American Native Press Archives and Sequoyah Research Center
Selected Works of Mabel Washbourne Anderson [a machine-readable transcription]
Mabel Washbourne Anderson descended from two well-known families in Cherokee history. Her paternal grandfather was founder of Dwight Mission to the Cherokees, and her maternal grandfather was John Ridge, the well-known leader of the Treaty Party of Cherokees. Anderson attended Cherokee public schools, graduation from the Cherokee Female Seminary in 1883. Upon graduation, she became a teacher at Vinita, where in 1891 she married John C. Anderson. The family moved to Pryor Creek in 1904, living there until 1930 when they moved to Tulsa. Anderson taught in the public schools throughout this period. In the early 1890s she also began to write for local newspapers and to make presentations before local literary societies. Some of her works were picked up by out-of-territory publications. In the early years of this century, Anderson contributed to Indian Territory and Oklahoma magazines and newspapers and in 1915 published a biography of her grandfather's cousin, the well-known Cherokee general, Stand Watie. The biography, like much of her writing, including the biographical article on Watie reprinted here, reflects the tendency among Cherokee writers of her generation to romanticize Cherokee national heroes. That romanticism may also be discerned in her poetry and fiction.
America has done scant justice on the pages of history to the first citizens of this country, the North American Indian. It is a matter of regret and a loss to posterity that we possess comparatively so little written matter of the life and traditions of the Five Civilized Tribes, whose achievements made possible the earliest history of Oklahoma. Research students know that the history of the country, embraced within the boundaries of this state, began with its Indian civilization long before the run of 1889, or the later advent of statehood, relating in fact, to the old tribal nations in the different states from which they came to re-establish their governments in the now Indian Territory. From the background and fertile soil of this civilization, blossomed in all its magic growth and progress, the young star, Oklahoma.
General Stand Watie was one of the most influential characters in the early history of Oklahoma. Some of the salient points in his eventful career will, no doubt, be of interest to readers of the Chronicles. He was a North American Indian, one of the noblest sons of the Five Civilized Tribes. His courage and military prowess were known far beyond the limits of his activities, and his loyal service and constructive influence were a potent force in the history of his people.
He was born at the Watie home on the Coo-see-wa-tee stream in the old Cherokee Nation in Georgia, near the present site of the city of Rome, December 12, 1806. His kinsmen were among the prominent leaders of his people, his father David Oowatie, being the younger brother of Major Ridge, a well-known chief and orator of the Cherokees. His mother, Susannah, a descendant of Charles Reese of North Carolina, was one-half Cherokee and like her husband spoke the Indian language altogether. She was a member of the Moravian Church, the first to establish missions among the Cherokees. His father, a quiet, retiring man took no active part in National affairs, either in the old or new country. General Stand Watie was one of eight children, three daughters and five sons, two of who rose to places of eminence in their tribe.
In those days a Cherokee child was usually given an Indian name with some special meaning and sometimes an English name as well. Often these personal names, or their English interpretation, were taken as surnames which accounts for the difference in the family names of own brothers, as in the case of Watie, Ridge, and Boudinot, though this last was an adopted name as is explained later in this sketch. The given name of General Watie is especially significant. At his birth he was called "Takertawker" meaning "To stand firm; immovable." Surely an appropriate name for one so steadfast in character and so ready to support his convictions of right at any cost.
Watie spoke only his native tongue until twelve years of age, when his parents sent him to the little Moravian school at Spring Place where he simplified the spelling of Oowatie, dropping the "Oo"; and though his mother had named him "Isaac" also, he retained the English meaning of his Cherokee name, "Stand," and ever afterward wrote his name simply "Stand Watie." The family name from that date was always spelled "Watie," often mis-spelled "Waite."
His brother Elias, and his cousin John Ridge, were sent East to school, but Watie's education was limited to the meager advantages of his own nation. This is proof of the fiber of his intellect and ability, for he attained a distinguished place as soldier, statesman, and leader despite this educational handicap. He was never an orator, even in his native tongue, but wrote with ease, as is characteristic of the Indian.
General Watie was a man of action and few words. No one ever rose to a place of such importance who had less to say. He was not a handsome man as was his brother, Elias, but his features gave evidence of the strength of his character and courage. His friendships were slowly made but loyally retained. His sympathies were easily touched. Little children loved him and the needy were glad to call him friend.
To better understand this remarkable man who was so intimately associated with the Cherokees during the most turbulent period of their history, both in the old nation and the new, it is necessary to touch briefly upon some of the contemporary events which so profoundly affected his life.
At the time of Watie's early manhood, the Cherokees, due to certain factors, had reached a high state of culture and civilization among the North American Indians. Missions were more common among them; many of their young men had been sent away to school, often to Eastern colleges and returned to lend more progressive ideas. Sequoyah had invented the Cherokee alphabet. At New Echota, Georgia, their national capital, the first newspaper ever printed in both English and an Indian language had been established, with Elias Boudinot, Stand Watie's elder brother, as first editor. This brother earlier known as "Buck Watie," a name originating from his Cherokee name which meant "Male Deer," had been educated by a well known philanthropist, Dr. Elias Boudinot,  of Princeton, New Jersey, with the request the boy should take his name. This Buck Watie did and when his education was completed he returned to his own country, where he was destined to play so influential and tragic a part. His descendants, some of whom still reside in Oklahoma, retained the mane of Boudinot.
Watie was thirty-one years old when he emigrated with family and kindred to the new Territory, now Oklahoma. Though he was clerk of the Cherokee National Supreme Court in 1829, he had taken little part in politics. The more active and eventful years of his life followed the emigration.
The story of the exodus of the Cherokee and other Southern Indians is a subject in itself, and too involved to include in any detail here. Two factions or parties arose among the Cherokees over the question of removal, one headed by Major Ridge, John Ridge, and Elias Boudinot known as the Ridge or Treaty party. This party advocated a treaty of removal with the United States Government, not from choice but as an acceptance of the inevitable, the oppression of their people having become unbearable. The other faction known as the Anti-Treaty party, headed by John Ross, then principal chief of the Cherokees, opposed a treaty of removal. This difference and division led to bitterness and tragedy, as is ever the case when feuds arise within a nation.
The final result, emigration, was inevitable from the first, and history has proved the wisdom and foresight of those who advocated removal at the price of their personal safety. Unfortunately, the enmity and lust for power occasioned by the controversy, was carried from the old nation into the new by the Ross party, and this finally culminated in the tragic assassination in one night of Major Ridge, John Ridge, and Elias Boudinot, three of the most powerful men in the nation. Stand Watie was slated to die the same night, but was away from home and so escaped.
Responsibilities seem to gravitate to the shoulders that will carry them. Although burdened and saddened by the fearful murder of his uncle, cousin, and beloved brother, Stand Watie now became the acknowledged leader of the Ridge or Treaty party.
This tragic event proved a turning point in the career of Watie, one that thrust him from the home life he loved into a position of activity and prominence in the political affairs of his people. Unshaken by feuds and factions, which constantly threatened his life, from that time on his power, purpose, and courage proved of lasting influence.
The internal difficulties of the Cherokees were finally settled by the Treaty of 1846, and Watie as a leader of his party played a prominent part in bringing about this treaty, which ushered in a brief era of peace and prosperity for the Cherokees. He was speaker of the Council from 1857 to 1859, and a member of the Council from 1846 to 1861.
Stand Watie was married in the new Nation, September 18, 1842 to Sarah Bell. The two families were friends of long standing, and his wife's brothers, Colonel Jim Bell and Jack Bell, were schoolmates of Watie. Of this union there were three sons, Saladin, Solon, and Cumiska, and two daughters, Minnee and Jacqueline. His home life was congenial and very happy, darkened only by the unfortunate political conditions of his time, and the separations and suffering occasioned later by the War of 1861.
In the years that intervened, from the Treaty of 1846 until the outbreak of the war, Watie had some time to devote to his personal interests and fortune. He accumulated some valuable properties, and built a number of substantial homes. During this interval he lived quietly, enjoying the love and esteem of his neighbors and friends.
This era of peace, all too brief, was broken by the shadow of suffering and division into which the war plunged the entire nation. In the conflict that followed Stand Watie naturally assumed the place of leadership, for which he was so well qualified. A Southerner by birth and breeding, he unhesitatingly cast his lot with the Confederacy.
The military career of General Watie comprises the whole of the Confederate History of the Indian Territory. Many people have believed, erroneously, that little war activity took place in the Indian Territory, and that that little was in the nature of guerilla warfare. Nothing could be further from the truth. Long before the Treaty of 1861, made with General Pike as Indian Commissioner of the Confederacy, large numbers of the Cherokees and whites had offered their lives to the cause of the Confederacy, and pledged to follow where Watie led.
So at the very outbreak of the war, Stand Watie had organized, and been made Captain of a troop of Cherokees and whites, for the purpose of protecting the Indian Territory, especially the Cherokee Border, from the Federal forces stationed at Humbolt, Kansas. Between this point and the Cherokee Nation were the Osage Indians, who were nearly all Unionists, and ancient enemies of the Cherokees. There is no doubt that the wisdom and timely action of Watie and his men saved his people during these early days from even greater hardships than those they later experienced.
In May, 1861, Watie offered his services to General McCulloch of Texas, who had been given the command over the military district of the Indian Territory. His offer was gladly accepted. He was given a Colonel's commission and authorized to raise an Indian regiment, which was known as "The Cherokee Mounted Rifles." Watie received high commendation from General McCulloch, and was ever in harmony with his superior officers, and acting under regular army orders.
At the beginning of the war, John Ross, as principal chief, had signed the Treaty of Alliance with the Confederacy, but afterwards renewed his policy of friendship with the Federal government, and went to Washington, where he remained until the close of the conflict, the Cherokee nation being left at this crucial period without an official head.
In 1862 a National Convention of the Cherokees was held, at which time John Ross was deposed from office of principal chief, and Stand Watie elected to succeed him. Federal members of the Council, said to have constituted a quorum, refused to recognize the election; but from that time on the Cherokees had two tribal governments, and all official business of the United States Government with the Southern Cherokees at the close of the war, was conducted through Stand Watie as their head.
Space does not permit details of any of the battles fought on Indian Territory soil---some eighteen or twenty in number, in which Stand Watie and his command did such heroic service. Some of these engagements were in important battles that took place on the borders of Arkansas and Missouri, but the larger number occurred in such familiar localities in Oklahoma as Fort Gibson, Webbers Falls, Bird Creek north of Tulsa, Muskogee and nearby points. His men declared that General Waite and his Indian Brigade marched over as many miles, had as many independent conflicts and skirmishes, captured as many trains of wagons, horses and mules as any one brigade west of the Mississippi.
Stand Watie showed such efficiency as a leader and commander, that on May 10, 1864, he received from President Davis the appointment of Brigadier General in the Confederate Army, and later was brevetted. Except for Alexander McGillivray, who was commissioned as General in the United States Army in 1790, Stand Watie is said to be the only North American who ever attained this rank. He was the only Indian to receive this distinction in either the Union or Confederate Army.
After this promotion, the Indian Territory troops were re-organized with General Watie as Commander-in-Chief, being known as General Watie's Indian Brigade, and included all Confederate Cherokees, as well as Creek and Seminole Troops, the Choctaws and Chickasaws being largely under the command of General Douglass Cooper, though they too were later attached to Watie's command. As many know, General Watie had the honor of making the last surrender of the war, which occurred at Doaksville, in the Choctaw Nation, June 23, 1865, nearly three months after the surrender of General Lee.
When the dark shadow of Reconstruction days enveloped the South, no section was found to have suffered greater devastation than the Cherokee Nation, for that region, though small and remote, had been occupied by both armies. What had been a scene of prosperity and rapid progress in 1861 was now almost a destitute wilderness. The losses of the Union Indians were provided for by the United States Government, but the Southern Cherokees had not only the loss of property, but also of citizenship to reclaim. It was during these days that General Watie proved a savior as well as a leader of his people. Throughout the war he had taken upon himself the task of rescue and relief for helpless Confederate families, and now he took upon himself the gigantic burden of alleviating the distress of reconstruction, extending his personal help and financial aid to all he could.
Internal discord, as well as the hardships resulting from the war again beset the Cherokees. The Northern branch confiscated the property of the Southern Cherokees, and denied them the right of suffrage. General Watie with many other prominent Cherokees was untiring in his efforts to bring about harmony and the restoration of the rights of the Southern branch. The controversy was finally settled by the Treaty of 1866 which procured re-instatement of the Southern Cherokees, but at a costly price to them. Many phases of this treaty were objectionable, but the most unjust clause was that which demanded of the Southern Cherokees an equal division of his lands and inheritances with his former slaves and their posterity, which was not required from any other Southern state.
The war ended, his people reinstated as citizens, General Watie retired from the public life which Fate had thrust upon his home-loving nature. Impaired in health, and broken in fortune, he engaged for a time in the mercantile business in Webbers Falls, Oklahoma, later moving to his farm near Bernice, where he spent his remaining years.
Sadness and suffering did not end with the close of the war for General Watie. His youngest son had died while a refugee in Texas, and in 1868, Saladin, his eldest son, was taken after a brief illness. Solon died just one year later. The loss of these sons, so full of promise, forms the saddest page in the life of this great man. His magnificent constitution had been weakened by the hardships of war, and these sorrows which followed so rapidly seemed to hasten the end which came to his own courageous spirit September 9, 1871, while on a visit to his old home on Honey Creek. He was buried with Masonic honors not far from this home, in the old Ridge cemetery, Delaware County, Oklahoma. His daughters did not long survive him. His wife, who had been such a faithful companion to him, died in 1883.
It has been the privilege and pleasure of the Southern women of Oklahoma, through their Division of the United Daughters of the Confederacy, to pay a long neglected tribute to the memory of Stand Watie by erecting a simple, yet dignified, monument at his grave, and a large and beautiful memorial on the Cherokee Capitol grounds at Tahlequah, where once his power and influence were so potently felt.
A careful search of the official war records reveals nothing but praise and commendation for Watie. Some of the finest tributes paid him as a man and an officer came from the North, as well as from the men who served under him. In return for the justice and consideration he accorded his soldiers, they gave him a devotion that was touching in its loyalty, from the highest in rank down to Dutch Billy, the bugler and John, the Swedish cook.
In this connection I am reminded of the many stories told me by "his boys" as they called themselves, and indeed, most of them were mere boys when they enlisted. Of how after long and wearisome marches, food being scarce, he would refuse some specially prepared dish, because his men could not share it. How often they had awakened at night to find him sitting by the fire, his blanket covering some soldier who needed it.
He never ordered a charge that he did not lead; yet he never received a wound in battle. The full bloods believed that he possessed a charmed life and no bullet was ever molded that could kill him. His personal acts of courage furnished full foundation for this belief and his name stands for the very definition of bravery among his people today.
To students of the subject perhaps no Indian character appeals with such great force as that of Stand Watie. He was indeed a man of powerful personality and magnetism, with a courage and integrity as stalwart and changeless as the granite rocks of his native hills. He was ready as his life shows to make any sacrifice, compatible with honor for the good of his people. He did not thirst for pomp or glory but gave his great heart to duty as he saw it. Simplicity, sincerity and service symbolize his greatness.
About the year 1820 the American Board, of Boston, decided to educate a number of Cherokee boys at Cornwall, Connecticut. Among this limited number were John Ridge and Buck Watie, who were first cousins, or half brothers, as they were called in the old days when first cousins belonged to the same Indian clan.
Their ancestors were distinguished for their valor in war and their eloquence and sagacity in the councils of their tribe. The Indian name for Watie was Kille-ka-wah, afterwards translated into Wati-Whitch, which means the buck or male deer. Buck Watie was afterward called Elias Boudinot, after a distinguished missionary of that name, who in a manner adopted and educated him. A name which he retained until his death, and which has been perpetuated by his posterity. Hence the origin of the Cherokee family name of Boudinot, which in reality is Watie.
Elias Boudinot (Buck Watie), proved himself to be an able writer, and was the first editor of the Phoenix, published in the old nation in Georgia, the first issue of which was printed in February, 1828. This paper was afterward called the "Cherokee[Phoenix and Indians'] Advocate," and was the first and only newspaper ever printed one-half in English and one-half in Cherokee. This paper, established so many years ago, was published in this form and under this name until very recently, at the tribal capital, Tahlequah.
Elias Cornelius Boudinot was the son of Buck Watie and Harriet Gold, and was born in the old nation in Georgia not far from the present city of Rome, in 1835. He was educated in the east and began the practice of law in early manhood. Shortly afterwards he assumed the editorship of Arkansas  , published at Fayetteville, Ark. Leaving this city he went to The True Democrat . The editorials of both these newspapers marked him as a man of more than ordinary ability.
In 1861 he was secretary of the convention which linked the fate of Arkansas with the southern confederacy. At the close of the convention he went to the Cherokee nation and organized a regiment of Cherokees for the Confederate army. He was elected major of the regiment; afterwards lieutenant colonel, his uncle, Stand Watie, being brigadier general by appointment from Jefferson Davis.
Col. Boudinot represented the Cherokees at Richmond, Va., as a delegate to the congress of the Confederate States. He served in the congress until the end of the war. In the cities of Virginia, as elsewhere, he made himself a welcome guest by his accomplished and charming manner, his musical talent, and his ever-interesting conversation.
After the close of the war he took an active part in the treaty of 1866 between the Cherokees and the United States government concerning the restoration of the tribal rights of the Cherokees, who were threatened with forfeiture because of their participation in the war. He represented the Cherokees in Washington after the treaty was made, and was the first to advise, since the death of his kinsman, John Ridge, the allotment of lands in severalty among his people. For these and other advanced ideas he was exiled from the Cherokee nation for many years, during which he made the city of Washington his home, for life in the national capital was attractive to a man of his intelligence and social qualifications. Here he was married in 1885 to Miss Clara Minear, who still survives him, residing upon their plantation on the southern borders of the Cherokee nation near Fort Smith, Ark.
Those of the Cherokees who would have persecuted Boudinot for his political views look upon him now, in the chaotic condition of their government, as the wisest leader of his day. Not as a lawyer, a statesman, or a man of advanced ideas has the name of Col. Boudinot endeared itself to his people, but he possessed to a marked degree the rare and admirable quality of loving his fellow men, and was by them beloved. He was a fascinating exponent of interesting conversation, sentiment, and song. The beauty and poetry of his nature found its happiest expression in his songs.
He was gifted to an unusual degree in the recitation of dramatic and poetic selections, but his songs were his best beloved friends, and those who have been enraptured by them were among the most honored of our land--Gen. Sherman, Gen. Albert Pike, Senator Voorhees, and others of equal note. Gen. Pike and Senator Voorhees were among his warmest and closest friends.
Among his personal effects he left many interesting mementos of his friendships in the way of photographs, etc. His manuscripts, or "letter scrap book," now in the possession of his widow, contain letters from many people of note.
The celebrated sculptress, Vinnie Ream Hoxie, was his early love, and this friendship continued to the day of his death. Vinita, one of the promising cities of the Cherokee nation, had its name changed at the instigation of Col. Boudinot, and christened for this famous woman, the former name for the town being Downingville, after the Cherokee chief of that name.
Few indeed, of his race, have ever stood so high socially as the gifted Boudinot, nor received so profusely the attentions usually bestowed upon genius. He died, after a brief illness, at Fort Smith, Arkansas, September 25, 1890, and was buried with Masonic honors.
Who among us that have ever heard him sing, " Have you seen the Red Rose on its Bonnie Green Stem," or "I Love Thee," or heard him read Gen. Pike's "Every Year," can ever forget it? Better than all the dull cold monuments of marble or stone he lives in the hearts of those who loved him.
|"He is gone from the mountain,|
|He is lost to the forest;|
|Like a summer dried fountain,|
|When our need was the sorest.|
|The fount reappearing|
|From the raindrops shall borrow;|
|But to us comes no cheering,|
|To Duncan no morrow.|
|Like the dew on the mountain,|
|Like the foam on the river,|
|Like the bubble on the fountain,|
|Thou art gone, and forever!"|
One of the most familiar pictures of the South is that of "The Arkansas Traveler," while the musical air of that name is almost as widely known and recognized as "Dixie," the beloved ode of the Southland. Though this picture is so commonly seen in the homes of the South and West, yet there are few paintings--with which the public is familiar--concerning whose origin so little is known.
Edward Pason Washbourne, the painter of the original picture, was Arkansas' earliest artist of ability, and the picture depicts a perfect type of the cabin of a squatter in the wilderness of Arkansas, more than eighty years ago. Many a local colloquialism has found its origin in the supposed conversation that took place between the "Squatter" and the "Traveler."
The lost and bewildered "Arkansas Traveler" who approached the cabin and found the proprietor seated on an old whiskey barrel playing the fiddle, as shown in the picture, was Col. S. C. Faulkner, author of the story and the musical air, "The Arkansas Traveler," a man well known in that section of Arkansas at that time.
Quite an amusing incident, in connection with this famous picture occurred in one of the large towns of the Indian Territory recently, and shows the ignorance among the masses concerning the picture and its origin.
The wife of a well-to-do cattle man had moved into town from the ranch and previous to her coming had directed the husband to make some purchases in the way of furniture and parlor ornaments. Among other things a handsome copy of "The Arkansas Traveler" had been selected and paid for, but the good wife denounced the painting in emphatic terms, declaring that no picture with "whiskey" marked upon it should grace her walls. It was vain for the clerk to expostulate and endeavor to explain what the picture was and the period it represented. She was obdurate and he was told to keep the picture and to sell it for whatever he chose.
Rev. Cephas Washbourne, father of the artist, was associated with Dr. Kingsbury, Dr. Worcester and others of missionary fame among the Indians. Dr. Washbourne was long and extensively known as the superintendent of Dwight Mission among the Cherokees of Arkansas. He gave the name of "Dwight" to this mission in honor of Dr. Dwight, a distinguished divine and friend of missions.
In 1818 Tol-on-tus-ky, the principal chief of the Arkansas Cherokees, requested Jeremiah Evans, treasurer of the American Board of Missions, to found a mission among his people, and in the autumn of that year Mr. Washbourne was sent by that board as agent to the old nation in Georgia in which capacity he labored for one year. In the fall of 1819 he was instructed to commence his journey to Arkansas and found a mission among the Cherokees. In November, 1819, in company with his associate missionaries, Mr. Washbourne began his journey to the wilds of Arkansas, for at that time Arkansas was a perfect "terra incognita" and the way to get there was unknown. After fourteen days' travel they reached the Mississippi at a point called Walnut Hills, where Vicksburg now stands. On this journey to his missionary field, Mr. Washbourne stopped at the post of Arkansas, which was then the seat of the government of the Territory of Arkansas. From thence he came to Little Rock on the first steamboat that ever ascended the Arkansas river above the post of Arkansas, and as a matter equally worthy of note he preached the first sermon ever delivered in Little Rock, which consisted then of a little frame shanty with a scanty supply of drugs and medicines and a little cabin made of logs with the bark on, where the sermon was delivered to an audience of fourteen men and women. These two cabins mentioned were the only buildings at that time on the site of the present city of Little Rock which gave no promise then of a splendid future, of the beautiful capital of a sovereign state.
Rev. Mr. Washbourne remained at Dwight until 1828 when he and his faithful missionary friends followed the Cherokees further west and established another missionary station near the stream called Sallisaw, to which he gave the name of New Dwight. Here at this new missionary home, Edward Pason Washbourne, the artist of "The Arkansas Traveler" fame, was born on the 17th day of November, 1831. In 1850 his father moved to Fort Smith, Arkansas, and became pastor of the Presbyterian church at that place. Here in 1851 Edward, the artist, opened a studio and began to paint. He had evinced a talent at an early age and without instruction, and guided by his genius alone he began life as a self-taught artist.
The portraits and landscapes painted by him in his boyhood are worthy the brush of many an older and carefully trained artist. Many of these early paintings are yet to be seen in the old Washbourne home in Russellville, Arkansas. These pictures evince, in a very flattering and remarkable degree, artistic talent, and were painted long before he ever conceived the idea of "The Arkansas Traveler."
From Fort Smith the artist went to New York and studied under Elliott, the great American painter. His work, during his brief stay there, was approved by eminent judges. Edward Washbourne, like his father, was a fine student with a remarkably retentive memory. He loved the classics and could repeat page after page of Virgil or a whole oration from Cicero. In the fall of 1858 while he and his brother were on their way to try their skill as fishermen, in the Illinois bayou, Edward remarked that he believed he would paint a picture and call it "The Arkansas Traveler." A few days afterwards he canvassed a frame and began to paint some characters of the picture. One day he and his brother visited their father's old home at Dwight to look at the memorable spring that once slaked the thirst of that noble little missionary band and in passing one of the old mission houses they saw a young girl holding a looking glass in one hand, while with the other she combed and brushed a lovely suit of hair. They both laughed at this, but the incident made such an impression upon Edward's mind that immediately upon reaching home he sketched the character of the girl holding the glass and combing her hair, together with the traveler, who was Col. Faulkner, as previously mentioned. These characters are still retained in the lithographs. There at Norristown, Pope county, in 1858 must be given as the place and time at which the first conception entered the mind of the artist, Edward Washbourne, to make and execute the remarkable and famous picture, "The Arkansas Traveler."
Mr. Washbourne painted three different views before he became satisfied with his task; the third and final one was given to the public and is now a familiar sight in almost every southern home. The first two scenes, so different from the third, are still in the possession of the Washbourne family and stand unframed just as they came from the hand of the painter.
This brilliant young artist died in Little Rock in the twenty-eighth year of his age. Thus terminated in the morning of life Arkansas' first and most gifted artist. Had he lived to attain the allotted age of man, with his high ambition, his rapid improvement and devotion to his profession, he would no doubt have been classed and recognized among the first artists of his day.
The Cherokee poet, John Rollin Ridge , was the son of John Ridge, a full blood Cherokee, who was at one time chief of his tribe, and the son of the warrior and statesman distinguished in Cherokee battles and councils. He was known to the whites as "Major" Ridge and to the Indians as "Kanuntaclage." "Major" Ridge led the Cherokees at Horse Shoe Bend under General Jackson in the war against the Creeks.
John Rollin Ridge's father was educated at the Indian Mission at Cornwall, Connecticut. He is said to have been the acknowledged orator of his tribe and one of the most polished public men of his day. He married a Miss Northrop, a daughter of one of the best families of Connecticut.
The consummation of this romance between a full blood Cherokee and a daughter of New England caused at that time quite a sensation in the local press and in social circles. John Rollin Ridge, the son of this union, was born in the Cherokee Nation, east of the Mississippi river, in what is now Georgia, March, 19, 1827, and was called by his people "Chees-quat-a-law-ny," which means "yellow-bird."
When the poet was but ten years old he moved with his parents to the present Cherokee Nation. The assassination of his father two years later by the opposing political party of the Cherokees, darkened his life with an eternal sorrow. Soon afterwards his mother, together with her family, left the Cherokee Nation and made her home in Fayetteville, Arkansas. John Rollin was sent to New England to be educated. He early manifested a literary tendency.
A great many poems of merit were written by him before the age of twenty. Some of these have been collected by his widow and published in book form by a San Francisco publishing house. Many of these earlier poems have elicited high praise from both the Atlantic and Pacific press.
|Behold the dread Mt. Shasta, where it stands|
|Imperial midst the lesser heights, and, like|
|Some mighty unimpassioned mind, companionless|
|And cold. The storms of Heaven may beat in wrath|
|Grandeur still; and from the rolling mists upheaves|
|Its tower of pride e'en purer than before.|
|The wintry showers and white-winged tempests leave|
|Their frozen tributes on its brow, and it|
|Doth make of them an everlasting crown.|
|Thus doth it, day by day and age by age,|
|Defy each stroke of time; still rising highest|
|Aspiring to the eagle's cloudless height,|
|No human foot has stained its snowy side;|
|No human breath has dimmed the icy mirror which|
|It holds unto the moon and stars and sov'reign sun.|
|We may not grow familiar with the secrets|
|Of its hoary top, whereon the Genius|
|Of that mountain builds his glorious throne!|
|Far lifted in the boundless blue, he doth|
|Encircle, with his gaze supreme, the broad|
|Dominions of the West, which lie beneath|
|His feet, in pictures of sublime repose|
|No artist ever drew. He sees the tall|
|Gigantic hills arise in silentness|
|And peace, and in the long review of distance|
|Range themselves in order grand. He sees the sunlight|
|Play upon the golden streams which through the valleys|
|Glide. He hears the music of the great and solemn sea,|
|And overlooks the huge old western wall|
|To view the birth-place of undying Melody!|
|Itself all light, save when some loftiest cloud|
|Doth for a while embrace its cold forbidding|
|Form, that monarch mountain casts its mighty|
|Shadow down upon the crownless peaks below,|
|That, like inferior minds to some great|
|Spirit, stand in strong contrasted littleness!|
|All through the long and Summery mouths of our|
|Most tranquil year, it points its icy shaft|
|On high, to catch the dazzling beams that fall|
|In showers of splendor round that crystal cone,|
|And roll in floods of far magnificence|
|Away from that lone, vast Reflector in|
|The dome of Heaven.|
|Still watchful of the fertile|
|Vale and undulating plains below, the grass|
|Grows greener in its shade, and sweeter bloom|
|The flowers. Strong purifier! From its snowy|
|Side the breezes cool are wafted to the "peaceful|
|Homes of men," who shelter at its feet, and love|
|To gaze upon its honored form, aye standing|
|There the guarantee of health and happiness.|
|Well might it win communities so blest|
|To loftier feelings and to nobler thoughts---|
|The great material symbol of eternal|
|Things! And well I ween, in after years, how|
|In the middle of his furrowed track the plowman|
|In some sultry hour will pause, and wiping|
|From his brow the dusty sweat, with reference|
|Gaze upon that hoary peak. The herdsman|
|Oft will rein his charger in the plain, and drink|
|Into his inmost soul the calm sublimity;|
|And little children, playing on the green, shall|
|Cease their sport, and turning to that mountain|
|Old, shall of their mother ask; "Who made it?"|
|And she shall answer---"God"!|
|And well this Golden State shall thrive, if like|
|Its own Mt. Shasta, Sovereign Law shall lift|
|Itself in purer atmosphere---so high|
|That human feeling, human passion at its base|
|Shall lie subdued; e'en pity's tears shall on|
|Its summit freeze; to warm it e'en the sunlight|
|Of deep sympathy shall fail;|
|Its pure administration shall be like|
|The snow immaculate upon that mountain's brow!|
Fort Gibson, in the Cherokee nation, is one of the most historic spots in Indian Territory, as well as one of the most romantic and picturesque. It is situated in Illinois District, on the banks of the Grand, and near the mouth of the Verdigris river. Looking from the ancient fort across the river to the wooded hills and cliffs on the other side, one is impressed with the fact that he is not only standing upon historic ground but in the presence of a beautiful panorama of nature as well.
This post was the headquarters for the United States army in Indian Territory for over sixty years. While the government was looking forward to the removal of the Cherokees from their former homes in Georgia and Tennessee to the country west of the Mississippi to be known as "Indian Territory" it was thought expedient to establish a military post as a precaution against any uprising that might take place among the Cherokees on account of their compulsory removal from their hoes and haunts east of the Mississippi.
This great immigration did not take place, however, till 1838, but many of the Cherokees had voluntarily immigrated to the upper waters of the Arkansas years before, for we find them making treaties with the Osages as early as 1818.
These western Cherokees, or Cherokees of the Arkansas, as they were called, were removed further west to Indian Territory about 1839. In the meantime, United States troops under command of Col. Matthew Arbuckle, were ordered to abandon Fort Smith, Arkansas, which was established in 1817, and was then the most western military post of this country, and come up the Arkansas and build an army post within the confines of what was afterwards known as Indian Territory. Thus, Fort Gibson was founded April 24, 1824.
Within a year after the troops went into camp, sufficient barracks and quarters had been completed to house the garrison. Also, a strong stockade had been built around the post for its protection. The old post was laid out in the form of a square, with the river for one side, and at each of the three remaining corners strong blockhouses were built.
In the early part of 1836, Brevet Brigadier General Arbuckle, then in command of the district, deemed it advisable to put Fort Gibson in a strong state of defense for fear of a rebellion among the Indians. Accordingly, the palisades were considerable strengthened. Guns were mounted in the blockhouses and everything made ready for an attack. Be it said to the credit of the Cherokees, that notwithstanding their just cause for provocation, there was never an outbreak nor rebellion, and the government found no need for its blockhouses. Of this old fort few landmarks now remain, except small portions of the once beautiful gravel walks that extended around the inside of the square, and two of the old houses used as the dragoon's quarters, now occupied as dwellings.
In 1832 a detachment of United States troops was ordered from Fort Gibson, to re-occupy Fort Smith, which had been wholly abandoned for nine years. The government continuously occupied the post at Gibson till 1857, when it was abandoned and given over to the Cherokee nation. It was re-occupied for the first time by the Confederate troops in the winter of '61 and '62. Two of the blockhouses which were still standing were filled with beef which was barbecued for their use. The Confederate troops abandoned Fort Gibson and removed across the river to Fort Davis. From the summer of '62 till the close of the Civil War Gibson was held by the Federal troops, when the post was again re-occupied by regular United States troops, and the government spent at least one million improving it, with a view to occupying it permanently. In connection with its occupancy the government laid out a National Cemetery, the only one within the confines of the Indian Territory. This cemetery has received up to this time the remains of 2,456 dead. These government buildings were all well built of stone, and laid out in the form of an "L," with parade grounds in front. Most of these buildings are still standing in a greater or less state of preservation. The old fort, the barracks, the officers' quarters, with the ruins of the old artillery building, cavalry stables, kitchens, etc., are to be found in Old Fort Gibson. Modern Gibson is about one mile out in the prairie from "Old Town."
The Cherokee Nation used to appoint a keeper for these buildings, but from inefficiency and carelessness on the part of those who held the office the custom gradually fell into disuse, and now these buildings are occupied free of rent by any citizen who happens to first secure them when vacated.
The post was deserted for the second and final time and reverted to the Cherokee nation October 1, 1890. Few cities and towns within the borders of this great country can truthfully claim the honor of having had as its residents so many men of national fame as this old Indian fort. It is claimed that Henry M. Stanley once taught school in the village of Gibson. The distinguished American author, Washington Irving, when he accompanied the expedition for the removal of the Indians beyond the Mississippi, stopped at Fort Gibson, where he met the company of troops detailed as his guide upon the excursion from which he wrote his "Tour of the Prairies" published in 1832. Almost every distinguished officer in the United States army has seen service at Fort Gibson. It has been visited by Grant, Sherman and Sheridan. About the year 1867 or 1869, Phil Sheridan, major general, commanding the United States army, was at Fort Gibson for a short time. In 1871, General Wm. T. Sherman stopped at Fort Gibson while on his return from an expedition against the marauding Comanches and Kiowas when the noted chief, "Big Tree," "Sultana" and others were taken to a fort in Florida. In 1878 and 1879, James G. Blaine, Republican candidate for the presidency of the United States, visited his daughter, Mrs. Coppinger, while her husband, Lieutenant Coppinger, was in command of the fort at Gibson. During this visit Senator Blaine was taken seriously ill, and public attention was once more attracted to this Indian post. Zachary Taylor himself once commanded at Fort Gibson and went from there to Corpus Christi, Texas, and marched to Palo Alto Rasaca de la Palma, Monterey and Buenta Vista, and on to the presidency of the United States.
Samuel Houston, whose name and fame are household words all over the United States as the gallant leader of the patriotic Texans in their struggle for independence from Mexico, after resigning the governorship, resided near Fort Gibson, and was almost daily at the Fort in the early thirties. If we had space in this article, it would be interesting to follow this "Man of Destiny" during his strange and checkered career from the governor's chair in Tennessee to his life among the Western Cherokees, both in Arkansas and after their removal the present Cherokee nation in 1829. He dressed like the fullblood of that date; hunting shirt, buckskin leggings, moccasins and shawl turban upon his head. He used often to meet with them at their "Council Ground" (as the capitol was then called) Tah-lon-tu-skee. He married a Cherokee, Titana Rogers, and was formally adopted by them and made one of their tribe. Many prominent Cherokees have been named for him. Sam Houston was the first and only president of the Republic of Texas, a United States Senator, and afterward the first governor of the State of Texas. At the beginning of the Civil War the log house where Sam Houston resided was still standing, and was pointed out to strangers as a landmark of interest and curiosity. It was torn down later and rebuilt, and is still standing at the present time.
One of the most interesting historical events connected with this old post, is the fact that the famous Jefferson Davis, the patron saint of the South, whose memory is so deeply engraven upon the hearts of his people that it will never grow dim, was for some time stationed as First Lieutenant of First Regiment of Dragoons, Company E., at Fort Gibson. This was in 1834 and 1835, shortly after his graduation from West Point, and while he was still a young man. He remained at Fort Gibson until ordered to take part in the Black Hawk War, an expedition against the Pawnees in which the Shawnee leader, Tecumseh, and his brother, The Prophet, were the chief instigators. Jefferson Davis was an officer in the Texas War for independence, afterward a United States Senator from Mississippi, and finally the first and last president of the Confederacy. The house occupied by this distinguished chieftain was still standing until recently, a historic and interesting memento of an era that has passed. This building was quite a pretentious log house erected in 1824, and has been more frequently photographed and copied by artists than any other one house in Indian Territory.
So here is an obscure but picturesque little Indian village of never more than one thousand inhabitants, whose citizens have been intimates and associates of the presidents of three different republics.
During the Civil War, General Watie, a fullblood Cherokee, and universally conceded to have been the bravest of his race, camped for months near Gibson. He built Fort Davis on the south side of the Arkansas, about the same distance that Gibson is north. He made frequent dashes and destroyed the hay camps of the Federals, and at one time captured all their wagon horses that were being grazed on the Gibson prairies. At this time nine Federal soldiers and two Cherokees were killed. After the assassination of his kinsman, Major Ridge, and his son, John Ridge, then the most powerful men of the Cherokee nation, Watie became leader of the "Treaty Party" among his people. He successfully passed through the disturbances of his own tribe from 1832 to 1847, and through the Civil War. Watie was first a colonel, then a brigadier general, and finally the only Cherokee major general in the Confederate army, receiving his appointment to that office from President Davis. General Watie was noted for his courage and bravery. It was claimed by his followers that he was the bravest man that ever put foot on Cherokee soil. Many stories of his remarkable fearlessness and courage are current among his people today. The fullbloods finally believed that this Indian general possessed a charmed life, and that the bullet was never molded that could kill Stand Watie. They also believed that he possessed the necromantic power of foretelling events of the battlefield and it is handed down as tradition among his people today that he never failed in prophesying who would or would not fall in battle at a certain time and place. To this day Stand Watie is honored and revered by both his followers and his opponents.
There are two cotton gins in Fort Gibson, and many interesting darkey characters of the truly Southern type are to be found in and about the old fort. Some of these old aunties and uncles can tell many historical incidents, when, during the Civil War, the old fort was held first by one side and then the other. They love to tell of the romantic traditions of Jefferson Davis and the pretty daughter of the general commanding the post, and delight in pointing out to this day the camping ground of Washington Irving, the spot where Stanley once taught school, and to relate, as only an old time darkey can, the visit of Mrs. Dewey, when her first husband, young Lieutenant Hazen, brought her there as a bride. Truly, Fort Gibson is rich in historical and romantic interest.
And secondly, on account of its unusually romantic derivation. While not in reality an Indian name, as many naturally suppose, yet the Indians have reason to be proud of the fact that the town was christened by a Cherokee, and one of the most distinguished of his race--the gifted Cornelius Boudinot. Not as a lawyer, an orator, a statesman, or a man of advanced ideas, has the name of Col. Boudinot endeared itself to his people, but he possessed in a marked degree that admirable quality of loving his fellow men and was by them beloved.
His talent for refined and pleasant entertainment was of an unusual order. He was the fascinating exponent of interesting conversation, sentiment and song. The beauty and poetry of his nature found its happiest expression in his songs. These were his friends and those who were enraptured by them were among the most honored in the land. Many eminent people were numbered among his personal friends.
On account of his advanced ideas upon allotment and other matters, Col. Boudinot was for a long period of time exiled from his native country and he made the city of Washington his home for many years. 'Twas here  he met the famous Vinnie Ream and the mutual admiration and friendship between the two is familiar to all who knew him.
It is a fact well known to every citizen of this country that the town of Vinita was originally called Downingville in the honor of Lewis Downing, the distinguished chief, and as a matter of local history, equally worthy of note, the name was afterwards changed, at the instigation of Col. Boudinot to "Vinita," in honor of his first love, "Vinnie Ream," the famous sculptor.
In the field of art America furnishes no greater name perhaps, certainly not among women, than that of Vinnie Ream Hoxie, who enjoyed the distinction of being the first woman who ever received an order from the United States government for a statue.
During the civil war she was employed for a time in the post office department--in Washington, D.C., but subsequently studied art and soon devoted her whole attention to sculpture. Her work in this line was so successful that she made busts of Gen. Grant, Sherman, Albert Pike, Sheredy Johnson and Thaddeus Stevens, besides producing "The Indian Girl," a full length figure in bronze, the Marble "Miriam," and others of note. Her most important execution at this time was the statue of Lincoln, ordered by the government and placed in the capitol at Washington.
Vinnie Ream spent several years abroad and perhaps her most widely known statue is that of Admiral Farragut, which was cast in bronze from metal obtained from the flagship "Hartford," and placed in Farragut square, Washington, D.C.
Like the classic poet of Greece, many states and cities have claimed the honor as the place of her birth. That honor, however, must be bestowed upon Madison, Mich. , where she first saw the light of day Sept. 23, 1846. Though the place of her birth has been so far disputed, yet it is a fact that her parents resided in Fort Smith, Arkansas, during her early youth and girlhood.
In view of the association with her name, the citizens of this city should feel a particular interest in the life and character of Vinnie Ream and Col. Boudinot. Let Vinita do credit to the beauty of her name by rising as a fair monument to perpetuate in memory the friendship of two gifted spirits, the one who expressed the melody of his soul through song, and the other who still speaks to the world through the silent medium of marble and bronze.
Years ago when the Indian Territory was a wild, uncultivated land, the Osages wandered over its plains and hills, claimed it as their own, and no man disputed their right. At that time a portion of Georgia belonged to the Cherokees, and was known as the Cherokee Nation. But, the white man had become covetous of the soil, and congress agreed to remove the unhappy Indian from the state. Thus, forced by oppression and necessity, they sought an independent and separate existence in the wilds of the West. Leaving their beloved and familiar haunts behind them they wended their way to that part of the country west of the Mississippi now known as the Cherokee Nation, Indian Territory. About twenty years previous to this final emigration, which occurred in 1837, a portion of the tribe voluntarily emigrated to the Indian Territory. Hoping to find it uninhabited, they were surprised and disappointed to find themselves among the wild and warlike Osages. These wild Indians did not like the intrusion of a superior and more civilized race, and immediately began hostilities.
The Old World at that time was the scene of innumerable civil and political wars, Napoleon had been overthrown, the French monarchy re-established and many of his followers were compelled to seek safety and protection on the shores of the New World. Among these adventurers was a young Frenchman of the name of Claremont, who, having taken refuge in flight from his native country, landed in New Orleans, then composed principally of French descendants. Still influenced by the spirit of adventure, he sailed up the Mississippi to the mouth of the Arkansas River, where he landed, and so continuing his explorations, he found himself in that portion of the country now known as the Cherokee Nation, which was then occupied, as has been said, by the Osages. With the ease and versatility characteristic of his nationality, he at once adapted himself to their aboriginal habits and customs, and so won their confidence and admiration by his courage and military bearing that he soon became one of the leaders of the tribe, and finally its chief. By this time the Cherokees were emigrating from the old Nation by scores and hundreds and encroaching with vigor upon the supposed possessions of the Osages. The Cherokees wished to be at peace, and overlooking the first attacks of their would-be enemies, their chiefs and principal warriors visited the Osage villages and proposed a treaty of amity, which was concluded, the tomahawk was buried, the calumet of peace was smoked, and tokens of fidelity were exchanged. The Cherokees, well pleased with the attainment of their object, took up their march to their own homes, but while on their way hither a party who had been sent out to kill game for food to supply them with provisions for the journey were waylaid and murdered by the Osages, a number of whom had followed them thus far.
After this violation of the treaty the Cherokees took up arms against their treacherous neighbors; their warriors, amounting to some 250, met the Osages numbering some 2000 warriors. On the very first fire scores of the Osages were slain. Very soon after this victory a man by the name of Tak-ah-to-kuh emigrated from the old nation. This man was descended from the ancient priesthood. He had been a chief and a brave warrior. He was immediately regarded as the highest authority by the Cherokees. Having been told the situation, he approved of their open declaration of war. The Cherokees, though greatly outnumbered by the Osages, were uniformly victorious. In the western part of the Cherokee Nation a dreadful and final battle took place in which Claremont, the chief, was slain, with scores of his followers. The remainder took refuge in an inglorious flight. The signs of this battle are yet to be seen in the hecatombs of the fallen braves known as the Claremore mounds. These mounds are a short distance from the thriving town of Claremore, which name is a corruption of "Claremont," the name of the adopted Osage chief, for whom they were both called. On one of those mounds this famous Osage chief was buried with all of his possessions, but his remains were afterward exhumed, and every bone and personal belonging was carried away by the Osages, thereby proving their affection and appreciation of him. These mounds are easily seen from the passing trains, and are landmarks of interest and curiosity, and to this day people in search of curios, by diligent search, may find buried relics of the Osages. Many of the adjacent farms are Osage graveyards, where human skulls and personal belongings are yet turned up by the plow. Thus disappeared from the land of the Cherokees the last of the Osages, taking up their abode in that portion of the country purchased by them from the United States government.
This battle has furnished the subject of a very pretty Indian legend, accounting for the origin of the Salt Springs near the Cherokee Orphan Asylum. In a valley between the hills of Saline district, on the shores of the Grand River, in the center of what appears to be an arid waste, where neither sprig of grass nor green shrub is to be seen, so impregnated is the soil with saline matter, boiling up to the height of several feet are a number of salt springs, which are not only objects of curiosity, but of usefulness as well, for years ago they furnished the entire supply of salt consumed by the Cherokees in that part of the country. To the present day the old iron kettles, portions of the engine and pipes, and other instruments used in the manufacture of salt may be seen now spoken of as the ancient salt works of the Cherokees. Beneficent nature, which never does anything by halves, has not belied her reputation in the instance. A few yards opposite the boiling salt springs may be seen a number of other springs, at whose fresh and sparkling waters the Osage maidens had often quenched their thirst and bathed their shapely limbs.
Years ago, so the story runs, near the present site of this natural wonder, dwelt an Osage maiden, Palisha, a daughter of one of the chiefs, whose ponies, trinkets and gorgeous blankets were the envy and admiration of every other young squaw of the tribe, and whose hand was sought in marriage by many a stalwart Osage brave; but Palisha, after the manner of all maidens since the days of Eden, had smiles and glances for only one Adam, a brave and youthful warrior in Claremont's army at the battle of the mounds. During this battle runners were sent as news bearers between the Osage village and the scene of the battle, some twenty-five miles distant. As the news of the battle fluctuated from victory to defeat, the hopes of the young girl rose and fell: she neither ate nor slept during its progress, but kept a constant vigil awaiting the arrival of the messenger, whose coming held such fatal interest for her, for all too soon the tortures of uncertainty were replaced by her melancholy cries to the Great Spirit to sustain her in her grief, for the dreaded news had reached her that the battle was over, and her lover was slain. At the foot of a gigantic oak she threw herself, prostrate upon the bosom of mother earth and gave herself wholly to her despair. Like the Grecian Niobe of old, she wept and wept without ceasing till the Great Spirit in pity transformed her into the artesian-like springs, whose salty waters shall forever perpetuate her tears.
Spavinaw is the most beautiful stream in the Cherokee Nation. Nourished by the sparkling waters of the many springs in that locality, it winds like a shining thread of crystal through the narrow valleys between the hills which bear its name; curving its way by circuitous route, as if reluctant to leave its native hills, the murmur of whose pines chant a tuneful accompaniment to the music of its waters.
Nestled among the hills and within these valleys are the homes of many of the fullblood Cherokees, who seek the seclusion and the quiet of the forests in preference to the open prairies, dotted with farms and towns and traversed by railroads. These little Indian cabins are scarcely less difficult to locate than are the haunts of the deer. Secluded in the summer by the luxuriant foliage of the forest trees, the unfamiliar traveler might well imagine, by the whispering of the pines, that "this is the forest primeval. "
In one of the most picturesque spots of this section of the country stands a lonely Indian cabin which possesses more than ordinary interest to the stranger, for all the world loves a romance, as well as a lover. Tall pines and moss-grown rocks shelter the building from the gaze of the intruder. Fate seems to have chosen this site as a fit setting for the gem of romance that has made this cabin an object of interest and curiosity. It was once the home of a young Indian girl, the heroine of a romance that had its origin in the National High Schools of the Cherokee Nation, which are located at Tahlequah, the national capital. 'Tis the pathetic story of Nowita, a sweet singing Cherokee maiden, a pupil in the Female Seminary, and a young professor from the East, who taught in the Cherokee Male Seminary.
The Male and Female Seminaries were originally situated three miles from the town of Tahlequah, and separated from each other by the same distance of lonely prairie--lonely in the winter when the unbroken landscape lay bleak and colorless, but beautiful in the summer, when you might gaze as far as eye could reach over the green billows of the Boston and Ozark mountains.
It was an old custom, years ago, at the Female Seminary, to give a reception to the teachers and pupils of the Male Seminary, once every quarter, and every year, on the seventh day of May, the anniversary of the founding of the two schools, was celebrated by a picnic upon the beautiful banks of the winding Illinois, three miles away. Thus it came about that Nowita, the sweet singer, sang ballads in her own native tongue to the "pale face stranger" on "reception days," and on May-day picnics they wandered side by side down the lovely stream, allured from the society of the others by the music of its waters, gathering the spring violets as they went, which they afterward made into a wreath for Nowita's dark braids, all unconsciously waving a bleeding heart among the purple blossoms, for the little Indian maid had learned the language of love more rapidly than she had acquired English, though unusually bright and advanced for her age and environments, her broken sentences and quaint expressions amused and charmed her admirer as much as the musical cadences of her voice.
So time went by and the young man realized that he welcomed with an indefinite eagerness every opportunity that threw him in the society of the young Indian girl, and noted, too, that her dark eyes, usually so serene and melancholy, shone with a happy luster in his presence, and he found a vague and pathetic pleasure in the thought that the school days were almost over, and that their final parting was near.
But Fate, that with cruel and relentless hand, had brought together these two young people so dissimilar by environments and nationality, decreed that one of them at least, should fulfill the destiny allotted to her. So, when the summer vacation came, and Nowita returned to the primitive home of her parents among the hills, contrary to the advice of his friend and the accusing memory of a pair of blue eyes among the green mountains of New Hampshire, the young professor joined a camping party for a fortnight's recreation on the banks of the Spavinaw, ostensibly to gather "Indian lore and legends." It is needless to say that he soon sought and found the home of Nowita, the object of his thoughts.
The old story begun at the school was renewed and continued among more romantic surroundings, and with fewer obstructions, save for the grave rebuke and distrust written upon the austere faces of the girl's parents and acquaintances which found no expression in words, for whatever may be said of the refining influence of civilization upon the Indian, the dignity and native pride of a fullblood Cherokee are conceded by all who are at all familiar with their character. Cruel and revengeful they may be, when under oppression, and perhaps treacherous, but coarse and vulgar, never. This Indian romance of local celebrity is given below in parodical  form:
|Should you ask me whence this story,|
|Whence this romance and tradition|
|Of the sad-eyed Indian maiden,|
|Of Nowita, the sweet singer,|
|I should answer, I should tell you|
|Of a pale and handsome stranger|
|Teaching at an Indian college|
|In the village of Tahlequah|
|At the time that you shall hear of;|
|I should speak up, I should tell you:|
|Trifled with this child of nature|
|Singing with her gay and thoughtless,|
|Every moment when together,|
|Never weary grew the maiden,|
|Singing with the handsome stranger,|
|And their voices sweetly blending,|
|Could be heard throughout the building,|
|Singing old love songs together|
|Ballads old and ever lovely,|
|He pronouncing words in English|
|She expressing them in Indian.|
|And he praised her voice and beauty|
|Whispering words which mean to flatter,|
|And Nowita sweet and childlike,|
|Listened to his honeyed speeches|
|Knew no word which meant deceiving,|
|And her heart to love unlettered|
|Filled with new and dreamy music,|
|And she called him Ska-kle-los-ky|
|Ska-kle-los-ky, the sweet speaker.|
|Listening in the halls below them|
|Stood the friend of Ska-kle-los-ky,|
|With a cynic's face he listened|
|To their voices softly singing,|
|Through his shadow dark and chilling|
|Like an evil spirit near them,|
|As a thorn upon a rose stem,|
|So his presence stung the maiden,|
|For she felt his disapproval|
|Of the friendship they were forming,|
|And she called him Oo-naw-whee-hee|
|Oo-naw-whee-hee, cold and cruel.|
|When the sultry days of summer|
|Came with all their brilliant splendor,|
|And upon the green prairie|
|Danced the vexing "Lazy Lawrence"|
|When her school mates all departed|
|To their homes and to their parents|
|None were half so heavy-hearted|
|As this gentle Indian maiden--|
|As Nowita, the sweet singer;|
|All the wild birds of the forest|
|All the singing brooks and rivers.|
|And the breath of bursting blossoms|
|From the sweet wild honey suckle|
|And the calling of the pine trees|
|From her home among the mountains|
|Failed to interest their comrade|
|Or her homeward steps to hasten.|
|Sad at heart this forest maiden|
|Left the village of Tahlequah,|
|Went back to her home and people,|
|To her home among the pine trees.|
|And she fancied she was dreaming,|
|Dreaming of the vanished hours,|
|When, one evening in the twilight|
|Came her pale and handsome hero;|
|"'Tis his spirit that appeareth,|
|"And my love is dead," she murmured.|
|Then he told her all the story,|
|How his friend and other comrades|
|Had encamped within the valley|
|Seeking rest and recreation,|
|How with eagerness he joined them|
|That again he might be near her,|
|Saying, "Won't you give me welcome|
|To the shelter of your pine trees?|
|I have come to know your people,|
|Learn your language, customs, habits,|
|Learn your legends and traditions;|
|Will you be my skillful teacher?|
|I will help you with your English,|
|With your books of prose and verses,|
|And we'll while away the hours|
|Helping, teaching one another."|
|And he quickly read his answer|
|In the lovelight on her features.|
|He abandoned all the future|
|To the pleasures of the present.|
|Thus, the days they spent together,|
|Like the ancient days of Eden,|
|Passed in guileless, blissful pleasure|
|With no shadow to disturb them,|
|Save the stolid disapproval|
|Of her own suspicious people,|
|For her parents and grandparents|
|Looked with stern disapprobation,|
|Looked with distrust at the stranger---|
|With a jealous eye they watched them.|
|Then she told him all their story,|
|Why against the "pale-faced nation"|
|All this prejudice had arisen,|
|Of their former home in Georgia,|
|On the banks of the Osternarly ;|
|Further westward they'd been driven|
|Like the hunted deer and bison,|
|And their home was now uncertain---|
|Soon it would be taken from them.|
|She must pour him con-noh-ha-neh,|
|She must make him sweet con-nutch-chee ,|
|He must smoke the pipe taloneh |
|And a magic chain of wampum|
|From her ancient beads she gave him;|
|He must dive with Ooch-a-latah ---|
|He must friendly be among them,|
|So they might begin to trust him,|
|And her people be his people.|
|So she made him buckskin slippers---|
|"Moccasins all brightly beaded,"|
|And a hunting shirt  of homespun|
|From her mother's loom she made him;|
|"Taught him to flint and feather arrows"|
|"How to shoot them when completed."|
|Down the river in the moonlight|
|In her own canoe they glided,|
|While she sang him songs so dreamy|
|That the great rocks caught the echo|
|And in phonographic measure|
|Still repeats them to the forest.|
|Thus the days of summer glided|
|Onward toward the coming autumn,|
|And the day of his departing|
|Dawned with its foreboding shadows.|
|But he vowed unto his sweetheart::|
|"I'll be true to thee, my song-bird,|
|Never love another maiden,|
|Never sing with any other,|
|Soon will come the happy springtime|
|When I will return to wed thee,|
|And we'll live and sing together,|
|And will nevermore be parted."|
|So with many vows he left her,|
|Standing lonely in the twilight|
|"Looking back as he departed"---|
|With her solemn faith unshaken.|
|Each day waited fond Nowita;|
|Happy was the little singer,|
|Looking forward to the springtime.|
|Thus the long and weary winter|
|Passed away with leaden footsteps,|
|And again the hills and valleys|
|Wakened from their chilly slumbers,|
|And the laughter of the waters|
|Called to her with happy voices;|
|And she answered with her singing|
|Till the song birds in the forest|
|Caught and mocked the happy echo,|
|But the voice she loved and longed for,|
|And the step for which she listened,|
|And the man for whom she waited,|
|Never would come again to greet her.|
|And the maiden sadly singing|
|In the star light in the morning,|
|Seemed to draw him near in spirit|
|From his distant home and people.|
|But the grand dame of the maiden|
|Looked with sorrow on her grandchild,|
|Looked with sadness at her fading|
|Looked with anguish at her pining.|
|She who had been so light-hearted|
|Till she met the pale-face stranger,|
|Till she met the handsome Yankee---|
|Till she met with "Ska-kle-los-ky."|
|"My dark daughter," said the grand dame,|
|"Choose a young man of your tribe|
|Do not waste your youth in pining,|
|Wait not for the fickle stranger,|
|Weep not for your fair-faced lover---|
|Awful queer folks are the white folks."|
|Many springs and many winters|
|Passed away in swift rotation,|
|And the gentle Indian Maiden|
|Grew into a sad-faced woman.|
|No more twilight found her singing,|
|Silent was her voice forever.|
|Said the men among her people,|
|"Let him come once more among us|
|To deceive us with his friendship;|
|When he comes again he'll tarry,|
|Tarry in these hills forever."|
|All the powers of the magician,|
|All the pleading of her people,|
|Failed to change the silent singer,|
|Or arouse her admiration,|
|For the tall and handsome suitors---|
|Chiefs from far and distant nations---|
|Who had learned her hapless story|
|And had traveled far to woo her,|
|But she heeded not nor heard them,|
|For her thoughts were with the stranger,|
|And the echo of his whispers|
|Silenced all the other voices.|
|Thus in melancholy sadness,|
|With her mind to mem'ry wedded,|
|And in patient resignation,|
|So her days alike were numbered;|
|Thus she passed away in silence|
|To the land of the hereafter.|
|Still her sad, unhappy story|
|Is repeated to the traveler,|
|And her home among the mountains|
|To this day is sought by strangers.|
|If you go alone at twilight|
|To the cave beside the river|
|Where the lovers in the evening|
|Rowed together in the gloaming,|
|You may hear the repetition|
|Of the songs as they were uttered,|
|By this charming Indian maiden,|
|By Nowita, the sweet singer.|
It must be remembered that he has only made special mention of one "fault" as yet, and that there are more things than one the matter with the church. This same able pastor remarked not long since, "All religious people are not Christians," and so I venture to suggest that all persons who are apparently frivolous are not in reality "worldly minded."
It has been quoted that this same pastor declared, "That all card playing, dancing and theater-going people should be turned out of the church, and that the greatest revival that he had ever known in a certain church occurred when seventy five members were expelled for their immoralities." That this revered gentleman does disapprove, in the strongest possible terms, of these things as a violation of the rules of the Methodist church, is a self-evident, yet we hardly believe that he intended to convey such a broad idea as the wording of the quoted paragraph would indicate.
"Whist parties and dancing"--while they may be wrong from the fact that they are violations of the rules of the church, can hardly be spoken of as "immoralities" in the usual acceptation of the term, from the simple fact that so many good and excellent people whose moral standard is unquestioned, indulge in these social pleasures, while on the other hand there are very bad people who do not. It is a remarkable fact that the so called "worldly minded" church members are the "church attending, sermon listening" people and it is equally noteworthy that many of those who lay so much stress upon the fact that they never indulge in these amusements rarely ever indulge in attending church either.
When the series of sermons up on "Worldly Amusements" shall close, and let us hope they shall not be without good fruits, no doubt those who may have entertained secret satisfaction from the censuring that may have fallen upon the heads of those who participate in these things, will also find something to think about and supply to themselves. For it must not be forgotten that the church is corrupt with greater evils, and that there are more rules than one that are being broken, and these will not go unnoticed, we imagine, by this earnest Vinita pastor. The question as to what does and what does not constitute "worldly amusements" has been decided and mapped out by a body of churchmen.
How many good (?) people there are in the world who apparently comfort and satisfy themselves with the reflection that they have kept this or that rule of their church inviolate and at the same time they may be living in all enmity and uncharitableness with their neighbors and acquaintances and yet tempt Providence to the extent of going forward, with all this cankerous ill will in their hearts, and partake of the holy and sacred sacrament, forgetful that in so doing they are breaking a commandment of Christ and not man.
Let the Methodist church every where rid herself, even partially, of impurity, uncharitableness, indifference, hypocrisy, gossip, slander and multitude of evils that are robbing its members of Christian vitality, then may she hope to control the lesser evils of "worldly amusements." The successful gardener strikes first at the cockle burr and bull nettle before he uproots the dog fennel and dandelion.
Those in the church who make few outward professions and those out of the church altogether, are looking to that number who have made bold and unparalleled professions and testimonies, for some material evidence in their lives as a proof of their sincerity. If their lives are not marked by kindliness, brotherly love, self-denial, charitableness and other Christ-like attributes of character what is one to conclude? "Judge not," says the blessed Master, "that ye be not judged of men" and "by their fruits shall ye know them" may be made to look both ways, it all depends upon which we turn the reflector whether upon ourselves or upon another. "Sanctified and satisfied" with no apparent evidence to the world of the first qualification, is equally as bad and perhaps worse than to be considered "worldly minded."
|"In men whom men condemn as ill,|
|I find so much of goodness still.|
|In men whom men pronounce divine,|
|I find so much of sin and blo',|
|I hesitate to draw the line|
|Between the two where God has not."|
Certain it is that abstaining from whist and dancing and keeping all the rules of the church alone; nor all the dogmas and creeds of ages passed will never create for us an easy ladder to heaven. But taking the one example given us we must
|"Build the ladder by which we rise|
|From the lowly earth to the vaulted skies|
|And mount to its summit round by..."|
Dear Chieftain:--I shall not attempt an article as one familiar with journalism but simply write a letter to friends and readers of the Chieftain, of what I have seen and heard while in the little "Saratoga" of Arkansas. We reached the Mount City on Thursday, August 4th, "Emancipation day," and it did seem as we drove up from the depot and inhaled the pure mountain air that we were in a measure emancipated from the heat and especially the dust.
The first thing that impresses one is the picturesque beauty of the surrounding scenery. The depot is a mile from town, but there is no end to the cabs, buses, carriages, etc., eager to convey you to any part of the city. We stopped at the American House on Spring street, until we could secure accommodations more suitable to our purse, which was not so easily accomplished as first anticipated. A stranger finds it difficult to secure lodgings at once agreeable to taste and means. The hotels and boarding houses are all crowded and each one from whom you seek information advises you differently until you are thankful to stop anywhere and at any price. Board varies from $15 to $35 per week, at the "Crescent" and from $5 to $10 at the other hotels.
The town is situated among the Ozark mountains, and consists chiefly of hotels, boarding houses, laundries, groceries, etc., though you find some very neat and pretty dwellings on Spring street, and upon the mountain. The principal building in the place is the Crescent hotel, a five story stone building situated upon the most elevated portion of the city, from the observatory of which, you can see Pea Ridge battle field, fifteen miles distant. The structure is built entirely of material obtained in Eureka and has one hundred rooms and at present, about one hundred and fifty guests. The rooms are large and elegantly furnished, the parlors and halls particularly beautiful. By means of an elevator one can go over the entire building with little or no fatigue. The grounds, walks, verandas, croquet grounds, etc., are all one could wish. There are two good carriage roads up the sides of the mountain to the hotel, and a flight of steps, two hundred and sixty in number, for pedestrians. These are divided into sections with seats for resting, and never were seats so welcome to those who first attempt climbing them. I speak from experience. It is almost surprising to see so much beauty and luxury in a spot which lately presented a wild and rugged appearance.
There is more of Eureka than one would imagine upon first arrival. The houses seem to spring up as if by magic all about the tops and sides of the mountains. Quite a long drive must be taken in order to see it all, but you will find the beauty and romance will worth the trouble and expense. During a drive we counted fifty-six hotels and boarding houses. This being true, it seems almost absurd to say that one finds a difficulty in securing board, but you have only to come to prove the assertion. There are six churches in the place: Northern Methodist, Southern Methodist, Baptist, Episcopal, Catholic and Presbyterian. The prettiest of these is the Presbyterian, a neat little stone church on the corner of Spring street.
If there is a schoolhouse I have not seen it. Perhaps here the "young ideas" are not taught to "shoot" but come by intuition or from using the magical waters of the "Basin Spring." You see few of that unfortunate class of beings, called teachers. The town is visited occasionally by theatrical troupes, lecturers, etc. An invalids' meeting is held every Wednesday afternoon, said to be of interest by those who have attended, when all who have been benefited by the use of Eureka waters meet and relate their experience. Many wonderful cures, due to some magnetic influences, are brought to light.
The town claims a population of five thousand and there is said to be more than that number of visitors this summer. They come and go each day, but it seems the departure of one is followed by the arrival of two. The crowd consists chiefly of married people, old maids and widows, though it seems an unprofitable place for the latter class. Young gentlemen should be highly appreciated here, there being at least ten ladies to each gentleman. They are almost as scarce as flowers which can only be had for the money. They are sold on the street every day to the amount of $5 and $6. (The flowers, not the men.) The financial condition of the town depends largely upon visitors from the outside world. It possesses few resources of its own. The great attraction is the health-giving water. The principal springs are the Sweet, Magnetic, Mystic, Oil, Cave, Little Eureka, Crescent, Harding and Basin, besides many others. Above the Harding is a cliff of rocks called for romance sake "Lovers Leap," though how many lovers have committed that mad action we are not told. Upon this rock and around all the principal springs, rustic seats are placed for the accommodation of visitors. The Basin Spring is the general favorite and the evening resort for everyone. This stream of water comes from the heart of the mountain, as it were, amid chaos of ferns, rocks and golden rod. It is carried by a large pipe terminating in the form of a T. Each evening the crowd about the Basin is not less than two or three hundred; often more. Last Monday night the Eureka and Harrison bands furnished music and the crowd was estimated by some at two thousand. It is the place to study the styles, for every one comes out in "their best." You see people from every phase of life. A splendid opportunity for studying human nature. It is interesting to notice how the houses are constructed. Many of them appear to stand upon stilts, and in some cases a part of the mountainside forms a portion of the house; one building has an upper portico formed by a large rock. There are many houses whose front doors open upon one street and the doors and windows of the third or fourth story open upon another; all the dining rooms are in the basement. The roads are so rough that it requires an experienced driver to guide a carriage safely. Horseback riding is the chief amusement and one indulged in every evening. They go out in large parties, sometimes as many as fifty in one crowd. They have some very nice riding ponies, but the lack spirit. It is little or no art to be able to ride in Eureka; the horses seemed trained and never vary their gait in going up and down hill, and seeing them ridden so much and so hard it is little wonder they are spiritless.
The chief points of interest around Eureka are the Four-Mile cave, Roaring River, Mirror Lake, Pivot Rock, Grand View and others. Grand View is said to be the highest point of the mountains. Those who visit these points return charmed with the scenery. The cave, they say, is eleven hundred feet under ground and a quarter of a mile long. There is a decrease in temperature of sixty degrees. Inside the cave thick dresses and shawls are quite comfortable. A party of ten from our hotel visited the cave, myself being one of the number and fated to be the unfortunate one, returning with a sprained ankle. The "Eureka onyx" is found in this cave, from which is made at this place, very pretty brooches, watch charms, etc., mounted in gold; also lovely paperweights are made of the stone alone.
On last Saturday night we attended one of the famous Crescent balls. The drive up the mountain was delightfully cool and really a feast for the eye. Overhead the stars had blossomed out in twinkling beauty, and below us lay the principal portion of town with its lights here and there flashing out from amid the pines like so many fire flies vying with each other in brilliancy. Some one of the party remarked that the scene reminded them of St. Louis from the bridge at night. To my imagination Eureka seemed far more picturesque.
The Crescent was aglow from basement to dome. Dancing had not begun, and the halls were crowded with bevies of fair forms moving to and fro in gay ballroom costumes, presenting a pleasing picture. The dance was conducted in the large dining room. The chief manager apparent to us was a "colored gentleman" in full black suit and profuse buttonhole bouquet of tube roses (thoughtful addition). The opening with the grand march reminded one of children at a May day celebration, possessing no order at all. The programme consisted chiefly of quadrilles and lancers. The costumes I leave for the more ready and exaggerating pen of Globe correspondent. The evening was a very pleasant one to those who could participate. But I must say that after reading the description of one of these balls and attending one, you are sure to be disappointed.
The suggestion that a society of the Daughters of the Confederacy be organized in Vinita is a movement worthy the active cooperation of the best people in the town, and one that ought to excite the interest and zeal of every true Southerner within our limits. If there is such an organization within the borders of the Cherokee Nation, I am not aware of the fact; and yet, how many of her brave sons fought and bled under the stars and bars! Who is there among the Cherokees, regardless of sectional differences, who is not proud of the name and fame of General Stand Watie, universally conceded to have been the bravest Cherokee who ever shouldered a musket and claimed by his followers to have been the bravest man that ever put foot on Cherokee soil.
Loyalty and devotion to the memory of departed heroes is not confined to any one people, tribe, or nation; it is a sentiment as old as creation and as worldwide as humanity itself. It is an obligation we owe our children to perpetuate the truths of history. They have been handed down to us and we should hand them down to our children. The attitude we assume and the feelings we display are those our children will cherish. We of the South should teach them that the changeless, immortal names of Robert E. Lee, Stonewall Jackson and Sterling Price are not mere names of generals who led the armies of the South in one of the bloodiest wars the civilized world has ever known, but men who lived and died true to the idea that the highest possible calling was for the safety and honor of their country. It may be said that the war is over; let it rest in peace as a dead issue. As well may we say that the downfall of Rome and the Revolutionary war are dead issues and not to be referred to. The civil war as a political issue is dead; as a historical truth it can never die. As an issue used to create sectional animosity and feeling it ought to die. The memory of the conflict should broaden, not narrow, our souls, and loyalty to that which we conceive to be a point of honor does not necessarily engender dissention. Do we not all worship at the shrine of the great Virginia rebel--Washington? Did not our universal sympathies go out alike to the fallen soldier on Cuban  soil, regardless of sectional differences? It is a narrow soul, indeed, that can feel aught but admiration for the person who is loyal to the land that he has been taught from infancy to reverence with a supreme patriotism.
Next to the sacredness in which we hold a parent's memory ranks the obligation to be loyal to the honor of our birth and the heroes who sealed their loyalty with their life's blood. Cold and sordid is the Southern heart that remains unmoved during a eulogy to the memory of Lee or Jackson, or feels no thrill at the sound of Dixie's immortal air.
The foundation of the society of the Daughters of the Confederacy is the same as the basis of that older order, the Daughters of the American Revolution--sentiment, than which, in the legacy of human nature, there is no more beautiful attribute. No Southern periodical is without frequent mention of the great work that has been and is still being accomplished by the United Daughters of the Confederacy. The opening of the soldier's home at Atlanta, the building of the Winnie Davis annex at the State Normal school, Athens, Georgia, are examples of the undertakings planned and executed by this noble band of women, while there is scarcely a Southern enterprise embracing public sentiment to which they have not contributed; the more recent being their contribution to the movement to erect a monument on the capitol grounds at Nashville, Tennessee, to the memory of Sam Davis, the boy whose noble act has inspired the poet and historian and won admiration from every section. The attention of the visitor to the old state capitol at Montgomery, Alabama, is drawn to the bronze memorial star, inlaid in the pavement by these same Daughters, marking the spot where the South's beloved chieftain, Jefferson Davis, was inaugurated as the first and only president of the Confederacy.
The following lines from the pen of Mrs. J. O. Anderson of this city form part of the Female Seminary alumnae program at Tahlequah this week. They will be read with pleasure by the lady's many friends throughout the nation and especially by the graduates and pupils of this institution of learning of a few years ago: February 14, 1901 issue of Indian Chieftain, February 14, 1901. 
|Ye maids and matrons have gathered here|
|This annual Alumnae time;|
|And some are new and some are strange|
|And some from Auld Lange Syne.|
|For old Park Hill days my dear,|
|For old Park Hill days|
|We'll sing our lays in chanting praise|
|For old Park Hill days.|
|Should Park Hill students ere forget|
|The days they went to school--|
|Should Park Hill students ere forget|
|Old friendship's golden rule.|
|Long years have passed since last we met|
|In Alma Mater fane,|
|Our eyes with mirth and tears been wet.|
|Our hearts know joy and pain.|
|The sweetest friendships there we knew|
|When life and hope seemed fair,|
|And Heaven itself seems nearer, too,|
|Since some of "them" are there.|
To the lover of nature the very complexion of life itself changes with the approach of this holy anniversary, when spring, the favorite daughter of the year, repeats the story of Nature so old and yet ever new and again fulfills for us the eternal promise that the thousand beauties of the violet and the rose lie hidden in the frozen bosom of the snow.
As anticipation is very often sweeter than reality we fain would linger, if we could, on the fair portals of Spring and gaze over the gates of the future into the golden summer beyond and as a child shifts the brilliant crystals of the kaleidoscope to suit his pleasure, so would we take in with our mental eye summer's ever changing panorama of foliage and bloom.
The tiny green shoots of the bulb, just bursting the brown bars of their earthly prison, at twilight are scarcely seen above the late tomb which they inhabited; but when morning comes again, after they have been kissed by the warm south winds and nourished by the gentle showers of the night, they stand, seemingly, many inches higher and flush with the pride of budding.
Before we fully realize the wonderful transformation, lo! From the dark unsightly bulb we buried in the soil some weeks before, unfold, in all their purity and beauty, the petals of the Easter lily, the patron flower of the season, which is as inseparably associated with the Easter as the anthems of praise, both heart felt and vocal that rise from the multiplied millions of worshippers as they celebrate the solemn anniversary of that Resurrection which is the anchor of our eternal hope.
So we stand on the threshold of a new Easter, and while we linger with tenderness over those Easters of the past, forever dear and sacred to memory, may we turn our faces hopefully toward that Morning Land of Spring, that will bring with it the promise of a new life and the banishment of tears.
To all of us the gracious opportunity is not permitted to travel far in our own and distant lands and gratify our aesthetic sense with the sight of the celebrated attractions in the world of nature, as well as those in Art and Sculpture, but to any and all of us is given the happy privilege of enjoying the delights to be found in the beauties of nature that lie all about our pathway, and because of their familiarity are none the less wonderful and beauteous.
Beauty beams from every object in nature when Spring is on her way with her fair hands gaily laden with new raiment of foliage and blossoms, as she clothes the trees in soft verdure of creamy green and sends her messengers, the rain drops, to bid the flowers awaken from their chilly slumbers and gladden our eye by the beauty of their presence. It is she that can change the gnarled old oak and apple tree into objects of beauty and delight.
If we, ourselves, could take on a new beauty of nature each Eastertide as the lily and hyacinth, from a brown unsightly bulb blossom into lovely beauty; or if the golden midsummer we could, as one of our Southern writers so suggestively expresses it, "Molt like the birds once a year; our minds once a year of their mistakes and follies; our hearts once a year of their useless passions." How beautiful we should all appear in our new plumage. Beauty in nature, is but the expression under visitable form, of some grand spiritual principle.
From the book of nature none of us may read without inspiration for higher things. What more potent factor in the world of nature, have we, than the beauty of the flowers, separately and collectively, nor one more universally beloved. We are not dependant upon our financial station for the enjoyment of these exquisite messengers of God, for they are scattered in wild profusion over the hills and valleys of the pathway of life.
Does not beauty dwell in the deep blue of the violet, the azure-eyed darlings of the wood? And in the snowy daisies that star the green carpet of field and meadow as sweet symbols of purity and innocence, the attributes of a stainless soul?
We see beauty in the laughing waters of the crystal stream and on the fern-clad hillside where the wild woodbine twines its graceful tendrils around the old moss grown rocks or falls in lengthy spars down the cliff sides, filling the air with its beauty and fragrance. The happy oriole as he sways and sings chants praises to a home so picturesque and beautiful.
Beauty may be seen in the swift approach of morning, when far away in the east the glimmering fires of day are burning, and nature wakes and turns with rosy smiles to welcome the sun's first rays, while the dew drops upon field and flower and kissed into myriads of sparkling jewels. And when the busy day is done, beauty greets us again in the calm sweet face of the evening. In twilight's holy hush, nature seems to croon a lullaby to the tired earth as a mother soothes her restless child to sleep, and all the cares and duties of the day have departed with the setting sun in the opal tinted west. How gradually and softly the scene changes into another phase of loveliness, as one by one over head "blossom the Stars" in twinkling beauty, while as swiftly and quietly as the passing of a human mood, all the landscape is silvered o'er by the fleecy rays of the early moon. What a shifting scene of beauty we may see, if we turn from earth and look upward, on a clear June day, at the snow like parity of the clouds; resembling ships seeking anchorage in an azure sea, or stately towers and castles, rise and fall amid their changing outlines. There is beauty in the flakes of winter's snow, the banished flowers of heaven, as they are scattered and driven and drifted until the cold bleak world below is clad in robes of whiteness, fairer than the lilies' petals and pure as the soul of a child. Beautiful snow! fit emblem of the human heart ere sin has sullied the soul's fair temple. The forms into which beauty enters are manifold. To a lover of the beautiful, beauty presents itself in a thousand visible and invisible forms and phases.
How often have we lingered enraptured and fascinated over the written thought of some Author, whose beauty and purity of diction in describing a scene on nature or a landscape of the soul, have carried us away and lifted our thoughts beyond the printed page before us, and our feet beyond the common sod about us, into the beautiful world of ideals. Our love of the beautiful, in all of its varied forms, is the source of one of the purest and most exquisite pleasures in life. All are not equally endowed by nature with this incomparable talent, but there are few who do not possess it in some degree and it is well worthy the exercise and cultivation of all. Especially is this true of those who have missed life's sweetest happiness. It is a wonderful "sophist" that can enable us to all the beauty of a dew drop through the salty tears of disappointment.
It is a priceless gift that age can not wither nor misfortune claim from those whose hearts and souls are attuned to its continued melodies. This would be far less desirable had beauty hid her face or had we been so constituted that the blue bell should have seemed an ugly thing and the sweetest strains of music sound harsh and discordant. Yet such might have been the law of our natures. Almost essential to real happiness then is the love of the beautiful, for it is, as taught by Pirto of old "Akin to the True," "Happy he, who in old age keeps fresh in his memory this beautiful fountain of his youth, who as days advanced and shadows lengthen, can still look with all the admiration of his youthful years upon whatever is beautiful in the works of God and man."
|"Walk with the Beautiful and Grand,|
|Let nothing on the earth thy feet deter;|
|Sorrow may lead thee weeping by the hand,|
|But give not all thy bosom thoughts to her;|
|Walk with the Beautiful.|
|"Aye love it; 'tis a sister that will bless,|
|And teach thee patience when the heart is lonely;|
|The Angels love it, for they wear its dress,|
|And you are made a little lower only;|
|Then love the Beautiful."|
The greatest structure that man builds is doomed to final decay. Cities which once ruled the earth are no more. The seven wonders of the world exist chiefly in tradition; only the Pyramids remain and they, in time, will follow the temple of Diana and the hanging garden of Babylon.
Today is the anniversary of America's idol, the luster of whose renown grows brighter as the years glide by into centuries. The name of George Washington has been sung at the cradle and told to the child on the knee for more than one hundred years, and yet, each year the pen of the historian and the brush of the painter, finds some new phase of the story to tell.
Today, the anniversary of his birth, will be celebrated by the "Sons and Daughters of the American Revolution" in all the different chapters of those societies in the United States, and many other National societies will do honor to his memory, while the day will be commemorated in a thousand different forms less formal and less dignified perhaps.
There will be "George Washington parties" of every description for both young and old when the venerable "cherry tree" and the "hatchet" that can never cut it down, will be called into requisition and the brush and the pencil of the local artist will do justice, on invitation and tally card to the countless variations suggested by that famous little hatchet and that celebrated tree:
|"Now the little cherry tree is a|
|Preaching sermons with the hatchet|
|for a text,|
|God and nature so it speaks|
|Hate the liars and the sneaks;|
|They're not wanted in this world|
|nor the next.|
|"So the little cherry tree is|
|For centuries its fruit shall|
|Trees that 'round it, used to grow|
|turned to saw dust long ago,|
|But this fellow rises yearly|
|from the dead.|
|"Oh, little cherry tree,|
|by the portal|
|Of fame's historic temple|
|you are set!|
|And, because you had|
|Just to teach us--not to lie,|
|You're a martyr and we'll Canonize you yet."|
"I love these little people, and it is no small thing when they who are so fresh from God, love us,"--Old Curiosity Shop. These children of Dickens's imagination how they troop before our mental vision and what personal affection and sympathy we feel for them all. To some of us they have been our familiar friends since childhood. We reckon David Copperfield and little Emily among our earliest and dearest remembrances. Long before we were old enough to read the book for ourselves we sat around the hearthstone on winter evenings in rapt and sleepless attention while the story was read aloud. David is a favorite with almost every youthful reader and many of the older ones as well. Who has not as a child themselves, in company with David and his faithful Peggotty, visited in imagination the old boat-house on Yarmouth's sands? The interior of the Peggotty home with its quaint and fascinating furnishings, was as familiar as if we had visited there in reality.
We follow with affectionate interest David and little Emily as they wander hand in hand down the dim old flats of Yarmouth in search of shell and pebbles. In fancy we sit with them, when evening comes, on the little locker by the chimney corner, while Peggotty reads from the well worn pages of the "Crocodile Book," and when at last this pleasant visit is finished what personal sympathy we feel for David when he returns to find, to his astonishment, a step-father in the person of Mr. Murdstone. We weep with him when he is separated from his mother and is sent away to school such a little fellow. We are glad that Peggotty, who, unpermitted, follows to bid him a last good-bye, remembers the "seed cakes" and the "purse" and leaves a "button" as a keepsake.
As children we have all deplored the multiplied misfortunes of Oliver Twist. His pitiful infancy, his miserable life with the inhuman Mr. Bumble. And later with what horror and anxiety did we follow his career with Sikes and Fagan the Jew.
The beautiful and pathetic character of "Little Dombey"  appeals to all our finer sensibilities and sympathies. Unlike Oliver Twist, who began his existence as a pauper, Paul was born in the lap of luxury, his father the "Rich Mr. Dombey," his home the Dombey mansion, yet it was the Luxury of money and position without the love and affection for which his childish heart hungered. As a flower is blighted for the want of sunshine and dew, though he pined and faded for the want of tenderness and endearment, which is by nature the birthright of every little child.
Imagine this delicate child at the tender age of six years enrolled as a pupil in such a school as "Dr. Blimbers" where "mental green peas were produced at Christmas and intellectual asparagus the year 'round." What wonder that it was an open question with him whether "'hic, haec, hoc' was troy weight, or twenty Romiluses made a Remus or a verb always agreed with an ancient Briton." 'Tis true that here he met "Toots" who furnished no small grain of humor in the field of this intellectual school. But the only ray of love's sunshine that penetrated the atmosphere of this intellectual school. But the only ray of love's sunshine that penetrated the atmosphere of this solitary child's existence was the affection of his sister Florence. And how touching and beautiful was his devotion to her! No wonder that he should wish that he could take all his father's money and buy a "beautiful place with fields and gardens and woods and live there forever with his darling Florence."
How touching is his patience in his last illness. We almost fancy we can hear the feeble voice "always better; tell papa so." We listen with him to the murmur of the waves, while he questions his beloved Florence whence they come and what they are saying, and so with tender interest we follow him to the end of his brief and lonely life when the swift river of death bears him out to the ocean.
"Pip" is a dear little fellow with a character all his own, and he inspires us with a feeling different from any other child of Dickens' imagination. There is a sense of humor underlying all his hardships and ups and downs, from our first introduction to him in the church yard, where he had gone to visit the tomb of his mother, "Georgianna, wife of the above," and the five little marble "lozengers" that represented that number of small brothers who had preceded him to the better world. We feel a keen and smarting sympathy with Pip in his frequent experiences with "tickler" in the hands of his sister, the remarkable Mrs. Gargery. How we love the greathearted Joe for his tender affection and solicitude for our little hero. While we shudder at his queer friend, Miss Haversham , we love to visit with him there and go with him into the silent chamber with its molding wedding feast.
In "Bleak House" we have only a slight insight into the child life of the heroine, Esther Summerson, but we all become children again and sympathize with her as only one child can with another whose only confident and friend is her doll, to which she must tell all her childish griefs and heartaches. We can understand her feeling for her godmother, which was one of awe and reverence rather than affection.
Dear, patient little Nell! In fancy we stand in the presence of that saintly child within the gloomy walls of the Old Curiosity Shop, that dark silent house where the child spent nightly so many dreary hours alone, whose only companions were the ancient treasures, "rusty weapons of various kinds, distorted figures in China and wood, tapestry and strange furniture," with suits of mail standing like ghostly sentinels on guard. We smile with her over her droll friendship with the big hearted Kit, and shrink with her as she trembles in the presence of that little monster Quilp; we share her distastes for Dick Swiviler, and we grow with her as she toils through the dusty highway, when she and her aged grandfather are forced to tramp the world alone; we travel with her in the caravan of Madam Jarley and her wax works, as she shares the comforts and protection of that homely but kindly soul. Our hearts are full of admiration for her beautiful strength of character when she renounces these same comforts for the hardships and exposures of the common highway in order to save her grandfather from the pitfalls of his former sin. What beautiful ideas we gather of life and immortality from her soliloquies among the graves in the old churchyard. We enjoy the quiet satisfaction when at last their journeyings are over and they find, through their faithful friend, the school master, a home in the old deserted church, and when death robs us of this gentle character we fell her loss as if she were a living thing and not a beloved creature of the imagination. We weep with the heart-broken grandfather and mingle our tears with those of the little scholar as he gathers the red berries to deck her couch. We can understand in a measure why her death affected the author so forcibly, as his biographers tell us. Surely Dickens displays his fondness and regard for children in his tender and pathetic delineation of their character. In portraying many of his worst characters--alas that the evil must be associated with the good in order to be true to life--Dickens has shown their depravity of mind and heart by their attitude towards helpless children. "It always grieves one," he says, "to contemplate the initiation of children into the ways of the world. It checks their confidence and simplicity, two of the best qualities Heaven gives them."
"In the little world in which children have their existence there is nothing so keenly felt and so finely perceived as injustice. It may be a small injustice that the child is exposed to, but the child is small, and its world is small, and its rocking horse stands as many hands high as a big boned Irish hunter." Alas, there are people in the world today, as there were in Dickens' day, who so far forget themselves--or through the natural hardness of their own hearts--that they do not hesitate to insult an innocent and unprotected child. Fortunate it is, indeed for any of us when we can inspire the confidence and affection of these little people, for there is nothing in life half so wonderful and beautiful as the budding soul of a little child. "Humanity is indeed a happy lot when we can repeat ourselves in others and still be young."---Barnaby Rudge.
Muggins was an intelligent little dog with a curly brown coat and soft brown eyes. He belonged to Joe Jamison, one of the brightest and poorest boys in the town, and was the pride and delight of Joe's life, who had taught him many cunning and useful tricks.
Muggins could carry a letter to the post office, or a small package to a neighbor, as nicely as anyone; he could play "hide and seek" with the children as well as any boy; he could sit on his hind legs and make a bow with a wisdom and dignity wonderful to see. All these and many other "accomplishments" Joe had taught him during his idle hours, for the little dog was the only play fellow he had ever known. Muggins wore no collar, but he carried his head as high as if he did, and always managed to escape the watchful eye of the tax collector.
He was known from one end of the town to the other, and it would have seemed almost an inhuman act to have put Muggins in the "pound." Certain it is that his young master would have pawned the small hoard of his earthly possessions to have redeemed him.
Muggins was the envy of every small boy in the town, and many a bat and ball and target gun had been offered his little master in exchange for him, but Joe scorned all these offers, and as long as the benefit to be derived concerned only himself, he continued to reject them. But temptation came to him in a way he had least expected. At the hotel in the town a gentleman and his little son had been boarding for several weeks. One evening as Joe was returning from his work of selling papers, he was met by this gentleman, who said, "I believe you are the owner of the little dog, Muggins, that all the little boys in town seem acquainted with? I was out for a walk with my little son yesterday. You remember we stopped at your gate to watch you and the dog play together; Charley was perfectly fascinated with your little pet, and has coaxed me ever since to buy him a dog just like him. Muggins is a very wonderful little fellow, is he not, and what else can he do besides the tricks you so kindly had him perform for us yesterday?"
Joe was charmed and delighted that a grown-up gentleman, and one so richly dressed and distinguished looking, should have noticed and remembered his little dog, and he fell at once into an excited recital of Muggins' accomplishments, little dreaming that he was sowing seeds for the bitterest harvest of tears his eyes had ever known.
"Well," said the gentleman, when Joe had finished, "I have just been out your way to see you and to ask you what you would take for your dog. I want to buy him for my son. I have never denied him anything that he ever asked for, and rather than disappoint him I will give you ten dollars for your little dog."
Had the man for a moment dreamed of the tempest of conflicting emotions he had aroused in the manly little breast, he would never have broached the subject so abruptly, or, perhaps he might not have done so at all; but he knew Joe only as a poor little boy, whose mother lived in a tiny house on the out-skirts of town and did plain sewing for a living; he thought he would be doing a kindness to buy the dog, not only to his little son, but to Joe as well.
It would be difficult to describe the boy's emotions during this time; he thought of his sister Nellie, older than himself, of her worn old shoes, and thin, faded dress; he remembered how his hard working mother had saved, and planned to keep them both in comfortable clothes in order that they might attend the Sabbath School, and how she had hoped, with the aid of his small earnings, to buy books so that Nellie might attend the public school. With a few old books, the remnant of better days, his mother had taught them to read and to write. This she had done in the evenings while she plied her needle. But Nellie would soon be thirteen, and her heart's desire was to be able to buy books and fresh aprons and go to school.
Ten dollars! That was more money than little Joe had ever seen at one time in all his life before, and it opened up an avenue of possibilities to his childish mind; books and aprons for Nellie warm mittens and shoes and stockings, too--and what would it not buy for mother beside? Only last night he had heard her say if she only had the money to buy her some new glasses she could do neater and swifter work.
In fact, several ten dollar bills would scarcely have covered all the comforts that followed each other in rapid succession through Joe's imagination into the little home where care and want had sat side by side, twin guests, since the death of his father six years before. And then Joe thought of Muggins--dear, cunning little Muggins, who had been his constant companion, playfellow and friend since he was a tiny puppy three years before. And what a comfort he had been to him in his lonely life, no one but the child himself knew. How often had he come home from work, sick at heart from the jesting taunts of some larger and more fortunate boy, with brand new sled and brand new boots, and found comfort and consolation in teaching new tricks to Muggins, and pouring out his troubles in the ears of his little pet; and Muggins had returned his affection and attention with dog-like devotion. He had shared all his griefs and sorrows with his little dog, as well as many a meager meal.
Poor Joe slept but little that night, though Muggins lay on a bit of a quilt at his feet. He would wake from his fitful, feverish sleep, haunted by dreams of the loss of his pet. The next day passed, and the next, and still Joe had not found courage to take Muggins to the hotel. Young as he was he must pass through his struggle alone. He knew that if he consulted his mother and Nellie, they would never suffer him to make the sacrifice. No, it would never do to tell them.
Over and over again did he weigh the question in his childish mind. If he sold Muggins, Nellie could go to school that winter; mother could get her glasses, and what a comfort and help that would be to them both. Did he not love his mother and sister better than anything else in life? But to part with Muggins was so hard, and how lonely he should be without him.
On the evening of the third day, after his meeting with the gentleman, Joe summoned all his courage, and with a heroism worthy an older heart, took Muggins in his arms, stepped unnoticed from the house, and walked rapidly away in the direction of the hotel, as if afraid his good resolution might fail him. It was costing his manly little soul no small struggle to part with his beloved pet.
"Muggins, little dog, my dear little dog, you know I don't want to sell you. I would never sell you for myself. I would rather go on forever, wearing a ragged coat and worn old shoes, than to part with you; but we are so poor, and mother works so hard, and Muggins, ten dollars is a heap of money. I must think of what it will do for mother and Nellie. I know it is right for me to take the money for their sake, and yet, it would not have hurt me so much if you had died, Muggins," and tears fell fast upon the curly brown head upon his arm; "you will never love another little boy as you love me, will you? And I will never, never own another little dog, and, oh Muggins, how I shall miss you when I come home at night, and find you gone."
They had reached their destination by this time, and, drying his eyes, Joe walked up to the clerk and timidly asked for the gentleman, Mr. Williams. The clerk stared at the small figure in silence for a moment, and then said: "Oh, yes; the gentleman and his little son left this morning, and he bade me tell you, if you called, that he was sorry you had changed your mind about the price of your dog; his little son----" Joe waited to hear no more, but turned and hurriedly left the room, with Muggins held close to his beating heart. For the moment he thought of nothing but the fact that he was not returning with empty arms, but his little dog held close and warm within them. But his heart was heavy with self-reproach when he thought of his mother and Nellie. He ought to have gone sooner to see the gentleman. He had not been as brave as he meant to be.
Joe sold papers in the evenings, and through the day he worked in the office of old Mr. Forest, the town magistrate. He had been so proud to hand in his small earnings to his mother, and had thought of all sorts of ways and means by which he might help her, but the thought of selling his dog had never occurred to him.
They were crossing the railroad now, in front of the evening train that had just pulled in. As the light from the engine shone full upon the boy's tearstained face, a kind voice said, "Hello, my little chap, what is the trouble, and what are you going to do with that dog?" In another moment the engineer was at his side, and laid his hand kindly upon Joe's shoulder. Before he knew what he was doing, he had told him all the story of his mission to the hotel and finding the gentleman gone. "There, there, never mind," said the stranger, "I will buy your dog and give you ten dollars for him, too. My sister is an invalid and will be delighted with just such a pet." And before Joe realized the situation, the engineer was back at his post with Muggins in his arms; the train whistled and was off, leaving Joe standing, gazing, with wide astonished eyes, at the fast retreating train, and the crisp ten-dollar bill in his hand.
It had all happened so suddenly and unexpectedly that Joe stood as if paralyzed, watching the headlight of the train now rapidly disappearing in the darkness and gloom. His arms were empty, and, alas, for the present, his heart felt equally so. "I have done right," he kept repeating to himself, as he vainly sought for comfort.
On reaching home he complained of a headache, and went at once to bed. He dared not look at the little pallet at the foot, where, for three years, Muggins had been wont to lie; but, hastily undressing, he covered his head and cried himself to sleep.
The next morning he came to breakfast later than usual; when he had finished, his sister came in to the room and said, "Here are some bones, Joe, I saved for Muggins, but where is he this morning?" For the first time Joe failed to answer her, and, swallowing a big "lump" in his throat, he went out where his mother was at work, and, handing her the ten dollars, said in a husky voice, "Mother, a gentleman gave me this money last night for Muggins. He wanted to take him to his sick sister in the city; now you can buy your glasses, and Nell can get her books and aprons and start to school."" And, kissing her on the cheek, he hurried upon his way to Mr. Forest's office.
Mrs. Jamison was too much astonished for words; she knew how fondly her little boy had loved his dog, and the mother's heart comprehended in one moment the struggle that had been taking place the child's heart for days, when she had thought him sick.
No, his sacrifice should not be in vain; she would buy with the money earned at such a cost, the very things he wished her to purchase; her eyes filled with tears of sympathy, her heart thrilled with honest pride. Was he not a noble little fellow of whom any mother might be justly proud? She would show him in a thousand ways, that only a mother can, how she appreciated the sacrifice which cost him such genuine sorrow.
The winter passed and spring found the Jamisons more comfortable than they had been for some time. Nellie had gone to school all winter; Joe still held his position with Mr. Forest, who had found him so indispensable that he increased his wages.
One evening towards the end of May, Joe and Nellie were sent to the hotel to take some sewing that their mother had finished for a sick lady who was stopping there. It was the first time Joe had been to that hotel since the memorable evening when he had carried Muggins there in his arms; and his eyes filled with sudden tears at the recollection.
In response to their knock upon the door, a faint voice called "come in." A lady with a pale and gentle face sat in an easy chair, and half-hidden by a shawl at her feet lay a little brown dog. There was no deceiving Joe's eyes--there was only one dog in the world that looked like that. "Mother sent us to bring home the sewing, please," said Joe, with eyes fixed not upon the lady's face, but upon the little brown ball at her feet.
Scarcely had Joe finished speaking, and before the lady could reply, the little dog opened his eyes, pricked up his ears, and with one bound was in Joe's arms---an old trick he had often practiced before.
Such barking and jumping, such frantic efforts to show his delight at the sight of his beloved little master! How he had listened all these long months for the sound of that familiar voice, for it was none other than Muggins himself, and Joe was so astonished and delighted that he could not control his voice to speak, when the lady asked, "This is little Joe Jamison, is it not, and this is your sister Nell? I sent the sewing to your mother with the express desire of bringing about this happy surprise." Then she had them sit down, and she told them, between intervals of coughing, all the story as her brother had had it from Joe's own lips, and Nellie realized for the first time what a little hero her brother was.
This was the beginning of many happy half hours Joe spent with Muggins, and when, later in the summer, the sick lady went to Colorado for her health, she left Muggins in Joe's care. She had become much attached to the two children, and thought she saw in Joe the elements of a noble and useful man.
"Dear Little Joe--You remember when my sister started upon her journey last summer, she committed her little dog to your care; she has gone upon a longer journey, Joe, from which she will never more return. I was with her when she died, and she bade me tell you that she willed Muggins to you, and that you must never part with him again.
A part of her property, which is amply sufficient for your education, she willed to you, with the earnest hope that you may grown up to be a good and useful man. Although I only saw you once, and then only for a few minutes, I trust you will not be sorry to learn that I have been appointed your curator.
Sources for the selections are as indicated. Source texts have been followed faithfully except for silent emendations to correct obvious printing errors and to regularize the form of attributions. No attempt, however, has been made to follow typographical idiosyncrasies or to produce a facsimile edition. All footnotes are the editor's unless otherwise indicated.
 "'Connoh-ha-neh,' the national drink of the Cherokees, made from the pounded grits of the new Indian corn. An old adage says, Drink Connoh-ha-neh with a Cherokee, and you will ever be among them."--Anderson note.
 "'Ta-lo-neh,' a mixture of tobacco and dried leaves of the red sumach. Another old adage, current among the Cherokees says, Smoke Ta-lo-neh from the same pipe with a Cherokee and you will be friends forever."--Anderson note.