Seminole woman mean everything--usefulness, caste and the wealth of
her husband or father. She never appears without this insignia of her
position, and in the particular instance of this Glade visitor, when
the doctor whom she had come to consult ordered the removal of the
necklace on account of its great weight, medical authority and savage
superstition clashed. Stem-o-la-kee reluctantly obeyed the doctor’s
order, in part, by removing a few strands. She had not brought all
her beads, nor her beaten silver ornaments, with her, which are
used for full dress and ceremonial occasions, and seemed to feel an
embarrassment over this, explaining: “Plenty beads means good squaw.
My home Okee-cho-bee, me got a plenty; sick too much,” meaning she
had come on an errand for health and not for a social visit. To these
suntanned women of the Everglades, the beads play an important part
all through life.
When the little pappoose is a year old, she is given her first
string, with its “first year bead.” This bead is always larger and of
different color.
A string of beads is allowed for each year until she marries. At her
marriage, her mother gives her many new strands, and, if she is a
chief’s daughter, she receives many gifts of beads at her wedding.
The beads play such an important part in the career of a Seminole
woman that they are always given as a reward for any prowess and a
mother is allowed two strings for each child born. In full dress
many of the squaws wear from twenty to thirty pounds of glass beads,
varying in size and color--the colors blending in perfect harmony.
When the squaw reaches middle life, she begins to take off her beads,
one string at a time, as so many moons go by, until but one string is
left.
She is now an old woman, too old to work, and the single strand she
wears is made up of the “life beads” and buried with her.
During Stem-o-la-kee’s stay, though tired and weak from illness, and
with a constant knocking at the door by wee tots, as well as older
visitors, who came to “shake hands with the Indian woman,” the young
squaw showed nothing but grace and good feeling to the visitors. On
all such occasions she would, in a twinkling, don her new and gayly
colored dress, add the discarded ropes of beads, give a twist to her
raven hair, and would appear at the parlor door, shy, but with eyes
shining and with a pleasing smile, stand ready to give the usual
gracious hand grasp and then as quickly and noiselessly glide away,
like a timid deer, to the improvised couch which had been made for
her.
As Stem-o-la-kee, in her broken English, told of the forest home,
a picture of her wigwam dwelling became very vivid; such a picture
inspires courage and touches chords of sympathy in one’s make-up.
In a solitude, which only nature reveals, this brown-skinned
people live amid the shadows of the great live oaks, seeing God
in the clouds and hearing him in the winds. One sees the happy,
turban-crowned braves move about and dusky squaws glide in and out,
watching with careful eyes the toddling pappooses, as they play on
the grassy sward; the laughing of the huntsman is heard and the songs
of the Seminole Minnehaha make the night beautiful.
During the visit of these Seminoles, a protracted meeting was in
session with a noted divine in charge. With no disrespect intended to
the ministerial work, it was amusing to hear the question many times
asked: “Are the Seminoles going to church to-night?” Sufficient to
induce a crowd.
Another visit of a Seminole family is still fresh in memory. The
visit had been planned for many, many moons. With the exception of
one Indian, who acted as escort and friendly interpreter, none of
these Seminoles had ever been in the white man’s home, yet they
accepted the change from the weird morasses with the simplest
dignity. The party of six were all in neat, yet brilliant attire--all
save little eight-year-old Mop-o-hatch-ee, whose travel-stained dress
worried the mistress of the home, for they were all expected to
attend the church Christmas tree that evening.
Asking Cho-fee-hatch-ee if the little one had another dress, he
replied: “She no got ’em; she wash her dress.” Feeling this an
impossible task we replied, “No, she is too little,” but being
assured that this little red-skinned tot was equal to the emergency,
she was permitted to proceed with the order from Cho-fee-hatch-ee.
A cunning picture she made, as her long, black hair fell around her
shoulders and she, with nature’s washboard (her tiny hands), rubbed
the quaintly made dress until it was clean and ready to be dried.
To expedite the work, a negro was called in to take the dress to be
ironed; a glance at Mop-o-hatch-ee revealed a forest child convulsed
with sobs. Not understanding a word of English, she thought her only
dress was being taken from her.
Only once during the visit of these Everglade people was there any
apparent curiosity evinced, and this was within an hour after their
arrival, when the hostess had been called to the telephone.
Looking back, she saw the two children peering into the room
through the French window, wondering, no doubt, what foolish thing
the mistress of the house could be doing. At another time, old
Martha Tiger, the aged grandmother, came close to the ’phone with a
quizzical look, when it was vaguely explained we were “talking to
the store man down town.” In American history, old Martha and her
contemporaries antedate the telephone, for with smoke signals and
“listening posts” their warriors’ quickness in getting news of the
enemy puzzled many an American officer.
Pictures from the _Geographical Magazine_ and letters from the old
“blue back” spelling book interested all these Everglade people,
except old Martha Tiger who said “She old too much.”
Who shall say there is no hope for these forest people?
As this visit drew to a close and that feeling of homiletic
friendliness was apparent when some humor might be indulged in,
it was suggested that Show-lod-ka, the good-looking ten-year-old
boy, should remain and learn to drive the automobile, and that
Mop-o-hatch-ee stay with him. These two motherless children are the
direct descendants of the old Chieftain Tallahassee, whose grim and
determined patriotism eighty years ago wrenched his tribe from the
white man’s bullets and Uncle Sam’s bloodhounds. These children were
devoted to each other.
A few minutes later, little Mop-o-hatch-ee sat on a chair, her feet
swinging, and rubbing her eyes to stay the tears. “She ’fraid you
keep her,” the older Indian explained, and the boy with the same fear
had slipped off to his sleeping quarters.
Love for their Everglade home is instilled into every Seminole. They
love the country bequeathed by their ancestors--the gift of the Great
Spirit to his red children of Florida, with a love that is, at times,
frenzied in its demonstration.
To see to it, that these native people have protection, education and
Christianity, must be the duty of this America of ours, this America
which stands ready to protect the weak and the oppressed of all
nations.
When the citizenship of this liberty loving country awakens to the
needs of the stranded red race of 600 souls in the heart of the Big
Cypress, then, and not till then will these original owners be led
out of the darkness of a conquered people into the light of progress
and civilization.
It is not surprising that thousands of our Florida tourists make
efforts to see the descendants of America’s primeval people.
Many times attempts are made by the adventurous tourist to visit
a Seminole village in the secluded cypress region of the Glade
Wilderness; but alas! after dragging themselves over the marshy,
cutting saw-grass prairies, they find what? A deserted camp, possibly
the coals still burning in the camp fire, but the Indians, hie-pus
(all gone) hiding in some secret haunt.
Still, it is a common sight, particularly at Miami to see a Seminole
family as they pole the rude craft, a dugout cypress canoe, along the
river.
Dressed in a way, bizarre and ludicrous, to our white man’s way of
thinking, still strikingly dignified.
The brave poles the boat while the squaws watch the family
belongings. At the other end of the boat, a group of round faced and
exceedingly quiet little Seminoles brightly garbed in red and blue
calico, sit, much more interested in the shadows in the water, than
in the people on shore.
It is but natural that Americans, who know the Seminole, should
feel an innate respect for them, especially if we reflect that the
strain of the old Aztec runs through their veins and produces the
same heroic fortitude that made Guatemotziu, the last of the Aztec
Emperors, under the torture of fire by Cortez, reply with ironical
stoicism to his persecutors, “Am I on a bed of roses?”
Today the Seminole suffers and endures without complaint and retains
his old-time pride. As is known, the Seminole in polite but in
positive terms, refuses presents of any magnitude from white friends.
“Littly presents me take, big presents, money cost ’im too much,
Indian no take.”
When it was learned that a chieftain had not only lost his camp and
all his belongings by fire, amounting to about three hundred dollars,
and that he had had the expense of a trip to see a physician, that
would appall the average wage earner, some members of the Society
of the “Friends of the Florida Seminoles” suggested that a purse
be made up for his benefit. Then came the delicate point of making
such a suggestion. Cho-fee-halch-o, with the old-time pride of his
ancestors, in answer to the question whether he would take money for
his expenses, replied: “Me no think so; my money me make. My own
money me spend. Me no take it.”
Where is the Anglo-Saxon who could refuse good American dollars when
free for the acceptance?
With a race so proud, too honorable to beg, yet clinging with
a desperate effort to their beloved Florida, what must we, as
Americans, do but protect them?
HOME AND RELIGION.
It is a long way from the savagery of the jungle to the doors of
civilization, where, when the confidence and faith of the Seminole
has been won, he becomes as trusting and confiding as a little child.
The endeavor to show the Seminole what Christianity stands for has
been one of the most complex problems encountered.
“Not to lie, not to steal, not to cheat and to think with God,” is
practiced with precision.
The Seminole, with most reverend attitude, listens to the returning
of thanks, at the white man’s table and with the question put,
“Billy, do Seminoles talk to God and ask Him to give them food and
homes?” “Munks-chay” (No), replied the Indian, “no ask Him.”
Then, as if a light dawned, as to the nature of our study, he told
of a hunting experience of a few weeks before, when he had acted as
guide for a northern tourist. For three days the red huntsman had
sought all the bayous for deer, but “deer hie-pus (all gone). Man
feel sorry ojus (plenty). Night come, we wake two o’clock, moon shine
bright, me hear water laugh. Me see big e-cho (deer) swim across the
river. My gun me take. Kill big deer. Me tell Great Spirit ‘Me thank
you.’ White man glad ojus; he go back to New York, take big buck
antlers--he say he kill big deer in Everglades.”
The Seminole, like his ancient ancestors, thanks the Great Spirit
for blessings received, but does not beseech favors.
Can you not imagine the startled emotion experienced when, after
trying to tell a stalwart, honest Seminole something of civilization
and Christianity, he with all deference of a Chieftain answered: “Me
no think me want to be civilized. Me think me get civilized, me lie,
steal, cheat. Some day big sleep come. Me want to go to Happy Hunting
Grounds. Me want to see Great Spirit; me want to see my grandfather.
Me no think white man go to Heaven.”
How would _you_ answer such philosophy?
The Seminole believes that when Eschock-ee-tom-e-see (the Supreme
Being) calls him hence, that his spirit will make its last journey
to the Happy Hunting Grounds of his fathers, winging its way over
the seven colored rainbow of the heavens--the “Highway of the Great
Spirit.”
SEMINOLE INCIDENTS.
An incident, linking past Seminole history with the present, is full
of interest, because so old, and yet so new.
Just eighty years ago, at the time the great Chieftain Osceola was
betrayed near St. Augustine, with him was another Chieftain, by name
of John Jumper.
History has not failed to record the life and death of Osceola, but
of John Jumper little has been written outside of Government records.
Jumper was taken prisoner to the Indian territory. Many years after
he was converted by a missionary and being a musical leader among his
tribe, naturally grasped the white man’s melodies.
Later he composed a religious hymn. During the last visit of the
Everglade Seminoles to Kissimmee, as is the custom, they attended
the church service. At the close of the sermon, the minister gave a
little talk to the Indians and sang a song in the Seminole tongue,
which was very beautiful and so rhythmical that when once lodged in
the brain, the tune refused to be dislodged. The minister, Dr. A.
J. Holt, explained to the congregation that he had learned the hymn
more than forty years ago from Colonel John Jumper in the Indian
territory. This Chieftain had enlisted in the Civil War, where he was
promoted to the rank of Colonel under the Confederate colors.
Returning from the church services, we were eager to know from the
Indians if they had understood the Seminole song. One Indian, very
musical, said: “Yes, me sing it good,” which he did to perfection,
not omitting a single note or word. How did the young Seminole
learn the words and tune so quickly? He explained, “me learn it in
Everglades.” Certainly a remarkable incident. The solution was easy.
An educated Oklahoma Indian Missionary, visiting the Everglades the
year previous, had taught the song to these Seminoles.
Another incident, showing mechanical genius as well as love of music
is here appended.
A few years ago when the Coast towns of Florida were still primitive,
a store keeper had purchased in New York an old-fashioned organette,
that played five tunes. The Seminoles at that time frequently came on
purchasing expeditions to these trading villages. Cho-fee-hatch-o,
progressive and musical, listened to the “box of music” as it played
in the little store, and was entranced with the melodies.
Soon after, the organette refused to “go” and the trader told his
friends, that unless he could “stick it on the Indians, he would be
out thirty-five dollars.” A few days later, the Chief with another
Indian, came back to the store bringing produce to sell. The white
trader wanted the Indian’s goods and suggested to the Chief that he
exchange for the music box, telling the innocent Seminole that “music
box no more play, wake up by and by and play good, him tired now.”
The Seminole with his mechanical knowledge, looked the organette
over, and making the trade, proudly left with the “tired out” music
box under his arm.
The next day, the two Indians returned, bringing with them the music
box to show to the storekeeper. “That box, him no more tired,” and
winding up the machine, which the ingenious Seminole had put into
working order, played the whole five tunes, to the astonishment and
chagrin of the trader. “Him play good at Green Corn Dance, down
Okee-cho-bee.”
Several years after the organette was still doing service in the
Seminole camps, where, with its aboriginal settings it seemed to fill
a niche that harmonized with the forests, with the timid stars that
hung overhead, with the wigwams and the shadowy flicker of the camp
fire.
The ancestral music of the Seminole is full of a wild, weird melody,
where men and women and little children join voices. As the Indians
sing, you may hear the melancholy waters whisper a pensive good-night
and the drowsy birds flutter in their boughs. You hear the camp songs
and the lullabies like voices trained in the woodland with a strain
of heartbreak, where life and love steal forth in fanciful ecstasy
and the vanished souls seem to call back in tenuous fragments of
mystery, only to die away into a symphony of sorrow, as the melodies
echo across the dark wilderness.
MESSAGES FROM THE EVERGLADES.
Requests come so often for more details regarding these silent
children of the forests, and interesting as well as unique are the
letters and messages that come from the Everglades.
With the ox team and fleet footed Indian messengers, together with
Uncle Sam’s quick mail service, communications reach the white man’s
town, as per the will of the Seminole. With the Indians’ promise to
keep us informed of their needs, births, marriages and ambitions (for
the Seminole never breaks his word), a recent letter from the wigwam
reads: “Me want to tell you we have not forgotten you.” Then comes
the interesting part, “My sister She-y-o-hee got little pappoose,
six days old; it is a girl.” Added to this is another birth record:
“Shon-o-la-kee got one too, ten days old; it is a boy.” Certainly
in the Everglades among the first families of America, the birth
register is kept intact. The letter continues: “Me send you pumpkins
seed.” (These are the Indian pumpkin, a tree climbing variety known
to the American soldiers eighty years ago.)
In this day of food conservation and scientific economy, it may be
well to make a comparison. The seeds were distributed among friends
and neighbors, some delicious pumpkins were raised and enjoyed, but
alas! for a future crop! Not a seed was saved and to the wigwam seed
bag must we go if more pumpkins are planted.
It can hardly be disputed, that the Seminoles, in their migrations
from Mexico brought the seeds with them.
To Dr. Howard A. Kelly, widely known surgeon, traveller, lecturer and
philanthropist, are we indebted for the intensely interesting bit of
Aztec history, blending so well with Seminole traditions.
In Dr. Kelly’s travels in Mexico, among the carved relics of Aztec
origin observed in museums was the pumpkin of Aztec days--centuries
old.
When a Seminole pumpkin was sent to the doctor, he wrote back:
“The very thing I tried to buy in Mexico, carved in wood. I shall
treasure this and preserve it in alcohol to be handed down as a link
connecting the land of Montezuma with the present day Everglade
history.”
For three hundred years the Seminoles have never failed to have their
crop of this edible vegetable and to save seed for the next planting.
Could not the Seminole teach us all conservation?
SEMINOLES FIRST SUFFRAGISTS.
During these latter years, when “equal rights” has crowded into State
and national politics, it may be interesting to the suffrage movement
in America to know that the Seminole squaws are entitled to first
claim as American suffragists.
Not that they are cognizant of it, but they have gained this
authority through their entire fitness for it. The women work equally
with the men, bearing burdens, tanning skins and having absolute
control over the children, who are instilled with the dignity of
obedience from the moment their little eyes open to the world. They
are capable, careful, loving mothers, good counsellors in the camp
life. The Council in passing upon a vital subject, must consult the
women of the camp before giving a final decision. If a squaw wishes
to divorce her husband, and she can prove she has a just cause to do
so, she cannot only divorce him, but she can name his punishment.
The money she makes is hers to do as she likes with. She is supreme
in the home and in the management of the camp.
As is known, Sofka is the tribal dish of the Seminoles; it is a stew
containing the nutriment of many foods.
The Sofka spoon or ladle, made of wood, thus becomes the much valued
household article and the squaws show their authority again here,
for a spoon cannot be taken from the camp without the consent of the
women of the family. This ladle is frequently carved, the different
households having differently shaped spoons.
The Tusteenuggees are made with full large bowls--the Osceolas have a
long slim bowl, each bowl having its own particular style of Seminole
“Coat of Arms.”
OSCEOLA, THE GARIBALDI OF THE SEMINOLES
Do we feel surprised that thousands of our Florida tourists make
efforts to see the descendants of Osceola, the Garibaldi of the
Seminoles?
That Osceola should be named Florida’s most distinguished historical
character is not to be disputed. This statement, in its boldness,
regarding an untutored Indian of the wilderness, at first startles,
but in looking over the pages of history, the question naturally
follows: “Is there another character in Florida, or even in American
history, who is known from ocean to ocean and whose generalship in
warfare, has the admiration of the civilized world, whose heroism is
the ideal of every school boy; the story of Osceola, recounting his
valor and patriotism, may be found in the classic histories of the
libraries of the world.”
History has never given to the world a more regal soldier, with his
magnetic personality, royal in its wild, uncivilized way.
With such reverence is Osceola regarded by the remnants of the
Seminole tribe today, that the name given to him when he was accepted
as a chieftain by the nation, is guarded so jealously that they
refuse to reveal it to any white man who might disclose it--treating
it much as the Israelites did the name of Jehovah--too sacred to
pass the lips of an alien race.
Osceola’s pride was always uppermost in his negotiations and when the
Seminoles were denied the right to buy ammunition, Osceola was made
the object of the insult.
To this he replied with all the defiance of his proud blood: “Am I
a negro? A slave who will not be allowed to handle a rifle? My skin
is dark, not black. I am a Red Stick of the Muscokees. The white man
shall know I am a pure blood.”
At this point, it is with much pleasure, the author desires to
correct the erroneous and too often quoted statement as given in the
pages of literature, viz.: that “Osceola was a half-breed, the son of
an English trader.”
After much research among records, and from the learned leaders of
the Western Seminoles, as well as from the old Seminoles of the
Everglades, it is learned that Osceola disdained the idea of mixed
blood, declaring that “not a drop of foreign blood flowed through his
veins.”
His mother was a Creek of the pure blood, a daughter of a chief,
whose second marriage to an Englishman (Powell, by name), occurred
when Osceola was a small boy.
Osceola was magnanimous in character and honorable in war and no
other crime can be charged to this chivalrous Seminole than a
positive opposition to the removal of his people from their sunny,
native land to the blizzard-stricken territory of the West.
Picture, if you will, a Florida war scene that in dramatic climax is
matchless in the world’s history.
In the Government’s headquarters, Seminole Chieftains and American
army officers wait; each are in the insignia of their respective
ranks. The American flag adds dignity to the scene. Through the open
windows come the fragrant perfume of the orange and the magnolia
blossoms and the song of the mocking-birds adds a flute-like melody
to the tropical setting.
The very air is tense with the mental questions. Will Osceola
come--will Osceola sign?
Promptly at the hour appointed, the savage chieftain, royal in his
warrior regalia, self-possessed and with noiseless step, enters the
room. With a swift glance at the stacked arms of his warriors, he
approached the council table and with defiance in his face and high
uplifted head, exclaimed: “Rather than act the coward, by signing
away the Seminole’s inheritance and taking my people into a strange
land, I will fight till the last drop of blood moistens the dust of
the Seminole’s hunting grounds,” and drawing his long sheath knife
drove the blade through the treaty pinning it to the table. “The land
is ours. This is the way I will sign all such treaties.”
SHALL OSCEOLA’S BONES BE REMOVED?
As a keynote to the wave of sympathy which is being felt from the
Atlantic to the Pacific in the interest of the fast vanishing
Seminoles, is the growing sentiment to do honor to the memory of
their famous war chieftain, Osceola, the hero of the “Seven Years’
War.”