THE INDIAN AND HOSPITALITY
Another of the things I think we might well learn from the Indian
is his kind of hospitality. Too often in our so-called civilization
hospitality degenerates into a kind of extravagant, wasteful, injurious
ostentation. I do not object, on formal occasions, to ceremonial
hospitality, to an elaborate spread and all that goes with it. But in
our every-day homes, when our friends call upon us for a meal or a
visit of a week, it is not true hospitality to let them feel that we
are overworking ourselves in order to overfeed and entertain them.
When one has plenty of servants, the overwork may perhaps not be felt,
but the preparation and presentation of “extra fine” meals should be
looked upon as an unmitigated evil that ought to cease.
[Illustration: THE NAVAHO INDIAN EXPECTS YOU TO PARTAKE OF HIS SIMPLE
DESERT HOSPITALITY.]
[Illustration: IN THE HOME OF A HOSPITABLE NAVAHO AT TOHATCHI.]
Why is it that the professional lecturers, singers, and public
performers generally refuse to accept such hospitalities? Every one
doing their kind of work knows the reason. It is because this “high
feeding” unfits them for the right discharge of their duties. To
overfeed a preacher (and I’ve been a preacher for many years) is
to prevent the easy flow of his thought. It is as true now as when
Wordsworth wrote it, that “plain living and high thinking” go together.
For the past five weeks I have been lecturing nightly in New York City.
I am often invited to dinners and banquets, but I invariably refuse
unless I am promised that a full supply of fruit, nuts, celery, and
bread and butter, or foods of that nature are provided for me, and that
I am not even asked to eat anything else. I don’t even want the mental
effort of being compelled to refuse to eat what I know will render my
brain “logy,” heavy, and dull.
Then, again, when I am invited to a home where no servants are kept
(as I often am), and see the hostess worrying and wearying herself to
prepare a great variety of “dainties” and “fine foods” for me that
I know I am far better without, what kind of creature am I if I can
accept such hospitality with equanimity? I go to see people to enjoy
them, their kindness, their intellectual converse, the homelikeness of
themselves and their children. If I want to “stuff and gorge” I can do
so at any first-class restaurant on the expenditure of a certain sum
of money. But at the homes of my friends I want them; I go for social
intercourse; and to see them working and slaving to give me food that
is an injury to me is not, never can be, my idea of hospitality. I
would not have my readers infer from this that I am unmindful of the
kindly spirit of hospitality behind all of this needless preparation;
nor would I have them think that I never eat luxurious things. I am
afraid some of my readers would forego their kind thoughts towards me
if they were to see me sometimes as I indulge in all kinds of things
that “ordinary people” eat. But I do want to protest against the
ostentatious and extravagant manifestation of our hospitality, and also
the injuriousness of much of it when it comes to the food question, and
to commend the spirit and method of the Indian’s way. If friends come
unexpectedly to an Indian home, they are _expected_ to make themselves
at home. They are not invited to the “festive board” to eat, but they
are _expected_ to share in the meal as a matter of course. Hospitality
is not a thing of invitation, whim, or caprice. It is the daily
expression of their lives. Every one, friend or stranger, coming to
their camp at meal times is for the time being a member of the family.
There is no display, no ostentation, no show, no extra preparation.
“You are one of us. Come and partake of what there is!” is the spirit
they manifest. There is nothing more beautiful to me than to find
myself at a Navaho _hogan_ in the heart of the Painted Desert, and to
realize that I am expected to sit down and eat of the frugal meal which
the family has prepared for itself.
[Illustration: HOPI INDIANS COOKING CORN IN AN UNDERGROUND OVEN.]
My contention is, that this is the true spirit of hospitality. You are
made to feel at home. You are one of the family. Formality is dispensed
with; you are welcomed heartily and sincerely, and made to feel at
ease. This is “to be at home”; this is the friendly, the human, the
humane thing to do. Unnecessary work is avoided; the visitor is not
distressed by seeing his hostess made to do a lot of extra cooking
and “fussing” on his account; his heart is warmed by the friendliness
displayed (and surely that is far better than merely to have his
stomach filled); and, furthermore, if he be a thoughtful man who values
health and vigor rather than the gratification of his appetite, he is
saved the mortification and the annoyance of having to choose between
the risk of offending his hostess by refusing to eat the luxurious
“obnoxities” she has provided, or offending himself by eating them
under protest, and possibly suffering from them afterward.
[Illustration: MOHAVE WOMAN POUNDING MESQUITE TO PROVIDE A DRINK FOR
HER GUEST.]
I was once visiting the Mohave reservation, at Parker, on the Colorado
River. It was a very hot day, and I was thirsty, weary, and hot. As
soon as I arrived at the home of one old lady, she at once went out
of doors to her wooden mortar, took some mesquite beans, pounded them,
poured water over the flour thus made, and in a few minutes presented
me with a copious drink that was both pleasing to the taste and
refreshing. Look at her face as she kneels before the mortar. It is a
kindly and generous face. She cared nothing for the fact that it was
hot, or that it was hard work to lift the pounder and make the meal
for the drink. She did it so simply and easily and naturally that I
accepted the drink with the added pleasure that it was the product of a
real, and not an artificial, hospitality.
Few visitors to the Snake Dance and the different religious or
thanksgiving festivals of the Indians of the Southwest have failed to
observe the great amount of preparation that goes on for expected but
unknown guests. It is known they will come; therefore preparations must
be made for them. Corn is ground in the metates, and _piki_ is made.
An old Navaho Indian, pictured on the first page, is a wonderful
illustration of the natural generosity of the aborigine before he is
spoiled by contact with the white. Many years ago this man, who had
large possessions of stock, sheep, horses, and goats, with much grazing
land, and several fine springs, was riding on the plateau opposite
where the Paria Creek empties into the Colorado River. Suddenly he
heard shouts and screams, and rushing down to the water saw a raft
filled with men, women, and children, dashing down the river to the
rapids. When the raft and its human freight were overturned into the
icy waters he did not hesitate because the people were of a different
color from his own, but, plunging in, he rescued all those who were
unable to save themselves, mainly by his own valor. It turned out that
the strangers were a band of Mormons seeking a new home in Arizona,
and, being met by the barrier of the Colorado River, had sought to
cross it with their worldly goods upon the insecure and unsafe raft.
What could they now do? Though their lives were saved, their provisions
were nearly all lost in the raging rapids of the turbulent and angry
Colorado. Bidding them be of good cheer, this _savage_ Indian led them
to one of his _hogans_, where immediately he set his several wives
(for the Navahos are polygamists) to grinding corn and making large
quantities of mush for the half-famished white strangers. He thus fed
them, daily, for months. In the mean time, he allowed them to plant
crops (he finding seed) on his land, using for irrigation therefor
water from his springs.
But he had not given himself proper care after his icy bath. His legs
became drawn up by rheumatism, and from that day to this he has been
a constant sufferer from his exposure to the cold water of the river
and his after-neglect caused by his eager desire to care for unknown
strangers.
The awful irony of the whole thing lies in the fact that in spite
of what he had done, the recipients of his pure, simple, beautiful
hospitality could not, or did not, appreciate it. He was “only an
Indian.” He had no rights. _They_ were American citizens,--white
people; civilized people. Why should this Indian own or control all
this fine land, all these flowing springs, all these growing crops? It
was wrong, infamous, inappropriate. Therefore, to make matters right,
these grateful (?) civilized (!!) Mormons stole from him the best part
of his lands, and the largest of his springs, and for years laughed at
his protests; until finally a white friend was raised up for him in
a brave United States Army officer, now a general in the Philippines,
I believe, who presented the case of the Indian to the courts, fought
it successfully, and lived to see the Indian’s wrongs in some small
measure righted.
To this day the Indian is known as “Old Musha,” the name given to him
by the people whom he befriended in their distress, because mush was
the chief article of the diet that his hospitality provided for them.
Truly did Shakspere write:--
“Blow, blow, thou winter wind,
Thou art not so unkind
As man’s ingratitude!”
That Indians know how to be beautifully courteous to their guests, I
have long experienced. I have eaten at banquets at Delmonico’s and the
Waldorf-Astoria (New York), the Hotel Cecil (London), the Grand Hotel
(Paris), and many and various hotels between the Touraine (Boston) and
the Palace of San Francisco and the Hotel del Coronado. And I have seen
more vulgarity and ill-breeding at these choice and elaborate banquets,
more want of consideration, more selfishness, and more disgusting
exhibitions of greediness and gluttony than I have seen in twenty-five
years of close association with Indians.
I was once expected to eat at an Indian chief’s _hawa_, or house. The
chief dish was corn, cut from the cob while in the milk, ground, and
then made into a kind of soup or mush. A clean basketful was handed to
me, with the intimation that I was to share it with two old Indians,
one on my right, one on my left. I asked my hostess for a spoon, for I
knew I had seen one somewhere on one of my visits. She hunted for the
spoon, in the meantime sending to the creek for an _esuwa_ of fresh,
clean water. When it was brought, she carefully washed her hands and
then gave the spoon seven scrubbings and washings and rinsings before
she handed it to me. I felt safer in using it than I do many a time
at a city restaurant when the “culled brother” brings me a spoon that
he has wiped on the “towel” which performs the multifarious duties of
wiping the soiled table, the supposedly clean dishes, the waiter’s
sweaty hands, and--far oftener than people imagine--the waiter’s sweaty
face.
During the time we were waiting for the spoon the old Indians by my
side sat as patiently and stoically as if they were not hungry. When
the spoon was handed to me, I marked a half circle on the mush in front
of me, in the basket, then divided the remainder for them. Each waited
until I had eaten several mouthfuls before he inserted his own fingers,
which served as his spoon, and then we democratically ate together.
Now, to me the whole affair showed a kindly consideration for my
feelings that is not always apparent in so-called well-bred strangers
of my own race. I’ve had many a man light a cigar or a cigarette at a
table at which I’ve been compelled to sit in a restaurant with never
a “By your leave!” or “Is this agreeable?” From the Indian we imagine
that we ought not to expect much of what we call “higher courtesy,” yet
I find it constantly exercised; while from the civilized white race we
expect much, and, alas! often are very much disappointed.
It is a singular thing that while I am writing these pages about the
lessons we may learn from the Indian, the Bishop of London, speaking
in Trinity Church, New York, in September, 1907, should enunciate
ideas remarkably similar to those held by the Indians. The Indian owns
nothing for himself: it belongs to all his tribe. What is this but the
stewardship--in a rude and crude fashion perhaps, but nevertheless
stewardship--as declared by the bishop, who says:
“The one sentence, which above all others I would say to you, a
sentence as yet unlearned in London and New York, and which if adopted
would cleanse the life on both sides of the Atlantic is--life is a
stewardship, and not an ownership.
“Have you ever thought why there are any rich and poor at all? That
is the question I had to face in London. They had asked me how I
reconciled my belief in the good God loving all His children, with the
wretched millions in East London, seemingly abandoned by both God and
man. I had to face that question, and I have had to face it ever since.
There is but one answer--the rich minority have what they have merely
in trust for all the others. Stewardship, non-ownership, is God’s
command to all of us.
“You are not your own. Nothing that you have is your own. We haven’t
learned the Christian religion if we have not learned the lesson of
stewardship.
“My home has been the home of the Bishop of London for 1,300 years.
Suppose I should say that it was my own, and that the Bishop’s income
of $50,000 a year was my own. I would be called a madman. The man who
thinks he owns what he has in his keeping is no less a madman. This
applies alike to the boy and his pocket money, and the millionaire and
his millions. Disregard of this trust is the cause of all the social
evils of London and New York.”
To resume my experiences with the Indians:
[Illustration: UTA, MY HOSPITABLE HAVASUPAI FRIEND.]
In September, 1907, I again visited the Havasupais and then had several
wonderful illustrations of their real and genuine hospitality. We
decided to camp below the home of an old friend of mine, Uta. As soon
as our cavalcade of six persons on horses, mules, and burros appeared,
with two pack-horses, he cordially welcomed us, and when I told him
that we wished to camp below his _hawa_ he took us into a fenced-in
field, where there were peach trees and a corral for our animals.
Here we were free from the intrusion of all stray animals, and were
able to secure seclusion for the ladies of our party--for, of course,
we were camping out and sleeping in the open. Knowing that we should
want plenty of water, both for ourselves and our animals, and that
it was quite a little walk to Havasu Creek, he took his shovel and
in five minutes the limpid stream was flowing through the irrigation
ditches close by. The peach tree over our heads--the best in the whole
village--was placed at our disposal, and delicious indeed we found the
fruit to be, and he sent us figs, beans, melons, and a canteloupe.
Without a question as to payment, he supplied us daily during our stay
with an abundance of dried alfalfa hay,--the fresh alfalfa not being
good for our too-civilized animals. And in every way possible to him he
sought to minister to our comfort and pleasure, and did not resent it
in the slightest when I bade him retire at meal times, or while we were
cooking our provisions.
[Illustration: MY HOPI HOSTESS WHO KEPT THE NEIGHBORHOOD QUIET WHILE I
SLEPT.]
That we paid him abundantly when we left did not in the slightest alter
the sweet character of his genuine and simple hospitality.
Another illustration of the most beautiful kind of hospitality and
courteous kindness was shown by an old Hopi Indian woman pictured.
I was visiting the Hopi pueblo of Walpi for the purpose of studying
the secret ceremonies of the underground _kivas_ of the Antelope and
Snake clans prior to the Snake Dance. For fifteen days and nights I
never took off my clothes to go to bed, but went from kiva to kiva,
witnessing the ceremonials, and when I was too tired to remain awake
longer, I would stretch out on the bare, solid rock floor, my camera
or my canteen for my pillow, and go to sleep. Occasionally, however,
when something of minor importance was going on during the daytime,
I would steal upstairs to a room which I had engaged in this woman’s
house. As soon as I stretched out and tried to sleep, she went around
to the children and the neighbors and told them that the “Black
Bear”--my name with these people--was trying to sleep, and was very,
very tired. That was all that was necessary to send the children far
enough away so that the noise of their play could not disturb me, and
to quiet any unnecessary noise among their elders. This I take to
be an extreme courtesy. I know people of both “low and high degree”
in our civilization who resent as an impertinent interference with
their “rights” any suggestions that they be kind or quiet to their
neighbors,--much less strangers and aliens. But for my own sake I
would far rather that my children possessed the kindly sympathy shown
by these Indian children than have the finest education the greatest
university of our civilization could grant without it.