house, whether it be the brush hewa of the Supai or the stone pueblo of
the Hopi. They gather the piñon nuts and grind them into meal. They
crush the corn into meal, and thresh and winnow the beans, and dry the
pumpkin for winter use. They cut the meat into strips and cure it into
jerky. They dry the grapes and peaches. They garner the acorns and store
them in huge baskets of their own weaving. They shear the sheep, and
wash, dye, spin, and weave the wool into marvelous blankets. They cut
the willows and gather sweet grasses for the making of baskets and
trays. They grind and knead and shape clay into artistic pottery and
then paint it with colors gleaned from the earth. They burn and bake the
clay vessels until they are waterproof, and they carry them weary miles
to the railway to sell them to the tourists so that their children may
have food and clothing.
The Hopi woman brings water to the village up a mile or two of
heart-breaking trail, carrying it in great ollas set on her head or
slung on her back. She must have water to make the mush for supper, and
such trivial things as a shampoo or a bath are indulged in only just
before the annual Snake Dance. Religion demands it then!
Where water is plentiful, however, the Indians bathe and swim daily.
They keep their hair clean and shining with frequent mud baths! Black,
sticky mud from the bottom of the river is plastered thickly over the
scalp and rubbed into the hair, where it is left for several hours. When
it is washed away the hair is soft, and gleams like the sheeny wing of
the blackbird. Root of the yucca plant is beaten into a pulp and used as
a shampoo cream by other tribes. Cosmetics are not greatly in use among
these women. They grow very brown and wrinkled at an early age, just
when our sheltered women are looking their best. This is accounted for
by the hard lives they live, exposed to the burning summer suns and
biting winter winds, and by cooking over smoky campfires or hovering
over them for warmth in the winter.
An Indian's hands are never beautiful in an artistic sense. How could
they be? They dress and tan the sheep and deer hides; they make
moccasins and do exquisite bead work; they cut and carry the wood and
keep the fires burning. They cook the meals and sit patiently by until
the men have gobbled their fill before they partake. They care tenderly
for the weaklings among the flocks of sheep and goats. Navajo women
often nurse a deserted or motherless lamb at their own ample breasts.
They make clothes for themselves and their families, although to look at
the naked babies one would not think the dress-making business
flourished.
But with all the duties incumbent on an Indian mother she never neglects
her children. They are taught all that she thinks will help them live
good lives. The girls grow up with the knowledge that their destiny is
to become good wives and mothers. They are taught that their bodies must
be kept strong and fit to bear many children. And when the years of
childhood are passed they know how to establish homes of their own.
Many interesting customs are followed during courtship among the tribes.
The Pueblos, among whom are the Hopis, have a pretty way by which the
maidens announce their matrimonial aspirations. How? By putting their
soft black hair, which heretofore has been worn loose, into huge whorls
above the ears. This is called the squash-blossom headdress and
signifies maturity. When this age is reached, the maiden makes up her
mind just which lad she wants, then lets him know about it. The Hopi
girl does her proposing by leaving some cornmeal piki or other edible
prepared by her own hands at the door of the selected victim under cover
of darkness. He usually knows who has left it, and then, if "Barkis is
willin'," he eats out of the same bowl of mush with her, the medicine
man holds a vessel of water into which both dip their hands, and the
wedding ceremony is finished. He moves into the bride's house and they
presumably live happily ever afterward. However, squalls do arise
sometimes, and then the husband is likely to come home from work in the
fields or a night at the lodge and find his wardrobe done up in his
Sunday bandanna waiting on the doorstep for him. In that case all he can
do is take his belongings and "go home to mother." His wife has divorced
him by merely throwing his clothes out of her house.
Navajo bucks purchase their wives for a certain number of sheep or
horses, as do also the Supai, Cheyenne, Apache, and other desert tribes.
There is not much fuss made over divorce among them, either. If a wife
does not like her husband's treatment of her, she refuses to cook for
him or to attend to any of her duties, and he gladly sends her back to
her father. He, like Solomon of old, agrees that "it is better to dwell
alone in the wilderness than with an angry and contentious woman." The
father doesn't mind getting her back, because he keeps the original
purchase price and will also collect from the next brave that wants to
take a chance on her; why should he worry? In a few instances braves
have been known to trade wives and throw in an extra pony or silver belt
to settle all difficulties. The missionaries are doing much to
discourage this practice and are trying to teach the Indians to marry in
a civilized manner. In case they do succeed let us hope that while the
savages embrace the marrying idea they will not emulate civilized people
in divorce matters.
For a primitive people with all the untrained impulses and natural
instincts of animals, there is surprisingly little sexual immorality
among the tribes. It seems that the women are naturally chaste. For
there is no conventional standard among their own people by which they
are judged. If an unmarried squaw has a child, there are deploring
clucks, but the girl's parents care tenderly for the little one and its
advent makes no difference in the mother's chances for a good marriage.
Also the child does not suffer socially for its unfortunate birth, which
is more humane at least than our method of treating such children. The
children of a marriage take the mother's name and belong to her clan.
She has absolute control of them until the girl reaches a marriageable
age; then Dad collects the marriage price.
Another thing we civilized parents might take into consideration. Indian
babies are never punished by beating or shaking. It is the Indian idea
that anything which injures a child's self-respect is very harmful. Yet
Indian children are very well-behaved, and their respect and love for
their elders is a beautiful thing. I have never seen an Indian child cry
or sulk for anything forbidden it.
Schools for Reservation children are compulsory, but whether they are
altogether a blessing or not is still doubtful. To take an Indian child
away from its own free, wild life, teach it to dress in white man's
clothes, eat our food, sleep in our beds, bathe in white-tiled bathtubs,
think our thoughts, learn our vices, and then, having led them to
despise their own way of living, send them back to their people who have
not changed while their children were being literally reborn--what does
this accomplish? Doesn't Aesop tell us something of a crow that would be
a dove and found himself an outcast everywhere? We are replacing the
beautiful symbolism of the Indian by our materialism and leaving him
bewildered and discouraged. Why should he be taught to despise his
hogan, shaped after the beautiful rounded curve of the rainbow and the
arched course of the sun in his daily journey across the sky--a type of
home that has been his for generations? Do we ever stop to think why the
mud hut is dome-shaped, why the door always faces the east?
I have been watching one Hopi family for years. In this case simple
housekeeping, plain sewing, and suitable cooking have been taught to the
girl in school. The mother waits eagerly for the return of the daughter
from school so that she can hear and learn and share what has been
taught to her girl. Her efforts to keep pace with the child are so
intense and her pride in her improved home is so great that it is
pitiful. Isn't there some way the elders can share the knowledge we are
trying to give the younger generation, so that parents and children may
be brought closer together rather than estranged?
No matter what color the skin, feminine nature never varies! Let one
squaw get a new calico dress, and it creates a stir in every tepee. The
female population gathers to admire, and the equivalent to our ohs and
ahs fills the air. It takes something like twenty yards of calico to
make an Indian flapper a skirt. It must be very full and quite long,
with a ruffle on the hem for good measure. There is going to be no
unseemly display of nether limbs. When a new dress is obtained it is put
on right over the old one, and it is not unusual for four or five such
billowing garments to be worn at once. A close-fitting basque of velvet
forms the top part of this Navajo costume, and over all a machine-made
blanket is worn. Store-made shoes, or more often the hand-made moccasins
of soft doeskin trimmed with silver and turquoise buttons, are worn
without stockings. The feet of Indian women are unusually small and
well-shaped. The amount of jewelry that an Indian wears denotes his
social rank, and, like their white brothers, they adorn the wife, so
that it is not unusual to see their women decked out until they resemble
prosperous Christmas trees. Many silver bracelets, studded with the
native turquoises, strings and strings of silver beads, and shell
necklaces, heavy silver belts, great turquoise earrings, rings and
rings, make up the ensemble of Navajo jewelry. Even the babies are
loaded down with it. It is the family pocketbook. When an Indian goes to
a store he removes a section of jewelry and trades it for whatever takes
his fancy. And one thing an Indian husband should give fervent thanks
for--his wife never wears a hat.
Our Indian sisters are not the slaves of their husbands as we have been
led to believe. It is true that the hard work in the village or camp is
done by the squaws, but it is done cheerfully and more as a right than
as a duty. In olden times the wives kept the home fires burning and the
crops growing while the braves were on the warpath or after game. Now
that the men no longer have these pursuits, it never occurs to them to
do their wives' work. Nor would they be permitted to do it.
After the rugs, baskets, or pottery are finished, the husband may take
them to the trading-post or depot and sell them; but the money must be
turned over to the wife or accounted for to her full satisfaction.
All the Indian women are tireless and fearless riders. They ride
astride, with or without a saddle, and carry two or three of the smaller
children with them. However, if there is only one pony, wifie walks,
while her lordly mate rides. That is Indian etiquette.
[Illustration]
_Chapter XIV: THE PASSING SHOW_
Tourists! Flocks of them, trainloads and carloads! They came and looked,
and passed on, and were forgotten, nine-tenths of them at least.
Anyone who is interested in the study of human nature should set up shop
on the Rim of the Grand Canyon and watch the world go by. I have never
been able to determine why Eastern people can't act natural in the West!
For instance: Shy spinster schoolma'ams, the essence of modesty at home,
catch the spirit of adventure and appear swaggering along in the
snuggest of knickers. They would die of shame should their home-town
minister or school president catch them in such apparel. Fat ladies
invariably wear breeches--tight khaki breeches--and with them they wear
georgette blouses, silk stockings, and high-heeled pumps. I have even
seen be-plumed chapeaux top the sport outfit. One thing is a safe
bet--the plumper the lady, the snugger the breeches!
Be-diamonded dowagers, hand-painted flappers, timid wives from Kansas,
one and all seem to fall for the "My God" habit when they peer down
into the Canyon. Ranger Winess did tell me of one original damsel; she
said: "Ain't it cute?"
I was standing on the Rim one day, watching a trail party through field
glasses, when a stout, well-dressed man stopped and asked to borrow my
glasses. He spoke of the width and depth of the Canyon, and stood
seemingly lost in contemplation of the magnificent sight. I had him
classified as a preacher, and I mentally rehearsed suitable Biblical
quotations. He turned to me and asked, "Do you know what strikes me most
forcibly about this place?"
"No, what is it?" I hushed my soul to listen to some sublime sentiment.
"_I haven't seen a fly since I've been here!_"
I was spluttering to White Mountain about it and wishing I had pushed
him over the edge, but the Chief thought it was funny. He said the man
must have been a butcher.
It is a strange fact that tourists will not listen to what Rangers tell
them to do or not to do. The Government pays men who have spent their
lives in such work to guide and guard strangers when they come into the
National Parks. Many visitors resent advice, and are quite ready to cry
for help when they get into difficulties or danger by ignoring
instructions. And usually they don't appreciate the risks that are taken
to rescue them from their own folly.
A young man from New York City, with his companion, walked down the
Bright Angel Trail to the Colorado River. Everybody knows, or should
know, that the Colorado River is a most treacherous river. One glance at
the sullen, silt-filled current tells that story. It seldom gives up its
dead. But the New Yorker swam it, with his shoes and underclothing on.
By the time he reached the far side he was completely exhausted. More
than that he was panic-stricken at the undercurrents and whirlpools that
had pulled at him and almost dragged him under. He would not swim back.
His companion signaled and yelled encouragement, but nothing doing.
Behind him rose a hundred-foot precipice; his clothes and his friend
were on the southern bank. The bridge was four miles above, but
unscalable walls made it impossible for him to reach that. Furthermore,
night was at hand.
When his friend knew that it was hopeless to wait any longer, he left
him perched on a rock and started to Headquarters for help. This was a
climb over seven miles of trail that gained a mile in altitude in that
distance. Disregarding the facts that they had already done their day's
work, that it was dark, and that his predicament was of his own making,
the rangers went to the rescue.
A canvas boat was lashed on a mule, another mule was led along for the
victim to ride out on, and with four rangers the caravan was off. It was
the plan to follow the trail to the Suspension Bridge, cross to the
northern bank, follow down the river four miles to the cliff above the
spot where the adventurer was roosting let the boat down over the ledge
to the river, and, when the New Yorker got in, pull the boat upstream by
means of the ropes until they found a safe place to drag it to shore.
When almost down the trail they met the lad coming up, and he was mad!
"Why didn't they come quicker? Why wasn't there a ranger down there to
keep him from swimming the river?" And so forth. But no thanks to the
men that had gone willingly to his rescue. However, they said they were
well paid by the sight of him toiling up the trail in the moonlight, _au
naturel_! They loaded him on a mule and brought him to the top. Then he
refused to pay Fred Harvey for the mule. I might add _he paid_!
I often wondered why people pay train fare across the continent and then
spend their time poking around in _our_ houses. They would walk in
without knocking, pick up and examine baskets, books, or anything that
caught their fancy. One woman started to pull a blanket off my couch,
saying "What do you want for this?" It was an old story to members of
the Park Service, and after being embarrassed a few times we usually
remembered to hook the door before taking a bath.
One day Chief Joe and I were chatting in front of the Hopi House. His
Indians had just completed one of their entertaining dances. As it
happened we were discussing a new book that had just been published and
I was interested in his view of the subject, _Outline of History_. All
at once an imposing dowager bore down upon us with all sails set.
"Are you a real Indian?"
"Yes, madam," Joe bowed.
"Where do you sleep?"
"In the Hopi House."
"What do you eat?" She eyed him through her lorgnette.
"Most everything, madam," Joe managed to say.
Luckily she departed before we lost control of ourselves. Joe says that
he has been asked every question in the category, and then some. I think
some of our stage idols and movie stars would be jealous if they could
see the number of mash notes Joe receives. He is flattered and sought
after and pursued by society ladies galore. The fact that he is married
to one of his own people and has a fat, brown baby does not protect him.
The Fred Harvey guides could throw interesting lights on tourist conduct
if they wished, but they seldom relate their experiences. Our card club
met in the recreation room of the guide quarters, and sometimes I would
get a chance to listen in on the conversation of the guides. Their
narrations were picturesque to say the least.
"What held you up today, Ed?"
"Well," drawled Ed, "a female dude wouldn't keep her mule movin' and
that slowed up the whole shebang. I got tired tellin' her to kick him,
so I jest throwed a loop round his neck and hitched 'im to my saddle
horn. She kept up then."
"Make her mad?"
"Uh-huh." A pause while he carefully rolled and lighted a cigarette. "I
reckon so. When we topped out an' I went to help her down, she wuz right
smart riled."
"Say she wuz goin' to report you to the President of these here United
States?"
"Don't know about that. She gimme a cut across the face with her bridle
reins." Another pause. "'Twas real aggravatin'."
Personally, I marveled at his calm.
"What made you late in toppin' out?" Ed asked in his turn.
"Well, we wuz late in startin' back, anyhow, and then I had to stop fer
an hour pickin' cactus thorns outta an old-maid female."
"Mule unload her in a patch, or did she sit down on one?" Ed was
interested.
"Naw, didn't do neither one. She tried to eat a prickly pear offa bush
of cactus, and got her tongue full uv stickers. Said she always heard
tell them cactus apples wuz good eatin'. I propped her mouth open with a
glove so she couldn't bite none, and I picked cactus stickers till I wuz
plumb weary."
"Yeh, women is funny that way," philosophized the listener. "They do say
Eve et an apple when she shouldn't ought to had."
Another lad was lamenting because he had a pretty girl next to him in
the trail party; as he said: "I was sure tryin' to make hay before the
sun went down. Every time I'd say something low and confidential for her
ear alone, a deaf old coot on the tail-end of the line would let out a
yarp--
"'What'd you say, Guide?' or, 'I didn't get _that_, Guide.'
"I reckon he thought I was exclaimin' on the magnificence of the
picturesque beauty of the scenery, and he wasn't gittin' his money's
worth of the remarks."
One guide said he had trouble getting a man to make the return trip. He
was so scared going down he figured he'd stay down there rather than
ride back up the trail.
Every morning, rain, snow, or shine, these guides, in flaming
neckerchiefs, equally audible shirts, and woolly chaps, lead their
string of patient mules up to the corral at the hotel, where the trail
parties are loaded for the trip into the Canyon. Each mule has a
complete set of individual characteristics, and mules are right set in
their ways. If one wants to reach over the edge of a sheer precipice and
crop a mouthful of grass, his rider may just as well let him reach.
Mules seldom commit suicide, although at times the incentive must be
strong.
"Powder River," "Dishpan," "Rastus," and a few other equally hardy mule
brethren are allotted to carry helpless fat tourists down the trail.
It's no use for a fragile two-hundred-pound female to deny her weight.
Guides have canny judgment when it comes to guessing, and you can't fool
a Harvey mule.
"Saint Peter," "Crowbar," and "By Jingo" are assigned to timid old
ladies and frightened gentlemen.
If I were issuing trail instructions for Canyon parties I would say
something like this, basing my directions on daily observation:
"The trail party starts about nine o'clock, and the departure should be
surrounded with joyous shouts of bravado. After you have mounted your
mule, or been laboriously hoisted aboard, let your conscience guide you
as to your actions up and down the trail. When you top out at the end of
the day and it is your turn to be unloaded, weakly drag your feet out
of the stirrups, make sure that the guide is planted directly underneath
you, turn loose all holds, and fall as heavily as possible directly on
top of him.
"After you have been placed on your feet, say about the third time, it
might be well to make a feeble effort to stand alone. This accomplished,
hobble off to the hotel, taking care to walk as bow-legged as possible.
If you have a room with bath, dive into a blistering hot tubful and
relax. If you were having a stingy streak when you registered, order a
bath at the public bathroom and be thankful you have seventy-five cents
with which to pay for it. Later take an inventory of your damages and,
if they are not too severe, proceed to the dining-room and fill up on
the most soul-satisfying meal Fred Harvey ever placed before the public.
"Afterward, in the lobby, between examinations of 'I wish you were here'
postcards, it might be well to warn newcomers about the dangers of the
trip. Probably few tourists are as expert riders as you."
We liked to poke fun at the saddle-sore dudes, but all the same the trip
is a soul-trying one, and the right to boast to home folks about it is
hardly earned.
It is really a revelation to study the reaction of the Canyon on various
races. On leaving the train a Japanese or Korean immediately seeks out a
ranger or goes to the Park Office and secures every bit of information
that is to be had. Age, formation, fauna, and flora are all
investigated. Then armed with map, guidebook, and kodak he hikes to the
bottom of the trail, and takes everything apart en route to see how it
is made. English and German travelers come next in earnest study and
observation. I am sorry to say that all foreigners seemed to show more
intelligent interest in the Canyon than our own native Americans.
Perhaps that is because only the more educated and intellectual
foreigners are able to make the trip across the ocean. Lots of Americans
never get farther than El Tovar, where they occupy easy chairs, leaving
them several times a day to array themselves in still more gorgeous
raiment.
Of course, out of the hundreds of thousands that come to Grand Canyon,
only a stray one now and then causes any anxiety or trouble. It is human
nature to remember those that make trouble while thousands of the finest
in the land pass unnoticed. Any mother can tell you that gentle,
obedient Mary is not mentioned once, whereas naughty, turbulent Jane
pops into the conversation continually. Rangers feel the same way about
their charges.
Perhaps a hundred people got on the train leaving the Canyon one snowy
zero night. Those people were forgotten instantly, but not so the
bellicose dame found wandering around the station asking when _her_
train would go. She had a ticket to New York, and stood on the platform
like Andy Gump while the train with her baggage aboard pulled out.
"It was headed the wrong way!" she explained tearfully, and stuck to her
story, even when the sorely tried superintendent led her to the tracks
and showed her that said track absolutely and finally ended there,
without argument or compromise. And she was furious. Her former
outburst was a mild prelude to what poured forth now. She would _not_
stay there until morning when the next train left. She demanded a
special train; she ordered a handcar with which to overtake the recreant
train; she called for a taxi to chase across to Williams with her, a
mere eighty miles of ten-foot snowdrifts. Only shortage of breath
occasioned by altitude and outraged sensibilities prevented her
commandeering an airplane! None of these vehicles being forthcoming, she
would stop in Washington if she ever made her escape from this
God-forsaken hole, and have every Park employee fired. The
Superintendent took her to the hotel, then came to me for help.