The Seminoles of Florida

The Indians had set the American government at defiance. The slaves of Southern States continued to run away, taking refuge with the exiles and Seminoles; the slave-holders of Georgia became more clamorous than ever. The Spanish crown could not protect herself from the invasion of the Americans when in pursuit of runaway negroes. She had seen her own subjects massacred, her forts destroyed or captured, and her rights as a nation insulted by an American army. In 1819, by a combination of force and negotiation, Florida was purchased from Spain for $5,000,000.

Thus the Seminoles were brought under the dominion they so much dreaded. Slave-holders once more petitioned to the United States for aid in the capture of their escaped property. The United States, foiled in their treaty with the Creeks, now recognized the Seminoles as a distinct tribe, and invited their chiefs to meet our commissioners and negotiate a treaty. The Seminoles agreed in this treaty to take certain reservations assigned to them, the United States covenanting to take the Florida Indians under her care and to afford them protection against all persons whatsoever, and to restrain and prevent all white persons from hunting, settling or otherwise intruding upon said lands.

By this treaty all their cultivated lands were given up to the whites, and the Seminoles retired to the interior. Once more this long persecuted people found refuge, but it was only for a short time. The value of slaves in States North caused slave catchers with chains and bloodhounds to enter Florida. They seized the slaves of the Indians, stole their horses and cattle and depredated their property. With such a violation of the treaty, renewed hostilities were inevitable.

The Indians petitioned for redress, but received none. Affairs grew worse until 1828, when the idea of emigration for the Indians was submitted to the chiefs. After much persuasion, a few of the tribal leaders were induced to visit the Western country. They found the climate cold, and a land where “snow covers the ground, and frosts chill the bodies of men,” and on general principles, Arkansas a delusion and a snare. The chiefs had been told they might go and see for themselves, but they were not obliged to move unless they liked the land. In their speech to the Commissioner they said: “We are not willing to go. If our tongues say ‘yes,’ our hearts cry ‘no.’ You would send us among bad Indians, with whom we could never be at rest. Even our horses were stolen by the Pawnees, and we were obliged to carry our packs on our backs. We are not hungry for other lands; we are happy here. If we are torn from these forests our heartstrings will snap.” Notwithstanding the opposition to a treaty, by a system of coercion a part of the chiefs were induced to sign, and fifteen undoubted Seminole cross-marks were affixed to the paper. This was not enough, according to Indian laws, to compel emigration. The stipulations read, “Prepare to emigrate West, and join the Creeks.” There was no agreement that their negroes should accompany them, and they refused to move. To expect a tribe which had lived at enmity with the Creeks since their separation in 1750 to emigrate and live with them was but to put weapons into their hands, and did not coincide with the ideas of the Seminoles.

The United States prepared to execute; not a redskin was ready, and troops were sent. The Indians began immediately to gather their crops, remove the squaws and pickaninnies to places of safety, secure war equipments—in short, prepare for battle.

It was a question of wonderment many times among the officers how the Indians procured their ammunition in such quantities, and how they kept from actual starvation. Hidden as they were in their strong fortresses—the fastnesses of the swamps—many believed that they would be starved out, and would either stand a fair field fight or sue for peace. An old Florida settler who carried his rifle through seven years of Indian warfare explains the mystery. He says: “The Indians had been gathering powder and lead for years, ever since the time Chief Neamathla made his treaty with General Jackson. Besides, Cuban fishing smacks were always bringing it in, and trading with the redskins for hides and furs. As for provisions, they had their ‘Koontie’ flour, the acorn of the live oak, which is fair eating when roasted, and the cabbage of the palmetto tree. For meat, the woods were full of it. Deer and bear were abundant, to say nothing of small game, such as wild turkey, turtle and squirrel.” The Seminoles at this time, 1834, owned, perhaps, two hundred slaves, their people had intermarried with the maroons, and in fighting for these allies they were fighting for blood and kin. To remove the Indians and not the negroes was a difficult thing to do. The Seminoles, now pressed by the United States troops, committed depredations upon the whites; bloody tragedies occurred, and the horrors of the second Seminole War were chronicled throughout the land.

The tragic news of the Dade Massacre convinced the United States that war had commenced in real earnest. From this time on, skirmish after skirmish ensued, bloody murders were committed by the redskins, thousands of dollars were being expended by our government, and the white population of Florida was in a suffering condition. The Indians were not suffering for food. The chameleon-like character of the war prevented any certainty of success. General Jessup, considerably chagrined, wrote to Washington for permission to resign both the glory and baton of his command.

There could scarcely arise a more painful theme, or one presenting a stranger variety of aspects, as it whirled scathing and bloodily along, than did the Indian War. Yet it is a remarkable fact that no Seminole warrior had ever surrendered, even to superior numbers. Our military forces had learned what a hydra-headed monster the war really was, and attempts were again made to induce emigration. The horrors of the Dade Massacre and of Fort King had reached the world. General Jessup sought negotiations, but found the same difficulties to encounter as before, viz.: that the chiefs would not enter into an agreement that did not guarantee equal rights to their allies as to the Indians. Official documents show that General Jessup agreed that “the Seminoles and their allies who come in and emigrate West, shall be secure in their lives and property; that their negroes, their bona fide property, shall accompany them West, and that their cattle and ponies shall be paid for by the United States.” The Indians, under these terms, now prepared to emigrate. History records that even Osceola avowed his intention to accompany them. Every preparation was made to emigrate, and a tract of land near Tampa was selected on which to gather their people. Hundreds of Indians and negroes encamped there. Vessels were anchored to transport them to their new homes. Peace was apparent everywhere, and the war declared at an end. At this point a new difficulty arose. Slave-holders became indignant at the stipulations of the treaty, and once more commenced to seize negroes. The Seminoles, thinking themselves betrayed, with clear conceptions of justice, fled to their former fastnesses in the interior, and once more determined to defend their liberty.

Courtesy of the Bureau of American Ethnology.

MICANOPY—HE WAS THE KING OF THE NATION

In the violation of the treaty, to use General Jessup’s words, all was lost!

All the vengeance of the Indian was again aroused, and the wild Seminole war-cry, “Yohoehee! yohoehee,” again broke through the woods.

The fame of Osceola now reached the farthermost corner of the land. His name, signifying Rising Sun,[1] seemed prophetic, and he became at once the warrior of the Ocklawaha, the hero of the Seminoles. The youngest of the chiefs, he possessed a magnetism that Cyrus might have envied, and in a manner truly majestic led his warriors where he chose.

In the personal reminiscences of an old Florida settler, in describing Osceola, he says, “I consider him one of the greatest men this country ever produced. He was a great man, and a curious one, too; but few people know him well enough to appreciate his worth. I was raised within ten miles of his home, and it was he who gave me my first lessons in woodcraft. He was a brave and generous foe, and always protected women and children. An act of kindness was never forgotten by him.” Osceola had received a favor from one of the officers who led the battle of the Withlacoochee. Observing him in the front ranks, he instantly gave orders that this man should be spared, but every other officer should be cut down. Osceola’s father was an English trader named Powell, and his mother the daughter of a chief known as Sallie Marie, a woman very small in stature, and with high cheekbones. Osceola lacked this peculiarity, and was one of the finest-looking men I ever saw. His carriage was erect and lofty, his motion quick, and he had an air of hauteur in his countenance which arose from his elevated pride of soul. His winning smile and wonderful eyes drew from an army officer these glowing words of admiration, “But the eye, that herald of the Soul, was in itself constituted to command. Under excitement it flashed firm and stern resolve; when in smiling it warmed the very heart of the beholder with its beams of kindness. I tell you, he was a great man; education would have made him the equal of Napoleon. He hated slavery as only such a nature as his could hate. He was Indian to the heart, and proud of his ancestry. He had too much white blood in him to yield to the cowardly offers of the government, and had he not been captured, the Seminole War would have been a more lasting one than it was. I could talk all day about Osceola,” remarked the old Captain, as he drew a sigh. “Did the Indians take scalps, Captain?” “Take scalps? Well, yes, if Osceola wasn’t around. He was too much of a white man to allow it himself.”

The admixture of Caucasian blood stimulated the ambition of Osceola’s Indian nature; his education, together with the teachings of nature, made him able to cope with the most learned. Living until he was almost twelve years of age in the Creek confederacy of Georgia, his youthful mind received deep and lasting impressions from Tecumseh’s teachings. To these teachings, as well as the blood he inherited from his Spartan ancestors was due, no doubt, his supremacy in the Seminole War. In the manner in which he led the Seminoles may be seen the influence of the great Shawnee.[2] Osceola’s power was in his strong personal magnetism; he swayed his warriors with a look; a shout of command produced an electric effect upon all. He was a hero among his people, he was feared and dreaded by our officers. In this day, as we study his life and character, we must recognize in the young Seminole fighter the greatest of chiefs, the boldest of warriors. In an old Greek fable, a man seeks to prove the superiority of his race by reading to a lion accounts of various battles between men and beasts, to which the lion replied, “Ah, had we written that book other tales would have been told.” In the case of the Indian chieftain no such records exist, yet even from the testimony of his enemies we must know Osceola.

Interviewing old settlers who well remember events of those stirring times, one finds the heroic part of Osceola’s character to have been not overdrawn in history. The Seminole chief, Charles Omatla, was an ally of the whites, and was attacked and murdered by Osceola’s warriors. On his body was found gold, which Osceola forbade his men to touch, but with his own hands he threw the gold himself as far as he could hurl it, saying, “it is the price of the red man’s blood.”

Osceola’s pride was majestic; he was imperious, full of honor, but with the quickness of the Indian he noted the path to popular favor. His power was recognized by the officers. “Talk after talk,” with the Indians was the order of the times. It was at one of these meetings that Osceola in the presence of the commissioners attracted attention by saying, “This is the only treaty I will ever make with the whites,” at the same time drawing his knife and striking it into the table before him. The cause of this outburst was that the stipulations of the treaty guaranteed no protection to the allies. He was arrested for his insolence, but was released on a compromise. His vengeance became more terrible than ever, and in defiance “Yohoehee” echoed through the woods and “war to the knife” was resumed.

ONE OF THE LAST SEMINOLE BATTLE GROUNDS

It was now that the daring chief made the bold and well-conducted assault against the fort at Micanopy. A short time after, this savage hero performed a piece of strategy before unheard of in the annals of war. Surrounded by two armies of equal strength with his own, he carried away his warriors without leaving a trace of his retreat. That host of Indian braves melted out of sight as if by magic, and our disappointed generals could not but agree that a disciplined army was not adapted to the work of surprising Indians. They were learning to recognize the character of the men our nation had to deal with.

The Indian method is to decoy by a broad plain trail, then at a certain distance the foremost of the band makes a high, long step, leaves the trail and, alighting on the tip of his toe, carefully smoothes out the brushed blades behind him. The rest of the band go on a few yards farther and make their exit the same way, and so on till the end is reached. Many times our troops made long night marches to find—what? Nothing but a few smouldering camp fires.

The war raged on in defiance of the power of a mighty nation, a nation that had said to old King George, “attend to your own affairs” and he obeyed.

What shall we say of the capture of the great Indian chief? Is not the seizure of Osceola America’s blackest chapter? Was Osceola treacherous? The United States failed to observe even one important article of the three treaties made with the Seminoles. Was Osceola a savage? It is not denied that he protected women and children when he could. It is not denied that the soldiers of the United States shot down women and children, destroyed all dwellings, crops and fruit trees they could reach.

After months of warfare, a conference among the Indians with a view to a treaty of peace was held. An Indian chief was sent to the American quarters.

Picture, if you will, an American camp, in the wooded wilds of Florida, and peer beyond the confines of the magnolia and the palms and you see a single Seminole chieftain, heralding his white flag. He approaches our General, the representative of proud and free America, and presents him with a white plume plucked from the egret, with a message from Osceola, with these words, “the path shall be white and safe from the great white chieftain’s camp to the lodge of Osceola.”

General Hernandez immediately despatched Coacoochee with a pipe of peace, kindly messages and presents.

What was the result? Osceola, in company with Wild Cat and other chiefs, accepted the truce and, under the sacred emblem of the white flag, met General Hernandez on October 21, 1837 at St. Augustine.

With that grave dignity characteristic of the red man, dressed in costume becoming their station, with as courtly a bearing as ever graced Kings, heralding their white flags they approached the place of meeting.

History verifies the Seminole account of this blot on our nation that, as the officers approached, they asked of Osceola: “Are you prepared to deliver up the negroes taken from the citizens? Why have you not surrendered them as promised by your chief Cohadjo?”

According to history, this promise had been made by a sub-chief and without the consent of the tribe. A signal, preconcerted, was at this moment given and armed soldiers rushed in and made prisoners of the chiefs.

An account of this violated honor, recently given by the venerable John S. Masters, of St. Augustine, Florida, is opportune at this point. The old soldier in speaking of the affair said, “I was one of the party sent out to meet Osceola when he was coming to St. Augustine under a flag of truce.” “Did you honor that truce?” was asked. “Did we? No sir; no sooner was he safe within our lines than the order to seize him, kill if necessary, was given, and one of the soldiers knocked him down with the butt of his musket. He was then bound and we brought him to Fort Marion and he was put in the dungeon. We were all outraged by the cowardly way he was betrayed into being captured.”

At this violation of the sanctity of the white flag our officers wrote: “The end justifies the means; they have made fools of us too often.”

The foul means used to capture the young Seminole leader was not blessed by victory, as a continuance of the bloody war for five years proved that the God of justice was not wholly on the white man’s side. The stain on our national honor will last as long as we have a history. Osceola with the other chiefs was confined for a short time in St. Augustine, but the daring savage was too valuable a prize to trust on Florida territory, and he was taken to Fort Moultrie where he died January 30, 1838, at the age of thirty-four years.

It is related that Osceola on being questioned as to why he did not make his escape, as did some of the other chiefs from Fort Marion, replied, “I have done nothing to be ashamed of; it is for those to feel shame who entrapped me.” Chas. H. Coe, in his Red Patriots says, “If the painter of the world-famed picture, Christ before Pilate, should seek in American history a subject worthy of his brush, we should commend to him, Osceola, before General Jessup. Osceola, the despised Seminole, a captive and in chains; Jessup, in all the pomp and circumstances of an American Major-General; Osceola, who had “done nothing to be ashamed of,” calmly confronting his captor, who cowers under the steady gaze of a brave and honorable man!”

But such is the Irony of Fate. Osceola, the free son of the forest, fettered by the chains of Injustice, was destined to eat out his heart in a musty dungeon.

Thoroughly and thrillingly dramatic was the death scene of the noble Osceola as given by Dr. Weedon his attending surgeon. Confinement no doubt hastened his death, and his proud spirit sank under the doom of prison life. He seemed to feel the approach of death, and about half an hour before the summons came he signified by signs—he could not speak—that he wished to see the chiefs and officers of the post. Making known that he wished his full dress, which he wore in time of war, it was brought him, and rising from his bed he dressed himself in the insignia of a chief. Exhausted by these efforts the swelling heart of the tempest-tossed frame subsided into stillest melancholy. With the death sweat already upon his brow, Osceola lay down a few minutes to recover his strength. Then, rising as before, with gloom dispelled, and a face agleam with smiles, the young warrior reached forth his hand and in dead silence bade each and all the officers and chiefs a last farewell. By his couch knelt his two wives and his little children. With the same oppressive silence he tenderly shook hands with these loved ones. Then signifying his wish to be lowered on his bed, with slow hand he drew from his war belt his scalping knife which he firmly grasped in his right hand, laying it across the other on his breast. In another moment he smiled away his last breath, without a struggle or a groan. In that death chamber there was not one tearless eye. Friends and foes alike wept over the dying chief. Osceola died as he lived—a hero among men.

OSCEOLA—PATRIOT AND WARRIOR,
DIED, JAN. 30,—1838.

Such is the inscription, that marks the grave of the hero of the Seminoles.

Even at this writing, it is a melancholy satisfaction to know that the great Indian leader was buried with the honor and respect due so worthy a foe.

A detachment of the United States troops followed by the medical men and many private citizens, together with all the chiefs, and warriors, women and children of the garrison in a body, escorted the remains to the grave, which was located near the entrance to Fort Moultrie, Charleston Harbor. A military salute was fired over the grave and as the sound reverberated over the dark waters of the bay, Justice and Patriotism, must have pointed with fingers of scorn to our great Nation, yet with tender pity, said “Osceola—the Rising Sun, may the Great Spirit avenge you, keep you, love you and cherish you,—the Defender of your country.”

Wild Cat and Cohadjo were allowed to remain in old Fort Marion the prison at St. Augustine, Florida. Wild Cat feigned sickness and was permitted, under guard, to go to the woods to obtain some roots; with these he reduced his size until he was able to crawl through an aperture that admitted light into the cell. Letting himself down by ropes made of the bedding, a distance of fifty feet, he made his escape, joined his tribe and once more rallied his forces against our army. Latter day critics have questioned the correctness of this bit of written history. Last winter, during the height of the season, the Ponce de Leon guests enjoyed a unique entertainment. A wealthy tourist made a wager of one hundred dollars that “Wild Cat never could have made his escape through the little window in the old castle.” Sergeant Brown accepted the wager and himself performed the feat, to the great delight of the excited spectators.

Courtesy of the Bureau of American Ethnology.

OSCEOLA

A copy from Catlin’s painting.

Our soldiers fighting in an unexplored wilderness, along the dark borders of swamp and morass, crawling many times on hands and knees through the tangled matted underbrush, fighting these children of the forest who knew every inch of their ground could hope for little less than defeat. Even General Jessup in writing to the President said: “We are attempting to remove the Indians when they are not in the way of the white settlers, and when the greater portion of the country is an unexplored wilderness, of the interior of which we are as ignorant as of the interior of China.”

By way of illustrating the enormity of the task the government had in subduing the Seminoles, it is only necessary to describe one of the many Indian strongholds in the swamps of Florida. About ten miles from Kissimmee, west by south, is a cypress swamp made by the junction of the Davenport, Reedy and Bonnett creeks. It is an aquatic jungle, full of fallen trees, brush, vines and tangled undergrowth, all darkened by the dense shadows of the tall cypress trees. The surface is covered with water, which, from appearance may be any depth, from six inches to six feet; this infested with alligators and moccasins would have been an unsurmountable barrier to the white troops.

A few years ago when the Seminoles yet frequented this section for trading purposes old settlers have seen them coming from the swamp carrying bags of oranges. Interrogations received no answers and white settlers year after year searched for the traditional orange grove, but without success.

So difficult to penetrate and so dangerous to explore is the swamp that it was not until fifty years after the Indians had left their island home that a venturesome hunter, during a very dry season, accidentally discovered the old Seminole camp. The Indian mound, the broken pottery and the long hunted for sweet orange grove were proofs of the old camp. The majestic orange trees laden with golden fruit were an incentive to further research. With a surveyor working his way, as guided by the point of the compass, this wonderland was explored, and proved to be a complete chain of small hommocks or islands running through from one side of the swamp to the other; the topography of the marsh being such that a skirmish could take place on one side of the jungle and an hour later, by means of the secret route through the swamp, the Indians could be ready for an attack on the other side, while for the troops to reach the same point, by following the only road known to them, it would have required nearly a day’s marching. The Indian trail is lost in the almost impenetrable jungle; but the tomahawk blazes are perfectly discernible. The Seminoles held the key to these mysterious islands and in the heart of the great swamps they lived free from any danger of surprise. This retreat must have been a grand rendezvous for them, as its geographical position was almost central between the principal forts. Lying between Fort Brooke (Tampa) and Fort King (Ocala), within a distance of thirty miles from the scene of the Dade massacre, about forty miles from Fort Mellon, the present site of Sanford, the camp could have been reached in a few hours by Indian runners after spying the movements of the troops at any of the forts. The old government road, over which the soldiers passed in going from Fort Brooke to Fort Mellon, passes so close to the old Indian camping ground that all travel could have been watched by the keen-eyed warriors.

At this period of our national history we are unable to picture or appreciate the condition of those slave days, when all blacks of Southern States were regarded as the property of the whites. The fear, the torture, the grief suffered by the negroes and half breeds, who had been a people with the Seminoles almost one hundred years, is beyond our conception. When Indian husbands were separated from wives selected from the exiles, when children were torn from their homes and carried to slavery, the vengeance of these persecuted people was constantly alive. Persons of disreputable character—gamblers, horse thieves—were employed as slave catchers and showed no mercy to the helpless victim.

After the violation of the treaty at Tampa, and the capture of Osceola and Wild Cat, under the sacred truce of the white flag, Wild Cat became a most daring enemy to the troops, and kept his warriors inspired to the most savage hostilities.

General Scott was now placed in command of the army, yet the same harassing marches continued, and it was not until seven generals had been defeated at the game of Indian warfare by the wily chieftains that any sign of success was apparent.

Our government, discouraged at being unable to conquer the Indians or protect the white settlers, again negotiated for peace, but using a more powerful weapon than in former years, that of moral suasion. Executive documents show that, all through the war, artifice and bad faith were practiced upon the Indians. The government was astonished that a few Indians and their negro allies could defy United States troops. All efforts had failed, even to the horrible policy of employing bloodhounds. To-day we shudder at the barbarity of such an act, but official documents show how much the subject was discussed by Congress and war authorities. A schooner was dispatched to Cuba and returned with thirty-five bloodhounds—costing the Government one hundred and fifty dollars apiece. They were speedily put upon the scent of Indian scouting parties, but proved utterly inefficient. The public believed the hounds were to trail Indians, but reports show their use was to capture negro slaves. The Seminoles were a species of game to which Cuban hounds were unaccustomed and they refused to form acquaintance with the new and strange objects. The Indians had a secret peculiarly their own of throwing the dogs off the scent, and the experiment, to close the war thus, proved a failure and served no other purpose than to reflect dishonor on our nation.

Wild Cat, after his escape from prison, was a terrible and unrelenting foe. Occupying with light canoes the miry, shallow creeks, and matted brakes upon their border, he was unapproachable. A flag was sent him by General Worth, but, remembering well another flag which had meant betrayal, capture and chains, the daring hero fired upon it and refused to meet the general. In the summer of 1841, General Worth’s command captured the little daughter of Wild Cat and held her for ransom. The little girl,—his only child—was the idol of the old warrior’s heart. On learning of her capture, Wild Cat relented, and, once more guarded by the white flag, was conveyed to General Worth’s camp. History gives an interesting account of the old chief’s approach. His little daughter, on seeing him, ran to meet him, presenting him with musket balls and powder, which she had in some way obtained from the soldiers. So much overcome was the fearless savage on meeting his child that the dignified bearing so carefully practiced by all Indians gave way to the most tender emotions.

The moral suasion, the humanity of General Worth made a friend of Wild Cat, and he yielded to the stipulations.

The speech of the old chieftain, because it breathes the same sentiment of the Seminoles of to-day, we give below. Addressing General Worth, he said:

“The whites dealt unjustly with me. I came to them when they deceived me. I loved the land I was upon. My body is made of its sands. The Great Spirit gave me legs to walk over it, eyes to see it, hands to aid myself, a head with which I think. The sun which shines warm and bright brings forth our crops, and the moon brings back spirits of our warriors, our fathers, our wives, and our children. The white man comes, he grows pale and sickly; why can we not live in peace? They steal our horses and cattle, cheat us and take our lands. They may shoot us, chain our hands and feet, but the red man’s heart will be free. I have come to you in peace, and have taken you by the hand. I will sleep in your camp, though your soldiers stand around me thick as pine trees. I am done. When we know each other better, I will say more.”

Through the gentleness and humanity of the “gallant Worth,” Wild Cat at this meeting agreed to emigrate with his people. He was permitted to leave the camp for this purpose. By some contradictory order, while on his way to his warriors, he was captured by one of our commands, put in chains and transported to New Orleans.

When General Worth learned of this violation of his pledge he felt the honor of our country had again been betrayed, and acting on his own discretion sent a trusty officer to New Orleans for the return of Wild Cat. General Worth by this act not only showed the nobility of his own character, but proved that the savage heart can be touched with kindness and is always keenly alive to honor and faithful pledges. Moreover the justice of the act had much to do with the successful turning of the war.

When the ship which brought the chief reached Tampa General Worth was there to meet it and publicly apologized to the brave old warrior for the mistake that had been made. Our gallant commander had proven his humane heart, although at expense of both time and money. Through the policy of General Worth, the whole character of the war was changed. On the 31st of July, 1841, Wild Cat’s entire band was encamped at Tampa, ready to be transported to their new homes.

The original idea of re-enslaving the fugitives was abandoned. General Worth and Wild Cat now became the most ardent friends, the general consulting with the famous chieftain until every arrangement for the removal was perfected. Seeing a chief of such prominence yield to emigration, band after band gave up the fight and joined their friends at Tampa. From the time of Wild Cat’s removal in the fall of 1841, until August, 1843, small bands of Indians continued to emigrate. General Worth now advised the withdrawal of the troops. A few small bands throughout the State refused to move, signed terms of peace, however, by which they were to confine themselves “to the southern portion of the Peninsula and abstain from all acts of aggression upon their white neighbors.” As vessel after vessel anchored in Tampa Bay to carry these wronged and persecuted people to their distant homes, the cruelty of the undertaking was apparent to the most callous heart. With lingering looks the Seminoles saw the loved scenes of their childhood fade away. The wails and anguish of those heart-broken people, as the ships left the shores, touched the hearts of the most hardened sailor. They were leaving the graves of their fathers, their happy hunting grounds, beautiful flowery Florida. But it is the destiny of the Indian. Among that band there was not one voluntary exile. Poets and artists picture the gloom, the breaking hearts of the French leaving Acadia; at a later day the same sad scenes were witnessed on the Florida coast, but it was not until years after that a philanthropist gave to the world an intimation of the melancholy picture of these poor struggling, long hunted Seminoles leaving the shores of their native lands.

There is something intensely sad in the history of the Indians who were left in Florida at the close of the “seven years’ war.” Keeping faith with their promise to abstain from all aggression on their white neighbors, retiring to the uninhabited marshes of the Southern Peninsula, they lived happy and contented for thirteen years. Then came reports of outbreaks and the United States again opened military tactics with the resolve to drive this brave and liberty loving remnant from their last foothold on Florida soil.

According to the most authentic reports, the trouble was brought on by some white engineers encamped near the border of the Big Cypress. It was in the year 1855 and the United States was making a general survey of Florida. Old Billy Bowlegs, recognized as the head of his tribe, and living at peace with all the world, had a fine garden in this swamp and in it were some magnificent banana plants, which were the delight of the old Indian’s heart.

As the old warrior visited his garden early one morning, he discovered some ruthless hand had ruined his garden. They were deliberately cut and torn to pieces. Going to the engineers’ camp, he accused the men of the outrage, when they insolently admitted it, refusing to make amends, and saying that they wanted to “see old Billy cut up.” And they did!

The government paid for it to the extent of several thousand dollars, a number of lives and adding another dark page in the history of our Nation.

No white man would have submitted to the outrage, neither did the famous Chief. Summoning his braves early the next morning, the war cry “Yo-ho-ee-hee,” was heard and Lieutenant Hartsuff and his men were fired upon, some of them being wounded.

Like a flash of electricity the news encircled Florida, and Billy Bowlegs became the target of many old muskets.

Then came the clamor of white settlers for the removal of the “savages” and white guerrillas dressed and painted as Indians went about the country robbing and murdering mail and express riders, driving off stock, burning houses and committing other lawless deeds. Old inhabitants tell of these depredations. But there was a reason for such cowardly acts. The Government at Washington was perplexed and, not grasping the fact that the raids were perpetrated by white men, disguised as Indians, believing that military forces could do nothing towards breaking up the warfare, designed the plan of offering the sum of $100 to $500 for living Indians delivered at Fort Brooke (Tampa) or at Fort Myers. After Governmental hunting for three years, the white guerrillas still busy with their malicious depredations, Old Billy Bowlegs, with his band of one hundred and fifty persons, was induced to emigrate, but they went with sore unwillingness, silent or weeping towards the land of the setting sun, driven before the power of the white man, a group of broken-hearted exiles.

PART II
The Florida Seminoles of To-day

A few years ago great interest was manifested in these Florida wards, when a Society called “The Friends of the Florida Seminoles” was organized at Kissimmee, Fla., with the Rev. William Crane Gray, Bishop of the South Florida Episcopal Church, President; Rev. D. A. Dodge, Vice-president; Mr. James M. Willson, Jr., Secretary, and State Senator C. A. Carson, Treasurer. Other officers (trustees) were the late George W. Wilson, Editor-in-chief of the Florida Times-Union; Hon. J. R. Parrott, President of the Florida East Coast Railroad Co., and Capt. F. M. Hendry, Fort Myers, Fla.

This body, assisted by the active interest and sympathy of Gov. W. D. Bloxam, Mr. P. A. Van Agnew, and Mr. Kirk Munroe, made it possible for the Society to accomplish its State-wide results, numbering among its members philanthropic people from Maine to California.

The object of this society was to enlist the sympathy of the American people for these homeless people and to strenuously oppose the removal of the Seminoles from the State against their consent. No really true American, whether he be an Indian sympathizer or not, can feel any but sympathy for the Florida Seminole if he understand the true status of his condition, and when the Society of the Friends of the Florida Seminoles was established, a great wave of sympathy was felt all over the country and requests for membership came in from all ranks, the highest circles of finance, from social leaders, educational centers and government officials. It was recognized an honor to belong to the organization.

The membership list is still open and the Society earnestly appeals to the people of America to take a friendly interest in the future fate of this forlorn remnant, who are one of Florida’s most native possessions, and to aid in securing for them permanent homes in the unsettled portions of the State before it is too late.

The interest and work of the Society was greatly aided through the editorial columns of Harper’s Weekly, when Edward S. Martin made an appeal in behalf of that band of Seminoles known as the Cow Creeks. The object was to purchase a tract of land on which was located about seventy-five Indians. They had lived here for thirty years, cultivating part of the land and using the rest as a range for their hogs, but as they had no legal title to the land, they were at the mercy of squatters who coveted them. About four hundred dollars were raised, but when the attempt was made to locate these Indians, cowboys and land-grabbers had alarmed them, by telling them that the Government was getting ready to round them up and take them West, and like frightened deer they left their homes and retired again to the swamp fastnesses.

The Society purchased some fields upon which the Indians were camping with Harper’s fund—the remainder of the funds being held in trust for its original purpose. The Society secured great public sentiment in their favor, and hoped to obtain lands through legislation. Centuries of wrong from hands too powerful to be resisted have taught these red Americans the patience of despair.

Amid the blessings of Christianity, the Seminole is an outcast from sympathy and an alien to hope, yet he has never ceased to be manly. While we protect the deer and the alligator, the quail and the fish, shall we leave our brother in bronze a prey to the lawless and a helpless victim of every loafer?

The only way to protect these wards of Florida is to buy a reservation, and hold it in trust for them—forever.

Even at this writing, that trackless waste of saw-grass and water with its scattering islands and lagoons, constitutes the great political question among Florida people—the drainage of the Everglades.

A SEMINOLE CAMP-FIRE
The Indian mode of making a fire.

We cannot but admire the proud and independent spirit of the Seminole as he refuses, in firm but Indian-like measures, the proffered liberality of a Government which he believes has wronged him. And, from his high pinnacle of pride, he certainly bears the distinction of being the only American who has been found unwilling to share the spoils of the nation. So he says, “We have listened to the great father at Washington. The Great Spirit wishes no change in his red children. If you teach our children the knowledge of the white people, they will cease to be Indians. To know how to read and write is very good for white men, but very bad for red men. Long time ago, some of our fathers wrote upon a little piece of paper without the nation knowing anything about it. When the agent called the Indians together he told them the little paper was a treaty which their brethren had made with the great father at Washington, and lo! they found that their brethren by knowing how to write, had sold their lands and the graves of their fathers to the white race. Tell our great father at Washington that we want no schools, neither books, for reading and writing makes very bad Indians. We are satisfied. Let us alone.” After this speech delivered in the native tongue, the council breaks up, and the proud Seminole betakes himself to the Everglades. The Seminole is disposed to make a child’s bargain with the big white chief: “You let me alone, and I will let you alone.”

Photographs of the Carlisle Indian boys have been used to illustrate the improvement which follows education; but the Seminole youth turns away with disdain, as he notes the closely shaven head and the American dress, and says, “Indian no want books, make ’em white man, white man mean heap lie too much.” With a gesture faithful to the Indian, he refers to the “long time ago, Seminoles had lands, cattle, slaves; white man steal ’em.” This statement of the Indians is corroborated by the old white settlers of to-day, who fought the Indians. They tell that General Jessup’s army, on coming to the great cattle country of South Florida, began a systematic slaughter of all the cattle found. A body of soldiers, too large to fear an attack, would round up a herd of the Indian’s cattle and sitting on their horses, shoot them all down. Up to this time the Indians were regular stock dealers, their customers being the Cubans and Minorcans. General Jessup’s report of his march into the “Indian country,” says, “On the 28th (January, 1837), the army moved forward and occupied a strong position on ‘Ta-hop-ka-li-ga’ Lake, where several hundred head of cattle were obtained.”

The tribe to-day are taught by the chiefs to regard the whites, in general, as lacking in honor and courage, weak and insignificant, or in Seminole dialect, “white man—ho-lo-wa-gus” (no good). This is easily understood when we consider the strong attachment an Indian bears to his native hunting grounds; and when the memory runs back to the time when our Government banished their friends and relatives to the unknown wilds of the West, and they went silent and weeping toward the setting sun. Their bitterness is consistent with their ideas of injustices practiced upon them.

History, romance and poetry have held up the characteristics of the red man to our gaze from childhood. And while treachery may be a distinguishing feature of the Indian nature, yet the lowest one of them has some conception of honor when fairly approached. History shows that all through the Seminole war, misrepresentations and dishonorable schemes were practiced against them by the whites. Almost universal sympathy goes out to this remnant of people who fought so bravely and so persistently for the land of their birth, for their homes, for the burial place of their kindred. As their traditions tell them of the oppression their people suffered as they wandered in the wilderness thrice forty years, who can tell the secret of their hearts? To do this, it would be necessary to become, for the time, an Indian, to put ourselves in his place—and what white man has ever done this? Ask the waters of Tohopeliga, or the winds that waft across Okeechobee. To the elements are whispered the heart throbs of these red fawns of the forest. The present Florida Indians are descendants of that invincible tribe who were never conquered by the force of arms. Refusing in 1842 to accompany their people to the mysterious West, they ceased to exist save for themselves. Finding refuge in the almost inaccessible Everglades, they were for a time almost lost to the historian. They have no legal existence, and hence no rights that a white man is bound, by law, to respect. There are no Indian troubles in Florida at present, but every few months a cry comes from hungry land-grabbers, or from trappers and hunters, that the Seminoles are killing off the deer and plume birds. The changing conditions in the lower peninsular country will eventually lead up to difficulties; and “Where shall we locate the Indians?” becomes a serious problem.

The Florida Times-Union editorially says:

Should the whites drive off the Seminoles, and thus approve their greed for land by taking the possessions the Indians now occupy, what good would it do them? Internal improvement companies, by their franchises, would sooner or later take the blood-stained acres from them. Let settlers in Florida, or in any part of the country, turn over their accounts and see how many acres have been credited to them, either from the State or from the general Government, without the equivalent of homesteading or for cash. The “Western” style of disposing of the Indian’s inheritance must not be followed in fair Florida. It seems hard that these natives who ask no aid of our nation, should be forced to the wall by the march of civilization. To the Western Indians, under the protection of the Government, and supplied in a large measure by the taxes which civilization pays, pages are devoted by philanthropists for the betterment of their condition. The rights of the Seminoles of Florida should be defended. The day is not far distant when they must be made to go to the reservation in Arkansas or to lands set apart for them in Florida. To remove them from their tropical homes to the chilling blasts of the Indian Territory would be an act of cruelty and wholly unnecessary. Those of us who have enjoyed life in this land of the palm, this land of the balmy air and life-giving sunshine, reveling in the eternal bloom of the flowers and the ceaseless song of the birds, can well picture the struggle it would cost the patient Seminole to be forced to a cold western land. No, fair Florida, the ancestors of these proud people were forced to the country of the setting sun silent and dejected. But, with the spirit of Osceola, if they must perish, it will be here—here upon the land of their birth, upon the graves of their kindred. The lands they now occupy are of little value to the white race and might be made a safe reserve for them—forever. Cowboys who hunt upon the Okeechobee plains, say the Indians are peaceably disposed and friendly, and have never yet disturbed or threatened. They are certainly not foot-sore for the warpath and are fearful of doing anything to arouse the whites. “Indian no fight,” is the answer to the questioner. They have sense enough to know that if war should come again it would mean extermination for them; and their love for the “Flower Land” is so deep that the thought of exile would cost a struggle they dare not attempt. Yet, feeble remnant that they are, with the same heroic blood coursing their veins that inspired their ancestors and made them almost invulnerable, the present Seminole would choose to die rather than submit to removal. And in their swampy fastnesses, they could maintain a contest that would cost us thousands of dollars and many precious lives.

Under the present status the Seminoles are prosperous, happy and contented. But the vanguard of civilization is marching on, and thinking, friendly minds must solve the question of the protection for this remnant of a tribe we have dispossessed of their natural rights. Dwellers of every land, from Scandinavia to the Congo have a Christian welcome to our shores. The slums of Europe pour in upon us to fill our almshouses and to be supported by our taxes. We have during the past quarter century contributed more than $50,000,000 to the education of the freedmen, yet except in individual cases, the improvement is scarcely noticeable.

Men and women are sacrificing their lives for the heathen of other lands. Is not the Seminole, this remnant of a long-persecuted people, as worthy of consideration as the oppressed Cuban or the half-naked Filipino?

Christianity is donating millions of money to this end, while our own “wards,” too many of them, are yet living in the dark superstitions of their fathers.

Photograph by E. W. Histed.

CHIEFTAIN TALLAHASSEE, WITH HIS WHITE FRIEND, THE
LATE L. A. WILLSON

“The very history of the tribe is carved in poor Tallahassee’s face. He
is the incarnation of ‘The Man without a Country.’”

It is possible it will take time and patience before any shining results are apparent. Not until confidence is restored will the embittered Seminole yield to the overtures of our Government. In an educational sense the older Indians will not be benefited, except through the influence of their children. The logic of events demands absorption of this people into our National life, not as Indians, but as American citizens; and the sooner they can be induced to accept lands from the Government, and education for the youth, the sooner will the civilization of the Seminole cease to be a theory. The permanent duty of the hour is to prepare the rising generation for the new order of events that must come. Because these bands of the Seminoles are prouder, more invincible than the old Saxons, because they are savages, yet heroes many of them, all the good of life should not be withheld from them. It has taken years of labor to obtain the shining of even the few rays of light that relieve the gloom of the heathen countries of the Orient. It would be unreasonable to expect the offspring of savages to attain in a short time to anything like the thrift of a Nation like ours. Yet, with a few years of humane treatment, unviolated pledges, with Christian and patriotic examples set before them, this little band of Florida Indians would become worthy representatives of this fair land.

Were any future danger to threaten the United States, the Seminoles would be found to be brave allies. The pledge to General Worth by this remnant of hostiles, who, in 1842, refused to emigrate with the rest of their tribe, temporarily agreeing “to confine themselves to certain limits and abstain from all aggressions upon their white neighbors,” seems to be held sacred by their descendants. The question was put to Billy Bowlegs, one of the most intelligent of the present Indians, as to what his people would do were the whites to encroach, and take the clearings of his tribe are now occupying, “Would Indian fight?” The young brave replied with downcast face, “Indian no fight, Indian no kill, Indian go.” Pursuing the subject further, “but, Billy, by and by, may be one year, five years, may be, white man go, take all your land, take Okeechobee, then where will Indians go?” With the same bowed head, the answer came low and soft, “Me don’t know—Indian go.” Then to test his idea of an ally, the question was asked, “What would Seminole Indians do, Billy, if the Spaniards from across the big salt water would come to fight the white people of Florida?” Quickly and with spirit came the answer, “Indians help white man to fight.” Unless action be taken, there will come a time, when, leaving no trace behind them, the Seminole shall pass out of the world. He shall go, like the mist.

We cannot undo the past, but the future is in the hands of the people. In Canada there are over 100,000 Indians. They are called the Indian subjects of His Majesty; all held amenable to the law and protected by it. Statistics show that on one side of the line the nation has spent millions of money in Indian wars, while on the other, with the same greedy Anglo-Saxon race, not one dollar has been spent, and there has never been a massacre.

The caustic remark that the only good Indian is a dead Indian might apply to the savage Apache; but when one has studied the home life of the Seminoles, observed their domestic felicity, from which many white men might take example, noted their peaceful, contented character, he can only see in them an attractive race, and worthy the proud lineage they claim. Surely if ever the strong were bound to aid the weak, we are bound to help them, to treat them as human beings, possessed of human rights, and deserving the protection of American law. This without doubt, they will be willing to accept, when our nation by kind, courteous and honorable means secures their lost confidence; and when our National Christianity shall take measures to make our land for them a home where they may dwell in peace and safety.

Almost four hundred years have passed since that fair April day when Ponce de Leon anchored on the verdant shores of Florida. Since the Spanish cavalier planted the silken flag of Spain upon her soil, Florida has been surrounded by a halo of romance and tragedy. Between the time of her discovery and to-day, what marvelous scenes have been witnessed upon her fair plains and along the borders of her wild, dark rivers.

The ancient race who greeted the old Castilian has vanished and, save in the little band of Seminoles secreted in the mysterious and weird wilderness of the Everglades, no trace of the red man is visible. A description of a type of this fragment of a people will enable the reader to form a better conception of the tribe as a whole; and no name is more worthy to place in these pages than that of Tallahassee.

The old chieftain in appearance is noble and intellectual, and there is that in his look and bearing which at once pronounces him something more than the mere leader of a savage tribe. While his silvered head marks the cycle of many years, in his attire of scarlet and white, embraced by the traditional brightly beaded sash, he exhibits a dignified and patriarchial bearing. His countenance, while indeed mellowed with the cares of four-score years and ten, is kindly, and shows a conquered spirit. The lineaments of noble features are traceable in the broad forehead, the firm, thin lips, and eyes that might pierce the rays of the sun. Tallahassee shows no resentment to the whites, yet he believes that they have treated the Indian badly.

It may seem strange to talk of gentlemanliness in an untutored savage, but the demeanor of this Seminole chief must dignify any family in the land. But that face! Heaven forbid that any native of free America should wear so sad, almost heartbroken an expression as that which seams poor Tallahassee’s face. No child could look upon it without being impressed by its mournful pathos. The very history of the tribe is carved there.

When Osceola, with his compatriots, went on the warpath, Tallahassee was a small boy, and remembers well when his father and a few companions were surrounded and killed by the soldiers near Tallahassee, the capital of the State. Chipco, the chief of the tribe, was Tallahassee’s uncle; he escaped from the soldiers, and made his way to the Everglades where he lived to be nearly one hundred years old. Rosa, the sister of Tallahassee, became his squaw. They were childless, and at Chipco’s death, Tallahassee inherited the title, but as a reward for bravery displayed in saving his life on two occasions, Chipco had made him chief years before he died.

There is no trace of a revengeful spirit in either word or manner when Tallahassee speaks of his father’s tragic death, but with the stoicism of a philosopher, he seems to have accepted it as one of the cruel fortunes of war, and has nobly “buried the tomahawk.” Tallahassee is no stern warrior with blood-stained hands, but wears worthily the dignities of his ancestral station, and in many ways might be imitated with profit by his more cultured pale-faced brother. He is a true type of the “noble red man,” and in any other walk of life would have risen to eminence. Of all the Seminoles, Tallahassee is the most friendly to the whites. With the inborn courtesy that is native to all true greatness, this untutored Indian will welcome you to his wigwam and with royal grace dispense the hospitalities at his command. Few enter his presence, and none leave it without this mental tribute to his high character. The old chief is treated with care and consideration, and a homage is paid to him by the younger members of the tribe. Among the Seminoles, when a member of the tribe becomes too old for usefulness or self-help, it becomes the duty of the young men to contribute their share to his support. They are taught to do this more as an honor than as a burden.

As the years pass, more pathetic grows the life of the hereditary chieftain.

A few years ago, after numerous invitations, Tallahassee was persuaded to leave his swamp home to make a visit to the home of the writer. The old patriarch was accompanied by Billy Bowlegs, who showed the tenderest care for him. With one horse between them they traveled from the Everglades to Bassinger, the terminus of the steamboat line to Kissimmee. Then they boarded the steamer Roseada, arriving at Kissimmee after two days’ river travel. They attracted much attention and were the recipients of many small presents from sympathetic friends. They were both in full costume, the old chief wearing the regalia of his rank, sashes of bead work and red beaded leggins. On reaching the home of their host, they immediately began unpacking the bundle they carried, which indicated they had been preparing for many moons back for this eventful visit. Numerous garments, new and fanciful, were carefully withdrawn. The next morning being the Sabbath, they dressed with greatest care for the Sunday School and church services, which they enjoyed to the fullest. Knowing the famous chieftain would attend service, the church was crowded and at the close of the services parents with their children crowded around the old chieftain eager to shake hands with him; and with a pleasant beam of gratitude in his eyes, he received these greetings of the white friends.

It is a pleasing fact that Tallahassee, a savage and the representative of an almost destitute people, received a homage and as kindly a greeting as was ever accorded to any visitor to the little city of Kissimmee. However adverse a man may be to the Florida Indian in general, if he looks into the history of the Seminoles of Florida, he not only becomes friendly, but eager to see justice meted out to them.

As Tallahassee bade “good-bye,” he said, “Me no more come to Kissimmee City—old too much.” He had come as an ambassador of his tribe to tell his white friends the history of his race, and as memory went back to the olden days of bloodshed and accounts of home after home wrested from his people, he trembled with suppressed emotion. Anguish, interblended with the mournful pathos of his face, made a picture too sad to look upon. It was a period of agonizing struggle for this gallant, but conquered Seminole.

Sad and prophetic were his farewell words, for a short time after he reached his swamp home, he was taken with violent pains in his head, and as Billy Bowlegs reported it, “Pain three days—pain go,—Tallahassee blind ojus” (heap). The old chieftain, though totally blind and physically helpless, rules his band with the same stoic will of days long ago, when he carried them to the wilderness and wrenched them from the white man’s bullets and Uncle Sam’s bloodhounds.[4]

It is generally believed that the Seminoles are dying off, and can last but a few years longer. On the contrary, they have large families of strong, healthy children, and the past ten years has shown a marked increase in their number. The strict law allowing no persons of like gens to marry is a reason why the tribe does not multiply still more rapidly. There are instances where eligible young men find great difficulty in getting wives because of the strictness governing the gens or consanguinity law. One chief has two daughters who find the same trouble in getting married because the men of their choice are too closely connected to them. Thus, a member of the Deer clan may not marry into the same clan, no difference how far removed the relationship may be. Relationship on the father’s side is not guarded against so strenuously, as the gens is all counted through the mother. Very often the law of marriage causes strange alliances—young men twenty years of age having old women for wives. From the best obtainable resources, there were in the year 1859, only one hundred and twelve Indians left in Florida. In 1880, by actual count, as reported by the Smithsonian Institute, the Seminoles of Florida numbered two hundred and eight. According to data gotten from the Indians themselves the tribe to-day numbers nearly six hundred. Of this number a great proportion are young children, or in the language of the chief as he made a numerical calculation of the members of the different families—“heap pikcanannies, pikcaninnies ojus” (plenty). The Seminoles are divided into four bands, who live in groups apart; each independent of the other, but in friendly relation. They are the Miami Indians, the Big Cypress band, the Talla-hassees and the Okeechobees. Since the death of Woxo-mic-co (Great Chief) five years ago, no one has been elected to fill his place, and it is doubtful if his office will ever be filled.

No event in the history of the Seminole tribe since the closing of the war has been more tragic than the slaughter of eight of the band, by the hand of Jim Jumper, a half-breed belonging to the tribe. The killing occurred in February, 1891. According to the Indians, the negro had bought some bad whiskey from a white trader, and it made him “crazy too much in his head”—doubtless delirium tremens. With his Winchester in his hand he started out. The first victim was his faithful squaw who happened to be close by. Rushing forward and through the camp and meeting the venerable Woxo-mic-co, head chief over all the tribe, who was on a visit to the Cow Creek band from his council lodge at Miami, the crazy half-breed sent a ball through the old chief’s head, killing him instantly. Old Tom Tiger, one of the landmarks of the Indian wars, hearing the firing, came to the rescue, but was shot down before he had time to interpose. Young Tiger, stepping out of the wigwam in time to see his father fall to the ground, with a blood-curdling war-whoop sprang upon the maniac and a hand-to-hand fight ensued; but he was at the wrong end of the rifle, and before he could wrest it from his antagonist, another report was followed by the death-cry of the brave, young Indian. The wildest panic ensued, the women and children huddling in their wigwams or fleeing to the woods. The murderer now rushed into the wigwam of his sister, and with his knife murdered her and her two little children, who were clinging to her dress in terror. Brandishing his knife, he started into the woods, where he was killed by a bullet from Billy Martin’s rifle. The wailing and the anguish in that camp can better be imagined than described. After the burial ceremony over the murdered victims, the body of the murderer was dragged far into the swamp, to be fed upon by the vultures. Thus passed away in less than half an hour eight innocent lives, victims to the demoralizing influence of the white man’s whiskey. The Indian village was broken up, the entire band moving away to escape the visitations of the spirits of the murdered ones.

Photograph by E. W. Histed.

A SEMINOLE GROUP OF THE TALLAHASSEE BAND, KNOWN AS THE COW CREEKS

A people without a country.

On the death of Woxo-mic-co, four candidates for the position of Big Chief appeared, but five years have passed and yet no chief has been elected. In the old chieftain’s death the last vestige of Seminole war spirit is obliterated. Nowhere in their history is their determination to live at peace with their white neighbors more conclusively proven than in the abolition of the office of Great Chief, “Big Chief” and war councils, in their minds, being inseparable.

The authority of the sub-chiefs, who are leaders of the different bands, is purely personal; they cannot decree punishment—a jury or council alone can do this. The government is not harsh, and there is as much freedom as could be possible in these forest homes.

In personal appearance, many a Seminole brave might be taken as a type of physical excellence. He is bright copper in color, is over six feet in height, his carriage is self-reliant, deliberate and strong. His step has all the lightness and elasticity that nature and practice can combine to produce, as lithe and soft as the tread of a tiger. The Yale, the Harvard or the Oxford student with years of training in the athletic school, would be but a novice in the art of grace, suppleness and mode of walking, as compared with this son of the forest. His features are regular, his eyes jet black and vigilant, always on the alert; his nose is straight but slightly broadened, his mouth firm as a stoic’s. The hair is cut close to the head, except the traditional scalplock of his fathers, which is plaited and generally concealed under the large turban that adorns his head.

The dress of the Seminole chief consists of a tunic embraced by a bright sash, close fitting leggins of deer-skin, which are embellished with delicately cut thongs of the same material, that hang in graceful lines from the waist to the ankle, where they meet the moccasin. The moccasin is also made of deer-skin, and covers a foot shapely and smaller than that of the average white man. A picturesque feature of the dress is the turban. Oriental in its effect, it has become the emblem of the race. It is worn almost constantly; and is made impromptu from shawls or colossal handkerchiefs wrapped round and round the head and then secured in shape by a band, often made of beaten silver which encircles the whole with brilliant effect. With young braves the more important the occasion, the more enormous the turban. Another characteristic of the dress is the number of handkerchiefs worn, knotted loosely about the neck. Regardless of the temperature, the Indian adorns himself with six, eight or perhaps a dozen of bright bandannas, exhibiting great pride in the number he possesses. A belt made of buckskin completes the costume. From this are suspended a hunting knife, a revolver, a pouch in which is carried the ammunition and small articles necessary for the chase.

The physique of the women will compare favorably with that of the men. They are healthy and robust, and among the younger members some comely well-featured women are found. The dress of the squaw is very simple, consisting of a straight, full skirt, made long enough to hide the feet. The upper part of the dress is a long sleeve, loose-fitting waist, which fails to meet the waist band of the skirt by about two inches; this oddly fashioned garment is cut large enough in the neck to be put on or taken off over the head. A large collar, fashioned after the collarettes worn by the fashionables of the season of 1896, completes the toilet. A Seminole woman wears no head-dress of any description. Even when visiting the white settlements they go with their heads uncovered. Neither do they wear moccasins, at home or abroad, in winter or in summer. They are always bare-footed.

Vanity and coquetry are inborn in the female character. The Seminole maiden whose life has been spent among the swamps “far from the madding crowd” and fashion’s emporium, still practices the arts of her pale faced sister. She affects the bang and the psyche knot with as much ease as the New York belle, and with such metropolitan airs soon captivates her forest lover. The same passionate desire for gold and jewels, ever uppermost in the heart of the civilized white woman, be she peasant or queen, shows itself in the Seminole squaw. Silver breast-plates, made from quarters and half dollars, beaten into various designs, add to their personal adornment on festal occasions. What the turban is to the brave, such is the necklace of beads to the woman. It is her chief glory and is worn constantly. Her ambition seems to be to gather as many strings of these highly colored beads about the neck as she can carry, often burdening herself with several pounds. Even the wee tots are adorned with small strings of the much prized necklace.

Many years ago, when the Indians were encamped on the Kissimmee River, Chief Tallahassee with two or three of the squaws visited Kissimmee. Being taken into a room to see a newly-born babe, he directed a squaw to take from her neck a string of beads and put it around the neck of the “little white pappoose.” This was done as an act of greatest honor, to show the Indian’s appreciation of hospitalities received at this house.

To-day as we meet the Seminole “at home,” we find the wigwam made of palmetto leaves and the skins of wild animals; the floor of this structure is made of split logs and elevated about two feet above the ground. A few of the Indians have in late years built board houses, but the roof is made of palmetto thatch. Here, surrounded by the gloom and weirdness of the Everglades, miles from white man’s habitation, the baying of the alligator, the hooting of the great horn owl, and the croaking of the heron are the only sounds to be heard. Truly the picture is one of melancholy and profound dreariness. But here we find the aborigines contented because they are out of the white man’s power. Here they hold their councils, here around the camp fires the traditions of the old turbaned tribe are taught to the youths; here, too, they follow the same customs of the race of one hundred and fifty years ago. Here is instilled into the youth the story of the perfidies practiced upon their fathers by the white man; and as the children listen to the glories of Osceola, and the tragic ending of their hero, the spirit of conservatism is engendered, and with swelling hearts they go on, on, resolute in their determination to avoid disaster, by keeping aloof from the white man. Although far from the influence of civilization, knowledge has come to these people naturally which we have painfully acquired by books. Driven to these Florida jungles after a seven years’ bloody war, here the Seminole, thrown absolutely upon his own resources, has continued to dwell. He has accepted no aid, his people have increased, and in a manner have prospered. No alms-houses are supported for their benefit. This independent Indian does not increase the expense of the jail nor the penitentiary; he is no starving Indian who must be fed at the expense of the Government. In these red sons of the forest we meet the original “real Indian,” unchanged by contact with the white man. The visitor to the “Wild West,” who complains that “the Indians do not look like the Indians of fifty years ago,” would have little ground for his complaint were he to visit the Seminoles in their marshy fastnesses. Florida can boast of one of the few tribes of “real Indians” in the United States. The present Seminole must be credited with a high sense of honor; and he can keep a pledge as well as did Massasoit. A few years ago, during a terrific coast storm some Indian braves asked shelter of a Florida settler. The Indians were received and entertained until the weather settled. On leaving, the chief sweeping his hand toward the broad Savannah, said, “Captain, hunt deer?” The answer was “Sometimes.” “Indian no hunt Captain’s deer,” was the rejoinder. Very little in itself, but it meant much, for since that time there has not been an Indian hunter within miles of the place.

CHIEF TALLAHASSEE MARTHA TIGER SHE YO HEE TOMMY HILL MILAKEE

Famed in song and story is the pledge of the old turbaned tribe of the Seminoles. Not more worthy are they of commemoration than their descendants of to-day. A few months ago, Billy Bowlegs and Tommy Doctor paid an unexpected visit to Kissimmee. They walked from their camp at Okeechobee Marsh, a distance of one hundred and twenty-five miles to tell their white friend that “Indians no lie.” This was all. They apparently had no other business in town, and after a few hours’ visit left as quietly as they had come. Their mission was completed, their white brother believed them, their honor was clear; they could now dance at the Green Corn Dance with merry hearts.

A few months prior to this, these Indians had promised their white friend to act as guide on a bear hunt in the Everglades. All arrangements had been made for the hunt, except to fix the time and place of meeting. This was to be done through a white settler. Later, plans for the hunt were perfected, and word was sent to the Indian village. According to their promise the Indians came to the settler’s home on the day specified, but found that the white man had left his house early in the morning with no message as to how or where the Indians should follow. The Indians, not knowing which way to go to find the party, could do nothing but return to their camp—a distance of forty or fifty miles. Subsequent developments proved that the white man wished to act as guide, and thereby earn for himself the remuneration he expected the Indians would receive.

“Es-ta-had-kee, ho-lo-wa-gus, lox-ee-o-jus”
(White man no good, lie too much.)

When one sees the great moral strength of the Seminoles, notes the wonderful physical endurance of which they are capable, observes the fearless, haughty courage they display, he cannot but be surprised that the Florida wars were not more disastrous than they were, or that any of the Seminoles ever yielded to removal. To test their endurance the old chiefs have been known to take a live coal from the camp fire, place it on the wrist and without an emotion let it burn until the heat was exhausted. Tustenuggee would remove the cool ember and quietly reach down and put a fresh one in its place. This old chief, so famous in history, never yielded to removal, and lived till a few years ago with his tribe in the Everglades. The goal of the Seminole is to learn to endure and to achieve. To this end is every Seminole boy educated, and different modes of developing the powers of endurance are employed. Carrying a deer for a long distance without fatigue, walking or running for many miles, jumping, wrestling, poling a canoe, etc., are some of the practical modes. The Spartan spirit is supreme in the minds of the tribe, and the youth are taught that no merit is greater than that of bearing pain without complaint. At the annual feast of the Green Corn Dance the young Indians of a certain age are initiated into the rights of warriors, and are subjected to trying ordeals. They must pass through the “In-sha-pit,” which means the cutting of the legs till the blood flows, and other cruel arts, after which the Indian boy is pronounced a warrior, ready for the battle of life, whatever the Great Spirit decrees. It is the strict adherence to the teachings of their ancestors that makes the present generation the brave and proud people that they are.

Strange as it may seem, the Seminoles celebrate a Christmas—“All same white man’s Kismas,” is their reply when questioned concerning the celebration. This is the great feast day of the “Shot-cay-taw,” (Green Corn Dance) and occurs each year about the first of July, and is the time for assembling the whole band.

The ceremony is largely under the control of the Medicine Men, who are important personages among all bands, and act as advisers, as priests and as doctors. In the authority of the Medicine Man one recognizes a similarity to the priests of the Ancient East as well as the doctrines laid down by the Aztecs. The festivals observed by the Florida Indians show teachings centuries old—blending the peculiarities of different races—the carnival of the Romans, with the Jewish feasts of Moses’s day, and the mystic link of the Aztec jubilee.

The Feast of the Shot-cay-taw has many similarities to the historical records of the National Festival of the Aztecs. The feast is for sorrowing, rejoicing and purifying. This is the beginning of the New Year when, following the traditions of ancient people, old fires are allowed to go out, not a spark is allowed to remain. New fire is produced artificially; this is the Sacred Fire and must be made with the flint rock of their ancestors. The new fire is presented from one tribe to another, and is received as a token of friendship. Then they assemble around the fires singing and dancing. Gratitude is expressed to the Great Spirit, if the year has been abundant. If death has overtaken the tribe mournful strains expressive of pity and supplication are invoked. This custom was borrowed from the ancient tribes who worshipped the sun. The Medicine Men arrange the date for the Green Corn Dance, which is governed by a certain phase of the moon, and runners are sent from band to band to announce the time.

The ceremony preceding the dance permits all men who have evaded the laws to be reinstated by indulging in certain trying ordeals. The transgressors appear a short time before the dance. They are placed in a closed skin tent where a large hot stone lies on the fire. The famous “Black Drink” of Osceola’s time is administered, water is poured on the stone, and the culprits are shut up in this suffocating heat. If they pass the ordeal, they are forgiven and allowed to join in the feasting and dancing when it occurs. This same “Black Drink” which is a nauseating medicine from herbs, is taken by all the tribe on the first day of the dance. This cleanses the system and enables them to “eat, drink, and be merry” to the fullest extent.

At this great re-union, old friendships are revived, courtships take a prominent part, and plans are formulated for hunting expeditions, syrup boilings and “Koonti” gatherings. Members of one settlement will agree to meet certain members of another family at a certain point on a fixed day of the moon.

BILLY BOWLEGS AND TOMMY DOCTOR

“They walked one hundred and twenty-five miles to tell their white friend, ‘Indian no lie.’”

There will be no broken pledges—no disappointments. The Seminole promises nothing to his people that he will not fulfill.

One of the most picturesque games enjoyed by the Indians during this festival is the dancing around the festal pole. On the night of the full moon, they dance from sunset until sunrise. It is very interesting to see the harmony in running around the circle. As the women throw the ball at the pole in the center, the men catch it in their bags that are made around bent sticks, which have bows each about four inches in diameter, with a cross at the lower side.

When the dancing is over, the circle about the pole is perfectly symmetrical, and about ten inches deep, made by the running and dancing.

An exciting feature of the dance is the racing for a wife. A level course is laid off and the race begins. The dusky lover selects the maiden for whom he would strive, because he must catch her before he may court her. The Indian girl is his equal, and often his superior in fleetness, and need not be caught unless she so wishes. But, like her civilized sister, she generally encourages the pursuit until she is tired, and then gracefully yields on the homeward stretch. However, should she win the race the young lover need have no further aspirations in that direction. He may be saved the embarrassment of future humiliation.

That slavery existed among the present Seminoles has been a disputed question. That it did is known to a few; but any interference would have been received as an act of impertinence by the Indians, as well as by the slaves themselves; as was evidenced a few years ago when a tourist meeting Tustenuggee’s slave (who was watching his master’s canoe while his master sold some skins) attempted to enlighten the negro on his true condition. As the chief came back to the canoe, the philanthropist stranger began to explain his mission. The chief, with the ferocity which at once stamped him as a true Tustenuggee, ordered the negro to “go,” which command was instantly obeyed. Then, turning to the stranger, he said, “White man’s slave free. Injun este lusta (negro) belong to Injun—now you go.” The philanthropist also quickly obeyed.

Tallahassee’s squaw died about thirty-six years ago, leaving a family of six boys, the youngest one being but a small pickaninny. These boys were cared for by the two negro slaves who spoke only the Seminole language and were perfectly content to do the drudgery for the family. The number of slaves among the remnant left in Florida was small, but they were allied to the Indians and, while treated kindly, they were expected to obey. In the last few years they have all died off with the exception of one old slave, Hannah, in the Tallahassee band.

A character holding a position unparalleled in Uncle Sam’s domain, is Hannah, the negro slave, belonging to Tallahassee’s family. She is a full-blooded negress, with thick lips, broad flat nose and kinky hair, which is tied in little plaits with the proverbial string of the Southern negro.

Hannah is the last vestige of Seminole slavery—the one great subject of warfare seventy-five years ago between the Seminoles and the Southern planters, and upon which, truly speaking, was based the “Seven Years’ War.” Hannah does the work of the family, and, though she is kindly treated, yet a certain contempt is felt for her, for Hannah is an este lusta (a negro) and to the haughty Seminole a negro is the lowest of human creatures.

The occasion when Hannah’s picture was kodaked is fresh in memory. All preparations were being made for the feast, but Billy Ham, Tallahassee’s son, had not been able to get a deer, and so had purchased beef from a market thirty miles away. With pots and kettles in evidence, Hannah was preparing the beef, when the little box-like instrument was gently rested on a rail near by. Hannah’s eye detected the object and she turned away, and began busying herself around the boiling kettle on the ground. The camera was adjusted, finger on button ready to snap, and a masked indifference affected, and an animated conversation begun with one of the Indians near by. When Hannah returned to her work about the table, snap! went the button, and Hannah’s ebony face and twisted, string-tied locks was photographed on the plate, and proud was the owner to possess so good a likeness of Uncle Sam’s one and only unfreed slave.

The government among the Seminoles is peculiar, it is remarkable, it is magnificent. There is no lying, no stealing, no murder and yet apparently there is no restraining law. The Seminole has many noble traits; he is proverbially truthful. Pertinent was the reply to the hunter when he asked if it was safe to leave his gun in the wigwam. “Yes,” replied the chief, “there is not a white man within fifty miles of the place.”

Reverence, too, is one of his distinguishing features. His language contains no oath, nor any word to express disrespect to the Supreme Being. A missionary will receive most respectful attention, for their reverence to God will not permit them to laugh at His messenger.

HANNAH, THE ONLY REMAINING SLAVE OF THE SEMINOLES

In Tallahassee’s camp making sofka for dinner.

If the annals of this heroic band were chronicled, they would say, “They are prouder than the proudest Inca, braver than the boldest Saxon knight, fearless and unrelenting as foes, devoted and unflinching in friendship, and the purity of their morals without a parallel in the history of any other race or tribe on the globe.”

Anxiously and carefully have we studied their form of Government, knowing that they leave their money, their trinkets and their garments in the open wigwam. With carefully-framed questions we asked of Billy Bowlegs, while on his recent visit to our home, “Billy, your money, you leave it in your wigwam, you go back, money hi-e-pus (gone), Indians steal it, then what you do?” He answered, “Me don’t know.” “Yes, but, Billy, white man come in my house, my money steal ’em—by-and-by, in jail me put him. Indian, all the same, bad Indian steal. What does Indian do?” Again the answer came, “Me don’t know.” Making the points plainer, illustrating by the theft of his gun, his provisions, showing him that a bad Indian from one of the other settlements might come in his absence and steal his Winchester, with perfect understanding of our meaning, the reply came as before, “Me don’t know, Indian no take ’em—Indian no steal.” In such a socialistic State, where there is no crime, there can be no punishment. Were a crime to be committed, a council of chiefs would meet and decree a punishment, and it would have enough severity to serve as a lesson for all future miscreants.

The only “fall from grace” we have ever known among any of the bands, extending over a period of twenty years’ acquaintance, was in the case of Buster Flint. Old Buster was a large, powerful Indian, but as the braves express it, he was “ho-lo-wa-gus” (no good), “lazy too much,” and laid around the settlement as a regular loafer, too indolent to work or hunt; and in consequence was ragged and unkempt. On one occasion, while our tent was pitched near the palmetto wigwams and the hunters had been absent for the day, on the return a small red napkin was found to be missing. Upon calling Captain Tom Tiger’s attention to the fact, he replied, “Me know,” and very soon the napkin was quietly returned to its place. Old Buster could not resist the bright red cloth and the others knew his weakness. What punishment was meted out to the old Indian was not learned, but certainly enough to terrify him during the remainder of our visit.

The Seminoles mean to be honest in their dealings with the whites. Occasionally the white man may be deceived when the Indian intends no wrong. As the National Editorial Excursion once made a tour of Florida, the train made a stop at a little trading post on the east coast. Quite a joke was innocently played upon the party by Captain Tom Tiger. A few Indians had come into the village to trade at the stores. Captain Tom had brought with him a load of sour oranges which grow wild in the region of his camp. The oranges are beautiful to the eye, but oh, how bitter! The merry editors saw the golden fruit and immediately offered to purchase. The chief was glad to sell, and only asked one cent apiece for the fruit; but the editors would not take advantage of the Indian’s ignorance of the price of oranges, so they paid him twenty-five cents per dozen for them. At this the load of oranges was soon disposed of and the chief, with perfect honesty of intention in the transaction, was the proud possessor of about twenty-five dollars. Those of the party who first tasted the fruit said nothing until all the oranges had been bought; then they were told to taste their oranges, and a laugh, long and loud, went up from one end of the car to the other, and as the train rolled away the good-natured but victimized passengers treated Captain Tom Tiger, chief of the Seminoles, to a shower of sour oranges. The Indian was dumbfounded. The wild orange is an article of barter in Florida, but not until the idea dawned upon Tom that the excursionists had mistaken his fruit for the sweet orange did he awaken from his bewilderment, and with earnest nods of the head and impressive gestures he soliloquized, “White man no like Indian’s orange—sour too much. Me tell white man, one orange, one cent. White man tell me one orange, two cents. Indian no cheat white man.”

The Seminoles look upon the dim past as a lost paradise in which there was happiness and innocence. “Before the white man came we were men,” says the Indian. Their faith in their forefathers is reverential. They believe they always did what was right. They were kind and true to their friends, but terrible to their enemies.

The Florida Indians are an industrious people. While the fruits of the chase are their main support, they cultivate the fields, raising vegetables, corn and sugar cane. The men make canoes, which they sell to hunters and trappers. Moccasins, baskets and koonti starch, plumes, smoked skins and venison are among their exports. Complaints are sometimes heard that the Indians are killing off the deer and the alligator, which is very true; but alike are the white men and the negro engaged in the same occupation. Before the white race taught the Indian the monetary value of the game of the country, he slew them only for food and clothing. Long centuries had he lived on this continent, but the herds of buffalo were not lessened; nor the vast quantities of game driven to the fastnesses of the forest. Till the white trader came to hunt the game as a source of revenue or for ruthless sport, the Indian knew no such motive.

Like his forefathers, the Seminole is no prohibitionist, but enjoys the fire water, as much as did the savage tribe that greeted the good ship, The Half Moon, in the land-locked waters of Manhattan, three hundred years ago, and drank the first American toast to the intrepid Henry Hudson. Since that first great tipple in New York which ended in such a scene of intoxication, causing the Mohicans to name the island “the place of the big drunk,” the Indian practices more precaution; and one of their number always remains sober and watches his boozy brother like a hawk. This is the practice of the Seminoles. Before going on a spree, a selection is made of one of the band whose duty it is to stand guard over all weapons and see that no injury is done to any member of the tribe. The “sprees” in which they indulge are too infrequent to warrant them being classed as intemperate. It is opportune at this point to say that only under the degrading influence of whiskey, which the white civilization brings to him, does the Seminole ever show any demoralized condition, and the proper official should see to the enforcement of the laws against selling liquor to these childlike people.

Only a few of the tribe talk broken English. The chiefs disapprove of it on general principles—for fear they will talk too much. To keep aloof from the white man, and the white man’s ways, is the training of the Seminole youth. Occasionally a few of the tribe leave their marshy homes. These talk sufficiently to do their trading when visiting towns to dispose of their plumes, deer skins, basket work, etc. These products always find ready sale, and when the great day of shopping begins, a “corner” in red calico and fancy colored beads is the result. The squaws have control of their own money, when on a purchasing expedition, a fact which makes them very American.

The squaws are about as sociable as the half-wild deer that are petted by the guests of the St. Augustine hotels. As seen in their camps, clustered together, half-alarmed, half-curious, the side glances from their dark-brown eyes seem to utter a protest against the Government’s eternal “move on.” A more severely pure-minded people are not to be found on the globe. The women are above reproach. Were a white man to insult a Seminole woman by word or look it would be well for that man never to appear in the presence of the tribe again. The Seminole girl who would unwisely bestow her affections would be killed outright by the squaws. In the history of the Everglade Indians only one such case is known and at the birth of the half-breed child the mother was taken to the woods and there hung to a tree by the indignant squaws. The infant was also destroyed. In questioning, as to which of the squaws did the killing, the answer was “All, every squaw.” On the principle of American lynch law each hand helped pull the rope.

The Seminoles, like other Indian tribes, are classified by gens. This lineage in the Florida tribe is traced through the mother. The child belongs to the clan which the mother represents. The mother exercises absolute ownership, and should a squaw and her husband separate for any cause, the children belong unconditionally to the wife.

Photograph by E. W. Histed.

A PICTURESQUE GROUP

Seminoles of the Cow Creek band.

Modesty, as the great ornament of women, is taught to the girls, and as she is about to enter into life there is a moral sublimity in the counsel that teaches her to hold an implicit reverence for her husband, but at the same time she becomes a teacher and custodian of her children. One young Indian of our acquaintance is divorced from his squaw. They have one pickaninny now, three years old. Asking the father to give the boy up, and holding out alluring inducements, he replied, “Munks-chay (no), squaw’s pickaninny.” The gens represented in the Seminole tribe to-day are the Otter, the Tiger, the Deer, the Wind, the Bird, the Snake, the Bear, and the Wolf. Other gens are now extinct in Florida. Thus, in asking about the Alligator tribe, the chief replied, “All gone—long time ago—to Indian Territory.” A young brave dare not marry a girl from his own gens, he must select her from another clan. When asking a chief what he would do were he to want a girl from his own gens for a wife, and the girl should want to marry him, he replied, “Me no marry her.” The young Indian is shy and bashful in his courtships, and having resolved to marry, conceals his first overtures with all the Indian cunning. His intention is secretly conveyed to the girl’s parents, and should there be no objection the young woman is at liberty to accept or reject. No Seminole girl is forced into a marriage. The lover, with permission to woo, shows some token of affection; a deer is killed, and laid at the door of the wigwam. If the present is received the lover is happy. If it remains untouched, he may do as his white brother does, go hang himself, or, as is usual, go seek a more willing fair one. The prospective bride, to show her appreciation of her lover, makes a shirt and presents it to him. No pomp or ceremony is connected with the marriage. The day is set by the parents, the groom goes to the bride’s house, at the setting of the sun. He is now her husband, and at her home, he lives for a period. When the young couple build their own wigwam, they may build it at the camp of the wife’s mother, but not among the husband’s relatives.

The Indian has a high sense of beauty in woman, and has been demonstrated on several occasions during their visits to the different towns. A Seminole chief was taken to the parlor of a hotel, where a new piano was the exciting theme, to see what effect the music would have upon his savage mind. But the fair-haired performer absorbed his attention, and with a shrug which showed his appreciation for beauty more than for music, he said, “Ugh! white man’s squaw heap purty!”

Music is not a genius with the Seminoles. True, they have some songs which are monotone and rhythmical. They are the hunter’s songs, the camp songs and the lullabies. The war songs which sent such terror to the hearts of the white settlers in Seminole war days they seem to have forgotten. Some of the Indians have natural musical ears, and they are recognized by their people as musical leaders. They have no standard pitch, but start their songs where the natural quality of the voice renders it easiest to sing. The pitch of the song depends upon the individual.

An incident, full of pathos, yet illustrating one of life’s parodies, is recalled. It was occasioned by hearing the music of some old familiar tunes played in a gruesome Everglade home. As the picture recurs, one sees a savage tribe—a weird camp scene, with its storm-beaten wigwams in the background—and dusky warriors and squaws moving hither and thither in the dim shadows of the camp fire. In the center of the group sat the musician, who was the happy possessor of a “box of music,” an organette, which he had recently purchased. The melodies of “Home, Sweet Home,” “Hail Columbia,” and “Nearer My God To Thee,” floated out upon the stillness of the night, telling the story of the white man’s inheritance—happy homes, a free Government and an ennobling religion. To the Seminole the tuneful strains contained no more sentiment than the murmur of the brook: for they are a people without a home, without a country, and without a God in the sense of these songs.

Under the head of American Sport, the following story of a “Bear Hunt with the Seminole Indians,” appeared in the columns of the Asian Sporting Newspaper of Calcutta, India.

The story had been accepted from the pen of the writer by Forest and Stream Publishing Company of New York, and because our British hunters of lion and elephant fame had appreciated an American hunt sufficient to scissor it (neither giving credit to the author nor to the American journal), the story is here appended:

“Hunting the black bear in Florida is a sport to which few are introduced. This bear is not fierce nor dangerous, but still he is big game, and a bear hunt is always full of incident and excitement. About ten miles from Kissimmee, is a cypress swamp—it is an aquatic jungle full of fallen trees, brush, vines and tangled undergrowth, all darkened by the dense shadows of the tall cypress trees, and full of moccasins and alligators. Running through the swamp is a chain of islands. Here is a field for sportsmen, and here live unmolested a whole colony of the bruin family. Hunters hear their growls, and numerous fresh tracks show where the night marauders have entered the hommock, where they feast on wild honey, huckleberries, the cabbage of the palmetto and the wild orange. They seldom come out to expose themselves during the day, hence they are rarely captured, and in consequence are on the increase. Settlers frequently report depredations on their hogs; but bruin is safe in his swamp home, for without dogs trained to hunting bear, even if he were surprised, he would quickly make his escape into the jungle.

“Of all game of the forest bear meat is the favorite dish of the Florida Indians; squaws, pickaninnies and dogs revel in it. With this knowledge, it was an easy matter to secure a party of Seminole chiefs and their trained dogs for a bear hunt. The auspicious day arrived. This picturesque hunting party came striding into Kissimmee as unconscious and statuesque as bronze figures of Mercury. The party was led by Chief Tom Tiger, following after in Indian file was old Chief Tallahassee, Doctor Tommy and Little Tiger, while trailing along by their sides were the formidable looking dogs. Dressed in their holiday attire, with new leggins and moccasins, bright calico shirts, a half-dozen red handkerchiefs around their necks, crowned with the immense red turban, the emblem of their race, with knives and cartridges in their belts and Winchesters at their sides, the Indians attracted as much attention as a Presidential party.

“If ever men deserved the name of Nimrods, it is these sons of the Everglades. Even Little Tiger, a boy of twelve, with his fine rifle, could put to shame many a skilled marksman. But on to the chase. The souls of the red men seemed to leap into them at the thought of the sport after bear, while the hounds barked gleefully, so with hasty preparations our hunting party started for the Reedy Creek jungle. At this point we will turn the story over to the tenderfoot, that the reader may better follow the chase.

From Le Moyne’s Narrative of the French Expedition in 1563.

INDIAN MODE OF HUNTING ALLIGATORS IN FLORIDA, AS CONTRASTED WITH THE PRESENT DAY HUNTING

“As we reached the hommock, which has been for years a veritable elysium for the bears, the dogs seemed to become possessed of a very spirit of unrest; soon they struck a trail. ‘Lo-co-see ojus’ (bear plenty), exclaimed Captain Tom Tiger, as he observed the numerous cabbage palms with their buds freshly torn out, as well as the conduct of his dogs, and with a word of command to the hounds, he started. The rest of us followed, till we struck a marsh heavily timbered with cypress, which grew so close that sun’s rays could not reach the earth. It made a dark, damp and dangerous ground to enter. The dogs were now running with broad scent, heads well up and throats wide open. If ever there was a sound sweet to the hunter’s ears, it was the baying of five hounds close on bruins trail. With nerves on a tension we rushed along, with gun carried at ready. On swept the riot. The Indians yelled as only Indians can, and the tenderfoot brought up the rear. A hunt in a Florida jungle, pulling through soft mud, climbing over logs, pushing through vines, sprawling on hands and knees through the tangled, matted undergrowth, expecting or fearing each step we would strike a moccasin, are the penalties paid for the romantic, adventurous hunt with a Seminole Indian. At last the supreme moment arrived; the leading dog had reached the bear, and soon the five dogs and the bear were having a vigorous rough and tumble fight. We were in good hearing distance, but traveling was very difficult, and our progress was slow. The Indians’ cry, ‘Yo-ho-ee-hee, Yo-ho-ee-hee!’ to the hounds, made them fight furiously, so much so that bruin broke from cover and started on the chase just before we reached shooting distance. Further into the woods the chase led. Soon the sound of the pursuing dogs ceased, much to our surprise. We appealed to the nearest Indian for an explanation. ‘Lo-co-see (bear) climb tree,’ was the brief reply, and later, when we reached the dogs, they were running wildly around on the bank of a dark creek. We were again at a loss to comprehend the situation, until we were shown by the Indians a leaning tree, the top of which reached to the further side of the creek, over which bruin had safely passed. ‘Lo-co-see-hiepus’ (bear gone).

“Three hours’ tramping through the swamp and hot sun had taken all the enthusiasm out of us, and we were ready to play quits, but the stalwart red men had defiance in their faces as they said, ‘Big lo-co-see; fight heap; Indian kill lo-co-see to-day.’ Away to the left the brown legs of little Tiger Tom could be seen twinkling through the foliage; he had found some fresh tracks of a cub, and in his eagerness to capture a baby bear he proved a similar nature to his little pale-faced brother. But the stern hunters had no time for a cub, and soon started for old bruin, who by this time had crossed the marsh and gotten into a tree on the opposite bank, and by this trickery put the creek behind him. This did not daunt a Seminole Indian. Wading the shallow part of the creek, with water to the armpits, again cooled our ardor, but safety depended on not losing sight of the Indians, as we were miles in the swamp, and with no hope of finding our way out without the guidance of our red pilots. At last the bear was driven to a small island and surrounded, the island covered with tall grass and weeds hiding both dogs and bear. The dogs grew furious, and several times forced the bear to stand and fight, and such a battle as it was; the dogs didn’t hesitate to take hold of old bruin, and as a result were badly lacerated from the blows of her powerful paw. We closed in and our game was in a trap. The Indians were in their future heaven; but the tenderfoot was getting very shy of being hugged. Bruin, now finding herself cornered, made a break for the open, and as she emerged from the tall grass, with the dogs at her heels, she met the stalwart figure of Tom Tiger. Rising on her hind legs, with open arms, she made one dash for him, when stepping back, in a cool and deliberate manner, he pulled the trigger of his ‘scatter’ gun and emptied both barrels into the bear’s side. This ended the chase, and a happier set of Indians the world never saw. Immediately they drew their knives and commenced skinning the bear. As the skin adheres very tenaciously it should be taken off at once, as it then comes off much easier; besides, it is difficult to scrape away all the fatty tissue after it cools, and wherever any remains it rots the pelt.

“The Indians’ method of educating their dogs for hunting bear is well worth knowing. They take the gall of the bear and thoroughly saturate the nostrils of the young dog. This is excruciating pain to the dogs, and they howl and whine for hours; but it makes ‘bear dogs’ out of them, perfect on the trail, and this is the point with the Indian.

“The huge carcass of bruin was divided and each Indian carried a load to camp. A fire was soon built, and a huge chunk of bear meat was thrown on the coals. All night long they cooked and ate, the tenderfoot getting into his hammock beneath the bough of the oaks. We rested and dreamed—the flicker from the camp-fire, the Indians moving to and fro, the silence occasionally broken by their low, soft voices, and ever and anon in this wakeful slumber came the half-dreaming thought, ‘Betty and me killed the bear!’”

It is a number of years now, that Tom Tiger, chieftain, reached Kissimmee after a ride of 160 miles. Tall, straight and muscular, he proved himself a worthy descendant of the royal Tustenuggee. Dressed in the regalia of a chief, and mounted on a raw boned horse, he might have been mistaken for a sheik of the Arabian desert. He had come on a friendly visit incidentally, but to tell his white friend his trouble over a horse which had been procured under a fraudulent pretense, by a white trader. The story is a long one, but suffice to say proceedings were instituted and with the result that Captain Tom Tiger, Seminole chieftain, was the first Florida Indian that ever stood up in a white man’s court, making, as the spectators remarked, the most imposing picture they had ever witnessed.

The tall, magnificent looking savage, with uplifted hand, took the oath on the holy Book, with a perfect understanding of its meaning.

CAPT TOM TIGER

(Micco Tustenug-gee.)

The case was prosecuted by the Society, “Friends of the Florida Seminoles,” and achieved notoriety for being the first case in Florida in which a Seminole sought the protection of the court. It was told that the State’s Attorney made the most thrilling speech of his life as he pleaded for the barbarian of the swamp. The Indian never swerved under the strongest cross-examination, but told the story simply and direct. The status of the case was this: The white man was to return the horse at the end of two moons, binding the promise by writing. The argument was written on a cartridge box; a terrific rain storm came; the box was soaked in water, and the writing made illegible. Because Tom could not read, he could not make oath as to what was written on the box, the white man testifying he had bought the horse. On this simple technicality the case was lost and the white man escaped the penitentiary.

Like many of his race, Tom had a love for Wy-o-mee (whiskey), and was not averse to taking it. In speaking of a saloonkeeper he would say, “Captain, good man, five Indians go in saloon, five drinks give ’im. No money take,” but when Tom was asked to drink no whiskey in Kissimmee, he promised, “un-gah” (all right). A day or two after, the white friend stepped out of his office, and looking back saw the tall form of Tom just passing into the saloon—headed by three cowboys. Tom returned to the office, and his friend chided him for going to the saloon. “Whiskey, me no take ’em, lemonade, me take, cowboys wy-o-mee take.” The white friend’s trust had not been betrayed.

In this Indian’s visit of a week, many chapters were revealed of the character and home life of this tribe. Savages, it is true, but honor, justice and religion shine forth in their tribal life.

During his absence, the squaws and pickaninnies watched the potato and corn patch, and cared for the hogs, surely worthy tribute to a domestic life.

In relating a tragedy of the forest, Capt. Tom seemed much affected. The chief, attracted by the cries of young birds, found that a rookery of the beautiful white heron had been completely destroyed by plume hunters, and the grounds strewn with the mutilated bodies of the parent birds. From the tall trees overhead the starving nestlings were spending their waning strength in calling for food. The pitiful scene touched the heart of the strong red man, and he paused in his journey to find food for the helpless birdlings. In relating the circumstance, the Indian said, “Little birds, cry, cry, all day. No water, no fish,” till the Indian boys caught minnows and daily climbed the lofty trees and fed and watered the young egrets, a tribute to the savage mind over the cruelty of the civilized and Christianized white man.

A few years ago, Florida was an ornithological Eden, the winter home of countless thousands of the migratory birds of the North American Continent; but alas, the blood thirsty greed of the Caucasian for gold is shown in the brutal extermination of the plumed egret, and “the passing of the snowy heron” is the price of human callousness. The Indian chief probably did not see in the fate of the innocent plume bird, a prophecy of the destiny of the Seminole.

THE INDIAN’S HUNTING GROUND

“Within a mile of the wigwams, the big dredges clank and groan, an accompaniment as it were, to the dirge of the recessional Seminoles.”

The same forces are at work to-day to take from the helpless Seminole his home and happy hunting ground.

Tom Tiger made his last visit to Kissimmee during the Spanish-American war, and a touching and pleasing feature of the visit was the meeting between General Fitzhugh Lee and this Chieftain of the Seminoles.

The train bearing General Lee and staff stopped at Kissimmee, where crowds of citizens went to welcome the hero of the Southland. General Lee, dressed in his rank as U. S. general, Chief Tom Tiger in the regalia of a Seminole chieftain. The scene is indelibly impressed upon all who witnessed the meeting. The Indian chief with the Stars and Stripes in his hand, was introduced and shook hands with the great American soldier. In hearty tones General Lee responded, “I am glad to see you, Chief.”

Tom was told he must “yell” when the train came in. He understood and answered, “Me holler (ojus),” and he did, a genuine Seminole war cry, “Yo-he-ee-hee—Yo-ho-ee-hee!”

Driven and hunted, homeless and helpless, this Indian was a strong ally of the United States. “No fight white man,” meaning the people of the United States, “shoot Spaniards, ojus” (heap), was Tom’s reply when the attitude of the two countries was explained to him.

One by one the older Indians are passing away, and when word was received that Captain Tom Tiger had been killed by a stroke of lightning, the news was received with genuine sorrow. In his death, a fair, generous and faithful friend was gone. Captain Tom was building himself a dugout canoe on the edge of the cypress swamp, his family being with him at the time. Seeing an approaching storm, he sent them back to their wigwam. When he did not return, the Indians went to seek him and found his dead body. Other Indians turned the unfinished canoe into a mausoleum, and there rested his remains until an avaricious curio seeker sought it out and robbed it of the body of the chief. Considering the tender respect the Florida Indians have for their dead, and also the superstition that any desecrations of the bones bring dire calamities to the tribe, it is not surprising that this act of vandalism aroused the Seminoles to the highest pitch, and they were stirred as they have not been since the days of the Indian wars. The whites realized that unless they were pacified they were liable to give trouble.

Two of the leaders of the band visited the authorities at Fort Pierce, Florida, and the newspapers of that date give the following account, “Big Yankee steal bones of Tiger Tom, Indians Big Chief and best friend. Indians all fight. Kill white man ojus, bones no bring back by big white chiefs next moon.”

The matter was immediately taken up, and information filed by the State Attorney in the Circuit Court against the party, charging him with disturbing the grave of another and having in his possession a dead body. All over the United States the account was taken up by the press and looked upon as a matter of serious importance, as the Smithsonian Institution was credited with being behind the rapacious curio hunter.

The matter was brought to Mr. J. M. Willson, Jr., recognized as the Seminoles’ best friend among the whites.

The letter following explains the situation and is herein given:

The bones of the noted Indian were quietly restored, and all trouble averted, but of the throbbing hearts of these interesting countrymen of Osceola what shall we say?

A short time ago, the press chronicled the news that the old Seminole squaw, Nancy, living at the Big Cypress camp, was dead. The account stated that Nancy was the widow of the famous chieftain (Osceola), and that she was survived by seven children. The associated press took up the story and many accepted it as true.

It is the desire of the writer to say that Osceola’s wives (for he had two) went into captivity and were with him when he died, a captive of the United States Government, and it is safe to suppose they, with his children, were taken with the other Seminole captives to the West.

Old Nancy was the squaw of a half-brother of Osceola—hence a sister-in-law. A few years ago she consented to have her picture taken amidst a group of her great-great grandchildren. Chief Tallahassee quickly recognized the picture and said, “Old too much—eyes no see, blind ojus.” When questioned as to her identity, with the suggestion that she might be Osceola’s widow, Tallahassee showed marked disdain, “No, no, Osceola, big chief. Squaw no got one in Florida. Old Nancy Osceola’s brother’s squaw.”

Several months ago, Cho-fee-hat-cho (Billy Bowlegs), a warrior of more than usual intelligence, made his long-promised visit to Kissimmee.

Here, away from his natural surroundings, one could study his Indian characteristics from an unprejudicial standpoint.

As a specimen of manhood, he is far above the average. Although six feet, two inches tall, he is so symmetrically proportioned that one loses sight of his height. His features are good, his hands and feet remarkably small, his voice soft and low—a characteristic of every Seminole.

His dress was the holiday attire of the tribe, his tunic or shirt he had made himself, was highly decorated with bands of narrow red,—leggins and moccasins elaborately thonged, and around his neck about a dozen gaily colored handkerchiefs, not worn for warmth, but because it is a Seminole fashion.

His large turban was embraced by a silver band, made from four silver dollars beaten with the implements which can be found at an Indian village. He wore a gold watch and chain and regulated his timepiece by the railroad clock. Billy is a fantastic dresser, but he is a loyal Seminole and a progressive one, too. He keeps posted on the markets in his own particular line of business. His pockets bulge with letters received from New York and Jacksonville buyers of skins and otter pelts. He expects no favors, pays for what he receives and keeps a promise, although a year may elapse before he is able to do so. He is often a purchasing agent for members of the band, and in his small way has a mercantile mind, buying four shawls for $1.75 that would retail at fifty cents each, he will sell out, with the satisfactory remark, “25 cents me make ’em.”

Billy ventures beyond the confines of his Everglade home, much oftener than any other of the tribe. To the stranger he is all indifference, answering: “Yes,” “No,” “Me don’t know,” as it suits him.

A SECTION OF A SAW GRASS SWAMP WITH THE STAKES SET FOR A NEW DRAINAGE WAY

“The onward march of the white brother into the last hunting ground of the Seminoles.”

Billy has visited St. Augustine, and has seen the Ponce De Leon Hotel, but explained that “no get inside.” The season was not “on,” otherwise the Seminole brave would have been one of the celebrities that enter its great portals. New York and Washington do honor to dukes and counts, and this Aboriginal American Knight is no less a Prince of the Everglades.

He has made several visits to Kissimmee, hence is well known to the white people. At the ringing of the church bells on Sunday morning it was explained to the Indian that they were to call the people to the church, so that the preacher might tell them of the white man’s God. With the inquiry, “You go?” to his host, and receiving an answer in the affirmative, Billy said, “Me go too.”

He was escorted to the chapel and through the long sermon was a model of propriety and conformed perfectly with the customs of the church. He expressed himself later as liking the music, but remarked that the “preacher talked too fast.”

From time to time colored pictures from Sunday School charts have been given or mailed to the Indians and Billy reports, “Indians got ’em,” keeping them with their treasures in boxes or trunks.

Blue backed spelling books had been sent to these Indians, for the spelling book is the Seminole’s ideal in literature, and Billy reported that the books were in good order—and Indian boys, spell “littly bit.”

Who shall say there is no hope for the civilization of this picturesque tribe?

Not a hair’s breadth will this Indian diverge from the truth. Even to the simple question as to when he would visit his white friends again, he replied, “Six moons; me don’t know, maybe ten moons; six moons, me say—no come, white man say, ‘Billy Bowlegs lock-a-dox ojus!’ (lie too much).”

Billy is grateful for favors shown him and on his return from a visit always sends some remembrance. A letter usually accompanies the present, and the following is a unique specimen of his literary ability:

In his signature, Billy always uses the prefix, “Mr.”

At another time on Billy’s return to his Okeechobee home, a letter was received which read:

The egrets, snowy white and beautiful as a poem, came in a crate made of green palm stems, with a door fastened by buck skin hinges and buck skin catch, the whole a marvel of neatness and ingenuity.

The birds were at once given the freedom of the lawn, where they have been a constant surprise, in showing how full of confidence, how charming the wild heron can be made under habits of domestication. They love companionship and at meal time they station themselves like two sentinels, at the dining room piazza. Here they stand, with their long necks craning into the door-way, alert and tense, waiting for their beef to be thrown to them.

These white plumed egrets, with their dark, piercing eyes, their spotless white figures adorned in their bridal veil of long silken plumes, make a picture that an artist may envy.

It is a pleasing and encouraging fact that on all occasions when the Seminoles visit white settlements they are warmly welcomed by the whites and treated with the utmost respect and many times entertained as one would celebrities.

The Florida Times-Union always breaks a lance in favor of the Seminole. During a carnival season in Jacksonville, Billy Bowlegs visited the city, and of his visit an editorial read:

Billy visited the Times-Union office, and took the keenest interest in the mechanical equipments for making a newspaper.

A fac-simile of Billy’s writing appeared in the paper at this time and, a year later, it made an amusing picture to witness Billy’s expression when he was shown the fac-simile; the clipping having been taken from the paper at the time. Very quickly memory came to him and he said, “Me know; my name write big paper, Jacksonville.”

Such names as Tom Tiger, Doctor Tommy, Wild Cat and Billy Bowlegs, are white man’s names for the Indians. Each Indian has his Indian name, which is significant of some family or personal characteristic, and which contains the root word of the gens to which the Indian belongs. During the Indian’s visit he expressed a wish to have the Seminole names of a number of his people written down so that he might make a copy and carry home with him. Certainly this young brave could not be called stupid or sluggish. Knowing that the information was sought for the purpose of putting it into a book, so that “the people could read about the good Indians of Florida,” he showed the greatest interest in the questions, making his answers direct and truthful.

With the patience of a sphinx this Indian answered questions till dark. When asked if he were tired, he answered, “Tired ojus,” although his native politeness had not permitted him to show any special restlessness at the tedious afternoon’s questioning. An air of deepest solemnity would rest upon his face until he was assured his meaning was thoroughly understood. During his visit he expressed an eagerness to learn, and followed a copy with remarkable exactness. With the desire to read and write, however, ended all ambition to be like the white man.

Every effort was made to please so rare a visitor, favors were shown him, in fact he was treated as a most honored guest, yet this son of the forest received it all with a silent dignity that would have graced a monarch. When he was ready to leave he quietly arose, remarking, “Me hi-e-pus” (go), and noiselessly passed out of the house.

It is a disputed question whether a wild Indian of pure blood has ever been permanently civilized. One of the missionaries of the Osage band once said that “it took fifteen years to get a blanket off Joseph Pawnee-o-passhee, Chief of the Osage tribe, and it took Joseph just fifteen minutes to get it on him again.”

A pretty tradition among the Seminoles is that a beautiful race of Indians, whose women they call the daughters of the sun, reside among the swamps and lakes of the O-kee-fee-ne-kee wilderness and live in uninterrupted felicity upon islands of eternal verdure, feasting upon the luxuries of the islands, but inaccessible to the approach of human footsteps.

Unlike the child of Africa, who lives in a world of ghosts and goblins, the Seminole is not superstitious. He has his traditions, his mythologies, and on these are based his history. He obeys the Great Spirit, but it is not from any spirit of fear; it is the teaching of his fathers, and becomes the duty of the Indian. The religion of the Seminole has been without question the most difficult of all their history to reach.

The Florida Indians believe in a Supreme Being; in the immortality of the soul; in the future existence and the resurrection of the dead. Reverence, too, is one of his distinguishing features. His language contains no oath, nor any word to express disrespect to the Great Spirit. A missionary will receive most respectful attention for their reverence to God will not permit them to laugh at His messenger. The Seminole qualifies the Supreme Being as the “Giver and Taker away of Life.” The Aztec designated, as the “God by Whom We Live.”

Their conception of the creation of man is very unique. “Long time ago, E-shock-e-tom-isee (God) took seeds and scattered them all around in a rich valley bordering a river. By and by, God saw fingers coming out of the ground and great people—heap too many came up from out of the sand. Some went to the river and washed, washed, washed too much; it made them weak and pale; this was the es-ta-chat-tee (white race). Others went to the river and washed not too much, they returned full of courage, strong, heap; this was the es-ta-had-kee (red race). The remainder no wash, lazy too much, es-ta-lus-tee (black man).”

In an extract taken from an old history printed in London in 1776, descriptive of the native inhabitants of Florida, these people are described as idolaters, worshipping the sun and moon—the worship consisting of saluting the rising sun, chanting his praise and offering sacrifices to the planet four times a year. They believe that the sun was the parent of life.

Whatever may have been the ancient rites of this race, the present people seem to have outlived all remembrance of them as well as of their early ancestors themselves. A glimmering of the Christian religion, no doubt instilled into the race more than two hundred years ago by the Franciscan priests, still seems to linger among the descendants of to-day and constitutes their religion largely. These rites they observe as faithfully as they did a century ago; and yet in all that time they have received no further teaching, and have no personal knowledge of the civilizing effects of the gospel of Christ. In the same length of time where would have been the religion of the Caucasian race, without the divine word, and without the influence of men who have devoted their lives to the cause of Christianity? The Seminoles believe in God (E-shock-e-tom-issee); that God had a son (E-shock-e-tom-issee-e-po-chee) who came on earth and lived with the Indians “long time ago to make them good Indians.”

HI-E-TEE, CAPTAIN TOM TIGER, HO-TI-YEE, AND “LITTLE TIGER”

One is tempted upon an intimate knowledge of this race to wonder whether the Son of Man appeared to the Indian also; could not the Light of the World in some mysterious way have touched the soul of this innocent people? The more one studies the Seminole, the more one wonders. Christ, according to their traditions, was killed by the “wicked Spaniards” when they first came to this continent. Since that time it has been the duty of the medicine men to teach the Indians “to think with God,” and to impart the Great Spirit’s wishes to his red children. Each tribe has two or more medicine men who act as priests as well as doctors. These men are highly honored by the tribe, because they believe them to be directed by the Supreme Being. Just before the festival of the Green Corn Dance the medicine men leave the tribe, and going to a secret spot, there build a lodge. Here they fast for twenty-four hours, after which they take a potion, made of herbs, which causes a deep sleep to come over them. It is now that God appears to them in a dream and tells them how to make the Indians “think good,” and how they shall prepare the herbs for medicine. Returning in time to prepare for the great feast they occupy a most prominent position in the dance circle. The Seminole tradition of Christ’s coming to live with the Indians, is that the Son of God stopped at the most southern point of Florida, at which place he was met by three Indians who carried him around the Southern Peninsula on their shoulders, while he sowed the seeds of the “koonti” root, which was God’s gift to the red men. (This koonti is a wild cassava and found only in the extreme southern portion of Florida.) According to the legend, the Indians were in a starving condition. The ground was parched, no corn grew and the game had all left. During the long time in which the Indians waited for the koonti to grow, God rained down bread “heap, plenty,” which the Indians gathered and ate. In describing this bread, which came down in the rain each morning, the Indian illustrated in this wise: “Littly bread, white man’s biscuit all the same, good, every Indian eat plenty.” The Mosaic account of the manna from heaven is evident in this legend.

The Seminole believes in a future state, In-li-Ke-ta (heaven or home). To this place do the good Indians go after death. Here they may “hunt, hunt, hunt, plenty deer, plenty turkey, plenty bear find, and cool water ojus (plenty) all the time. Bad Indians after big sleep hunt, hunt, hunt, hunt deer, turkey, bear—no find ’em, hot water drink all the time.”

The Indians’ religion, for we may justly call it so, is sacred to him, and it is difficult to get him to reveal his inmost thoughts. His idea of the Bible is vague, because he understands it as the work of man. “White man got book, him good one day, he steal, cheat next day; book no good. Injun no make book, he no see hunting ground, him no go and come back. Big sleep, no come back, him no lie about it. Me think good Injun find hunting ground all right; me think me find it. White man, big sleep comes, me think no find In-li-Ke-ta (heaven) easy.”

After death the body of a Seminole is immediately prepared for burial, the corpse being clad in new clothes. When a chief dies one cheek is painted red, the other one is painted black. The rest of the tribe do not have the face painted for burial. It will be recalled that Osceola, with the death struggle already upon him, rose in his bed, and “with his own hand painted one-half of his face, his neck and his throat, his wrists, the back of his hands and the handle of his knife red, with vermillion,” the marks of a war chief.

At sunrise, on the day following a death, the body is carried by two Indian men to the place of interment. The corpse is placed on a base made of logs with the face to the rising sun. If the deceased be a warrior, his rifle and accoutrements are placed by his side, “that he may be fully armed on his arrival at the happy hunting grounds.” A bottle of Sof-ka is buried with him that he may eat on his long journey. Around the body is built a pen of logs sloping till they close at the top and thickly covered with palmetto leaves. The protection is to prevent the wild beasts from despoiling. With faces now turned reverently to the rising sun, they commend into the keeping of the Great Spirit the bivouac of the dead. The bearers of the dead then make a fire at each end of the grave, and the mourners return to camp, the women loudly wailing and tearing their hair. At the death of a husband the widow must live with disheveled hair for one year. Her long black tresses are worn over her face and shoulders, and she presents a forsaken, pitiable appearance. At the end of twelve moons her period of mourning is over, and she may again arrange her hair, don her beads, which have been removed during her period of mourning, and may marry again. The husband, on the death of his squaw, may not hunt for four days, and for a period of four moons must appear in mourning, which consists in the removal of his neck handkerchiefs, and the laying aside of his turban. When a death occurs in one band or settlement, the news is not communicated to the other bands until such time as it is convenient for a messenger to be sent.

About fifteen years ago, one young Indian brave, Ko-nip-hat-cho by name, stepped beyond the Seminole law and asked permission to live with a white man at Fort Myers, Florida. He was eagerly received by the gentleman, and was taught much of the English language and civilized mode of living. But for a Seminole to so far forget the teachings of his fathers, as to wish to affiliate with the white race, caused the greatest dissatisfaction in the Indian camps. “Talk after talk” was “made” by the chiefs as they met in council concerning the actions of this bold young Indian. He was repeatedly warned to return to the tribe. They even threatened to kill him if he refused to do so. At length, however, artifice succeeded, where all else had failed. The daughter of Charles Osceola was promised to him for a wife if he would but return to his people and once more don the costume of his race. No Indian girl in all the nation could boast of the beauty of Nan-ces-o-wee; damask and dark, with features as refined as the Caucasian, a form superb in its symmetry, a step as graceful as the doe’s, a spirit as fearless as the falcon, such is the woman who moved Ko-nip-hat-cho from his foreign alliance. Ko-nip-hat-cho has four children, is contented and happy in his forest home, and with his knowledge is an important personage among his tribe. His wife is the belle of the Seminole nation. All the Indian braves say, “Ko-nip-hat-cho’s squaw heap purty,” and in their native tongue declare, “Nan-ces-o-wee most beautiful of all the Seminole squaws.”

DR. JIMMIE TUSTANOGEE WITH HIS TWO WIVES AND THE CHILDREN

The great number of mounds found in Florida afford attractive study to the lover of scientific research. These mounds are of many shapes, heights and areas. They are found in all parts of the State, but are more abundant on or near the coast and along the water courses. Every few months some explorer, armed with shovels, picks and other instruments used in excavating mounds, comes before the public and announces new discoveries, based on new theories. The best possible explanation of the source of these mounds is founded on the theory that they are of Indian origin. One scientist has aimed a happy stroke at writers of our antiquities when he says, “Whoever has time and patience and will use his spade and his eyes together, and restrain his imagination from running riot among mounds, fortifications, etc., etc., will find very little more than the indications of rude savages, the ancestors of the present race.” No better theories can be advanced than those of Major Powell, who says, “Remove the Indian element from the problem and we are left without a hypothesis.” One of the latest mound excavations in Florida was made by Dr. Moore. A thousand skeletons were unearthed as well as many articles of pottery, and other things considered of great value by the explorer. The height and character of the Florida mounds indicate the different uses for which they were built. These mounds vary from three feet to thirty feet in height, and their areas range from a few square feet to four hundred feet square. The shell mounds which are numerous throughout the peninsula seem to have grown without any idea of purpose by the builders, and are merely accumulations of shells and soil. Year after year it was the custom of the tribes to congregate at certain localities for their festivals, and, living on shell fish, the shells in course of time formed vast mounds or elevations. There are a number of small mounds on the outskirts of Kissimmee City. Excavations have been made, and pieces of skeletons, beads, pottery and gold trinkets were exhumed. Other mounds in Florida indicate that they were built for tombs, while others, being composed of strata of sand and other soils, from their height might have been built for outlooks or signal towers. Chroniclers of De Soto’s day describe the manner in which the natives brought the earth to these spots and formed these elevations. The Indians say in Seminole war days these mounds were used to build their signal fires upon. By smoke telegraphy, they communicated war news from one band to another. By this means, with their fleet Indian runners, who acted also as spies, the entire tribe was kept informed of the innermost workings of the white army. In asking a chief about the burial mounds, he answered, “Long time ago heap many people here,” and that their “ancestors buried their dead in mounds so that other bands coming along might not disturb their bones.” Many times the body would be carried a great distance in order to bury in a sepulchre where rested the bones of their ancestors. “Now,” said the chief, “Seminoles no fight, not too many people;” and he buries his dead near his camp.

The Seminoles have no picture writing, nor do their minds in any way run to art. They prefer the rough athletics of forest life, which educates them for the chase and makes them the vigorous and hardy people that they are. They would sooner “hook” an alligator than paint the finest picture the brush is capable of producing, and yet there is nothing in the white man’s home they enjoy more than studying the pictures of a book. In this way they may be taught much. Through the teaching by pictures they have learned the story of Pocahontas, and of William Penn, “the red man’s brother.” On an occasion the picture of a heathen Zuni god was shown to an Indian and its meaning explained. The effect produced would have done credit to a Christian believer.

All through Florida the musical softness, peculiar to the Seminole dialect, is sustained in the names of the lakes and rivers. Each having a history descriptive of its character, or some incident connected therewith.

The old names of the chiefs were very euphonious, such as Osceola, Micanopy, Tusteenuggee, Coacoochee and Tallahassee. These are being displaced by names adopted by the whites, such as Billy Ham, Tommy John and Billy Buster. Accident, too, seems to have credited the aborigines with words not really their own if it be true that “Yankee” is only an attempt made by the Indian to speak the word English, and that pappoose is the effort of the natives to say “baby.” The symphonious cadence of such words as Alabama, Tuscaloosa, Caloosahatchee and Minnehaha has often been noticed.

Tohope Ke-liga is the name of one of the most beautiful lakes in Florida, its Indian significance meaning “fort site.” All around the lake are the old hunting grounds of the Indians and memorable points in Seminole war fame. To-day the Okeechobee drainage canal connects it with the lakes south, plantations surrounding its shores; the thriving city of Kissimmee is situated on its north side and all trace of the Seminole has vanished. The only memorials he has left are his words firmly embedded in the history of his conquerors. Kissimmee river is said to have taken its name from a romantic episode. A young Spanish grandee in a moment of impulse snatched a kiss from a Seminole girl, and the frightened maiden’s childlike plaint to her mother established the name of the river on whose banks the kiss was stolen—Kiss-him-mee.

The romance attached to our beautiful Kissimmee river gives it especial interest and we give it only as a traditional meaning. The present Indians cannot give the English rendition, saying, “Indian long, long time ago named the river,” which is corroborated by the Bureau of Ethnology, Smithsonian Institution, as follows:

So many of the euphonious words abounding in Florida belong to the ancient tribes and were picked up by the Seminoles.

An interesting bit of information was gotten after much care and questioning from Chief Tallahassee as to the meaning of his name—Tallahassee being only a nickname, or white man’s name for him—his Indian name being Fo-so-wa-los-te-nock-ee, meaning chief of the Bird gens or tribe.

The origin of the name of Florida’s State capital dates back to the days that are but traditions to the Seminole.

As the Seminole interprets, “Long, long time ago,” many Indians and houses were on the site where the city of Tallahassee now stands.

One day, as the tradition goes, all the Indians left. Some time after, some Indians came along, Seminoles presumably, and seeing many houses—but Indians “hiepus” (gone), exclaimed, “Tallahassee”—“all gone or deserted.”

THE WILD HERON IN DOMESTICATION

“Littly white birds me send.”

“Mr. Billy Bowlegs.”

We-la-ka is the Indian name for the St. John river and describes it so graphically that the old Spaniards retrograded when they named the “river of lakes” for their patron saint. Ock-la-wa-ha, “crooked water,” appropriately describes the most crooked stream in America. Okeechobee, with her vast expanse of water and over-hanging mists, in Seminole significance means “the place of big water.” With-la-coo-chee, so memorable in Seminole war days as the place of Osceola’s strategic movements, is a long but very narrow stream, meaning, in the Seminole tongue, “Little Big river.” Alachua, “the big jug without a bottom,” We-Kiva, “mystery,” and so on all over the Peninsula do we find names preserved which mark the wanderings of the picturesque Aborigines.

The unwritten, but highly poetical, language of the Florida Indians, should be incorporated into schoolcraft form and preserved with the archives of history for future generations. One who has heard the war shouts, their mythological tales, the words accompanying their dancing tunes, or listened in the darkness of the night, with breathless wonder to the heart-moving dirges sung by wailing women as they move around the corpse of some dead member, the whole scene lit up by the flickering flames of the lurid camp fire, cannot doubt but that the Florida Indian has a literature, and the white race is to blame for its imperfect knowledge of the unwritten but priceless productions of a savage race.

The linguistic perfection of the Seminole language, with its fluent, oratorical powers, shows itself in every speech or talk ever made to the white man.

With linguistic research, the scientist readily finds that man does not invent language any more than a bird does its twittering or a tree its leaves. It requires a whole nation to produce a language.

Of the world’s famous orators we have our Demosthenes of the Greek, Cicero of the Roman, England’s great Gladstone, America with her Calhoun, Clay and Webster; but as yet has the world ever found greater eloquence than in the “talks” of the famous Indian chiefs?

Red Jacket, on the religion of the white man and the red race, is a marvel of eloquence. Then what shall we say of Tecumseh, the great Shawnee, as he delivered his famous talk to General Harrison, or Black Hawk, the captive, in his plea before General Street?

In dealing with the Seminole language we meet with long words and mammoth expressions. The Seminole greeting, “Ha-tee-eten-chee-hick-cha-hit-is-chay,” sounds formidable, yet it only means “Glad to see you.” These, with well-understood Indian phrases, such as “burying the tomahawk,” “going on the warpath,” we employ familiarly without a thought of the tribe we have dispossessed. The time for studying the aborigines of America will soon be over. Only remnants of the tribes remain among us. Old myths and customs are being displaced by new ones, and we can truly see that the red man’s inheritance is nearing the horizon of its destiny.

The Least Known Wilderness of America

The Caucasian has battered at the gates of this great American Jungle for nearly four centuries, but some impregnable force, directed by a Higher Power than commercialized graft or the greed of selfish men, has kept the gates secure. It is the Land of the Seminole!

The Seminole knows every foot of this interminable morass. The stars are his compass; the fantastic tracery of canals, cut by his ancestors through this chaotic tangle of grass water country, are his highways. The appearance of the remote recesses of the Everglades is unlike that of any other region on the globe and is certainly the most bewildering and remarkable on this continent.

Were we to unroll the reel of a photo-drama of the Everglades, we would go back thousands of years, when the great billows of the ocean rolled over the space now occupied by this territory; we would see the millions of busy builders of that age, the tiny coral polyps, working on the reefs and shoals; we would look again and see the tempestuous storms and hear the thunder of the circling winds and behold the “breaking up of the great fountain of the deep,” forcing the sand from its depths, until a giant dam was built and the great ocean was excluded. Then it was that the shimmering waters of Lake Okeechobee, “the place of the Big Water” in Seminole dialect, became an inland sea.

We may turn the slide and see the animals of prehistoric days basking in the sunshine or bathing in the limpid waters. The fame of Florida as a health resort was not unknown to the animals of those ancient days, for the remains of these monsters are exhibited today in national museums, with labels reading that “they belonged to animals, probably mammoths, that lived 10,000 to 50,000 years ago.”

Film makers delight in taxing the flights of the mind and Florida’s drama was silenced for thousands of years. The reel makes another turn and we see a Twentieth Century renaissance of adventure, optimism and commercialism. Engineering expeditions entered this region to make surveys for drainage and land selling corporations—the land was sold from the enticing blue paper plat—but according to America’s best engineering corps a large area of this tropic jungle still remained terra incognita—unsurveyed—each surveying corps wisely barricading against criticism of failure by publishing to the speculative world, that upon “800 square miles of this unexplored country no white man had ever placed foot.”

COACOOCHEE

From an old print

Like a bolt of lightning from a clear sky came the demand—from the United States Government, in 1913, to Florida’s high officials—“Investigate—investigate!”

Twenty thousand purchasers of lands in the Everglades, backed by the power of American democracy, had demanded their lands or the return of their good American dollars. The Federal Government, through Congress, exposed the crooked deals (the lands still being under water and unsurveyed) made by the vampire speculator, with the result that another survey was ordered and the Florida State government put sixty men into the Everglades at an expense of $40,000. The citizens paid for the survey and “800 square miles” still remain—unsurveyed! Less is known and, it can be said without fear of contradiction, less is “told” to the reading world of inquiries in this 20th century than was given to history four hundred years ago.

For best accounts touching the interior of the Everglades we must have recourse to historical documents. From French delineations upon old maps as well as from Spanish and English authorities, we learn that more than three hundred years ago Florida’s Everglade country was cut up by large rivers, extensive ponds, lagoons and lakes which connected with each other.

That the drainage of the Everglades was contemplated by the authorities of the Spanish government, is an established historical fact and as late as 1840, during the Seminole War, a canal was found large enough to float a large craft. This piece of engineering work is credited to the Spaniards, but owing to the treacherous straits of Florida’s coast, interior navigation was abandoned and the Spaniards and the Frenchman left the country to the intrepid and enterprising Indian, whose knowledge of the water world of the Glades was then, as is now, superior to his white engineering brother; for the Indian knows every foot of this interminable morass and travels through these uncharted waters in his “dugout” canoe, with no compass but the stars overhead, as he is guided by the whispering winds brought him from the Great Spirit.

A recent experience told by an aviator belonging to one of Uncle Sam’s flying squadrons and authorized by the War Department at Washington, graphically pictures a modern view of the Everglades, and illustrates, too, that the same hospitality extended by the Red Man to the bewildered Spaniards, as they landed on these wild and unexplored shores four centuries ago, may be found in the heart of the jungle and marsh wilderness of the Seminole camps today.

The airmen were attempting to “cross the Everglades” in order to make a shorter flight between the aviation fields of Florida. Encountering a storm, they were compelled to make a “forced landing” and headed for the nearest open space in the Big Cypress country, which proved to be soft muck, where the ship turned over on its back, wrecked and submerged in the black water.

The aviators wandered, hungry and exhausted, for two days, finally finding a camp inhabited by Seminole Indians. There they received a welcome, and food and shelter were given.

The Seminoles, lurking in their swamp-hedged wigwams, fear the intrusion of the white man, but like their ancient forbears they stand ever ready, with Samaritan-like kindness, to help the white brother in an hour of necessity. The airmen were later piloted by the red men through their hidden channels to a dredge-boat where aid was secured and they soon reached the Marine fields at Miami. With the help of the Indians, who made frequent trips to the base camps for equipments, the “fire ship of the clouds” was “launched”; the propeller took the air, droning a new tune to the silent Seminoles, who say “fire ships littly too much, to cross the West Wind of the Great Spirit.”

This aquatic jungle, whose secrets are known only to the Indian, has not changed since the day Columbus found a new world for Castile and Leon, as a brief extract from the airmen’s report verifies:

“The territory in which we made our landing is known as the Everglades (Big Cypress). Its sameness is appalling; just one small cypress hammock after another; water and mud everywhere; innumerable mosquitoes, alligators, water moccasins and black snakes. Here and there a hammock would be found with a rock base and on some of these bases Seminole Indians eke out an existence. The mosquitoes attacked us in hordes. We drank no water, for fear it might be infected with malaria germs or some other swamp fever, nor had any food been found.... We were compelled to spend the night again in the swamp, this time on ground covered with an inch or more of water, a maze of water and prairie ways, with treacherous under-currents and impregnable barriers.”

The solemn silence of this mysterious swamp is only broken by the splash of the Indian canoe, but here the Seminole lingers, giving a background of tragedy and romance to aboriginal America.

Let the captain of an air ship rest his craft in mid-air and through his glasses gaze down upon this aquatic jungle. Near the centre of the Glades, according to public documents filed in Washington, is an immense spring rising from the earth, covering an extent of several acres and throwing up large quantities of water with great force, supplying the Everglades with torrential quantities of water.

THE LATEST PHOTOGRAPH OF BILLY BOWLEGS,
Taken in 1911

With the sun’s rays glinting on this “Everglade Geyser,” with the evaporation caused by the intense heat of this tropical land, as it meets the cooling waters of some underground cavern, a grey mist is formed and hangs over the area. As the white, wandering clouds from the fathomless cavern meet the starry skies, the Seminole sees in this phenomenon of nature the “Breath of the Great Spirit.”

When the torrential rains, a characteristic of the Everglade country, come, flooding the entire area, the Queen of the Water Kingdom picks up the rippling waters as they course over the rock-bound bottom and like an elfish sprite hurls them into the lakes and rivers, where they dash relentlessly on until they reach the subterranean outlets.

Until the white engineer finds ways and means to control subterranean flood gates, to control water forces whose source lies hundreds of miles away, or to toss away lightly the very God of Nature’s balance wheel, Everglade drainage in the heart of the Big Cypress must continue to be a stupendous operation.

The subject of the reclamation of this “The Least Known Wilderness of America” has been a “political football” for more than a score of years and has become a theme of nation-wide discussion. Until Florida populates her millions of tillable and untenanted acres, certainly she need not allure with tempting word pictures the problematical and uncertain Everglades.

Thousands of purchasers of lands in these tropical swamps—lands unsurveyed and submerged—still wait for the answer to the riddle of the Okee-cho-bee Sphinx, who alone holds fast the key to this “Egypt of America.”

Florida’s Everglade disaster, which was commercialized with land grabbers’ outfit in entering the Seminoles’ heritage, violated every humane and brotherly law of a commonwealth. The chaotic days that followed the Federal investigation, retarded the progress of the State fully a decade of years, and Florida, the land of singing birds, limpid waters and “golden apples,” learned the bitterness of the prophet’s rebuke when he said: “Thou shouldst not have entered the Gate of my People in the day of their calamity nor have laid hands on their substance in the days of their distress.”

With the purchase of Florida from Spain in 1821 we read the death sentence of Seminole independence—a very Iliad of tragedy in American history. Prior to this, the Seminoles, as subjects of the Spanish crown, were permitted to become a nation to themselves, living and practicing the inalienable rights of independence, honor and kindliness.

BILLY BOWLEGS AND HIS SISTER, STEM-O-LA-KEE

For three-quarters of a century these dusky patriots prospered, owning cattle, slaves and plantations. Listen, and you may hear the tinkling bells of their little ponies as they traveled, caravan style, carrying their wares from village to village. Here, for a time, in the secluded fastnesses of the wilderness, these red aborigines lived happily because away from the white man’s power, but alas, we see a mocking travesty in our cherished ideals. Soon the alien speculator and “carpet-bagger,” with bullets and blood-hounds, entered the State, confiscating their well cultivated fields and destroying their wigwam homes. The staccato cry of “Move on—move on!” rang in the ears of this distracted, primitive people and, like sheep before the rout of grey timber wolves, the Seminoles were driven on into the more desolate regions of the great morass. Shattered hamlets and dull ashen camp fires blackened the once peaceful Indian country. Years of war and broken treaties followed, until the American Nation became the conquerors and thousands of Seminoles were forced to give up homes—life itself, and be exiled to a cold and unknown Western land.

The flame-lit reel makes a turn and we see, by the imperishable magic of the camera, a silent drama of Florida history. We see a little band of about one hundred Indians left in the Glade country in 1841. Expedition after expedition failed to corral these patriots, whose greatest crime (?) was love of country, kindred and reverence for the graves of their fathers. Like animals sorely stricken, creeping to their lair, these red mothers and little children followed the slow tread of the stoical braves and sought refuge in the secret recesses of their Glade country.

Among the archives of Government statistics, one record is enough to stir the sympathy and stimulate pity for the vanquished red dwellers of the Everglade country. The reel makes a turn and we read:

From the beginning of time, down through the long centuries, the conscience of man has awakened, in cycles, as it were, for the betterment and uplift of humanity.

A decade of years ago, a new spirit of quickening prevailed in America and a growing interest in Chief Osceola’s long neglected people became a nation-wide theme. Pressure from Maine to California was brought upon Florida’s state officials, and a rhythmic sympathy was felt for the destiny of the Seminole. The subject was presented to the Chief Executive and, under the beneficent ruling of the martyred McKinley, an expedition from the United States Government was sent into the trackless Everglades to select and survey lands for homes for the long persecuted native inhabitants. Belated justice seemed assured and in the year 1899 the Florida Legislature passed a bill granting the Seminoles a reservation of 835,000 acres.

This act was approved by the Governor, but between the time when President McKinley’s special government commission carefully selected these lands in 1898—an interval of less than a year—this particular tract disappeared (?) from the list of public domain and went into private ownership.

The bill, so inspiring in humanity, contained a clause in these days of Everglade jests called a “joker.” Like the eagle, as he sweeps down the lamb feeding at its mother’s side, so the spoils-taker, with “land grabbers’” outfit, swept down upon the inheritance of the red children of Florida, not only violating the sanctity of Florida’s citizenship but even gathering the crumbs that fell from Florida’s bounteous table, and the livid bar sinister of treachery again stained the escutcheon of Florida.

Years passed, when pressure was once more brought upon Florida’s inhumanity toward her native people, and the legislative body of 1913 passed a bill, unanimously providing 235,000 acres in the Everglades for the Seminoles. Alas! for the pathos of the story. On the very last day of the session, Governor Park Trammell, untouched by the needs of these long persecuted people, and in full sympathy and co-operation with the politicians’ strong anti-Indian feelings, vetoed the bill, not only denying the citizenry of Florida the inalienable right to uphold the dignity, honor and patriotism of Florida, but denying these oppressed natives as much as a spadeful of earth to cover their corpses. What mathematician can ever estimate the result of the power used by the Governor at this critical time? By this stroke of the pen, these aboriginal Americans again became the victims of a cowardly treason.

A great State like Florida, whose honor is far greater than her land possessions, need not vilify the history and lives of her native people; there has been much more than money involved in the handlings of the Everglade Country, and a handful of speculators, who said: “There is no land left for the Seminole—let him ‘make bricks without straw,’” found, as later records show, that a Florida democracy, quickened by the spirit of human kindness, checkmated the Everglade spoils-taker, whose fetish has been the dollar mark, and later through the Legislature gave to the native owners land upon which they may find peace and a refuge.

Again in 1915 an Indian bill was introduced, but certain active land speculators, known to be strongly opposed to the Seminoles having any land in Florida, arrived at Florida’s capital on schedule time, and the bill, as per Seminole dialect, went into a “big sleep,” and the story of the Seminole came before the world as rivaling that of the “Man Without a Country.” And, throughout the country, the printed pages of journalism carried headlines which read: “Within the Bounds of America, ‘We Have a Little Belgium of Our Own.’”

At this point in Florida’s history, the white American heard, as it were, the Seminole’s wounded cry: “Why have the lands of our fathers been taken from us?” And as the dirge-like wail of the oppressed Seminole echoed and re-echoed through the solemn stillness of the mysterious Everglades, it was transmuted into a very symphony of sorrow. The mournful echoes of the cry of this stricken race, like ether waves, permeated every corner of America, until Democracy answered thus: “If this America of ours, by the furling and unfurling of her Star Spangled Banner, can say to the war-mad nations of Europe ‘Touch not my people,’ surely she will look into her galaxy of States and see to it that the banner of her own flowery Florida shall no longer be besmirched with a blot caused by the political profiteers of the State; and Humanity, dignifying brotherly kindness, challenged the white man’s hidden records and with uplifted hand pointed the way to a just solution of the Seminole’s rights.”

Almost simultaneously with America’s entrance into the great European conflict, as the “Defender of Liberty, for the liberation of the oppressed nations,” the Florida Legislature convened. The hour had struck for the humanity of the whole world. We still feel the sobbing clutch in our throats, and we hear, as if but yesterday, the tread of our khaki-clad youths as they marched to the colors of liberty; we see the furling and unfurling of the Star Spangled Banner; the hearts of the American people wakened to the love of humanity; all these stood out like beacon lights in the springtime of 1917.

In Florida, like a star shining through a clouded sky, was the passage of the “Seminole Land Bill” without a dissenting vote, giving to the Florida Indians approximately 100,000 acres of land.

This was a fitting climax to the years of work by the Seminoles’ active white friends in Florida. The air had become vibrant all over the country for the betterment of Florida’s homeless aborigines.

The Indian Rights Association, national in its scope, had sent a special committee to the Seminole camps and learned the circumstances of Florida’s wards, reporting to the Government the true conditions. The camera pictures and search-light truths of this organization barred censorship.

Later, and just prior to the convening of the Legislature, a Congressional committee was sent by Congress to ascertain at first hand the real condition, as well as the legal status of the Seminoles, and the report of this committee gave official proof that “The Seminoles’ rights to lands in Florida were made a part of the transfer by the Spanish Government to the United States in 1821,” and that if justice were carried out as specified by the United States Government treaty rights of 1843 all of the lands of Southeastern Florida (approximately 5,000,000 acres), belonged to the Seminoles.

OSCEOLA—THE NAPOLEON OF THE SEMINOLES

From the famous Catlin portrait, by courtesy of the American Bureau of Ethnology. “I painted him precisely in the costume in which he stood for his picture, even to a string and a trinket” (Catlin).

Of the 100,000 acres granted by the Florida Legislature to the Indians, only about five per cent. is supposed to be tillable, but it is at this time the best available land, and the records of Florida for the calendar year of 1917 will go down into the long ages as being the most humane act ever done by a Tallahassee legislature, and the Flower State may look back upon a “Century’s Dishonor” with sorrow, yet with triumph, because she has rectified a long standing injustice and has given to the vanquished people of the Everglades a refuge, in this late hour of their direst necessity.

The reservation thus granted is the long worked for and century old home of the Seminoles—the stronghold occupied by their forefathers, situated on the Southwestern coast of Florida, near the “10,000 Islands,” including within its boundaries the beautiful, palm-fringed Shark and Harney rivers. Here many of the Indians are living today, cultivating the same hammocks from which their ancestors fled when hunted by the American expedition in 1841. Government records show that while Colonel Harney “with his marine boats and artillery and his entire force of 250 men were thrown out through this section to hunt the wily Seminoles” they came upon numerous villages, with their crude home belongings, and hundreds of acres of lima beans, pumpkins, bananas and other food products, but in every instance the camps had been recently abandoned by the Indians.

From the Gulf to the Atlantic, naught remained of Colonel Harney’s “trail” but the ashes of the wigwams, the devastated crops and the skeleton of an Indian scout here and there, lying beside his canoe where he had been attacked by the soldiers in a secreted channel in the tall saw-grass. After a fruitless search, the boats were recalled and the expedition given up. The Seminoles in their hidden recesses had made good use of their ancient signal codes.

Today, the Seminole stands upon the last sandy strip of his once vast domain, an honorable hyphenated Indian-American. With the horrors of the great European war as told to him, his instincts of liberty and freedom asserted themselves and he proved himself no “slacker” as he stood ready as a volunteer to defend his native America in the great war struggle.

The War Department at Washington, after seriously considering their application for scout duty and sharpshooting service, decided against the proffered aid.

BILLY BOWLEGS PHOTOGRAPHED WHILE VISITING THE AUTHOR

An amusing incident, at this time, illustrates the Indian’s intense patriotism and when questioned by a white friend, as to fighting Germany, the Chieftain asked:

“You go? Yes, me go, shoot Germans like Hell. One hundred Indian men go. Indian shoot good. Indian want two Maxims,”—the Seminole’s idea of doing double service for peace and liberty. As Belgium and bleeding France stand by the colors today at every hearthstone in the land, crucified that liberty and democracy might be saved for the whole world, so the Seminole, through a century long invasion of his wigwam and his campfire by the Paleface, has come through the crucible, still true to the colors of the plumed knight of his race—the martyred Osceola—American patriots that we know would spend their last drop of blood freely and gladly in defense of their native land and sacred soil they have loved so long.

With the granting of the reservation in the Big Cypress by the State of Florida, the patient, long neglected native red people of the Everglades have had a new chapter written in their tragic life story book. Already the United States Government has come to the assistance of these Seminoles and under the supervision of the Special Florida Indian Commissioner, who, too, is an educated Seminole from the West, their lands are being fenced, the Seminole being encouraged to perform the labor, with the prospect of stocking this section with good cattle.

The Seminole is a natural stock raiser and will be allowed to buy cattle and pay for them at so much per year, using his own mark and brand. Together with the co-operative help of the Federal Government, the Southern Baptist Home Mission Board is planning to immediately enter the field with industrial and missionary workers—the teachers to be educated Oklahoma kinsmen of the Seminoles, who will in time make this people citizens worthy of the blood of their patriotic ancestry.

Can you, the friend of the down-trodden and the oppressed, not see the Seminole silhouetted against the burnished horizon, waiting for Opportunity to open her Pandora box and give him a chance with the people of America in a better civilization and Christianity?

Can you not hear the heart of the big forests throb a tribute of praise and the glittering waters ripple a melody of love for this touch of humanity—“For inasmuch as ye have done it unto one of the least of my brethren, ye have done it unto me.”

Would you visit a Seminole village in the heart of America’s Least Known Wilderness? Then let us draw the curtain and, turning the slide, look upon a vision of aboriginal life with its flame encircled background.

The view of this aquatic jungle has not changed since Spanish and English invasion four centuries ago. Of the 300,000 Americans found when Columbus landed on these wild and unexplored shores, the Florida Seminoles are the only remnant left who live the old, primitive life and practice the ceremonies of their royal, barbaric ancestors.

We see the palmetto thatched wigwams glistening in the red lights from the camp fire; tall trees are silhouetted against the sky, and we see the little children playing backward and forward, their little, brown legs twinkling through the shadows cast by the lurid flames. We hear the century-old lullabies, softly crooned by the mothers as they watch with careful eyes the toddling pappooses. Let us look again on this scene from aboriginal life and see the stoical braves, as they rearrange the “red wheel” camp fire and continuously add to the ever ready Sofka kettle some new ingredient, possibly fresh from the chase. The hunting dogs scent the savory odor, while the alert and watchful squaws glide in and out amid the shadows of the royal palms, which stand like sentinel warriors, crowned with feathery head-dresses that rustle in the breeze.

We look again, and the slide shows the cypress canoe “car lines”; these are the secret channels cut through the watery saw-grass prairies by the ancestors of the present Seminole.

Silently a canoe cleaves the dark waters, with the chief of the clan in the stern. Tying up among the lily pads, the canoe is hidden from view and the red pilot with his game approaches the camp.

Beware, adventurer, for this wilderness region gives out no secrets and only the Seminole knows the hidden channels and haunts.

The shadows grow dimmer and dimmer and we look up to see the stars lift the lids of their twinkling eyes to smile down upon the sleeping pappooses; the braves and the squaws, with the faith of little children, keep afresh the mystic religion of their ancestors, while they worship before the Great Spirit, who has given this Pay-hay-o-kee country to his red children. The smoke-wreathed film blots this aboriginal picture from our view, but as we listen, we hear the monotonous chant of the Indians echoing through the solemn stillness of the night.

In this wooded silence the wild animals find a refuge; the gentle doe, with her fawn, slips through the shadows; the red fox cautiously watches for her prey; the black bear, with her chubby cub, scents the custard apple and the palmetto bud; the raccoon skulks through the tangled underbrush and the cunning otter darts through the fish-laden stream in quest of his midnight meal; the snowy egret, the heron, the eagle and the bittern, with countless migratory birds from the North American continent, find in this wild solitude a winter refuge. Gorgeously colored butterflies infest the flowers of the Everglade prairies and in their flights, ascending and descending over their island homes, form clouds shimmering with color and animation.

Today this Big Cypress is an empire of pristine wonder, prehistoric in its dramatic and weird jungle setting. Epitomized into the terse verbiage of Perley Poore-Sheehan, one of America’s rising young authors and a sympathetic friend of the Florida Seminoles, “To cut the Big Cypress up into lots and acres would be like turning the Yosemite into an onion garden; it would be like turning the Yellowstone Park into a factory town.”

As we close our eyes to this picture of primeval life in the “Land of the Seminole,” with the thought of war and famine and killing, which has so recently touched the heartstrings of every American, these questions confront one: “Who are the barbarians of the twentieth century, the Caucasian or the red man of the primeval forests?” You ask, “How long did it take to educate and civilize the Anglo-Saxon race?” According to authentic history, the work of civilizing Europe and bringing the mass of the barbarians under the subjection of the law was the work of fully one thousand years.

Is Europe civilized today?

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 stand beside 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 our own 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, for through 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, that the 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 having a 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.

Seldom, if ever, has a Seminole squaw stepped beyond the boundaries of her trackless Everglade home to visit the home of the white man; to study a Seminole woman at close range and yet far from her forest refuge, is a privilege seldom experienced. An incident is recalled when a young squaw, in company with her brother, was making her first visit to civilization.

The couple had traveled three hundred miles by ox cart, canoe and railroad. Reaching their destination, they were escorted to a waiting automobile, when they were whirled away to the home of the pale-face and enjoyed this first ride in the “fire wagon,” with the same dignity and calmness that they would do in their cypress dugout canoes along the water courses of their saw-grass homes.

Stem-o-la-kee, with the natural feminine instinct, soon showed her domestic sense, her native frontier nature for the time being relegated to memories. The easy couch and cushioned rocker appealed to her sense of luxury. The delight of pouring tea from the silver pot was an unending pleasure. She admired the furnishings and belongings of the white home, but when asked if she would like to live in such an abode her answer came, quick and decisive: “Munks-chay (no), white man’s home like littly bit, one week me think my home, Okee-cho-bee.” Significant was her summary of civilization—humble though her wigwam, she loved it with all the ardor of her savage heart. This young woman, three hundred miles from her forest home, showed inborn grace and dignity in her demeanor. Particularly was she interested in the pictures on the wall, but, on recognizing the portrait of Osceola, all her frontier nature was aroused and, with vindictive spirit and trembling with suppressed emotion, she exclaimed:

“Indian’s big Chief, long time ago! White man kill ’im!”

She knew the perfidy of Osceola’s capture under the white flag of truce as well as any American student.

This untutored and innocent child of the forest became a most interesting personal study. Friendly and courteous, there yet shone out from her wonderful eyes an unapproachableness that made a gulf between the white woman and the red woman.

Stem-o-la-kee wore many strands of glittering beads, which to the Seminole woman mean everything—usefulness, caste and the wealth of her husband or father. She never appears without this insignia of her position, and in the particular instance of this Glade visitor, when the doctor whom she had come to consult ordered the removal of the necklace on account of its great weight, medical authority and savage superstition clashed. Stem-o-la-kee reluctantly obeyed the doctor’s order, in part, by removing a few strands. She had not brought all her beads, nor her beaten silver ornaments, with her, which are used for full dress and ceremonial occasions, and seemed to feel an embarrassment over this, explaining: “Plenty beads means good squaw. My home Okee-cho-bee, me got a plenty; sick too much,” meaning she had come on an errand for health and not for a social visit. To these suntanned women of the Everglades, the beads play an important part all through life.

When the little pappoose is a year old, she is given her first string, with its “first year bead.” This bead is always larger and of different color.

A string of beads is allowed for each year until she marries. At her marriage, her mother gives her many new strands, and, if she is a chief’s daughter, she receives many gifts of beads at her wedding. The beads play such an important part in the career of a Seminole woman that they are always given as a reward for any prowess and a mother is allowed two strings for each child born. In full dress many of the squaws wear from twenty to thirty pounds of glass beads, varying in size and color—the colors blending in perfect harmony.

When the squaw reaches middle life, she begins to take off her beads, one string at a time, as so many moons go by, until but one string is left.

She is now an old woman, too old to work, and the single strand she wears is made up of the “life beads” and buried with her.

During Stem-o-la-kee’s stay, though tired and weak from illness, and with a constant knocking at the door by wee tots, as well as older visitors, who came to “shake hands with the Indian woman,” the young squaw showed nothing but grace and good feeling to the visitors. On all such occasions she would, in a twinkling, don her new and gayly colored dress, add the discarded ropes of beads, give a twist to her raven hair, and would appear at the parlor door, shy, but with eyes shining and with a pleasing smile, stand ready to give the usual gracious hand grasp and then as quickly and noiselessly glide away, like a timid deer, to the improvised couch which had been made for her.

As Stem-o-la-kee, in her broken English, told of the forest home, a picture of her wigwam dwelling became very vivid; such a picture inspires courage and touches chords of sympathy in one’s make-up.

In a solitude, which only nature reveals, this brown-skinned people live amid the shadows of the great live oaks, seeing God in the clouds and hearing him in the winds. One sees the happy, turban-crowned braves move about and dusky squaws glide in and out, watching with careful eyes the toddling pappooses, as they play on the grassy sward; the laughing of the huntsman is heard and the songs of the Seminole Minnehaha make the night beautiful.

During the visit of these Seminoles, a protracted meeting was in session with a noted divine in charge. With no disrespect intended to the ministerial work, it was amusing to hear the question many times asked: “Are the Seminoles going to church to-night?” Sufficient to induce a crowd.

Another visit of a Seminole family is still fresh in memory. The visit had been planned for many, many moons. With the exception of one Indian, who acted as escort and friendly interpreter, none of these Seminoles had ever been in the white man’s home, yet they accepted the change from the weird morasses with the simplest dignity. The party of six were all in neat, yet brilliant attire—all save little eight-year-old Mop-o-hatch-ee, whose travel-stained dress worried the mistress of the home, for they were all expected to attend the church Christmas tree that evening.

Asking Cho-fee-hatch-ee if the little one had another dress, he replied: “She no got ’em; she wash her dress.” Feeling this an impossible task we replied, “No, she is too little,” but being assured that this little red-skinned tot was equal to the emergency, she was permitted to proceed with the order from Cho-fee-hatch-ee. A cunning picture she made, as her long, black hair fell around her shoulders and she, with nature’s washboard (her tiny hands), rubbed the quaintly made dress until it was clean and ready to be dried. To expedite the work, a negro was called in to take the dress to be ironed; a glance at Mop-o-hatch-ee revealed a forest child convulsed with sobs. Not understanding a word of English, she thought her only dress was being taken from her.

Only once during the visit of these Everglade people was there any apparent curiosity evinced, and this was within an hour after their arrival, when the hostess had been called to the telephone.

Looking back, she saw the two children peering into the room through the French window, wondering, no doubt, what foolish thing the mistress of the house could be doing. At another time, old Martha Tiger, the aged grandmother, came close to the ’phone with a quizzical look, when it was vaguely explained we were “talking to the store man down town.” In American history, old Martha and her contemporaries antedate the telephone, for with smoke signals and “listening posts” their warriors’ quickness in getting news of the enemy puzzled many an American officer.

Pictures from the Geographical Magazine and letters from the old “blue back” spelling book interested all these Everglade people, except old Martha Tiger who said “She old too much.”

Who shall say there is no hope for these forest people?

As this visit drew to a close and that feeling of homiletic friendliness was apparent when some humor might be indulged in, it was suggested that Show-lod-ka, the good-looking ten-year-old boy, should remain and learn to drive the automobile, and that Mop-o-hatch-ee stay with him. These two motherless children are the direct descendants of the old Chieftain Tallahassee, whose grim and determined patriotism eighty years ago wrenched his tribe from the white man’s bullets and Uncle Sam’s bloodhounds. These children were devoted to each other.

A few minutes later, little Mop-o-hatch-ee sat on a chair, her feet swinging, and rubbing her eyes to stay the tears. “She ’fraid you keep her,” the older Indian explained, and the boy with the same fear had slipped off to his sleeping quarters.

Love for their Everglade home is instilled into every Seminole. They love the country bequeathed by their ancestors—the gift of the Great Spirit to his red children of Florida, with a love that is, at times, frenzied in its demonstration.

To see to it, that these native people have protection, education and Christianity, must be the duty of this America of ours, this America which stands ready to protect the weak and the oppressed of all nations.

When the citizenship of this liberty loving country awakens to the needs of the stranded red race of 600 souls in the heart of the Big Cypress, then, and not till then will these original owners be led out of the darkness of a conquered people into the light of progress and civilization.

It is not surprising that thousands of our Florida tourists make efforts to see the descendants of America’s primeval people. Many times attempts are made by the adventurous tourist to visit a Seminole village in the secluded cypress region of the Glade Wilderness; but alas! after dragging themselves over the marshy, cutting saw-grass prairies, they find what? A deserted camp, possibly the coals still burning in the camp fire, but the Indians, hie-pus (all gone) hiding in some secret haunt.

Still, it is a common sight, particularly at Miami to see a Seminole family as they pole the rude craft, a dugout cypress canoe, along the river.

Dressed in a way, bizarre and ludicrous, to our white man’s way of thinking, still strikingly dignified.

The brave poles the boat while the squaws watch the family belongings. At the other end of the boat, a group of round faced and exceedingly quiet little Seminoles brightly garbed in red and blue calico, sit, much more interested in the shadows in the water, than in the people on shore.

It is but natural that Americans, who know the Seminole, should feel an innate respect for them, especially if we reflect that the strain of the old Aztec runs through their veins and produces the same heroic fortitude that made Guatemotziu, the last of the Aztec Emperors, under the torture of fire by Cortez, reply with ironical stoicism to his persecutors, “Am I on a bed of roses?”

Today the Seminole suffers and endures without complaint and retains his old-time pride. As is known, the Seminole in polite but in positive terms, refuses presents of any magnitude from white friends. “Littly presents me take, big presents, money cost ’im too much, Indian no take.”

When it was learned that a chieftain had not only lost his camp and all his belongings by fire, amounting to about three hundred dollars, and that he had had the expense of a trip to see a physician, that would appall the average wage earner, some members of the Society of the “Friends of the Florida Seminoles” suggested that a purse be made up for his benefit. Then came the delicate point of making such a suggestion. Cho-fee-halch-o, with the old-time pride of his ancestors, in answer to the question whether he would take money for his expenses, replied: “Me no think so; my money me make. My own money me spend. Me no take it.”

Where is the Anglo-Saxon who could refuse good American dollars when free for the acceptance?

With a race so proud, too honorable to beg, yet clinging with a desperate effort to their beloved Florida, what must we, as Americans, do but protect them?

An incident, linking past Seminole history with the present, is full of interest, because so old, and yet so new.

Just eighty years ago, at the time the great Chieftain Osceola was betrayed near St. Augustine, with him was another Chieftain, by name of John Jumper.

History has not failed to record the life and death of Osceola, but of John Jumper little has been written outside of Government records.

Jumper was taken prisoner to the Indian territory. Many years after he was converted by a missionary and being a musical leader among his tribe, naturally grasped the white man’s melodies.

Later he composed a religious hymn. During the last visit of the Everglade Seminoles to Kissimmee, as is the custom, they attended the church service. At the close of the sermon, the minister gave a little talk to the Indians and sang a song in the Seminole tongue, which was very beautiful and so rhythmical that when once lodged in the brain, the tune refused to be dislodged. The minister, Dr. A. J. Holt, explained to the congregation that he had learned the hymn more than forty years ago from Colonel John Jumper in the Indian territory. This Chieftain had enlisted in the Civil War, where he was promoted to the rank of Colonel under the Confederate colors.

Returning from the church services, we were eager to know from the Indians if they had understood the Seminole song. One Indian, very musical, said: “Yes, me sing it good,” which he did to perfection, not omitting a single note or word. How did the young Seminole learn the words and tune so quickly? He explained, “me learn it in Everglades.” Certainly a remarkable incident. The solution was easy. An educated Oklahoma Indian Missionary, visiting the Everglades the year previous, had taught the song to these Seminoles.

Another incident, showing mechanical genius as well as love of music is here appended.

A few years ago when the Coast towns of Florida were still primitive, a store keeper had purchased in New York an old-fashioned organette, that played five tunes. The Seminoles at that time frequently came on purchasing expeditions to these trading villages. Cho-fee-hatch-o, progressive and musical, listened to the “box of music” as it played in the little store, and was entranced with the melodies.

Soon after, the organette refused to “go” and the trader told his friends, that unless he could “stick it on the Indians, he would be out thirty-five dollars.” A few days later, the Chief with another Indian, came back to the store bringing produce to sell. The white trader wanted the Indian’s goods and suggested to the Chief that he exchange for the music box, telling the innocent Seminole that “music box no more play, wake up by and by and play good, him tired now.” The Seminole with his mechanical knowledge, looked the organette over, and making the trade, proudly left with the “tired out” music box under his arm.

The next day, the two Indians returned, bringing with them the music box to show to the storekeeper. “That box, him no more tired,” and winding up the machine, which the ingenious Seminole had put into working order, played the whole five tunes, to the astonishment and chagrin of the trader. “Him play good at Green Corn Dance, down Okee-cho-bee.”

Several years after the organette was still doing service in the Seminole camps, where, with its aboriginal settings it seemed to fill a niche that harmonized with the forests, with the timid stars that hung overhead, with the wigwams and the shadowy flicker of the camp fire.

The ancestral music of the Seminole is full of a wild, weird melody, where men and women and little children join voices. As the Indians sing, you may hear the melancholy waters whisper a pensive good-night and the drowsy birds flutter in their boughs. You hear the camp songs and the lullabies like voices trained in the woodland with a strain of heartbreak, where life and love steal forth in fanciful ecstasy and the vanished souls seem to call back in tenuous fragments of mystery, only to die away into a symphony of sorrow, as the melodies echo across the dark wilderness.

Requests come so often for more details regarding these silent children of the forests, and interesting as well as unique are the letters and messages that come from the Everglades.

With the ox team and fleet footed Indian messengers, together with Uncle Sam’s quick mail service, communications reach the white man’s town, as per the will of the Seminole. With the Indians’ promise to keep us informed of their needs, births, marriages and ambitions (for the Seminole never breaks his word), a recent letter from the wigwam reads: “Me want to tell you we have not forgotten you.” Then comes the interesting part, “My sister She-y-o-hee got little pappoose, six days old; it is a girl.” Added to this is another birth record: “Shon-o-la-kee got one too, ten days old; it is a boy.” Certainly in the Everglades among the first families of America, the birth register is kept intact. The letter continues: “Me send you pumpkins seed.” (These are the Indian pumpkin, a tree climbing variety known to the American soldiers eighty years ago.)

In this day of food conservation and scientific economy, it may be well to make a comparison. The seeds were distributed among friends and neighbors, some delicious pumpkins were raised and enjoyed, but alas! for a future crop! Not a seed was saved and to the wigwam seed bag must we go if more pumpkins are planted.

It can hardly be disputed, that the Seminoles, in their migrations from Mexico brought the seeds with them.

To Dr. Howard A. Kelly, widely known surgeon, traveller, lecturer and philanthropist, are we indebted for the intensely interesting bit of Aztec history, blending so well with Seminole traditions.

In Dr. Kelly’s travels in Mexico, among the carved relics of Aztec origin observed in museums was the pumpkin of Aztec days—centuries old.

When a Seminole pumpkin was sent to the doctor, he wrote back: “The very thing I tried to buy in Mexico, carved in wood. I shall treasure this and preserve it in alcohol to be handed down as a link connecting the land of Montezuma with the present day Everglade history.”

For three hundred years the Seminoles have never failed to have their crop of this edible vegetable and to save seed for the next planting.

Could not the Seminole teach us all conservation?

During these latter years, when “equal rights” has crowded into State and national politics, it may be interesting to the suffrage movement in America to know that the Seminole squaws are entitled to first claim as American suffragists.

Not that they are cognizant of it, but they have gained this authority through their entire fitness for it. The women work equally with the men, bearing burdens, tanning skins and having absolute control over the children, who are instilled with the dignity of obedience from the moment their little eyes open to the world. They are capable, careful, loving mothers, good counsellors in the camp life. The Council in passing upon a vital subject, must consult the women of the camp before giving a final decision. If a squaw wishes to divorce her husband, and she can prove she has a just cause to do so, she cannot only divorce him, but she can name his punishment.

The money she makes is hers to do as she likes with. She is supreme in the home and in the management of the camp.

As is known, Sofka is the tribal dish of the Seminoles; it is a stew containing the nutriment of many foods.

The Sofka spoon or ladle, made of wood, thus becomes the much valued household article and the squaws show their authority again here, for a spoon cannot be taken from the camp without the consent of the women of the family. This ladle is frequently carved, the different households having differently shaped spoons.

The Tusteenuggees are made with full large bowls—the Osceolas have a long slim bowl, each bowl having its own particular style of Seminole “Coat of Arms.”

The Battle of Okee-cho-bee! A battle that decided the issues of two wars and proved the fitness of an American soldier for a long and glorious march from the Everglades of Florida through struggles in Mexico to the White House in Washington. Of this battle in Florida, between Indians and Americans, many have never heard, few can identify the locality and no national monument marks the spot.

Turning a historic searchlight upon this scene of eighty years ago, one sees the American soldier, Zachary Taylor, meeting the noble warrior of the Seminoles, Coa-coo-chee (Wild-Cat) in his last struggle for his country and his people.

In the wilds of the Okee-cho-bee country, a shattered remnant of the Seminoles, fought against the American army, with a victory for the white troops, defeat, of course, for the Seminoles.

The battle was planned by Coa-coo-chee,[5] who had recently escaped from the musty dungeon at St. Augustine where he and Osceola had been confined after their capture under the truce of the white flag, while negotiating with the American officers. Coa-coo-chee, as if challenging the American army with retaliation and revenge for the indignity of such a violation of recognized warfare, now combined his forces for one great battle.

Carrying their little bundles, the pitiful salvage from the wreck of their once happy homes, the Indians had fled to the dark haunts of Florida’s weird morasses. With his people already encamped in this vicinity, Coa-coo-chee naturally selected the battle ground for its advantage of position, within easy reach of his warriors and by strategy and decoys succeeded in leading the American army to the chosen site. Contrary to the usual tactics of fighting in small bands and at widely scattered points, the Seminoles staked their all in this supreme battle, apparently not awed by the overwhelming odds of four to one.

This battle brought the generalship of Colonel Taylor prominently before the world and confirmed the Nation’s faith in him, which sent him, no doubt, to the Mexican battle field.

Here he was given the task of opening the way to the Halls of the Montezumas, and from this stepping stone he soon received the Presidency of the United States as a testimonial of national appreciation.

But of Colonel Taylor’s gallant opponent, Coa-coo-chee, what shall we say? Finally surrendering, he was put in chains and transported with a ship-load of his people, a group of broken-hearted exiles, to the waiting ships at Tampa; as the transports left Tampa Bay for the far western country, the anguish of this oppressed, terror-stricken people touched the hearts of the most hardened sailor—reduced from a powerful nation to a decimated band of starving humanity, they went silent or weeping toward the land of the setting sun, driven like dumb beasts before the power of the white man.

With lingering looks, these red patriots saw the loved scenes of their homes fade away, their happy hunting grounds, the graves of their fathers—their beloved Florida.

It was the closing of a sad chapter in American history. With the battle of Okee-cho-bee, few are familiar today. Is it not a fitting location for a national park, and a monument to the memory of this noble chieftain whom we have so sadly treated?

Upon this sacred soil a battle was fought that would not shame the Greeks of Leonidas, nor the Romans of ancient days. Today the white man treads heedlessly upon the land, with no other thought than that of commercialism attuned to the jingle of dollars.

In this beautiful valley of the “Place of the Big Water” the present Seminoles, like Chief Joseph of the West, say: “We love this land more than all the rest of the world. An Indian who would not love his father’s grave is worse than the wild beasts of the forest.”

No finer or more chivalrous treatment of an enemy can be shown in history than that of Coa-coo-chee to Colonel Taylor even though the sting of his treacherous capture with his friend Osceola was fresh in his mind. No braver defense was made at Thermopylae than was made in the hammock on Lake Okee-cho-bee. The site of the Battle of Okee-cho-bee is now before the eyes of the world as a terminus of a Florida Railroad; it is eminently fitting that the American people make a plea for a memorial where Indian and American may be honored and will be the means, too, of bringing graphically before the people a history so little known, and may we not hope, a tender pity for the vanquished Red Knights who fought so bravely for home and honor.

In the legends of the Seminoles, the spirit of Coa-coo-chee returns once a year to visit the sacred retreats of his race.

Would not the spirit of this brave patriot rejoice to note that his fame was known to his conquerors and a memorial erected that would link the names of the Indians and the Americans in this last battle for country and people?

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