HADAKAH, "THE PITIFUL LAST"
 WHAT boy would not be an Indian for a while when he thinks of the freest life in the world? This
life was mine. Every day there was a real hunt. There was real game. Occasionally there was a
medicine dance away off in the woods where no one could disturb us, in which the boys impersonated
their elders, Brave Bull, Standing Elk, High Hawk, Medicine Bear, and the rest. They painted and
imitated their fathers and grandfathers to the minutest detail, and accurately too, because they had
seen the real thing all their lives.
We were not only good mimics but we were close students of nature. We studied the habits of animals
just as you study your books. We watched the men of our people and represented them in our play;
then learned to emulate them in our lives.
No people have a better use of their five senses
 than the children of the wilderness. We could smell as well as hear and see. We could feel and
taste as well as we could see and hear. Nowhere has the memory been more fully developed than in the
wild life, and I can still see wherein I owe much to my early training.
Of course I myself do not remember when I first saw the day, but my brothers have often recalled the
event with much mirth; for it was a custom of the Sioux that when a boy was born his brother must
plunge into the water, or roll in the snow naked if it was winter time; and if he was not big enough
to do either of these himself, water was thrown on him. If the new-born had a sister, she must be
immersed. The idea was that a warrior had come to camp, and the other children must display some act
I was so unfortunate as to be the youngest of five children who, soon after I was born, were left
motherless. I had to bear the humiliating name "Hakadah," meaning "the pitiful last," until I should
earn a more dignified and appropriate name. I was regarded as little more than a play-thing by the
rest of the children.
My mother, who was known as the handsomest woman of all the Spirit Lake and Leaf Dweller Sioux, was
dangerously ill, and one of the
medi-  cine men who attended her said: "Another medicine man has come into existence, but the mother must
die. Therefore let him bear the name "Mysterious Medicine." But one of the by-standers hastily
interfered, saying that an uncle of the child already bore that name, so, for the time, I was only
My beautiful mother, sometimes called the "Demi-Goddess" of the Sioux, who tradition says had every
feature of a Caucasian descent with the exception of her luxuriant black hair and deep black eyes,
held me tightly to her bosom upon her death-bed, while she whispered a few words to her
mother-in-law. She said: "I give you this boy for your own. I cannot trust my own mother with him;
she will neglect him and he will surely die."
The woman to whom these words were spoken was below the average in stature, remarkably active for
her age (she was then fully sixty), and possessed of as much goodness as intelligence. My mother's
judgment concerning her own mother was well founded, for soon after her death that old lady
appeared, and declared that Hakadah was too young to live without a mother. She offered to keep me
until I died, and then she would put me in my mother's grave. Of course
 my other grandmother denounced the suggestion as a very wicked one, and refused to give me up.
The babe was done up as usual in a movable cradle made from an oak board two and a half feet long
and one and a half feet wide. On one side of it was nailed with brass-headed tacks the
richly-embroidered sack, which was open in front and laced up and down with buckskin strings. Over
the arms of the infant was a wooden bow, the ends of which were firmly attached to the board, so
that if the cradle should fall the child's head and face would be protected. On this bow were hung
curious playthings—strings of artistically carved bones and hoofs of deer, which rattled when
the little hands moved them.
In this upright cradle I lived, played and slept the greater part of the time during the first few
months of my life. Whether I was made to lean against a lodge pole or was suspended from a bough of
a tree, while my grandmother cut wood, or whether I was carried on her back, or conveniently
balanced by another child in a similar cradle hung on the opposite side of a pony, I was still in my
This grandmother, who had already lived through sixty years of hardships, was a wonder to
 the young maidens of the tribe. She showed no less enthusiasm over Hakadah than she had done when
she held her first-born, the boy's father, in her arms. Every little attention that is due to a
loved child she performed with much skill and devotion. She made all my scanty garments and my tiny
moccasins with a great deal of taste. It was said by all that I could not have had more attention
had my mother been living.
Uncheedah (grandmother) was a great singer. Sometimes, when Hakadah wakened too early in the
morning, she would sing to him something like the following lullaby:
The Dakota women were wont to cut and bring their fuel from the woods and, in fact, to perform most
of the drudgery of the camp. This of necessity fell to their lot, because the men must follow the
game during the day. Very often my grand-mother carried me with her on these excursions;
 and while she worked it was her habit to suspend me from a wild grape vine or a springy bough, so
that the least breeze would swing the cradle to and fro.
Sleep, sleep, my boy, the Chippewas
Are far away—are far away.
Sleep, sleep, my boy; prepare to meet
The foe by day—the foe by day!
The cowards will not dare to fight
Till morning break—till morning break.
Sleep, sleep, my child, while still 'tis night;
Then bravely wake—then bravely wake!
She has told me that when I had grown old enough to take notice, I was apparently capable of holding
extended conversations in an unknown dialect with birds and red squirrels. Once I fell asleep in my
cradle, suspended five or six feet from the ground, while Uncheedah was some distance away,
gathering birch bark for a canoe. A squirrel had found it convenient to come upon the bow of my
cradle and nibble his hickory nut, until he awoke me by dropping the crumbs of his meal. My
disapproval of his intrusion was so decided that he had to take a sudden and quick flight to another
bough, and from there he began to pour out his wrath upon me, while I continued my objections to his
presence so audibly that Uncheedah soon came to my rescue, and compelled the bold intruder to go
away. It was a common thing for birds to alight on my cradle in the woods.
My food was, at first, a troublesome question for my kind foster-mother. She cooked some wild rice
and strained it, and mixed it with broth made from choice venison. She also pounded dried venison
almost to a flour, and kept it in water till the
 nourishing juices were extracted, then mixed with it some pounded maize, which was browned before
pounding. This soup of wild rice, pounded venison and maize was my main-stay. But soon my teeth
came—much earlier than the white children usually cut theirs; and then my good nurse gave me a
little more varied food, and I did all my own grinding.
After I left my cradle, I almost walked away from it, she told me. She then began calling my
attention to natural objects. Whenever I heard the song of a bird, she would tell me what bird it
came from, something after this fashion:
"Hakadah, listen to Shechoka (the robin) calling his mate. He says he has just found something good
to eat." Or "Listen to Oopehanska (the thrush); he is singing for his little wife. He will sing his
best." When in the evening the whippoorwill started his song with vim, no further than a stone's
throw from our tent in the woods, she would say to me:
"Hush! It may be an Ojibway scout!"
Again, when I waked at midnight, she would say:
"Do not cry! Hinakaga (the owl) is watching you from the tree-top."
I usually covered up my head, for I had perfect
 faith in my grandmother's admonitions, and she had given me a dreadful idea of this bird. It was
one of her legends that a little boy was once standing just outside of the teepee (tent), crying
vigorously for his mother, when Hinakaga swooped down in the darkness and carried the poor little
fellow up into the trees. It was well known that the hoot of the owl was commonly imitated by Indian
scouts when on the war-path. There had been dreadful massacres immediately following this call.
Therefore it was deemed wise to impress the sound early upon the mind of the child.
Indian children were trained so that they hardly ever cried much in the night. This was very
expedient and necessary in their exposed life. In my infancy it was my grandmother's custom to put
me to sleep, as she said, with the birds, and to waken me with them, until it became a habit. She
did this with an object in view. An Indian must always rise early. In the first place, as a hunter,
he finds his game best at daybreak. Secondly, other tribes, when on the war-path, usually make their
attack very early in the morning. Even when our people are moving about leisurely, we like to rise
before daybreak, in order to travel when the air is cool, and unobserved, perchance, by our enemies.
As a little child, it was instilled into me to be
 silent and reticent. This was one of the most important traits to form in the character of the
Indian. As a hunter and warrior it was considered absolutely necessary to him, and was thought to
lay the foundations of patience and self-control. There are times when boisterous mirth is indulged
in by our people, but the rule is gravity and decorum.
After all, my babyhood was full of interest and the beginnings of life's realities. The spirit of
daring was already whispered into my ears. The value of the eagle feather as worn by the warrior had
caught my eye. One day, when I was left alone, at scarcely two years of age, I took my uncle's war
bonnet and plucked out all its eagle feathers to decorate my dog and myself. So soon the life that
was about me had made its impress, and already I desired intensely to comply with all of its
ONE of the earliest recollections of my adventurous childhood is the ride I had on a pony's side. I
was passive in the whole matter. A little girl cousin of mine was put in a bag and suspended from
the horn of an Indian saddle; but her
 weight must be balanced or the saddle would not remain on the animal's back. Accordingly, I was put
into another sack and made to keep the saddle and the girl in position! I did not object at all, for
I had a very pleasant game of peek-a-boo with the little girl, until we came to a big snow-drift,
where the poor beast was stuck fast and began to lie down. Then it was not so nice!
This was the convenient and primitive way in which some mothers packed their children for winter
journeys. However cold the weather might be, the inmate of the fur-lined sack was usually very
comfortable—at least I used to think so. I believe I was accustomed to all the precarious
Indian conveyances, and, as a boy, I enjoyed the dog-travaux ride as much as any. The travaux
consisted of a set of rawhide strips securely lashed to the tent-poles, which were harnessed to the
sides of the animal as if he stood between shafts, while the free ends were allowed to drag on the
ground. Both ponies and large dogs were used as beasts of burden, and they carried in this way the
smaller children as well as the baggage.
This mode of travelling for children was possible only in the summer, and as the dogs were sometimes
unreliable, the little ones were exposed to a
 certain amount of danger. For instance, whenever a train of dogs had been travelling for a long
time, almost perishing with the heat and their heavy loads, a glimpse of water would cause them to
forget all their responsibilities. Some of them, in spite of the screams of the women, would swim
with their burdens into the cooling stream, and I was thus, on more than one occasion, made to
partake of an unwilling bath.
I was a little over four years old at the time of the "Sioux massacre" in Minnesota. In the general
turmoil, we took flight into British Columbia, and the journey is still vividly remembered by all
our family. A yoke of oxen and a lumber-wagon were taken from some white farmer and brought home for
How delighted I was when I learned that we were to ride behind those wise-looking animals and in
that gorgeously painted wagon! It seemed almost like a living creature to me, this new vehicle with
four legs, and the more so when we got out of axle-grease and the wheels went along squealing like
The boys found a great deal of innocent fun in jumping from the high wagon while the oxen were
leisurely moving along. My elder brothers soon became experts. At last, I mustered up
 courage enough to join them in this sport. I was sure they stepped on the wheel, so I cautiously
placed my moccasined foot upon it. Alas! before I could realize what had happened, I was under the
wheels, and had it not been for the neighbor immediately behind us, I might have been run over by
the next team as well.
This was my first experience with a civilized vehicle. I cried out all possible reproaches on the
white man's team and concluded that a dog-travaux was good enough for me. I was really rejoiced that
we were moving away from the people who made the wagon that had almost ended my life, and it did not
occur to me that I alone was to blame. I could not be persuaded to ride in that wagon again and was
glad when we finally left it beside the Missouri river.
The summer after the "Minnesota massacre," General Sibley pursued our people across this river. Now
the Missouri is considered one of the most treacherous rivers in the world. Even a good modern boat
is not safe upon its uncertain current. We were forced to cross in buffalo-skin boats—as round
The Washechu (white men) were coming in great numbers with their big guns, and while most of our men
were fighting them to gain time,
 the women and the old men made and equipped the temporary boats, braced with ribs of willow. Some
of these were towed by two or three women or men swimming in the water and some by ponies. It was
not an easy matter to keep them right side up, with their helpless freight of little children and
such goods as we possessed.
In our flight, we little folks were strapped in the saddles or held in front of an older person, and
in the long night marches to get away from the soldiers, we suffered from loss of sleep and
insufficient food. Our meals were eaten hastily, and sometimes in the saddle. Water was not always
to be found. The people carried it with them in bags formed of tripe or the dried pericardium of
Now we were compelled to trespass upon the country of hostile tribes and were harassed by them
almost daily and nightly. Only the strictest vigilance saved us.
One day we met with another enemy near the British lines. It was a prairie fire. We were surrounded.
Another fire was quickly made, which saved our lives.
One of the most thrilling experiences of the following winter was a blizzard, which overtook us in
our wanderings. Here and there, a family lay
 down in the snow, selecting a place where it was not likely to drift much. For a day and a night we
lay under the snow. Uncle stuck a long pole beside us to tell us when the storm was over. We had
plenty of buffalo robes and the snow kept us warm, but we found it heavy. After a time, it became
packed and hollowed out around our bodies, so that we were as comfortable as one can be under those
The next day the storm ceased, and we discovered a large herd of buffaloes almost upon us. We dug
our way out, shot some of the buffaloes, made a fire and enjoyed a good dinner.
I was now an exile as well as motherless; yet I was not unhappy. Our wanderings from place to place
afforded us many pleasant experiences and quite as many hardships and misfortunes. There were times
of plenty and times of scarcity, and we had several narrow escapes from death. In savage life, the
early spring is the most trying time and almost all the famines occurred at this period of the year.
The Indians are a patient and a clannish people; their love for one another is stronger than that of
any civilized people I know. If this were not so, I believe there would have been tribes of
cannibals among them. White people have been known to
 kill and eat their companions in preference to starving; but Indians—never!
In times of famine, the adults often denied themselves in order to make the food last as long as
possible for the children, who were not able to bear hunger as well as the old. As a people, they
can live without food much longer than any other nation.
I once passed through one of these hard springs when we had nothing to eat for several days. I well
remember the six small birds which constituted the breakfast for six families one morning; and then
we had no dinner or supper to follow! What a relief that was to me—although I had only a small
wing of a small bird for my share! Soon after this, we came into a region where buffaloes were
plenty, and hunger and scarcity were forgotten.
Such was the Indian's wild life! When game was to be had and the sun shone, they easily forgot the
bitter experiences of the winter before. Little preparation was made for the future. They are
children of Nature, and occasionally she whips them with the lashes of experience, yet they are
forgetful and careless. Much of their suffering might have been prevented by a little calculation.
During the summer, when Nature is at her best,
 and provides abundantly for the savage, it seems to me that no life is happier than his! Food is
free—lodging free—everything free! All were alike rich in the summer, and, again, all
were alike poor in the winter and early spring. However, their diseases were fewer and not so
destructive as now, and the Indian's health was generally good. The Indian boy enjoyed such a life
as almost all boys dream of and would choose for themselves if they were permitted to do so.
The raids made upon our people by other tribes were frequent, and we had to be constantly on the
watch. I remember at one time a night attack was made upon our camp and all our ponies stampeded.
Only a few of them were recovered, and our journeys after this misfortune were effected mostly by
means of the dog-travaux.
The second winter after the massacre, my father and my two older brothers, with several others, were
betrayed by a half-breed at Winnipeg to the United States authorities. As I was then living with my
uncle in another part of the country, I became separated from them for ten years. During all this
time we believed that they had been killed by the whites, and I was taught that I must avenge their
deaths as soon as I was able to go upon the war-path.
 I must say a word in regard to the character of this uncle, my father's brother, who was my adviser
and teacher for many years. He was a man about six feet two inches in height, very erect and
broad-shouldered. He was known at that time as one of the best hunters and bravest warriors among
the Sioux in British America, where he still lives, for to this day we have failed to persuade him
to return to the United States.
He is a typical Indian—not handsome, but truthful and brave. He had a few simple principles
from which he hardly ever departed. Some of these I shall describe when I speak of my early
It is wonderful that any children grew up through all the exposures and hardships that we suffered
in those days! The frail teepee pitched anywhere, in the winter as well as in the summer, was all
the protection that we had against cold and storms. I can recall times when we were snowed in and it
was very difficult to get fuel. We were once three days without much fire and all of this time it
stormed violently. There seemed to be no special anxiety on the part of our people; they rather
looked upon all this as a matter of course, knowing that the storm would cease when the time came.
 I could once endure as much cold and hunger as any of them; but now if I miss one meal or
accidentally wet my feet, I feel it as much as if I had never lived in the manner I have described,
when it was a matter of course to get myself soaking wet many a time. Even if there was plenty to
eat, it was thought better for us to practice fasting sometimes; and hard exercise was kept up
continually, both for the sake of health and to prepare the body for the extraordinary exertions
that it might, at any moment, be required to undergo. In my own remembrance, my uncle used often to
bring home a deer on his shoulder. The distance was sometimes considerable; yet he did not consider
it any sort of a feat.
The usual custom with us was to eat only two meals a day and these were served at each end of the
day. This rule was not invariable, however, for if there should be any callers, it was Indian
etiquette to offer either tobacco or food, or both. The rule of two meals a day was more closely
observed by the men—especially the younger men—than by the women and children. This was
when the Indians recognized that a true manhood, one of physical activity and endurance, depends
upon dieting and regular exercise. No
 such system is practised by the reservation Indians of to-day.
MY INDIAN GRANDMOTHER
AS a motherless child, I always regarded my good grandmother as the wisest of guides and the best of
protectors. It was not long before I began to realize her superiority to most of her contemporaries.
This idea was not gained entirely from my own observation, but also from a knowledge of the high
regard in which she was held by other women. Aside from her native talent and ingenuity, she was
endowed with a truly wonderful memory. No other midwife in her day and tribe could compete with her
in skill and judgment. Her observations in practice were all preserved in her mind for reference, as
systematically as if they had been written upon the pages of a note-book.
I distinctly recall one occasion when she took me with her into the woods in search of certain
"Why do you not use all kinds of roots for medicines?" said I.
"Because," she replied, in her quick, characteristic manner, the Great Mystery does not will
 us to find things too easily. In that case everybody would be a medicine-giver, and Ohiyesa must
learn that there are many secrets which the Great Mystery will disclose only to the most worthy.
Only those who seek him fasting and in solitude will receive his signs."
With this and many similar explanations she wrought in my soul wonderful and lively conceptions of
the "Great Mystery" and of the effects of prayer and solitude. I continued my childish questioning.
"But why did you not dig those plants that we saw in the woods, of the same kind that you are
"For the same reason that we do not like the berries we find in the shadow of deep woods as well as
the ones which grow in sunny places. The latter have more sweetness and flavor. Those herbs which
have medicinal virtues should be sought in a place that is neither too wet nor too dry, and where
they have a generous amount of sunshine to maintain their vigor.
"Some day Ohiyesa will be old enough to know the secrets of medicine; then I will tell him all. But
if you should grow up to be a bad man, I must withhold these treasures from you and give them to
your brother, for a medicine man must be
 a good and wise man. I hope Ohiyesa will be a great medicine man when he grows up. To be a great
warrior is a noble ambition; but to be a mighty medicine man is a nobler!"
THE GREAT MYSTERY
She said these things so thoughtfully and impressively that I cannot but feel and remember them even
to this day.
Our native women gathered all the wild rice, roots, berries and fruits which formed an important
part of our food. This was distinctively a woman's work. Uncheedah (grandmother) understood these
matters perfectly, and it became a kind of instinct with her to know just where to look for each
edible variety and at what season of the year. This sort of labor gave the Indian women every
opportunity to observe and study Nature after their fashion; and in this Uncheedah was more acute
than most of the men. The abilities of her boys were not all inherited from their father; indeed,
the stronger family traits came obviously from her. She was a leader among the native women, and
they came to her, not only for medical aid, but for advice in all their affairs.
In bravery she equaled any of the men. This trait, together with her ingenuity and alertness of
mind, more than once saved her and her people from destruction. Once, when we were roaming
 over a region occupied by other tribes, and on a day when most of the men were out upon the hunt, a
party of hostile Indians suddenly appeared. Although there were a few men left at home, they were
taken by surprise at first and scarcely knew what to do, when this woman came forward and advanced
alone to meet our foes. She had gone some distance when some of the men followed her. She met the
strangers and offered her hand to them. They accepted her friendly greeting; and as a result of her
brave act we were left unmolested and at peace.
Another story of her was related to me by my father. My grandfather, who was a noted hunter, often
wandered away from his band in search of game. In this instance he had with him only his own family
of three boys and his wife. One evening,when he returned from the chase, he found to his surprise
that she had built a stockade around her teepee.
She had discovered the danger-sign in a single foot-print, which she saw at a glance was not that of
her husband, and she was also convinced that it was not the foot-print of a Sioux, from the shape of
the moccasin. This ability to recognize foot-prints is general among the Indians, but more marked in
 This courageous woman had driven away a party of five Ojibway warriors. They approached the lodge
cautiously, but her dog gave timely warning, and she poured into them from behind her defences the
contents of a double-barrelled gun, with such good effect that the astonished braves thought it wise
I was not more than five or six years old when the Indian soldiers came one day and destroyed our
large buffalo-skin teepee. It was charged that my uncle had hunted alone a large herd of buffaloes.
This was not exactly true. He had unfortunately frightened a large herd while shooting a deer in the
edge of the woods. However, it was customary to punish such an act severely, even though the offense
When we were attacked by the police, I was playing in the teepee, and the only other person at home
was Uncheedah. I had not noticed their approach, and when the war-cry was given by thirty or forty
Indians with strong lungs, I thought my little world was coming to an end. Instantly innumerable
knives and tomahawks penetrated our frail home, while bullets went through the poles and
tent-fastenings up above our heads.
I hardly know what I did, but I imagine it was just what any other little fellow would have done
 under like circumstances. My first clear realization of the situation was when Uncheedah had a
dispute with the leader, claiming that the matter had not been properly investigated, and that none
of the policemen had attained to a reputation in war which would justify them in touching her son's
teepee. But alas! our poor dwelling was already an unrecognizable ruin; even the poles were broken
The Indian women, after reaching middle age, are usually heavy and lack agility, but my grand-mother
was in this also an exception. She was fully sixty when I was born; and when I was seven years old
she swam across a swift and wide stream, carrying me on her back, because she did not wish to expose
me to accident in one of the clumsy round boats of bull-hide which were rigged up to cross the
rivers which impeded our way, especially in the springtime. Her strength and endurance were
remarkable. Even after she had attained the age of eighty-two, she one day walked twenty-five miles
without appearing much fatigued.
I marvel now at the purity and elevated sentiment possessed by this woman, when I consider the
customs and habits of her people at the time. When her husband died she was still
compara-  tively a young woman—still active, clever and industrious. She was descended from a haughty
chieftain of the "Dwellers among the Leaves." Although women of her age and position were held to be
eligible to remarriage, and she had several persistent suitors who were men of her own age and
chiefs, yet she preferred to cherish in solitude the memory of her husband.
I was very small when my uncle brought home two Ojibway young women. In the fight in which they were
captured, none of the Sioux war party had been killed; therefore they were sympathized with and
tenderly treated by the Sioux women. They were apparently happy, although of course they felt deeply
the losses sustained at the time of their capture, and they did not fail to show their appreciation
of the kindnesses received at our hands.
As I recall now the remarks made by one of them at the time of their final release, they appear to
me quite remarkable. They lived in my grandmother's family for two years, and were then returned to
their people at a great peace council of the two nations. When they were about to leave my
grandmother, the elder of the two sisters first embraced her, and then spoke somewhat as follows:
 "You are a brave woman and a true mother. I understand now why your son so bravely conquered our
band, and took my sister and myself captive. I hated him at first, but now I admire him, because he
did just what my father, my brother or my husband would have done had they opportunity. He did even
more. He saved us from the tomahawks of his fellow-warriors, and brought us to his home to know a
noble and a brave woman.
"I shall never forget your many favors shown to us. But I must go. I belong to my tribe and I shall
return to them. I will endeavor to be a true woman also, and to teach my boys to be generous
warriors like your son."
Her sister chose to remain among the Sioux all her life, and she married one of our young men.
"I shall make the Sioux and the Ojibways," she said, "to be as brothers."
There are many other instances of intermarriage with captive women. The mother of the well-known
Sioux chieftain, Wabashaw, was an Ojibway woman. I once knew a woman who was said to be a white
captive. She was married to a noted warrior, and had a fine family of five boys. She was well
accustomed to the Indian ways, and as a child I should not have suspected
 that she was white. The skins of these people became so sunburned and full of paint that it
required a keen eye to distinguish them from the real Indians.
AN INDIAN SUGAR CAMP
WITH THE FIRST MARCH THAW THE THOUGHTS OF THE INDIAN WOMEN OF MY CHILDHOOD DAYS TURNED PROMPTLY TO the annual sugar-making. This industry was chiefly followed by the old men and women and the
children. The rest of the tribe went out upon the spring fur-hunt at this season, leaving us at home
to make the sugar.
The first and most important of the necessary utensils were the huge iron and brass kettles for
boiling. Everything else could be made, but these must be bought, begged or borrowed. A maple tree
was felled and a log canoe hollowed out, into which the sap was to be gathered. Little troughs of
basswood and birchen basins were also made to receive the sweet drops as they trickled from the
As soon as these labors were accomplished, we all proceeded to the bark sugar house, which stood in
the midst of a fine grove of maples on the bank of
 the Minnesota river. We found this hut partially filled with the snows of winter and the withered
leaves of the preceding autumn, and it must be cleared for our use. In the meantime a tent was
pitched outside for a few days' occupancy. The snow was still deep in the woods, with a solid crust
upon which we could easily walk; for we usually moved to the sugar house before the sap had actually
started, the better to complete our preparations.
My grandmother worked like a beaver in these days (or rather like a muskrat, as the Indians say; for
this industrious little animal sometimes collects as many as six or eight bushels of edible roots
for the winter, only to be robbed of his store by some of our people). If there was prospect of a
good sugaring season, she now made a second and even a third canoe to contain the sap. These canoes
were afterward utilized by the hunters for their proper purpose.
During our last sugar-making in Minnesota, before the "outbreak," my grandmother was at work upon a
canoe with her axe, while a young aunt of mine stood by. We boys were congregated within the large,
oval sugar house, busily engaged in making arrows for the destruction of the rabbits and chipmunks
which we knew would come in
 numbers to drink the sap. The birds also were beginning to return, and the cold storms of March
would drive them to our door. I was then too young to do much except look on; but I fully entered
into the spirit of the occasion, and rejoiced to see the bigger boys industriously sharpen their
arrows, resting them against the ends of the long sticks which were burning in the fire, and
occasionally cutting a chip from the stick. In their eagerness they paid little attention to this
circumstance, although they well knew that it was strictly forbidden to touch a knife to a burning
Suddenly loud screams were heard from without and we all rushed out to see what was the matter. It
was a serious affair. My grandmother's axe had slipped, and by an upward stroke nearly severed three
of the fingers of my aunt, who stood looking on, with her hands folded upon her waist. As we ran out
the old lady, who had already noticed and reproved our carelessness in regard to the burning embers,
pursued us with loud reproaches and threats of a whipping. This will seem mysterious to my readers,
but is easily explained by the Indian superstition, which holds that such an offense as we had
committed is invariably punished by the accidental cutting of some one of the family.
My grandmother did not confine herself to
 canoe-making. She also collected a good supply of fuel for the fires, for she would not have much
time to gather wood when the sap began to flow. Presently the weather moderated and the snow began
to melt. The month of April brought showers which carried most of it off into the Minnesota river.
Now the women began to test the trees—moving leisurely among them, axe in hand, and striking a
single quick blow, to see if the sap would appear. The trees, like people, have their individual
characters; some were ready to yield up their life-blood, while others were more reluctant. Now one
of the birchen basins was set under each tree, and a hardwood chip driven deep into the cut which
the axe had made. From the corners of this chip—at first drop by drop, then more
freely—the sap trickled into the little dishes.
It is usual to make sugar from maples, but several other trees were also tapped by the Indians. From
the birch and ash was made a dark-colored sugar, with a somewhat bitter taste, which was used for
medicinal purposes. The box-elder yielded a beautiful white sugar, whose only fault was that there
was never enough of it!
A long fire was now made in the sugar house, and a row of brass kettles suspended over the blaze.
The sap was collected by the women in
 tin or birchen buckets and poured into the canoes, from which the kettles were kept filled. The
hearts of the boys beat high with pleasant anticipations when they heard the welcome hissing sound
of the boiling sap! Each boy claimed one kettle for his especial charge. It was his duty to see that
the fire was kept up under it, to watch lest it boil over, and finally, when the sap became sirup,
to test it upon the snow, dipping it out with a wooden paddle. So frequent were these tests that for
the first day or two we consumed nearly all that could be made; and it was not until the sweetness
began to pall that my grandmother set herself in earnest to store up sugar for future use. She made
it into cakes of various forms, in birchen molds, and sometimes in hollow canes or reeds, and the
bills of ducks and geese. Some of it was pulverized and packed in rawhide cases. Being a prudent
woman, she did not give it to us after the first month or so, except upon special occasions, and it
was thus made to last almost the year around. The smaller candies were reserved as an occasional
treat for the little fellows, and the sugar was eaten at feasts with wild rice or parched corn, and
also with pounded dried meat. Coffee and tea, with their substitutes, were all unknown to us in
 Every pursuit has its trials and anxieties. My grandmother's special tribulations, during the
sugaring season, were the upsetting and gnawing of holes in her birch-bark pans. The transgressors
were the rabbit and squirrel tribes, and we little boys for once became useful, in shooting them
with our bows and arrows. We hunted all over the sugar camp, until the little creatures were fairly
driven out of the neighborhood. Occasionally one of my older brothers brought home a rabbit or two,
and then we had a feast.
The sugaring season extended well into April, and the returning birds made the precincts of our camp
joyful with their songs. I often followed my older brothers into the woods, although I was then but
four or five years old. Upon one of these excursions they went so far that I ventured back alone.
When within sight of our hut, I saw a chipmunk sitting upon a log, and uttering the sound he makes
when he calls to his mate. How glorious it would be, I thought, if I could shoot him with my tiny
bow and arrows! Stealthily and cautiously I approached, keeping my eyes upon the pretty little
animal, and just as I was about to let fly my shaft, I heard a hissing noise at my feet. There lay a
horrid snake, coiled and ready to spring! Forgetful that I was a warrior,
 I gave a loud scream and started backward; but soon recollecting myself, looked down with shame,
although no one was near. However, I retreated to the inclined trunk of a fallen tree, and there, as
I have often been told, was overheard soliloquizing in the following words: "I wonder if a snake can
climb a tree!"
I remember on this occasion of our last sugar bush in Minnesota, that I stood one day outside of our
hut and watched the approach of a visitor—a bent old man, his hair almost white, and carrying
on his back a large bundle of red willow, or kinnikinick, which the Indians use for smoking. He
threw down his load at the door and thus saluted us: "You have indeed perfect weather for
It was my great-grandfather, Cloud Man, whose original village was on the shores of Lakes Calhoun
and Harriet, now in the suburbs of the city of Minneapolis. He was the first Sioux chief to welcome
the Protestant missionaries among his people, and a well-known character in those pioneer days. He
brought us word that some of the peaceful sugar-makers near us on the river had been attacked and
murdered by roving Ojibways. This news disturbed us not a little, for we realized that we too might
become the victims of
 an Ojibway war party. Therefore we all felt some uneasiness from this time until we returned heavy
laden to our village.
A MIDSUMMER FEAST
IT was midsummer. Everything that the Santee Sioux had undertaken during the
year had been unusually successful. The spring fur-hunters had been fortunate, and the heavy winter
had proved productive of much maple sugar. The women's patches of maize and potatoes were already
sufficiently advanced to use. The Wahpetonwan band of Sioux, the "Dwellers among the Leaves," were
fully awakened to the fact that it was almost time for the midsummer festivities of the old, wild
The invitations were bundles of tobacco, and acceptances were sent back from the various bands
—the "Light Lodges", "Dwellers back from the River," and many others, in similar fashion. Blue
Earth, chief of the "Dwellers among the Leaves," was the host.
There were to be many different kinds of athletic games; indeed, the festival was something like a
State fair, in that there were many side
 shows and competitive events. For instance, supposing that (Miss) White Rabbit should desire to
give a "maidens' feast," she would employ a crier to go among the different bands announcing the
fact in a sing-song manner:
"Miss White Rabbit will receive her maiden friends to-day at noon, inside of the circular encampment
of the Kaposia band."
Again, should (Mr.) Sleepy Eye wish to have his child's ears pierced publicly, he would have to give
away a great deal of savage wealth—namely, otter, bear and beaver skins and ponies—or
the child would not be considered as belonging to a family in good standing.
But the one all-important event of the occasion was the lacrosse game, for which it had been
customary to select those two bands which could boast the greater number of fast runners.
The Wahpetonwan village on the banks of the Minnesota river was alive with the newly-arrived guests
and the preparations for the coming event. Meat of wild game had been put away with much care during
the previous fall in anticipation of this feast. There was wild rice and the choicest of dried
venison that had been kept all winter, as well as freshly dug turnips, ripe berries and an abundance
of fresh meat.
 Along the edge of the woods the teepees were pitched in groups or semi-circles, each band distinct
from the others. The teepee of Mankato or Blue Earth was pitched in a conspicuous spot. Just over
the entrance was painted in red and yellow a picture of a pipe, and directly opposite this the
rising sun. The painting was symbolic of welcome and good will to men under the bright sun.
A meeting was held to appoint some "medicine man" to make the balls that were to be used in the
lacrosse contest; and presently the herald announced that this honor had been conferred upon old
Chankpee-yuhah, or "Keeps the Club," while every other man of his profession was disappointed. He
was a powerful man physically, who had apparently won the confidence of the people by his fine
personal appearance and by working upon superstitious minds.
Towards evening he appeared in the circle, leading by the hand a boy about four years old. Closely
the little fellow observed every motion of the man; nothing escaped his vigilant black eyes, which
seemed constantly to grow brighter and larger, while his exuberant glossy black hair was plaited and
wound around his head like that of a Celestial. He wore a bit of swan's down in
 each ear, which formed a striking contrast with the child's complexion. Further than this, the boy
was painted according to the fashion of the age. He held in his hands a miniature bow and arrows.
The medicine man drew himself up in an admirable attitude, and proceeded to make his short speech:
"Wahpetonwans, you boast that you run down the elk; you can outrun the Ojibways. Before you all, I
dedicate to you this red ball. Kaposias, you claim that no one has a lighter foot than you; you
declare that you can endure running a whole day without water. To you I dedicate this black ball.
Either you or the Leaf-Dwellers will have to drop your eyes and bow your head when the game is over.
I wish to announce that if the Wahpetonwans should win, this little warrior shall bear the name
Ohiyesa (winner) through life; but if the Light Lodges should win, let the name be given to any
child appointed by them."
The ground selected for the great final game was on a narrow strip of land between a lake and the
river. It was about three quarters of a mile long and a quarter of a mile in width. The spectators
had already ranged themselves all along the two sides, as well as at the two ends, which were
 somewhat higher than the middle. The soldiers appointed to keep order furnished much of the
entertainment of the day. They painted artistically and tastefully, according to the Indian fashion,
not only their bodies but also their ponies and clubs. They were so strict in enforcing the laws
that no one could venture with safety within a few feet of the limits of the field.
Now all of the minor events and feasts, occupying several days' time, had been observed. Heralds on
ponies' backs announced that all who intended to participate in the final game were requested to
repair to the ground; also that if any one bore a grudge against another, he was implored to forget
his ill-feeling until the contest should be over.
The most powerful men were stationed at the half-way ground, while the fast runners were assigned to
the back. It was an impressive spectacle —a fine collection of agile forms, almost stripped of
garments and painted in wild imitation of the rainbow and sunset sky on human canvas. Some had
undertaken to depict the Milky Way across their tawny bodies, and one or two made a bold attempt to
reproduce the lightning. Others contented themselves with painting the figure of some fleet animal
or swift bird on their muscular chests.
 The coiffure of the Sioux lacrosse player has often been unconsciously imitated by the fashionable
hair-dressers of modern times. Some banged and singed their hair; others did a little more by adding
powder. The Grecian knot was located on the wrong side of the head, being tied tightly over the
forehead. A great many simply brushed back their long locks and tied them with a strip of otter
At the middle of the ground were stationed four immense men, magnificently formed. A fifth
approached this group, paused a moment, and then threw his head back, gazed up into the sky in the
manner of a cock and gave a smooth, clear operatic tone. Instantly the little black ball went up
between the two middle rushers, in the midst of yells, cheers and war-whoops. Both men endeavored to
catch it in the air; but alas! each interfered with the other; then the guards on each side rushed
upon them. For a time, a hundred lacrosse sticks vied with each other, and the wriggling human flesh
and paint were all one could see through the cloud of dust. Suddenly there shot swiftly through the
air toward the south, toward the Kaposias' goal, the ball. There was a general cheer from their
adherents, which echoed back from the white cliff on the opposite side of the Minnesota.
 As the ball flew through the air, two adversaries were ready to receive it. The Kaposia quickly met
the ball, but failed to catch it in his netted bag, for the other had swung his up like a flash.
Thus it struck the ground, but had no opportunity to bound up when a Wahpeton pounced upon it like a
cat and slipped out of the grasp of his opponents. A mighty cheer thundered through the air.
The warrior who had undertaken to pilot the little sphere was risking much, for he must dodge a host
of Kaposias before he could gain any ground. He was alert and agile; now springing like a panther,
now leaping like a deer over a stooping opponent who tried to seize him around the waist. Every
opposing player was upon his heels, while those of his own side did all in their power to clear the
way for him. But it was all in vain. He only gained fifty paces.
Thus the game went. First one side, then the other would gain an advantage, and then it was lost,
until the herald proclaimed that it was time to change the ball. No victory was in sight for either
After a few minutes' rest, the game was resumed. The red ball was now tossed in the air in the usual
way. No sooner had it descended than one of the rushers caught it and away it went northward;
 again it was fortunate, for it was advanced by one of the same side. The scene was now one of the
wildest excitement and confusion. At last, the northward flight of the ball was checked for a moment
and a desperate struggle ensued. Cheers and war-whoops became general, such as were never equaled in
any concourse of savages, and possibly nowhere except at a college game of football.
The ball had not been allowed to come to the surface since it reached this point, for there were
more than a hundred men who scrambled for it. Suddenly a warrior shot out of the throng like the
ball itself! Then some of the players shouted: "Look out for Antelope! Look out for Antelope!" But
it was too late. The little sphere had already nestled into Antelope's palm and that fleetest of
Wahpetons had thrown down his lacrosse stick and set a determined eye upon the northern goal.
Such a speed! He had cleared almost all the opponents' guards—there were but two more. These
were exceptional runners of the Kaposias. As he approached them in his almost irresistible speed,
every savage heart thumped louder in the Indian's dusky bosom. In another moment there would be a
defeat for the Kaposias or a prolongation of the game. The two men, with a determined
 look approached their foe like two panthers prepared to spring; yet he neither slackened his speed
nor deviated from his course. A crash—a mighty shout!—the two Kaposias collided, and the
swift Antelope had won the laurels!
The turmoil and commotion at the victors' camp were indescribable. A few beats of a drum were heard,
after which the criers hurried along the lines, announcing the last act to be performed at the camp
of the "Leaf Dwellers."
The day had been a perfect one. Every event had been a success; and, as a matter of course, the old
people were happy, for they largely profited by these occasions. Within the circle formed by the
general assembly sat in a group the members of the common council. Blue Earth arose, and in a few
appropriate and courteous remarks assured his guests that it was not selfishness that led his braves
to carry off the honors of the last event, but that this was a friendly contest in which each band
must assert its prowess. In memory of this victory, the boy would now receive his name. A loud
"Ho-o-o" of approbation reverberated from the edge of the forest upon the Minnesota's bank.
Half frightened, the little fellow was now brought into the circle, looking very much as if he
 were about to be executed. Cheer after cheer went up for the awe-stricken boy. Chankpee-yuhah, the
medicine man, proceeded to confer the name.
"Ohiyesa (or Winner) shall be thy name henceforth. Be brave, be patient and thou shalt always win!
Thy name is Ohivesa."