On long winter evening the Indian hunters gatherd around their fireside,
to listen to the historical traditions, legends of war and hunting, and
fairy tales which had been handed down through their fathers and father's
fathers, with scarcely any variation for centuries, kindling the
enthusiasm of the warrior and inspiring the little child some day to
realize similar dreams, and hand his name down to posterity as the author
of similar exploits.
They have superstitious fears of relating fables in summer: not until
after snow comes will they relate of snakes, lest they should creep into
their beds, or of evil genii, lest they in some way be revenged.
It is very difficult for a stranger to rightly understand the morals of
their stories, though it is said by those who know them best, that to
them the story was always an illustration of some moral or principle.
To strangers they offer all the rites of hospitality, but do not open
their hearts. If you ask them they will tell you a story, but it will not
be such a story as they tell when alone. They will fear your ridicule and
suppress their humor and pathos: so thoroughly have they learned to
distrust pale faces, that when they know that he who is present is a
friend, they will still shrink from admitting him within the secret
portals of their heart.
And when you have learned all that language can convey, there are still a
thousand images, suggestions and associations recurring to the Indian,
which can strike no chord in your heart. The myriad voices of nature are
dumb to you, but to them they are full of life and power.