|IN the Rocky mountains now the eternal whiteness is stealing down
toward the foot-hills and the brown mantle of October hangs softly on
the swelling divide, while along the winding streams, cottonwood and
willow are turned to gold, and the deep green of the solemn pines lies
farther back against the soft blue of the autumn sky. The sigh of the
approaching storm is heard at eventide, and the hostile Indian comes
into the reservation to get some arnica for his chilblain, and to heal
up the old feeling of intolerance on the part, of the pale face.
He leaves the glorious picture of mountain and glen; the wide sweep of
magnificent nature, where a thousand gorgeous dyes are spread over the
remains of the dead summer, and folding his tepee, he steals into the
home of the white man that he may be once more at peace with the world.
The hectic of the dying year saddens and depresses him, for is it not
an emblem to him of the death of his race? Is it not to him an assurance
that in the golden ultimately, the red man will be sought for on the
face of the earth and he will not be able to represent. He will not
be there either in person or by proxy. Here and there may be found the
little silent mounds with some glass beads and teeth in them, but the
silent warrior with the Roman nose will not be there.
[Illustration: 0051]
The Indian agent will have a large, conservative cemetery on his hands,
and the brave warrior will be marching single file through the corridors
of the hence.
At this moment he does not look romantic. Clothed in a coffee sack and a
little brief authority, he would not make a good vignette on a $5 bill.
His wife, too, looks careworn, and the old glad light is not in her
eye. Pier gunny-sack dolman is not what it once was, and her beautifully
arched foot has spread out over the reservation more than it used to.
Her step has lost its old elasticity, and so have her suspenders.
Autumn brings to her nothing but regret for the past and hopelessness
for the future. The cold and cruel winter will bring her nothing but
bitter memories and condemned government grub. The solemn hush of nature
and the gorgeous coloring of the forest do not awake a thrill in her
wild heart. She cares not for the dead summer or the mellow mist of the
grand old mountains.
She doesn't care two cents. She knows that no sealskin sacque will come
to her on the Christmas trees, and the glad welcome of the placid and
select oyster is not for her.
Is it surprising, then, that to this decaying belle of an old family
the sparkle of hope is unknown? Can we wonder, as we contemplate her
history, that to her the soldier pantaloons of last year, and the
bullwhacker's straw hat of '79, are obnoxious?
She is like her sex, and her joy is fractured by the knowledge that her
moccasins are down at the heel, and her stockings existing in the realms
of fancy. We should not look with scorn upon Mrs. Rise-up-William-Riley,
for hope is dead in her breast, and the wigwam is desolate in the
sage-brush.
Daughter of a great nation, we are not mad at you. You are not to be
blamed because the republican party has busted your crust. We do not
hate you because you eat your steak-rare and wear your own hair. It is
your own right to do so if you wish. Brace up, therefore, and take a
tumble, as it were, and try to be cheerful. We will not massacre you if
you will not massacre us. All we want is peace, and you can wear what
you like, only wear something, if you please, when you come into our
society. We do not ask you to conform strictly to our false and peculiar
costumes, but wear something to protect you from the chilling blasts of
winter and you will win our respect. You needn't mingle in our society
much if you do not choose to, but wrap yourself up in most any kind
of clothing that will silence the tongue of slander, and try to quit
drinking. You would get along first-rate if you would only let liquor
alone. Do not try to drown your sorrows in the flowing bowl. It's
expensive and unsatisfactory. Take our advice and swear off. We have
tried it, and we know what we are talking about.
You have a glorious future before you, if you will cease to drink
the vintage of the pale face, and monkey with petty larceny. Look at
Pocahontas and Mrs. Tecumseh. They didn't drink. They were women of
no more ability than you have, but they were high-toned, and they got
there, Eli. Now they are known to history along with Cornwallis and
Payne. You can do the same if you choose to. Do not be content to lead a
yellow dog around by a string and get inebriated, but rise up out of the
alkali dust, and resolve that you will shun the demon of drink.
You ought to be ashamed of yourself.