The Indian child is nursed on Indian song and story. Tribal traditions
are handed down from age to age by enacting in the dance, on the part of
the warriors and braves, their deeds of valour in war, their triumphs in
the chase, their prowess against all foes. Forest lore is a constant text
book. He is taught to observe which side of a tree has the lightest
bark—which side the most branches; why the tree reaches forth longer arms
on the edge of the wood than in the depths of the forest where his eye is
taught to penetrate. The squirrel, the rabbit and the birds all become
his little friends: where and how they get their food, their manner of
life, their colour, and how they call their mates, who are their enemies,
and how they may be protected. His ear is trained to hear sounds
ordinarily inaudible, his nostrils are early taught to distinguish the
scent of the different wild animals. Then came his ability to imitate the
call of this wild life, sometimes by direct vocalization, or by placing
two reeds to the lips so dexterously that the timid fawn is led to his
feet. This literature the Indian child studies, until his arms are strong
enough to bend the bow and send an arrow speeding to its mark. He soon
essays the rôle of a warrior. His study of the birds enables him to find
the eerie of the eagle, for a victory means that he may add an eagle
feather to his war bonnet or coup stick. His study of the hills enables
him to find in their vermilion and golden seams the colours for his war
paint. In the crimson berries festooning the banks of the stream, when
crushed, he finds still another element of decoration. The white man
makes a book whose leaves talk. The sunshine bears speech and light to
the Indian. He lives by communion with the stars. The Great Bear of the
stars is called the great animal of cold weather. When a shadow crosses
his mind he watches the clouds that touch the moon when it is new. He
reads the stars, for they travel to him in a familiar pathway across the
sky. They are bright spirits sent earthward by the Great Mystery, and
when thick worlds gather in clusters, there are so many souls of earth
people that their trail makes luminous the white way of the sky. The wing
of a bird is the symbol of thoughts that fly very high. From the bird
that soars nearest the blue he plucks prayer feathers. These he dyes and
cherishes with jealous care. The Indian possesses a strange love for
growing things, tall grasses with lace-like plumes forming a lattice for
the deep green of the slender bushes that bear the rich clusters of
crimson buffalo berries. He knows and loves the wild flowers that hang
their golden heads along the banks of the purling stream or that in
gleaming colours enamel the wide stretches of the plain. There are a
thousand leaves in every book, and with every book in nature’s library he
is familiar to the point of success.
[The Song of the Arrows]