of deer,
which rattled when the little hands moved them.
In this upright cradle I lived, played and slept the greater part of the
time during the first few months of my life. Whether I was made to lean
against a lodge pole or was suspended from a bough of a tree, while
my grandmother cut wood, or whether I was carried on her back, or
conveniently balanced by another child in a similar cradle hung on the
opposite side of a pony, I was still in my oaken bed.
This grandmother, who had already lived through sixty years of
hardships, was a wonder to the young maidens of the tribe. She showed
no less enthusiasm over Hakadah than she had done when she held her
first-born, the boy’s father, in her arms. Every little attention that
is due to a loved child she performed with much skill and devotion. She
made all my scanty garments and my tiny moccasins with a great deal of
taste. It was said by all that I could not have had more attention had
my mother been living.
Uncheedah (grandmother) was a great singer. Sometimes, when Hakadah
wakened too early in the morning, she would sing to him something like
the following lullaby: