VISITORS FROM THE EVERGLADES.
This is a day of “ether wave thoughts.” The “inalienable rights of life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness” are the searchlights piercing the dark corners of every cranny in the universe. Like sun motes, human sympathy has entered the Indian’s domain and is vibrating in harmony for the American red man—acting as a torch of liberty, showing the pale-face his belated duty to the original American.
If the American Indian were not worthy a place in the world’s history, would his memory be perpetuated by his white conquerors? As an idealistic type this twentieth century is rushing to pay him a tribute. Is there a white American who would dare to place before a Congressional body a bill for the erection of a colossal statue of the African to standbeside the Goddess of Liberty in New York harbor?
The American Indian, in bronze, is to have this honor, and to ex-President Taft was assigned the honor of lifting the first spadeful of soil at the dedication services, where Indian and white man stood as equals in this official function.
In the Nation’s Hall of Fame in the Capitol at Washington, the inventor of the Cherokee alphabet, Sequoyah, an Indian, is honored with a place.
An Indian head is on the five-dollar bill, as well as on the five-cent piece. To the practical mind, let us not forget that Teehee, the American Indian, must sign our currency before it is passed by the Treasury Department.
In military tactics the name of no greater genius adorns the pages of history than that of Florida’s patriot—Osceola, the Seminole.
With all due respect to the immortal Washington, who remembers that he was safely guided by a nameless red man through the pathless wilderness to Fortress Duquesne?
Without the Delaware Indians, General Washington’s advance upon the British on that eventful Christmas eve of 1777 would never have been recorded in history.
And, in the late European war, do you know that thousands of Indians volunteered—not as drafted men, not for their homes, nor their States, but for their native land of America?
Cadet Long Lance, the American Indian of ourown Southland, as First Lieutenant of the Princess Pat Regiment, brought enduring fame to the Cherokees, standing his ground at the terrific assault of Vimy Ridge—bringing back the standardbearer, the only officer of his rank left in the company.
The instinctive eloquence of Coacoochee, the Seminole chieftain, in his speech to our American General Worth, made him the peer of a Clay or a Calhoun, while the great Seneca chieftain, Logan, delivered the most eloquent oration ever compiled in American history.
In poetry, in romance, in legends and folk-lore literature of America, we must look to the American Indian.
It was by the blue waters of Ontario that the great Onondaga chieftain’s Hiawatha, formulated plans for the first Peace League. Today, “Peace, peace,” is not only the wounded cry of the world, but its solution is being echoed and re-echoed throughout every nation of the globe.
After looking through pages of history for a model, the youth of America, the Boy Scouts and the Camp Fire Girls, have taken the Indian for their hero.
Can anyone doubt the superiority of the Indian character?
To Pocahontas, the glorification of saving Virginia from utter destruction is well known, and to this Lady Rebecca of the English courts many Americans proudly trace direct descent, to this girl princess.
To Florida belongs the first romance of American history. In this life story of U-lee-lah, the Princess of Hirrihigua, Florida’s Pocahontas, is a setting for as dramatic a recital as ever adorned the pages of literature.
In Florida, particularly, do the descendants of the old, turbanned Seminoles appeal to the people. So uniform is a kindly feeling to these Indians that the man who would show any opposition to a charity or friendliness to them would soon find himself in the minority, and discredit would reflect, not on the Indian, but on the man himself.
It is always a gala time when these brown-skinned people visit Kissimmee. When a prepaid telegram, as a forerunner of his arrival, was received from the Chieftain, a bystander remarked: “I would rather see Billie Bowlegs than the President of the United States.” When crowds gathered at the station and children lined the streets to get a glimpse of these picturesque aborigines, it looked as if the tourist’s wish voiced the thought of the community and illustrated the point that sentiment does not change with the passing of a century, for it was in 1820 that Count D., a young French nobleman, after coming all the way from France to meet Chief Red Jacket, the last of the Senecas, declared that he considered Chief Red Jacket a greater wonder than the falls of Niagara. This remark was made while standing in view of the great cataract.
A visit from these silent dwellers of the Everglades always revives interest in the race, forthrough living authors one may study the life story of these people—a story dating back in its traditions for more than three hundred years; brought to the doors of a sympathetic civilization, the citadel of the hardest heart is touched, for it is a narrative full of pathos.
Here, in the rich Kissimmee Valley, are the camping grounds and council seats of his ancestors. With wordless patience he looks out upon the landscape and the glittering waters of To-hope-kee-li-ga and for the time lives in spirit with the heroic deeds of his ancestors; he sees in the long ago canoes laden with men and women and little children, brown-skinned and picturesque, garbed in brilliant colors, leaving the ancestral shores of their old hunting grounds, as they escaped, terror-stricken, through the lakes and rivers to the mystic land of O-kee-cho-bee.
Today, naught remains of the Seminoles in this region save the melodious names of rivers, lakes and towns—an enduring heritage of beauty, which is one of Florida’s most cherished and priceless possessions.
To study the history of a secretive people, whose story is so closely woven into our own American history, is a research work full of difficulties, but full of happy surprises.
Away from the jungle home, in the white man’s town, the Seminole is silent and stoical, answering to the questions put to him by the curious “Me don’t know.”
The Seminole discerns character quickly, and while seemingly indifferent, if he is with you but a few minutes, his keen powers of observation will pierce you through and through, and he has, with a keenness born of centuries of “watchful waiting,” made an understudy of your honesty or your inner self.
It is around the wigwam camp fire and the Sofka kettle that the Indian relaxes; there he is a big-souled host, extending the same hospitality that welcomed the European four hundred years ago. Laughter and jokes abound; news of the outside world is recounted; the squaws bring the prize pumpkin to be admired, and the rippling laughter of the children, as they gather firewood for the white friend, is beautiful in its soft cadenced melody.
In the friendly white man’s home, when the shyness of many moons of separation has worn off, the Indians give many unique accounts of life in the wigwam dwellings; they tell of the canals being cut through their Everglade country and the “big smoke” from the engines, and the great influx of white settlers that have come into this swamp country.
Facetiously adding: “White man, money want to make ’em too fast, rain come, water too much, money lose ’em ojus (much). Go back, say Everglades ho-lo wagus (no good). No come again.”
The Seminoles acknowledge that their hunting grounds are gone and that the pale-face has slaughtered the game, admitting, after much pressure, thatthe Indians sometimes go hungry.Hungry in a land like Florida!
A visit from these people of the darksome Glade forests is always fraught with kindly attention. Nothing but a heartfelt kindness is shown them, and a tribute paid to them, not because of any other interest in the Indian, but because they are the representatives of a proud and noble race and the American people are hero worshippers.
It is a question if any celebrity could have been treated with greater courtesy. Crowds sought to extend a greeting; parents brought their young children to shake the hands of these ambassadors of a race that is vanishing so fast. It was not an interest of idle curiosity, but a genuine, tender solicitude. This need not surprise, for an inborn and instinctive admiration must be felt for a people through whose veins flow the purest blood of any of the American Indians today, and who live and practice the same ceremonies of their ancient ancestors.
Not a drop of the white man’s blood courses through the veins of an Everglade Seminole!
Many small gifts were bestowed upon these silent visitors; men of capital from far-away States, tourists and old friends, took the time to go to the stores to purchase such presents as they thought would please the Indians.
Kodaks and camera men kept busy. The guests of the hotel, retired business men, as well as the women and children, vied with each other in havinga souvenir picture, showing themselves in friendly relation with these red people of the forest.
With the exhilaration of boys, the men took turns with each other as they posed with the instruction, “Now you snap while I stand beside Billy.” The Seminole chieftain was the only calm one; he was as passive and immobile as a bronze statue.
The cornet band divided honors with the newly elected mayor and volunteered a serenade.
Whether it was the courtesy of an automobile ride, or being addressed by guests, both Billy and his sister received the attentions with such a quiet grace and refinement as if to the manner born, causing an admiring tourist to give Stem-o-la-kee, the title “A Princess of the Everglades” and calling Billy the “Red Knight of Okee-cho-bee,” titles as much in order today as those bestowed three centuries ago on the Lady Rebecca, the far-famed Pocahontas.