Newspaper Page Text
APRIL 4, 1903
THE SUNNY SOUTH
THIRD PAGE
Indian Tribal Integrity Crumbling
i? Civilization’s March #
Parade ground. Tree In foreground where Washington Irving spread his tent Old church where Stanley, the explorer. Is said to have taught school
By R. T. TOOMER.
Written tor C/>e v , .—>-** - -
NOTHER nail was driven in
the coffin of Cherokee Tri
bal Government a few fays
ago when, under the su
pervision of the Interior
Department at Washing
ton all the old buildings
erected by the United
States for garrison purposes
years ago, were sold at
auction for the benefit of
the tribe.
It is now a little more
than ten yearn since thu
commission to the “five civilized tribes,
commonly called the Dawes commission.
’ was created by act of congress to treat
jvrith the Choctaw', Chickasaw, Chero-
l kee Creek and Seminole Indians. The
j Cherokees have been the most obstinate
iof all to come to terms, but at last a
| treaty wrs agreed upon last year, the roil
K>t citizenship completed and the Dawes
(commission is now engaged in alloiing
[ them their lands in severally, which will
iglve to each citizen great and small
about eighty acres to the. head. Those
who get the best lands will only receive
fifty acres. Cherokee freedmen, that is
ex-slavcs of Cherokee masters, come in
for a full share in this great estate. This
is also the case with the ('reek freedmen.
Each ex-slave and descendants get one
hundred and sixty acres of land, and as
thev are numerous, they have absorbed
a large part of the best land in the Creek
nation. The Choctaws and Chlcksaws,
however, only allow freedmen forty acres,
and no participation in tribal funds. A
volume could be written anent affairs in
Indian Territory. Nowhere in history
ancient cr modern, do we find anything
like it. There is but one thing certain
as I see it. and that is that not many
years hence the poverty and destitution
among these Indians will be appaling.
They are averse to labor and seem to
‘hage no conception of values. Their lands
are in great demand and they will sell
as soon as they can. Under the treaties
as they stand at present an Indian can
not sell any of his land until after the
expiration of five years, when he can
sell one hundred and twenty acres, the
homestead forty acres he cannot al^nate
until after tha expiration of twenty-one
years. Undar tho treaty and rules of
interior department he can sell 120 acres
subject to approval of the secretary of
the interior, but there is so much ‘Ted
tape” connected with the transaction
that buyers do not seem to take hold very
readilv.
Fort Gibson is a town of about 1.000
inhabitants, in Cherokee nation. It is
only 8 miles from Muskogee, Creek na
tion, which within a few years has grown
which it is reported that Stanley, the
great African explorer, once taught
school, hut it is not certain that he ever
saw tho place and the only way the
truth on this point will ever he ascertain
ed will be to put Mr. Stanley on the
stand and ask him the direct question. The
picture showing old parade ground with
large tree in front, under the shade of
which Washington pitched his tent, is
all right. There is no doubt that Irving
actually camped under that tree when he
visited this territory years ago.
The oliicers' quarters is a fine stone
orflcers quarters, where J. G. Blaine spent some time on a visit to his
son-in-law
from a village to a city of lO.OfYl inhabit
ants and is still growing rapidly. Much
has been written about Fort Gibson on
account of its having been a United
States military post, and, of course, many
distinguished men have resided there,
and some Who are reported to have lived
in the tow,a may never have seen the
place.
I present a picture of the old house in
structure with fine hardwood finish on
inside, only brought a little over $1,100
at the sale; in fact, the sale of the whole
outfit did not bring $7,500.
I regret that I could not get a picture
of the house in which the hero of the
confederacy lived, but the. spot where
it stood can only be identified by a pile
of earth and a few stones.
The accompanying pictures were all
taken within the last few weeks and
show the buildings just as they are to
day. Most of them will, most likely, bo
torn down and the stone, which is fine,
will be put into other structures.
No article on the subject of the Chero
kee natio_n and especially on the sub
ject of old Fort Gibson would be com
plete without mentioning that great and
wonderful man, Sam Houston.
Some time since I saw an article in
The Sunny South which mentioned some
thing about Houston and his Cherokee
wife, Tah-Iah-hee-uah-Rogers. What I
shall now relate In this connection has
never, to my knowledge, before been pub
lished. hut It is as true as anything that
was ever written concerning this gTeat
man. and it shows that he was not only
great, but that he was loyal and true
hearted. In 'all the histories and biogra
phies written of Sam Houston the. writers
seen: to assume that he abandoned his
Cherokee wife without ceremony or com
punction. There never was anything
further front; the truth. After Houston
had established the republic of Texas,
and was at the very zenith of fame, Tie
wrote, or had his private secretary, F.
A. Kerr, to write to Tah-Iah-hee-uah, re
questing her to join him in Texas. To the
first letter he received no reply, and.
after the lapse of a short time, another
letter of great tenderness was dictated
by Houston, which Kerr wrote and mailed
to her. To this letter she replied, that
wnilo she loved him devotedly and would
be most happy to join him, yet she felt
that since he had become so great among
his people that, being only an Indian,
her presence, instead of being a source
of comfort, would only prove a source of
embarrassment, and therefore she thought
it best for her and himself that she re
main with her own' people. This most
sensable letter put an end to the cor
respondence.
F. A. Kerr, from w'hose lips the above
story fell, accompanied Albert Pike on
his excursion to the west in 1831, at least
he came back in company with him to
Fort Gibson, where he met Sam Houston.
He went with Houston to Texas, and be
came his private secretary. He after
wards came back to the Cherokee nation,
married into t! - irloe and raised a fam
ily, some of the me-mbers of which now
reside in Muskogee. Kerr died in this
town about six or eight years ago.
^ Jamesy ^
By James Whitcomb Riley
IN TWO PARTS.—PART II.
Y ride home was an inco
herent fluttering of the
wings of time, in w’hich
travail one fretful hour
was born, to gasp its first
few minutes helplessly;
then moan, roll over and
kick out its legs and
sprawl about; then crawl
a little—stagger to its feet
and totter on; then tumble
down a time or two and
knock its empty head
against the floor and howl;
ithen loom up awkwardly on gangling
(legs, too much In their own way to com
prehend that they were in the way of
everybody else; then limp a little as it
worried on—drop down exhausted—moan
again—toss up its hands—shriek out, and
die In violent convulsions.
We have all had that experience of the.
car wheels—had them enter into conver
sation with us as we gaily embarked
■upon some pleasant trip, perhaps: had
them rattle off in scraps of songs, or
lightly twit us w*ith some dear one’s
name, or even go so far as to laugh at
ns and mock us for some real or fancied
dereliction of car-etiquette. I shall ever
have good reason to remember how once
upon a time a boy of fourteen, though
greatly undersized, told the conductor he
•was only ten, and although the unsus
pecting official accepted the statement as
a truth, with the proper reduction in the
(fare, the car-wheels called that boy a
“liar” for 20 miles—and 20 miles as long
and tedious as he has ever compassed in
his journey through this vale of tears.
The car-wheels on this bitter winter
evening were not at all communicative.
They wore sullen and morose. They
didn’t feel like singing, and they wouldn’t
laugh. They had no jokes, and if there
was one peculiar quality of tone they
possessed in any marked degree it was
"that of sneering. They had a harsh, dis
cordant snarl, as it seemed, and were
spiteful and insinuating.
The topic they had chosen for that
night's consideration was evidently of a
very complex and mysterious nature, and
they gnawed and mumbled at It with such
fierceness, and, withal, such selfishness,
I could only catch a flying fragment of
It now and then, and that, I noticed, was
of the coarsest fibre of intelligence, and
of slangy flavor. Listening with the most
painful interest, I at last made out the
fact that the inflection seemed to be in
the interrogative, and, with anxiety the
most intense, I slowly came to compre
hend that they were desirous of ascer
taining the exact distance between two
given points, but the proposition seemed
determined not to round into fuller signi
ficance than to query mockingly, “How
fur is It? How fur is it? How fur, how
Better Than Spanking.
Spanking does not cure children of bed
tting. If It did, there would be few
lldren that would do it. There is a
istitutional cause for this. Mrs. M.
mmers, Box 101. Notre Dame, Ind., will
id her home treatment to any mother,
e asks no money. Write her today if
ur children trouble you In this way.
m’t blame the child. The chances are
cas t help It,
fur, how fur is it?’’ and so on to a most
exasperating linnit. As this senseless
phrase was repeated and reiterated in its
growing harshness, and unchanging into
nation, the relentless pertinacy of the
query grew simply agonizing, and when
at times the car door opened to admit a
brakeman, or the train boy, who had
everything to sell but what I wanted,
the emphasized refrain would lift me
from my seat and drag me up and
down the aisle.
When the phrase did eventually writhe
round into form and shade more tangible,
my relief was such that I sat down, and
in my fancy framed a grim, unlovely tune
that suitei! it, and hummed with it. in
an undertone of dismal satisfaction:
“How fur—how fur
Is it from here—
From here to Happiness?’’
When I returned that same refrain rode
back into the city with me! All the gay
metropolis was robing for the banquet
and the ball. All the windows of the
crowded thoroughfares were kindling into
spleiitlor. 'Along the streets rol'ed lordly
carriages, so weighted down with costly
silks, and furs, and twinkling gems, and
unknown treasures in unnumbered pack
ages, that one lone ounce of. needed char
ity would have snapped their axles, and a
feather’s weight of pure benevolence
would hare splintered every spoke.
And the old refrain rode with me
through it all—as stoical, relentless and
unchangeable as fate—and in the same
depraved and slangy tone in which ; t
seemed to find an especial pride, it sang,
and sang again:
“How fur—how ft.:r
Is it from here—
From here to Happiness?"
The train that for five minutes had
been lessening in speed, toiled painfully
along, and as I arose impatiently and
reached behind me for my overcoat, a.
cheery voice cried, “Hello, Cap!” Want a
lift? I’ll he'p you with that ‘benjamin’;’’
and as I looked around T saw the grimy
features of my little hero of the brush
and box.
“Hello!” said I, as much delighted as
surprised. “Where did you drop from?”
“Oh, I collared this old hearse a mile
or so back yonder.” said the little fellow,
gayly, standing on the seat behind me
and holding up the coat. “Been a-doln’
circus business on the steps out there
fer half an hour. You bet I had my
eve on you, ell the same, though."
"You had, eh?” I exclaimed, gladly,
although I Instinctively surmised his
highest interest in me was centered in
my pocketbook. "To?? had, eh?” I re
peated with more earnestness. “Well,
I'm glad of that, Charlie—or, what is
your name?”
"Squatty,” said the boy. Then notic
ing the look of surprise upon my face, he
added soberly: “That ain’t my ‘sure-
enough’ name, you know; that’s what the
boys call me. Sis calls me Jamesy.”
“Well. Jamesy,” 1 continued, buttoning
my collar ar.d drawing on my gloves, “I'm
mighty glad to see you, and if you don't
believe It, just go down in that right-
hand overcoat pocket and you’ll find
out.”
The little fellow needed no second iavlr
tation, and as he drew forth a closely-
folded package the look of curiosity upon
his face deepened to one of blank bewil
derment.
“Open it.” said I, smiling at the little
puzzled face; “open it—it’s for you.”
”Oh, here. Cap.” said the boy, dropping
the package on the seat, and holding up
a rigid finger, “you’re a-givin’ me this,
ain't you?”
“I’m giving you the package, certainly,”
said T. somewhat bewildered. “Open it—
It’s a Christmas present for you—open it.”
“What’s your id\| o’ lavin’ fer me?”
asked the boy with a troubled and uneasy
air. “I’ve betn a-givin’ you square busi
ness right along, ain’t I?”
“Why, Jamesy,” said I, as I vaguely-
comprehended the real drift of his
thought, “the package is for you. and if
you won’t open it I will." and as I spoke
I I began unfolding it. “Here,” said I, “is
j a pair of gloves, a little girl, about your
size, told me to give to you, because I
was telling her about you, over where I
live, and it’s ’a clear case.’ ” and I
laughed lightly to myself as I noticed a
slow flush creeping to his face. “And
here,” said I, “is a ‘bang up’ pair of
good old-fashioned socks, and, if they’ll
fit you, there’s an old woman that wears
specs and a mole on her nose, told me
to tell you, for her, that she knit them
for your Christmas present, and if you
don’t wear them she’ll never forgive you.
And here,” I continued, "is a cap, as fuzzy
as a woolly worm, and as warm a cap, I
reckon, as you ever stood on your head
in; ft’s a cheap cap, b’ t I bought it with
my own money, and money that I worked
mighty hard to feet, because I ain’t rich;
now, if I was rich. I’d buy you a plug;
but I’ve got an idea that this little, old,
woolly cap, with earbobs to it. and a snap
per to go under your chin, don’t you see,
won’t be a bad cap to knock around in.
such weather as this. What do you say
now! Try her on once,” and as I spoke
1 turned to place it on his head.
"Oomh-ooh!” he negatively murmured,
putting out his hand, his closed lips quiv
ering—the little frowzy head drooping
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The trimming on the top consists of two large dusters of
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forward, and the ragged shoes shuffling
on the floor.
“Come,” said I. my own voice growing
curiously changed; “won’t you take these
presents? They are yours; you must ac
cept them. Jamesy. not because they’re
worth so very much, or because they're
\ ery fine, I continued, bending down and
folding up the parcel, “but because, you
know’, I want you to. and—and—you must
take them; ycu must!” and as I concluded
1 thrust the tightly-folded parcel beneath
his arm, and pressed the little tattered
elbow firmly over it. “There you are.”
said I. “Freeze onto it, and we'll skip off
here at the avenue. Come.”
I hardly dared to look behind me till I
found myself upon the street, but as I
threw an eager glance over my shoulder
I saw the little fellow following, not
hounding joyfully, but with a solemn
step, the little parcel hugged closely to
his side, and his eyes bent soberly upon
the frozen ground.
"And how’s Sis by this time?” I asked
cheerily, flinging the question backward,
and walking on more briskly.
“ ’Bout the same,” said the boy, bright
ening a little, and skipping into a livelier
pace.
“Abot the same, ch? and how’s that?”
I asked.
“Oh, she can’t get around much like
she used to, you know; but she's a-
gittin’ better all the time. She set up
mighty nigh all day yisterd3y;“ and as
the boy spoke the eyes lifted with the old
flash, and the little frowzy head tossed
with the old defiance.
“Why, she’s not down sick?’’ said I, a
sudden ache c f sorrow smiting me.
"Yes,” replied the boy, “she’s been bad
a long time. Ycu see.” he broke in by
way of explanation, “she didn’t have no
shoes ner nothin’ when winter come, and
kindo’ took cold, you know, and that
give her the whoopin’-cough so's she
couldn’t git around much. You jist ort
to see her now!—Oh, she’s a-gittin’ all
right now, you can bet! and she said
yisterday she’d be plum well Christmas,
and that’s on’y tomorry.—Gues3 not'" and
as the little fellow concluded this exult
ant speech, he circled round me, and then
shot forward like a rocket.
"Hi! Jamesy!” I called after him, paus
ing at a stairway and stepping in tho
door.
The little fellow joined me in an instant.
“AVant that shine now?” he inquired with
panting eagerness.
“Noti now, Jamesy,” said 1, “for I’m
going to be quite busy for a while. This
is my stopping place here—the second
floor on the right, upstairs, remember—
and I work there when I’m in the city,
and I sometimes sleep there, when I work
late. And now- I want to ask a very spe
cial favor of you,” I continued, takihg a,
little sealed packet from my vest; “here’s
a little back that you're to take to Sis,
with my compliments—ithe compliments
of the season, you understand—and tell
her I sent it, with particular diiections
that she shouldn’t break it open till
Christmas morning—not till Christmas
morning, understand! Then you tell her
that I would like very much to come
and ree her. and if she says all right—
and you must give me a good ‘send-off,"
and she’ll say all right if ‘Jamesy’ says
all right—then come back here, say two
hours from now. or three hours, or to
night anyway, and we’ll go down and see
Sis together—what do you say?”
The boy nodded dubiously, “Honest—
must I do all that, sure enough?”
“Will you?” said I; “that’s what I
want to know;” and I pushed back the
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little dusky face and looked into the be
wildered eyes.
“Solid?” he queried, gravely.
“ ‘Solid,' ” I repeated, handing him the
box. “Will you come?”
“W’y. ’course % will, on'y I was jist
a-thinkin'—”
“Just thinking what,” said I. as the lit
tle fellow paused abruptly and shook
the box suspiciously at his ear. “Just
thinking what?” I repeated; “for I must
go now; good-bye.—Just thinking what?”
"O, nothin’,” said the boy. backing off
and staring at me in a phase of wonder
akin to awe.—“Nothin', on'y I was jist
a-thinkin' that you was a little the euri-
ousest rooster I ever see.”
Three hours later, as I sat alone, he
tame in upon me timidly to say he’hadn’t
teen home yet. having “run acrost the
cld man jist a-bilin', and had to git him
corralled 'fore he dropped down somers
in the snow; but I'm gittin’ ’long bulb’
with him now. he added, with a deep sigh
of relief. “ ’cause he's so full he'll haf
to let go purty soon. Say you’ll be
here?”
I nodded silently, and he w r as gone.
The merry peals of laughter rang up
from the streets like mockery. The
ilngling bells, the clatter and confusion
of the swarming thoroughfares flung
vp to me not one glad murmur of de
light; the faint and far-off blaring of a
areamy waltz, blown breeze-like over the
drowsy ear of night, had sounded sweeter
to me had I stood amidst the band, with
every bellowing horn about my ears, and
the drums and clashing cymbals howling
mad.
I couldn't work, I couPSn’t read, 1
couldn't rest; I could only pace about. I
heard the clock strike ten, and strike it
hard; I heard it strike eleven, viciously;,
and twelve it held out at arm's length,
and struck it full between the eyes, and
let it drop—stone dead. O, I saw the
blood ooze from its ears, and saw! the
white foam freeze upon its lips! I was
alone—alone!
10 was 3 o’clock before the boy re
turned.
“Been a Jong while,” he began, “but I
lad a fearful time with the old man, and.
he went on so when I did git
him in I was most afeared to leave
him; but he kindo' went to sleep at last
and Molly she come over to see how Sis
was a-gittin'; and Sis said she’d like to
see you if you’d come now, you know,
while they ain’t no racket goin’ on.”
“Come, then*” said I, buttoning my
coat closely at the throat, “I am ready,”
and a moment later we had stepped into
the frosty night. We moved along in
silence, the little fellow half running,
half sliding along the frozen pavement in
the lead; and I noted, with a pleasure-
able thrill, that he had donned the little
fuzzy cap and mittens, and from time to
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time was flinging, as he ran, admiring
glances at his shadow on the snow.
Our way veered but a little from the
very center of the city, but led mainly
along through narrow streets and alley-
ways, where the rear ends of massive
business blocks had dwindled down to in
significant proportions to leer grimly at
us as we passed little grated windows and
low,.-scowling doors. Occasionally we
passed/,a clump of empty boxes, barrels,
and such debris of merchandise as bad
been crowded pell mell from some inner
storage by their newer and more digni
fied companions; and now and then we
passed an empty bus, bulging up in the
darkness like a behemoth of the olden
times; or, jutting from still narrower
passages, the sloping ends of drays and
carts innumerable. And along even as
forbidding a defile as this we groped until
we came upon a low, square, brick build
ing that might have served at one time
as a wash house, or, less probably, a
dairy. There was but one window in the
front, and that but little larger than
an ordinary pane of glass. In the sides,
however, and higher up, was a row of
gratings, evidently designed more to serve
as ventilation than as openings for light.
There was but one opening, an
upright doorway, half above ground, half
below, with little narrow side steps lead
ing down to it. A light shone dimly
from the little window, and as the boy
motioned me to pause and listen, a sound
of female voices talking in an undertone
was audible, mingled with a sound like
that of some one snoring heavily.
“Hear the old man a-gittin’ in his
work?” whispered the boy.
I nodded. "He's asleep?”
“You bet he’s asleep!” said the boy, still
in a whisper, "and he'll just about stay
with it that-away fer five hours, any
how. What time you got now. Cap?”
“A quarter now till four,” I replied,
peering at my watch.
“W’y, it’s Christmas, then!” he cried
in muffled rapture of delight, but ab
ruptly checking his emotion, he beckon
ed me a little farther from the door, and
spoke in a confidential whisper.
“Cap, look here, now; fore we go in
I want you to promise me one thing—
’cause you can fix it and she'll never
drop. Now, nere, I want you to put
up a job on Sis, you understand!”
“What!” 1 exclaimed, starting back and
staring at the boy in amazement. “Put
up a job on Sis?”
"Oh. look here, now, Cap; you ain’t
a-goin’ back on a feller like that!” broke
in the little fellow, in a mingled tone of
pleading and reproof; “and if you don't
help a feller I’ll haf to wait till broad
day light, ’cause we ain’t got no clock.”
"No clock!” I repeated with increased
bewilderment.
“Oh, come, Cap, what do you say? It
ain't no lie, you know, all you got to do’ll
be to jist tell Sis It’s Christmas—as
though you didn't want me to hear, you
know; and then she’ll git my Christmas
Gift,’ you know, you jist kindo’ let it slip j
down to the floor like, and I'll nail it j
won’t she think she's played it fine!” and i
as I slowly comprehended the meaning !
of the little fellow’s plot I nodded my '
willingness to assist in "putting up the
Job.”
“Now, hold on a second!” continued the
little fellow, in the wildest glee, dart
ing through an opening in a high board
fence a dozen steps away, and In an in
stant reappearing with a bulky parcel,
which, as he neared me, 1 discovered was
a paper flour sack half filled, the other
half lapped down and fastened with a
large twine string. “Now this stuff,” he
went on excitedly, “you must juggle in
without Sis seein' it—here, shove it under
your ‘ben,’ here—there—that’s business:
Now when you go in, you're to set down
with the other side to'rds the bed, you
see, and when Sis hollers, ’Christmas
Gift,’ you know, you jist kindo’ let it slip
down to the floor like, and I 11 nail it
slick enough—though I’ll p’tend, you
know. It ain't Christmas yet, and look
sold put. and say it wasn't fair fer you
to tell her, and all that; and then I’ll
open up suddent-liko. and if you don't
see old Sis bug out them eyes of hern I
don’t want a cent!” And as the glee
ful boy concluded this speech, he put
his hands over his mouth and dragged me
down the little, narrow steps.
“Here’s that feller come to see you.
Sis!” he announced abruptly, opening the
door and peering in. “Come on,” he said,
turning to me. T followed, closing the
door, and looking curiously around. A
squabby, red-faced woman, sitting on the
edge of a low bed, leered upon me. but
with no salutation. An old cook stove,
propped up with bricks, stood back
against the wall directly opposite, and
through the warpod and broken doors
in front sent out a dismal sug
gestion of firo that burned
within. At the side of this, prone
upon the floor, lay the wretched figure
of a man. evidently in the deepest stage
cf drunkenness, and thrown loosely over
him was an old tattered piece of carpet
and a little checkered shawl.
There was no furniture to speak of;
one chair—and that was setting as a
stand—sat near the bed, a high hump-
snouldered bottle sitting on It, a fruit
can full of water, and a little dim and
smoky lamp that glared sulkily.
“Jamesy. can't you git the man a
cheer er somepin’?” queried a thin voice-
from the bed; at which the red-facedi
woman rose reluctantly with the rather*,
sullen words: “He can sit here, I reck-
CONTINUED ON FIFTH PAGE.
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111.
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