AS a motherless child, I always regarded my good grandmother as the
wisest of guides and the best of protectors. It was not long before I
began to realize her superiority to most of her contemporaries. This
idea was not gained entirely from my own observation, but also from a
knowledge of the high regard in which she was held by other women.
Aside from her native talent and ingenuity, she was endowed with a truly
wonderful memory. No other midwife in her day and tribe could compete
with her in skill and judgment. Her observations in practice were all
preserved in her mind for reference, as systematically as if they had
been written upon the pages of a note-book.
I distinctly recall one occasion when she took me with her into the
woods in search of certain medicinal roots.
“Why do you not use all kinds of roots for medicines?” said I.
“Because,” she replied, in her quick, characteristic manner, “the
Great Mystery does not will us to find things too easily. In that case
everybody would be a medicine-giver, and Ohiyesa must learn that there
are many secrets which the Great Mystery will disclose only to the most
worthy. Only those who seek him fasting and in solitude will receive his
signs.”
With this and many similar explanations she wrought in my soul wonderful
and lively conceptions of the “Great Mystery” and of the effects of
prayer and solitude. I continued my childish questioning.
“But why did you not dig those plants that we saw in the woods, of the
same kind that you are digging now?”
“For the same reason that we do not like the berries we find in the
shadow of deep woods as well as the ones which grow in sunny places. The
latter have more sweetness and flavor. Those herbs which have medicinal
virtues should be sought in a place that is neither too wet nor too
dry, and where they have a generous amount of sunshine to maintain their
vigor.
“Some day Ohiyesa will be old enough to know the secrets of medicine;
then I will tell him all. But if you should grow up to be a bad man, I
must withhold these treasures from you and give them to your brother,
for a medicine man must be a good and wise man. I hope Ohiyesa will be
a great medicine man when he grows up. To be a great warrior is a noble
ambition; but to be a mighty medicine man is a nobler!”
She said these things so thoughtfully and impressively that I cannot but
feel and remember them even to this day.
Our native women gathered all the wild rice, roots, berries and fruits
which formed an important part of our food. This was distinctively
a woman’s work. Uncheedah (grandmother) understood these matters
perfectly, and it became a kind of instinct with her to know just where
to look for each edible variety and at what season of the year. This
sort of labor gave the Indian women every opportunity to observe and
study Nature after their fashion; and in this Uncheedah was more acute
than most of the men. The abilities of her boys were not all inherited
from their father; indeed, the stronger family traits came obviously
from her. She was a leader among the native women, and they came to her,
not only for medical aid, but for advice in all their affairs.
In bravery she equaled any of the men. This trait, together with her
ingenuity and alertness of mind, more than once saved her and her people
from destruction. Once, when we were roaming over a region occupied by
other tribes, and on a day when most of the men were out upon the hunt,
a party of hostile Indians suddenly appeared. Although there were a few
men left at home, they were taken by surprise at first and scarcely knew
what to do, when this woman came forward and advanced alone to meet our
foes. She had gone some distance when some of the men followed her.
She met the strangers and offered her hand to them. They accepted
her friendly greeting; and as a result of her brave act we were left
unmolested and at peace.
Another story of her was related to me by my father. My grandfather, who
was a noted hunter, often wandered away from his band in search of game.
In this instance he had with him only his own family of three boys and
his wife. One evening, when he returned from the chase, he found to his
surprise that she had built a stockade around her teepee.
She had discovered the danger-sign in a single foot-print, which she saw
at a glance was not that of her husband, and she was also convinced that
it was not the foot-print of a Sioux, from the shape of the moccasin.
This ability to recognize footprints is general among the Indians, but
more marked in certain individuals.
This courageous woman had driven away a party of five Ojibway warriors.
They approached the lodge cautiously, but her dog gave timely warning,
and she poured into them from behind her defences the contents of a
double-barrelled gun, with such good effect that the astonished braves
thought it wise to retreat.
I was not more than five or six years old when the Indian soldiers came
one day and destroyed our large buffalo-skin teepee. It was charged
that my uncle had hunted alone a large herd of buffaloes. This was
not exactly true. He had unfortunately frightened a large herd while
shooting a deer in the edge of the woods. However, it was customary to
punish such an act severely, even though the offense was accidental.
When we were attacked by the police, I was playing in the teepee, and
the only other person at home was Uncheedah. I had not noticed their
approach, and when the war-cry was given by thirty or forty Indians with
strong lungs, I thought my little world was coming to an end. Instantly
innumerable knives and tomahawks penetrated our frail home, while
bullets went through the poles and tent-fastenings up above our heads.
I hardly know what I did, but I imagine it was just what any other
little fellow would have done under like circumstances. My first clear
realization of the situation was when Uncheedah had a dispute with the
leader, claiming that the matter had not been properly investigated,
and that none of the policemen had attained to a reputation in war which
would justify them in touching her son’s teepee. But alas! our poor
dwelling was already an unrecognizable ruin; even the poles were broken
into splinters.
The Indian women, after reaching middle age, are usually heavy and lack
agility, but my grandmother was in this also an exception. She was fully
sixty when I was born; and when I was seven years old she swam across a
swift and wide stream, carrying me on her back, because she did not wish
to expose me to accident in one of the clumsy round boats of bull-hide
which were rigged up to cross the rivers which impeded our way,
especially in the springtime. Her strength and endurance were
remarkable. Even after she had attained the age of eighty-two, she one
day walked twenty-five miles without appearing much fatigued.
I marvel now at the purity and elevated sentiment possessed by this
woman, when I consider the customs and habits of her people at the time.
When her husband died she was still comparatively a young woman--still
active, clever and industrious. She was descended from a haughty
chieftain of the “Dwellers among the Leaves.” Although women of her
age and position were held to be eligible to re-marriage, and she had
several persistent suitors who were men of her own age and chiefs, yet
she preferred to cherish in solitude the memory of her husband.
I was very small when my uncle brought home two Ojibway young women. In
the fight in which they were captured, none of the Sioux war party had
been killed; therefore they were sympathized with and tenderly treated
by the Sioux women. They were apparently happy, although of course they
felt deeply the losses sustained at the time of their capture, and they
did not fail to show their appreciation of the kindnesses received at
our hands.
As I recall now the remarks made by one of them at the time of their
final release, they appear to me quite remarkable. They lived in my
grandmother’s family for two years, and were then returned to their
people at a great peace council of the two nations. When they were about
to leave my grandmother, the elder of the two sisters first embraced
her, and then spoke somewhat as follows:
“You are a brave woman and a true mother. I understand now why your son
so bravely conquered our band, and took my sister and myself captive.
I hated him at first, but now I admire him, because he did just what my
father, my brother or my husband would have done had they opportunity.
He did even more. He saved us from the tomahawks of his fellow-warriors,
and brought us to his home to know a noble and a brave woman.
“I shall never forget your many favors shown to us. But I must go. I
belong to my tribe and I shall return to them. I will endeavor to be a
true woman also, and to teach my boys to be generous warriors like your
son.”
Her sister chose to remain among the Sioux all her life, and she married
one of our young men.
“I shall make the Sioux and the Ojibways,” she said, “to be as
brothers.”
There are many other instances of intermarriage with captive women.
The mother of the well-known Sioux chieftain, Wabashaw, was an Ojibway
woman. I once knew a woman who was said to be a white captive. She was
married to a noted warrior, and had a fine family of five boys. She was
well accustomed to the Indian ways, and as a child I should not have
suspected that she was white. The skins of these people became so
sunburned and full of paint that it required a keen eye to distinguish
them from the real Indians.