As I shall show in the chapter on the Indian and art work, the Indian basket-weaver far surpasses the white woman of college education in invention of art-form, artistic design, variety of stitch or weave, color harmonies, and digital dexterity, or ability to compel the fingers and hands to obey the dictates of the brain.

Education is by no means a matter of book-learning. It is a discipline of the eye, the hand, the muscles, the nerves, the whole body, to obey the dictates of the highest judgment, to the end that the best life, the happiest, the healthiest, and the most useful, may be attained, and if this definition be at all a true one I am fully satisfied that if we injected into our methods of civilized education a solution of three-fifths of Indian methods we should give to our race an immeasurably greater happiness, greater health, and greater usefulness.

CHAPTER XII
THE INDIAN AND HOSPITALITY

Another of the things I think we might well learn from the Indian is his kind of hospitality. Too often in our so-called civilization hospitality degenerates into a kind of extravagant, wasteful, injurious ostentation. I do not object, on formal occasions, to ceremonial hospitality, to an elaborate spread and all that goes with it. But in our every-day homes, when our friends call upon us for a meal or a visit of a week, it is not true hospitality to let them feel that we are overworking ourselves in order to overfeed and entertain them. When one has plenty of servants, the overwork may perhaps not be felt, but the preparation and presentation of “extra fine” meals should be looked upon as an unmitigated evil that ought to cease.

Why is it that the professional lecturers, singers, and public performers generally refuse to accept such hospitalities? Every one doing their kind of work knows the reason. It is because this “high feeding” unfits them for the right discharge of their duties. To overfeed a preacher (and I’ve been a preacher for many years) is to prevent the easy flow of his thought. It is as true now as when Wordsworth wrote it, that “plain living and high thinking” go together. For the past five weeks I have been lecturing nightly in New York City. I am often invited to dinners and banquets, but I invariably refuse unless I am promised that a full supply of fruit, nuts, celery, and bread and butter, or foods of that nature are provided for me, and that I am not even asked to eat anything else. I don’t even want the mental effort of being compelled to refuse to eat what I know will render my brain “logy,” heavy, and dull.

Then, again, when I am invited to a home where no servants are kept (as I often am), and see the hostess worrying and wearying herself to prepare a great variety of “dainties” and “fine foods” for me that I know I am far better without, what kind of creature am I if I can accept such hospitality with equanimity? I go to see people to enjoy them, their kindness, their intellectual converse, the homelikeness of themselves and their children. If I want to “stuff and gorge” I can do so at any first-class restaurant on the expenditure of a certain sum of money. But at the homes of my friends I want them; I go for social intercourse; and to see them working and slaving to give me food that is an injury to me is not, never can be, my idea of hospitality. I would not have my readers infer from this that I am unmindful of the kindly spirit of hospitality behind all of this needless preparation; nor would I have them think that I never eat luxurious things. I am afraid some of my readers would forego their kind thoughts towards me if they were to see me sometimes as I indulge in all kinds of things that “ordinary people” eat. But I do want to protest against the ostentatious and extravagant manifestation of our hospitality, and also the injuriousness of much of it when it comes to the food question, and to commend the spirit and method of the Indian’s way. If friends come unexpectedly to an Indian home, they are expected to make themselves at home. They are not invited to the “festive board” to eat, but they are expected to share in the meal as a matter of course. Hospitality is not a thing of invitation, whim, or caprice. It is the daily expression of their lives. Every one, friend or stranger, coming to their camp at meal times is for the time being a member of the family. There is no display, no ostentation, no show, no extra preparation. “You are one of us. Come and partake of what there is!” is the spirit they manifest. There is nothing more beautiful to me than to find myself at a Navaho hogan in the heart of the Painted Desert, and to realize that I am expected to sit down and eat of the frugal meal which the family has prepared for itself.

My contention is, that this is the true spirit of hospitality. You are made to feel at home. You are one of the family. Formality is dispensed with; you are welcomed heartily and sincerely, and made to feel at ease. This is “to be at home”; this is the friendly, the human, the humane thing to do. Unnecessary work is avoided; the visitor is not distressed by seeing his hostess made to do a lot of extra cooking and “fussing” on his account; his heart is warmed by the friendliness displayed (and surely that is far better than merely to have his stomach filled); and, furthermore, if he be a thoughtful man who values health and vigor rather than the gratification of his appetite, he is saved the mortification and the annoyance of having to choose between the risk of offending his hostess by refusing to eat the luxurious “obnoxities” she has provided, or offending himself by eating them under protest, and possibly suffering from them afterward.

I was once visiting the Mohave reservation, at Parker, on the Colorado River. It was a very hot day, and I was thirsty, weary, and hot. As soon as I arrived at the home of one old lady, she at once went out of doors to her wooden mortar, took some mesquite beans, pounded them, poured water over the flour thus made, and in a few minutes presented me with a copious drink that was both pleasing to the taste and refreshing. Look at her face as she kneels before the mortar. It is a kindly and generous face. She cared nothing for the fact that it was hot, or that it was hard work to lift the pounder and make the meal for the drink. She did it so simply and easily and naturally that I accepted the drink with the added pleasure that it was the product of a real, and not an artificial, hospitality.

Few visitors to the Snake Dance and the different religious or thanksgiving festivals of the Indians of the Southwest have failed to observe the great amount of preparation that goes on for expected but unknown guests. It is known they will come; therefore preparations must be made for them. Corn is ground in the metates, and piki is made.

An old Navaho Indian, pictured on the first page, is a wonderful illustration of the natural generosity of the aborigine before he is spoiled by contact with the white. Many years ago this man, who had large possessions of stock, sheep, horses, and goats, with much grazing land, and several fine springs, was riding on the plateau opposite where the Paria Creek empties into the Colorado River. Suddenly he heard shouts and screams, and rushing down to the water saw a raft filled with men, women, and children, dashing down the river to the rapids. When the raft and its human freight were overturned into the icy waters he did not hesitate because the people were of a different color from his own, but, plunging in, he rescued all those who were unable to save themselves, mainly by his own valor. It turned out that the strangers were a band of Mormons seeking a new home in Arizona, and, being met by the barrier of the Colorado River, had sought to cross it with their worldly goods upon the insecure and unsafe raft.

What could they now do? Though their lives were saved, their provisions were nearly all lost in the raging rapids of the turbulent and angry Colorado. Bidding them be of good cheer, this savage Indian led them to one of his hogans, where immediately he set his several wives (for the Navahos are polygamists) to grinding corn and making large quantities of mush for the half-famished white strangers. He thus fed them, daily, for months. In the mean time, he allowed them to plant crops (he finding seed) on his land, using for irrigation therefor water from his springs.

But he had not given himself proper care after his icy bath. His legs became drawn up by rheumatism, and from that day to this he has been a constant sufferer from his exposure to the cold water of the river and his after-neglect caused by his eager desire to care for unknown strangers.

The awful irony of the whole thing lies in the fact that in spite of what he had done, the recipients of his pure, simple, beautiful hospitality could not, or did not, appreciate it. He was “only an Indian.” He had no rights. They were American citizens,—white people; civilized people. Why should this Indian own or control all this fine land, all these flowing springs, all these growing crops? It was wrong, infamous, inappropriate. Therefore, to make matters right, these grateful (?) civilized (!!) Mormons stole from him the best part of his lands, and the largest of his springs, and for years laughed at his protests; until finally a white friend was raised up for him in a brave United States Army officer, now a general in the Philippines, I believe, who presented the case of the Indian to the courts, fought it successfully, and lived to see the Indian’s wrongs in some small measure righted.

To this day the Indian is known as “Old Musha,” the name given to him by the people whom he befriended in their distress, because mush was the chief article of the diet that his hospitality provided for them. Truly did Shakspere write:—

That Indians know how to be beautifully courteous to their guests, I have long experienced. I have eaten at banquets at Delmonico’s and the Waldorf-Astoria (New York), the Hotel Cecil (London), the Grand Hotel (Paris), and many and various hotels between the Touraine (Boston) and the Palace of San Francisco and the Hotel del Coronado. And I have seen more vulgarity and ill-breeding at these choice and elaborate banquets, more want of consideration, more selfishness, and more disgusting exhibitions of greediness and gluttony than I have seen in twenty-five years of close association with Indians.

I was once expected to eat at an Indian chief’s hawa, or house. The chief dish was corn, cut from the cob while in the milk, ground, and then made into a kind of soup or mush. A clean basketful was handed to me, with the intimation that I was to share it with two old Indians, one on my right, one on my left. I asked my hostess for a spoon, for I knew I had seen one somewhere on one of my visits. She hunted for the spoon, in the meantime sending to the creek for an esuwa of fresh, clean water. When it was brought, she carefully washed her hands and then gave the spoon seven scrubbings and washings and rinsings before she handed it to me. I felt safer in using it than I do many a time at a city restaurant when the “culled brother” brings me a spoon that he has wiped on the “towel” which performs the multifarious duties of wiping the soiled table, the supposedly clean dishes, the waiter’s sweaty hands, and—far oftener than people imagine—the waiter’s sweaty face.

During the time we were waiting for the spoon the old Indians by my side sat as patiently and stoically as if they were not hungry. When the spoon was handed to me, I marked a half circle on the mush in front of me, in the basket, then divided the remainder for them. Each waited until I had eaten several mouthfuls before he inserted his own fingers, which served as his spoon, and then we democratically ate together.

Now, to me the whole affair showed a kindly consideration for my feelings that is not always apparent in so-called well-bred strangers of my own race. I’ve had many a man light a cigar or a cigarette at a table at which I’ve been compelled to sit in a restaurant with never a “By your leave!” or “Is this agreeable?” From the Indian we imagine that we ought not to expect much of what we call “higher courtesy,” yet I find it constantly exercised; while from the civilized white race we expect much, and, alas! often are very much disappointed.

It is a singular thing that while I am writing these pages about the lessons we may learn from the Indian, the Bishop of London, speaking in Trinity Church, New York, in September, 1907, should enunciate ideas remarkably similar to those held by the Indians. The Indian owns nothing for himself: it belongs to all his tribe. What is this but the stewardship—in a rude and crude fashion perhaps, but nevertheless stewardship—as declared by the bishop, who says:

“The one sentence, which above all others I would say to you, a sentence as yet unlearned in London and New York, and which if adopted would cleanse the life on both sides of the Atlantic is—life is a stewardship, and not an ownership.

“Have you ever thought why there are any rich and poor at all? That is the question I had to face in London. They had asked me how I reconciled my belief in the good God loving all His children, with the wretched millions in East London, seemingly abandoned by both God and man. I had to face that question, and I have had to face it ever since. There is but one answer—the rich minority have what they have merely in trust for all the others. Stewardship, non-ownership, is God’s command to all of us.

“You are not your own. Nothing that you have is your own. We haven’t learned the Christian religion if we have not learned the lesson of stewardship.

“My home has been the home of the Bishop of London for 1,300 years. Suppose I should say that it was my own, and that the Bishop’s income of $50,000 a year was my own. I would be called a madman. The man who thinks he owns what he has in his keeping is no less a madman. This applies alike to the boy and his pocket money, and the millionaire and his millions. Disregard of this trust is the cause of all the social evils of London and New York.”

To resume my experiences with the Indians:

In September, 1907, I again visited the Havasupais and then had several wonderful illustrations of their real and genuine hospitality. We decided to camp below the home of an old friend of mine, Uta. As soon as our cavalcade of six persons on horses, mules, and burros appeared, with two pack-horses, he cordially welcomed us, and when I told him that we wished to camp below his hawa he took us into a fenced-in field, where there were peach trees and a corral for our animals. Here we were free from the intrusion of all stray animals, and were able to secure seclusion for the ladies of our party—for, of course, we were camping out and sleeping in the open. Knowing that we should want plenty of water, both for ourselves and our animals, and that it was quite a little walk to Havasu Creek, he took his shovel and in five minutes the limpid stream was flowing through the irrigation ditches close by. The peach tree over our heads—the best in the whole village—was placed at our disposal, and delicious indeed we found the fruit to be, and he sent us figs, beans, melons, and a canteloupe. Without a question as to payment, he supplied us daily during our stay with an abundance of dried alfalfa hay,—the fresh alfalfa not being good for our too-civilized animals. And in every way possible to him he sought to minister to our comfort and pleasure, and did not resent it in the slightest when I bade him retire at meal times, or while we were cooking our provisions.

That we paid him abundantly when we left did not in the slightest alter the sweet character of his genuine and simple hospitality.

Another illustration of the most beautiful kind of hospitality and courteous kindness was shown by an old Hopi Indian woman pictured. I was visiting the Hopi pueblo of Walpi for the purpose of studying the secret ceremonies of the underground kivas of the Antelope and Snake clans prior to the Snake Dance. For fifteen days and nights I never took off my clothes to go to bed, but went from kiva to kiva, witnessing the ceremonials, and when I was too tired to remain awake longer, I would stretch out on the bare, solid rock floor, my camera or my canteen for my pillow, and go to sleep. Occasionally, however, when something of minor importance was going on during the daytime, I would steal upstairs to a room which I had engaged in this woman’s house. As soon as I stretched out and tried to sleep, she went around to the children and the neighbors and told them that the “Black Bear”—my name with these people—was trying to sleep, and was very, very tired. That was all that was necessary to send the children far enough away so that the noise of their play could not disturb me, and to quiet any unnecessary noise among their elders. This I take to be an extreme courtesy. I know people of both “low and high degree” in our civilization who resent as an impertinent interference with their “rights” any suggestions that they be kind or quiet to their neighbors,—much less strangers and aliens. But for my own sake I would far rather that my children possessed the kindly sympathy shown by these Indian children than have the finest education the greatest university of our civilization could grant without it.

CHAPTER XIII
THE INDIAN AND CERTAIN SOCIAL TRAITS AND CUSTOMS

In the treatment of younger children by those who are older, the white race may learn much from the Indian. While it must be confessed that Indian youth are cruel to the lower animals, I have never seen, in twenty-five years, an older child ill-treat a younger one. There seems to be an instinctive “mothering” of the little ones. The houses of the Hopis are built on the edges of frightful precipices, to fall from which would be sure and certain death; yet, although the youngsters are allowed to play around with the greatest freedom, such are the care and constant oversight of the little ones by those who are older that I have never known of an accident.

There seems to be none of that impatient petulance among Indian children that is so common with us; no yelling or loud shouting, and certainly no bullying or cowardly domineering.

Then, too, there is a very sweet and tender relationship existing quite often between the very old and the very young. I know this is not unusual or peculiar to the Indian, but I deem it worthy of note here. I have often seen a grandfather going off to his work for the day in a corn-field with his naked grandson on his back, and the youngster clung to the oldster with an affection and confidence that were absolute.

It should also be observed that respect and reverence are nearly always paid to age. In a council the young men will invariably wait until the old men have spoken, unless they are definitely called upon. If a cigarette is offered to a young man in the presence of his elders, he will not enjoy it until the older ones have lit theirs and taken a few puffs. A girl or young maiden will not sit down until places are found for the older ones and they are comfortably seated, and, of course, the same rule applies to the boys and youths.

It may also seem strange to some of my readers that I insist that the native Indian is inherently honest. I did not use to think so, and I know of many dishonest Indians. But as a rule these are the ones that are partially civilized. They have had so many things given to them without rhyme or reason that they come to regard all things of the white men as theirs. Scores of times I have left my wagon, laden with provisions and other materials, such as cameras, camera plates, clothes, etc., and I have been gone for a week or a month. As I now write I can remember only twice that anything was taken. Once a young man, who had been to our schools, broke into a box of oranges that I had taken as a great luxury after a desert tramp, and ate several of them. I soon learned who the culprit was, made complaint against him, had him brought to my camp, and asked him why he stole my oranges. It must be remembered that it is an unwritten, but well-understood, law of the desert regions that a truly hungry man is always allowed to help himself to needful food, but without waste or extravagance, and with due care for the owner or those who may come after.

This young man claimed that he had taken my oranges because he was hungry. I gave him the lie direct; for, said I, “Had you been hungry, you would have been willing to eat meat and potatoes and bread. Instead of that you went prowling around until you smelled these oranges and then you stole them. In future, even if you are hungry, you must keep away from my wagon and camp, for if ever you touch my things again, I shall see that you are severely punished.” It was a stern reprimand, yet in this case it seemed to be necessary.

The other time that things were taken from me was when I had promised certain women and girls some calico and bead necklaces in return for something they had done for me. Foolishly I showed them the bag in which the calico was. My hostess was also to be a participant in the distribution of favors. While I was away on a several days’ exploring trip she took it into her head that she ought to have the first choice, and, as I had promised the piece to her, there would be no harm in taking it. When she had made her own choice, and told of it, of course she could not protest against the others making theirs, so, when I returned to my Indian home I found the bag pretty well looted. It was not long before, little by little, the whole story leaked out. When I was sure, I told my host, and informed him that I wanted every piece of calico and every necklace returned instanter. In twelve hours everything was back in place, as if by magic. Then for several days I kept the promised recipients in a “state,” for I intimated that their conduct was so reprehensible that I doubted whether I should give them anything or not. This made them very anxious, and when they “dropped in,” two or three at a time, I took the occasion to tell them how I resented their helping themselves to my things while I was absent.

With these two exceptions, in twenty-five years’ experience I have met with nothing but perfect honesty. (No, now I remember, a small whip was taken from my camp many years ago, but when I complained, it was found and returned.) I have left camera plates by the score in boxes that could have been opened, and the results of my months of labor destroyed by nothing but idle curiosity. But when I have explained that I was going away and expected to find everything untouched on my return, I had no fear, no misgivings, and invariably found everything in perfect order when I came back. I doubt whether I could leave things where the whole population of any of our American cities could get at them and find them untouched after a week’s or a month’s absence.

Another interesting fact about the Indian is that when he gives a name to a child or an adult, it generally means something. Among ourselves names are often-times either quite meaningless or senseless. For instance, my parents gave to me the name George. When I was old enough to begin to care about such things, I asked and found out that “George” means “a husbandman.” And all through my life I have borne that name—a husbandman—when my ignorance of agricultural pursuits, I am sorry to say, is simply dense and unspeakable. What is the sense of giving such names to children? And when we come to the Algernons, and Reginas, and Sigourneys, and Fitzmaurices, and all the high-sounding but altogether meaningless names with which we burden our children, I long for the simplicity of the Indian’s habit, the poetry, the prayer, that so often are connected with the names they give. The old Hebrews knew something of this, for we read of many of their names having a definite and decided significance.

One day I found a Chemehuevi Indian with the name Tow-um-bow-i-si-co-rum. After a little working of it out, I found the name signified: “The reddish golden pathway of glory made by the setting sun from the zenith to the horizon.” I asked the man’s mother how he came to have such a name, and here is her reply! “As I gave birth to my son, I looked up in the heavens and there I saw the golden reddish glory reaching from above where I lay to the faraway west, where the sun was just setting. So I said, ‘It is an omen, and may it also be a prophecy,’ and my heart went out in prayer to Those Above, that the pathway of life of my newly-born son might be one of golden glory until he, too, passed out of sight in the west; so I called him Towumbowisicorum, which signifies what I have said.”

CHAPTER XIV
THE INDIAN AND SOME LUXURIES

Most city men regard a shampoo as a city luxury of modern times, except, of course, for the rich, who could always have what they desire. Yet the shampoo is more common with some Indians than with us, and they enjoy it oftener than we do. The Indian’s wife takes the root of the amole, macerates it, and then beats it up and down in a bowl of water until a most delicious and soft lather results, and then her liege lord stoops over the bowl and she shampoos his long hair and scalp with vigor, neatness, skill, and dispatch. I have been operated upon by the best adepts in London, Paris, and New York, and I truthfully affirm that a white man has much to learn in the way of skillful manipulation, effective rubbing of the scalp, and delicious silkiness of the hair, if he knows no other than such shampooing as I received.

Another so-called luxury of our civilization is an every-day matter with the Indians of the Southwest. That is the Russo-Turkish bath. The first time I enjoyed this luxury with the Indians was on one of my visits to the Havasupai tribe. I had been received into membership in the tribe several years before, but had always felt a delicacy about asking to be invited to participate in this function. But one day I said to the old Medicine Man, as he was going down to toholwoh, “How is it you have never invited me to go into toholwoh with you?” My question surprised him. He quickly answered, “Why should I invite you to your own? The sweat-bath is as much yours as it is mine.” “Then,” said I, “I will go with you now.”

The “bath-house” consisted of a small willow frame, some six or eight feet in diameter, which, at the time of using, is covered over with Navaho blankets, etc., to make it heat and steam proof. A bed of clean willows was spread out for the “sweaters” to sit upon, and a place left vacant for the red-hot rocks. As soon as all was prepared I was invited to take my seat; one Indian followed on one side and the Medicine Man on the other. Then one of the outer Indians handed in six or eight red-hot rocks, and the flap of the cover was let down and the bath was fairly “on.” Directly the shaman began to sing a sacred song which recited the fact that Toholwoh was a gift of the good god, Tochopa, and was for the purpose of purifying the body from all evil.

As soon as the song ended, we were all sweating freely, but when the flap was opened, it was not to let us out, but to receive more hot rocks. As we sang a second song the heat grew more penetrating, so that the words seemed to have real meaning. Our petition was that “the heat of Toholwoh might enter our eyes, our ears, our nostrils, our mouths,” etc., each organ being named at the end of the line of petition. The song comprised a great long string of organs, some of which I had never heard of before. By this time sweat was pouring off from our bodies, but the flap was opened only to receive more rocks. At the third time a bowl of water was handed in to my companion, which I was reaching for in order to enjoy a drink, when, to my horror and surprise, he sprinkled the water over the red-hot rocks. The result was an instantaneous cloud of steam, which seemed to set my lips and nostrils on fire and absolutely to choke me and prevent my breathing. Yet the two Indians began another song, so I determined to stick it out and stand it as long as I could. Of course, in a few moments the intense heat of the steam was lost, and then I was able to join in the song. At its close the same process of steaming was repeated, and then I sprang out and dived headlong into the cool (not cold) waters of the flowing Havasu, where for a long time I swam and enjoyed the delicious sensations with which my body was filled. Then, after a rub down with clean, clear, clayey mud, and another plunge, I lay in the sun on a bed of willows, listening to the Indians tell stories, and I can truthfully say I never felt so clean in my life.

This bath is taken by thousands of the Southwest Indians once a week as a matter of religion, so that, as a fact, while their clothes are ragged and dirty, and they themselves appear to be dirty, they are really clean. It must be confessed, on the other hand, that too many Americans value the appearance of cleanliness more than the reality. They would far rather appear clean even if they were not than be clean and appear dirty. It is better to combine both reality and appearance, but, for my own sake, if I had to choose between the two, I believe I would rather be clean than only appear clean.

Civilized man, for centuries, has used hot baths of various kinds for remedial and healing purposes. Throughout the world, wherever hot springs are found, men and women congregate in large numbers, palatial hotels are built, bath-houses established, and an army of hotel-keepers, physicians, nurses, masseurs, and bath operators organized. Some go to the baths just as they do any other fashionable thing, or in order to mingle with the gay and fashionable throng. Other idlers go purely for the pleasure they gain from such associations, while still others go for the health they long for,—the strength and vigor they have lost. And there can be no question that they often gain it. In spite of the fashionable doctors who care less for the health of their patients than they do for their own fame and pockets; in spite of the physical ills that come from the altogether inappropriate diet of the hotel dining-rooms; in spite of the excitement of balls and parties, receptions and routs, common at such places; and in spite of the injurious influences of the gaming tables too often maintained, the use of the waters is often beneficial to a number of the patients. Were they to use the waters rationally, live hygienically, avoid all stimulating foods and drinks, and religiously refrain from all unnatural excitements, there is no question but that the use of the hot waters, the hot mud packs, and the like, would give health to many thousands who now derive but little benefit from them.

From whom did the white race learn the use of the hot bath, the mud bath, and the like? He learned it from the Indian, and if he would study the present methods of the Indians he would find many details connected with these baths that he might learn to his great advantage.

When the Indian goes to the bath he makes of it an almost religious ceremony. In one of the illustrations an old Indian Shaman is telling to the younger ones the things they should heed before going into the toholwoh, or sweat bath, the frame of which (as yet uncovered) is close at hand. The hot waters that bubble out from the interior of the earth he regards as the special gifts of the gods. He prays that he may not use these gifts unworthily. Just as the Mohammedan believes that the desert is the “Garden of Allah” and that no one must walk in it who is sinful until he has first asked for forgiveness, so does the Indian believe that the waters of healing will turn to his injury if he does not use them in the right spirit. Would it not be well if we—the superior race—approached this good gift of God in like manner?

The natural simplicity of the Indian at the baths also offers a good lesson to us. Instead of seeking for gaiety, frivolity, fashion, and the means of pampering his appetite, he goes to the baths of nature resolved upon quiet and restfulness as far as possible. He seeks to prepare his mind beforehand, that the physical means used will be beneficial. In other words, though he is a rude, untutored savage,—so we say,—he has a clearer conception of the effect the mind has upon the body in real, practical healing, than has a large part of his civilized brothers and sisters. As a rule, we go to a physician, or to a sanitarium, or to baths—I mean those of us who are sick and desire health first of all—without any other thoughts than “I am sick. To go here may do me good. I hope it will.” Instead of preparing our minds beforehand by thoughtfulness, getting ourselves into the proper mental attitude to be helped, we leave it to chance, to the surroundings, to the doctor, and thus often fail to get the benefit we might have received. We carry our business cares, our family worries, our money-getting, with us and thus defeat the end for which we go.

Nor is that all! When we get there we want “all the comforts of a home.” In other words, we must be assured that we have a bedroom which we can lock up at night, a bedstead with a mattress as soft and unhealthy as the one we regularly sleep on, stuffy closets where we can hang our clothes,—and the rest.

The Indian finds his bedroom under the stars. He puts the invalid flat on the ground,—a sheepskin, perhaps, between him and the earth, but that is all. When will the superior white race learn that rejuvenation of the body comes quicker to those who “shed” their civilization, forswear their home comforts, quit their indulgence in fixed-up dishes, refrain from social frivolities (commonly called duties), and first and foremost,—after throwing away all the cares and worries that come of being so highly civilized,—get to a place where it is possible to sleep out of doors on the hard ground, protected, of course, as the Indians are. Get into the woods, on to the hills, down in the canyons, out on the deserts. Take a roll of blankets along, and no matter what the weather, learn to sleep on the bosom of Mother-Earth, out of doors. And if the region is one near hot springs or mud baths, all the better. Make it for the time being your home.

Ah! how wise is the Indian in his choice of a home. I have before referred to this, but I cannot help writing of it again. Home! It is not a place of unrest to him, where it requires the labor of wife and daughter, or a host of servants, to keep it in order; where polished furniture, polished floors, polished doors, polished mirrors, keep one forever with wiping-cloth in hand, removing the marks of careless fingers; where bric-a-brac is accumulated and piled everywhere to the shattering of nerves if the children get near it, or careless visitors happen to call; where “social demands” are so great that children are relegated to the care of servants; where brothers and sisters scarce have time to know each other, and husbands and wives meet semi-occasionally—no, it is not a home of this kind. To most Indians “everywhere” is home provided there is a little shade, water, and grass for his burro or pony. In the mountains, where he can shelter under an overhanging rock, or in the forest where he has a roof of emerald, supported by great pillars of pine or cottonwood or sycamore,—there is home. In the desert, where the roof is millions of miles high, decorated with suns and moons and stars and comets and meteors and Milky Way and countless nebulæ, and the walls are bounded on the east by the rising sun, and on the west by the setting sun, and God’s own laboratories make new, fresh, pure air every moment—there is home.

The San Francisco disaster taught thousands of people the healthfulness of the outdoor life. People who had been ailing for years, puny children, anæmic youths and maidens, dyspeptic parents, all “picked up” appetite and health when compelled to live in the parks and on the streets.

Let us heed the lesson. Let us follow the example of the Indian and be more simple, more natural. Let us relegate to the museum the collecting of curios and bric-a-brac and the thousand and one things that so crowd our houses as to make museums rather than homes of them.

I do not suppose it is necessary that I should say that in our civilization we cannot literally do as the Indian does in this matter. That is not my thought. What I would urge is that we live more simply, and that, like the Indian, we get out of doors more, instead of housing ourselves the more as we become more “civilized.” And that, in the arrangements and accumulations of our home we make personal health, comfort and happiness the most important considerations, rather than display, and to win the approval or envy of our neighbors.

But to return to the hot springs. The Indian has always used them. He also learned and bequeathed to us the knowledge that mud is a useful therapeutic agent. The Yumas, Mohaves, and others who live near the banks of the Colorado River are in the habit of regularly plastering down their hair and scalp with thick, black mud. They go where it is clean and fresh,—washed down by the rushing waters of the mighty Colorado through the great canyons—and, rubbing it well into their hair, they cover it over with a cloth tied over the scalp and go on about their daily work. They keep the hair thus covered with mud for a day or two, and then wash it off and give the scalp a thorough cleansing. What is the result? Whether the fact be a result from the use of the mud or not, it is a fact that these river Indians have long, glossy black hair free from all disease, and their scalps are as healthy as the hair. They have no dandruff, no falling out of the hair, and do not need any hair tonic or dye. The mud contains enough of the finely ground sand commingled with the softer silt to make a healthful mixture for gently exciting the scalp when the rubbing off and cleansing process takes place. And covering the hair as well as the scalp with the mud and allowing it to dry on demands that the hair shall be well rubbed as well as the skin. The effect is to clean the hair thoroughly, and who knows but that the excitement generated by thus rubbing the hair as well as the scalp has something to do in promoting the healthful flow of the elements required for hair nutrition? Be that as it may, I know the fact, which is that these Indians, men as well as women, have hair, long, black, glossy, reaching down to their waists, and they attribute its healthfulness to the regular use of the mud-pack and rub.

Now, while we may not care to pack the hair in mud, we can certainly utilize the idea. I have done so for years. I often give my scalp and hair a mud bath, and it is both agreeable and exhilarating, and I had the assurance a few months ago from one of the leading scalp specialists of the East that my scalp was in an absolutely healthful condition—one of the very few found in such condition in the large eastern metropolis.

The Indian also uses mud—and by this I mean the clear, pure, uncontaminated earth and sandy mixtures found in the rivers of the desert west—for wounds. There is little doubt but that he learned this from the animals. Who has not seen a dog, after a fight in which he got worsted, run and throw himself into a mud puddle? Many years ago—about twenty—I read an account of a battle between a wildcat and a dog, and the writer, who saw the conflict, told how the dog went and bathed himself in mud thereafter. The brief sketch made such an impression on me that I knew just where to find it, and I have hunted it up, and am now going to copy it for the benefit of my readers. It will help explain why the Indian does the same thing. He has observed the animals bathing in the mud, when wounded, as this dog did.

“The dog has won the battle; but he has got some ugly scars along his sides and flank. Observe, that overheated as he is, he does not rush into that clear stream. He takes his bath in that shallow spring with a soft mud bottom. Note how he plasters himself, laying the wounded side underneath, and then sitting down on his haunches, buries all the wounded parts in the ooze. That mud has medicinal properties. The dog knows it. No physician could make so good a poultice for the wounds of a cat’s claws as this dog has found for himself. Pray, if you had been clawed in that way by either feline or feminine, would you have found anything at the bottom of your book philosophy so remedial as this dog has found?”

The Indian’s use of mud, therefore, is seen to be an inheritance as the result of his observation of the animals. Since the time I heard of the dog and wildcat fight I have had occasion to watch the Indians many times. I have used the mud with them, and always with good results. And if, when some four and a half years ago I was bitten on the thumb by a rattlesnake, and for a week was supposed to be hovering between life and death, I had thought enough to have done as the Indians do,—gone and put my hand and arm in a mud bath at the side of a stream or at the bottom of a shallow spring, I should have fared as well as I did (and perhaps better), though I had two skilled physicians, an accomplished professor, and a devoted nurse to care for me.

And when I was supposed to be well again,—months afterward,—I found that the deadly poison had in some way lodged in the lining of the stomach, so that, at times, it would cause a nervous and muscular disturbance that made me suffer intense agony. I then recalled the use of mud by my Indian friends, and I hied me away as speedily as I could to the hot mud baths of Paso Robles, in California. There the sulphur water at a temperature of over 110° Fahrenheit comes bubbling into a great wooden tank filled with the soft, velvety mud, black as ink, of the tule marsh. Into this tank I stepped, and gradually worked my way into the mud, lying down in it, and wriggling and working my body until I was as near covered as I could be. I brought great armfuls of the hot, soft, and soothing nature poultice over my stomach and body, and then lay there as long as it was wise to do so. What mattered it that I was blacker than a negro when I came out. Two minutes with a bucket and a hose and I was cleaner than ever. One week of these baths and I lost the poison, never again to return. I never think of Paso Robles and the mud baths there without a deep sense of gratitude that some of us at least have learned how to utilize some good things that the Indian has taught us.

CHAPTER XV
THE INDIAN AND THE SEX QUESTION

Having studied medicine somewhat in my life, I have been permitted as a “medicine man” to know more of the intimate life of the Indian women than many white men. In this article I propose to give the results of many observations in this field, with full assurance that there are many things the white woman may learn from the Indian, both in her treatment of herself and her children.

In the first place, the period of adolescence in both boys and girls is regarded with the importance it deserves.

The white race has much to learn from the Indian in its treatment of boys and girls at this age. My blood is made to boil almost every day when I am in our cities and see young girls, just entering into maidenhood, coming home from school, anæmic, pale, nervous, irritable, almost victims of St. Vitus’s dance, often dyspeptic or with a cough fastening its hold upon them, because their parents are so blind and foolish as to prefer book and school education to health. To me such parents are guilty of cruelty and criminality, and I would sooner imprison them and take away the control of their children from them than I would the forger or the housebreaker. They are cruel in that they are either ignorantly or wilfully ruining the health,—perhaps for life,—of their children, and they are criminal in that by so doing they are injuring the future welfare of the state. Boys, too, are treated exactly the same at this time as at any other, and when the great mystery of sex awakening is upon them, they are sent to school as usual, treated with the same untrue answers to the questions that arise that they were given to quiet their minds when they were little more than babies. I am thankful there has been much of an awakening in this matter during the past twenty years, and that I have had an active part in it. I think it was in 1888 that I published a small book on sex teaching for the young.4 It is as imperative to warn the young to-day as it was then. The Indian boy is instructed fully into the mystery of sex just as soon and as simply as he is in every other question that arises, and at puberty he is made the subject of specific ceremonies that teach him the meaning of the change that is coming over him. He is treated with a new dignity, is formally recognized as having entered man’s estate, and is sent out into the woods or the solitude of the desert “to come to himself.”