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[........ ........?] July 23

WHITE CITY CHIPS.
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Chief Pokagon Speaks for His Red Brethren.
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GREETING OF THE INDIAN.
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Not in Sympathy with the World's Fair.
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Pathetic Story of a Dying Race Told in a Little Volume Just Issued.
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The other night there came to me a little booklet made from the bark of the white birch tree. On the cover it said: "The Red Man's Greeting. By Chief Pokagon." In an accompanying circular were the words: "Red Man's Rebuke" with the word "rebuke" crossed with an ink line and "greeting" written above. The circular said that the author was the acknowledged chief of the United States of the Pokagon Pottawattamie band; that he had had a fair English education and has studied Greek and Latin and is now 63 years old. His father was chief of the tribe forty-two years, and was in Chicago in 1812 at the time of the Fort Dearborn massacre. I read the little book through before retiring, and somehow its touching words made me understand better than ever before the woes and the wrongs of the Indians from their standpoint. ALl ngith long I seeemd to feel the desolation for the Indian that has swept over this country ini its great civilization. This thought has come to me several times since the opening of this beautiful White City. The first time was in the "touching of the button," and the firing of the canons, and the ringing of the bells, and the salute of the steamers at 12 o'clock on that memorial 1st day of May. With that grand burst of joy--with President Cleveland at the helm, the descendant of America's discoverer on the right--were, looking down on all from the tower of the administration, the first and only true Americans--some Indians from Colonel Cody's camp. There was no place provided for them on the platform, and no thought of them as they stood there with their feathers and swarthy skins clean-cut as a cameo against the background. They looked down grimly and silently at the celebration of a discovery that to them had been a death knell.

Was a Graceful Act.

Again he thought came to me at that greatest of all educators--the "Wild West," or Colonel Cody's camp of the nations. The Duke of Veragua, the duchess, and their suite were in a box. Out there in the arena were the representatives of all nations; in the foreground the Indians in war paint and feathers, in the far back the United States cavalry in their blue and gold uniforms, and between, the riders of the other nations--all soldiers, and each nation with its own tactics. And then a little dark-faced Indian girl, the daughter of a chief, went to the box wehre sat the duchess, and presented to her, timidly, a magnificent bunch of American roses. Over it all and everywhere was floating the loved American flag. It was a scene to make the tears come.

Now this little book comes. it does not seem to plead, it does not complain; it seems to accept the inevitable, but it tells that the happiness of the red man lies in the past, and not in the present or future.

The author says, in the preface, that he uses the birch bark out of loyalty to his own people, and gratitude to the Great Spirit who, in his wisdom, had provided for untold generations this most remarkable bark, which was better than any paper, as it could not be injured by sun or water. He commences his rebuke, or his greetings by saying: "In behalf of my people, the American Indians, I hereby declare to you, the pale-faced race, that has usurped our lands and homes, that we have no spirit to celebrate with you the great Columbian Fair now being held in this Chicago city, the wonder of the world."

And he says that the red man would sooner hold "high joy day over the graves of their departed fathers than to celebrate at our own funeral, the discovery of America."

From the Red Man's Heart.

No words of mine can tell of the pathos in this tiny book. From start to finish it seems to be a cry of anguish from the red man's heart. It is told simply, and yet with a force that leaves an indelible picture on your mind He tells you that right here where the "Columbian show buildings stretch skyward" the Great Spirit provided for the sustenance of the red men, widespread hunting ground. It reached far to the East, to the West, to the North, to the South. On it were moose, deer, and elk, and there were fish in the streams. Then came the pale faces, and with the march of civilization the red man disappeared, and sacrifice took the place of nature. Streams were dried up, forests were swept away, and now nothing is left of all that the Great Spirit did but the sun and moon and starry skies. He tells pathetically that with the coming of the white race came fatal diseases among the red men, and that great curse, "fire water," which tempted them as a flower which shows not its sting until it is plucked. He tells how the white man first taught cruelty to the Indians, and that it was bad white men who first led the Indians on to the warpath. He speaks of the good and noble William Penn and the Quakers of Pennsylvania who made treaties with ninteen tribes of Indians, with never a drop of blood shed nor a war whoop sounded by the Indians. He tells of the Spaniards who came first to this country, and, under pretense of friendship and religion, gained audience with chiefs, who were in turn seized and bound and held for ransom, and the, after promises of freedom, were cruelly put to death.

Taught to Be Cruel.

It was then there came a change into the Indian nature. These cruelties were communicated from tribe to tribe, and handed down from generation to generation, and the yound all taught that they must defend themselves; that they must fight and beat intruders back, as the white man would do if an enemy came marching in to-day to take from us, what we consider our own. Some of the expressions of this Indian author are such that no other words can tell it as well. He says in one place that for years after the coming of the white people the Indians trusted as little children. They could not understand the wisdom that could tell when the sun and moon should be darkened, nro could they understand about the thunder and lightning, nor about the compasses that brought them across the "trackless deep," so they thought the white man divine, and they trusted, and says: "The Indian stood for years before the coming strangers as a block of marble before the sculptor, ready to be shaped into a statue of grace and beauty; but in their greed for gold the block was hacked to pieces and destroyed." Confidence was betrayed time and time again, and now the childhood home is gone, and they have been driven from the burial places of their dead. Through this thirst for gold the Indian has no hope for the future, no hope for a place to safely rest. The gold has been a curse, the red man the victim, and there will never be happiness any more for the Indian. The Indian is like a lamb driven before the storm, with no happiness in his own heart, and he sees nothing but sadness as he looks into the faces of his children.

With the little book there came a letter saying that the author, Chief Pokagon, who is agent for the Lawrence, Kansas, Indian school, would be here July 20.

Red Cloud Rejuvenated.

Yesterday I tried to find him, but he had not arrived. In my search I heard that my old friend Red Cloud was up in the American Indian village. As my heart was feeling kindly toward all red men after reading that beautiful booklet, I plodded up through the sun and white road of the Midway to see him. As I walked along I thought of the last time that I saw the old Indian. He had quite a comfortable house at the Pine Ridge agency, and used to decorate the flagpole every morning. It was at the time of the outbreak nearly three years ago, and Red Cloud was accused of being one of the principal disturbers. He was anxious to convince General Miles and his staff and men that this was a libel. He did not seem to know which was the most convincing to Uncle Sam's men--the stars and stripes or the flag of truce. Consequently one morning the American flag would unfold from the staff to the breeze and the soldiers, and the next morning it would be the white flag. He was very old and almost blind. He was led around by the hand nearly always when he came over to the agency.

As I arrived at the American Indian village Red Cloud was giving a scalping dance. He has grown about a foot taller. His hair has grown black. His eyes, instead of being dim with age and covered with glasses, are piercing black, and in the two years and a half since I saw him he must have discovered the secret of removing wrinkles, and regaining his youth. His face is smooth and firm, and the stoop is gone from his shoulders, and he dances as as wells as the young ones. If his son, Jack Red Cloud, is still with Colonel Cody, he had better go over to the Amercan village, and witness the wonderful transformation. I asked the manager what Red Cloud his was, and he said: "The famous Sioux of Western noteriety." I remarked that he had changed very much since I saw him, and he said:

"Well, he tells us he is Red Cloud."

My heart still goes out in sympathy to the woes of the Indian as portayed by Chief Pokagon, but there are things about the Midway Indian village that are perplexing. TERESA DEAN.
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