24 
AMERICAN AGRICULTURIST, 
[January, 
PORTRAITS OF “ SHAVEHEAD ” AND HIS “LADY.” 
(Drawn from Life by A. O. Moose, for the American Agriculturist.) 
“ It takes all kinds of people to make up an as¬ 
sortment.” The accompanying engravings illustrate 
the adage. The following interesting account of the 
queer looking couple above, and the odd manner 
of Indian baby-tending, was prepared for the Agri¬ 
culturist Boys and Girls by our friend, and theirs, 
A. O. Moore, Esq., who spent several months in 
traveling through California and Central America. 
THE “DIGGER” INDIANS OF CALIFORNIA. 
Indian stories you have all read or heard—of their 
battles with the whites who first settled this coun¬ 
try ; for the war whoop, the tomahawk, and the 
scalping-lcnifc, which once terrified the children of 
our now peaceful laud, have been sounded and 
flourished again in books, before our imaginations, 
until little boys look wishfully at their father’s rifle 
and powder-horn, thinking how they would defend 
their home if Black Hawk or Tecumseli, or some 
such hideous painted fellow should attack it; and 
little girls throw their arms around the baby and 
declare that they would themselves die before the 
red-skins should kill the little darling. Now r it is very 
natural for us to feel thus ; but did you ever think 
how the little Indian children feel about the white 
enemies who have driven them from their homes 
and killed their fathers, yes, and sometimes their 
mothers too ? I must confess that I was mentally 
taking the part of the poor ignorant savages against 
my own countrymen, as, one bright Springlike day 
of a California Winter, I was walking in the city of 
San Francisco. I had been informed that five hun¬ 
dred captive Indians had been brought to the city 
on their way to what their white captors had de¬ 
cided should be their future home in Mendocino 
county, and was on my way to their encampment. 
I soon reached the shore of the bay. Crowds of 
citizens, attracted by curiosity, surrounded the en¬ 
closure, which was merely a line of ropes guarded 
by soldiers. Within, were the miserable creatures 
who had been caught like wild beasts. When first 
brought to the city, they were nearly naked, and 
sulfored much from the cold, but the kind-hearted 
ladies of the city had sent them cast-off garments 
and blankets, until nearly every Indian man, wom¬ 
an, and child, had some article of civilized dress, of 
which they seemed quite proud. There were men 
with ladies’ worsted hoods; squaws with gentle¬ 
men’s hats and overcoats; boys and girls wearing 
ooats whose skirts dragged on the ground, and 
searching in vain for their lost hands in the great 
sleeves, laughing heartily at each other’s droll ap¬ 
pearance or tumbling over one another in the scram¬ 
1 DIGGER” INDIAN WOMAN AND CUILD. 
ble for apples which the crowd threw to them. 
These were the “Digger” Indians of California, 
so called by the white settlers, because when seen 
among their native hills, they are generally engaged 
in digging for roots, which form their principal food 
at some seasons. They also eat wild berries, and 
consider the Grasshopper or Locust, which is some¬ 
times so great a scourge to the farmers of the Pa¬ 
cific coast, a great delicacy—eating them raw or 
roasted, as may be convenient. Though they are 
considered the most degraded of all the inhabit¬ 
ants of the North American continent, and in ear¬ 
ly times seemed too cowardly to attack a white 
man except when he was entirely alone, yet lat¬ 
terly they have become better armed and more 
exasperated by the whites, and are now formidable 
foes. Cattle stealing and murdering small parties 
of emigrants passing through their country, have 
been their principal “ feats of war” however. 
Not being satisfied with my position as an out¬ 
sider, I slipped away from my companions, and 
with sketch book in hand, I passed under one of the 
ropes of the enclosure. I was soon hailed, however, 
by the guard, and politely informed that ho could 
not admit me. Pointing to my book, I replied, 
that I wished to take sketches of some of the In¬ 
dians ; he hesitated, and then said, “ well, there’s 
the General, ask him.” The General led me at once 
to some of the chiefs who were huddled round a 
fire built upon the ground. These seemed quite 
pleased when told that I wanted to draw their por¬ 
trait, and talcing their pipes from their months, sat 
up very straight and tried to look very grand. This 
I thought spoiled them for a picture, though I went 
ou drawing. While at work with my pencil, a 
sentinel looking over my shoulder said, “Have you 
got Sliavehead yet ?” “Sir,” said I, looking around, 
unable to guess what he meant. “ Have you taken 
old Shavehead’s picture ?” “ Who is he,” I asked. 
“ He’s the biggest rascal of them all—that’s him sit¬ 
ting over yonder. We had an awful time getting 
him, he fought like a grizzly, even after the boys 
had broken his arm with a rifle ball.” This was 
enough to convince mo that “Shavehead” was a 
good subject, and I bowed respectfully to the chiefs 
whom I had been sketching, and was soon seated be¬ 
fore him. He seemed about 25 or 80 years old, 
rather slender, but with a strongly marked, res¬ 
olute lace. Unlike the other Indians, he remained 
sulky, and scarcely looked at me once. He was 
seated on the ground, holding out toward the 
fire his broken right arm 
which was bandaged and 
confined in splints. 
“ This is Shavchead’s 
wife,” said the sentinel, 
bringing forward a young- 
woman who was really 
quite good looking. “His 
.wife?" I asked, “Yes, 
one of ’em,” and he bade 
her sit by her husband. 
She smiled and sat down, 
seeming well pleased to 
be “taken,” but her hus¬ 
band cast many a sidelong 
scowl at her, which might 
havo threatened a “ cur¬ 
tain lecture.” He even re¬ 
fused the piece of money 
I offered at the close of 
the sitting, but his ‘Lady' 
smilingly accepted his, as 
well as her own piece. 
In the group around 
the fire, were a number 
of women with their chil¬ 
dren. These seemed the 
saddest of all the captives, 
and bent over the cradles 
in which were their dark, 
but none the less dear, in¬ 
fants, in silent but mani¬ 
fest sorrow. It is the old 
way to a mother’s heart, 
to notice her child, and 
a gleam of sunshine broke over her dark features as 
I placed my camp stool before one of them, and by 
signs told her I wished to sketch hor papoose. She 
