I f 12 
‘Ibt RURAL NEW-YORKER 
August 23, 1924 
Hope Farm Notes 
WHAT IS “AN AMERICAN?” 
Part U. 
“But what of your children—you have 
seven of them. Do you want them to 
live your life or go out and be Ameri¬ 
cans?” I asked that question knowing 
that it does not matter how much pig¬ 
ment a man or woman may have in their 
skin—their hope for the future is tied 
up in their little ones. 
To this the Indian woman replied that 
she would like to have one child remain 
at this place and carry on the character 
of the home while she hoped the others 
would go out and “live a big life.” This 
you see is the old farm family hope that 
one child will feel called to stay and 
carry on the home place. While these 
Indians can have no deed to their piece 
of land they seem to regard it with much 
the' same feeling as would a white man 
who could show the original transfer— 
250 years ago. And why not? The an¬ 
cestors of these Indians held it accord¬ 
ing to their laws before the white man 
ever knew there was such a piece of 
land in existence. 
This family can all read and write but 
as the woman said: 
“This high education don’t amount to 
nothing for an Indian!” 
We saw a picture of her daughter, a 
young girl in her graduation dress hold¬ 
ing her “diploma” as though it were a 
magic wand capable of opening all the 
avenues of life. Yet as her mother told 
us' this girl, naturally bright, well edu¬ 
cated and more intelligent than the aver¬ 
age girl of her age could not “use her 
learnin’ ” like other girls because—and 
here the Indian woman touched her 
bronze face with an eloquent gesture. 
It was the only evidence of bitterness she 
displayed. And the light brown girl 
graduate at the tub only shrugged her 
shoulders and scrubbed harder at the 
washboard. No doubt white people would 
have cursed their fate and perhaps 
blamed one of the political parties. A 
negro would have laughed and probably 
sung a hymn. The Indian took the part 
with theiphiilosophy which, he first acquired 
while strapped to his board long ago 
looking out upon a curious world through 
bright beady eyes, long before the white 
man come to trouble his dreams. Well, 
it is a strange world. If one of these 
bright-eyed sturdy little brown boys 
should grow up to find such a curious 
bony joint in his elbow that he could 
make a baseball skip with a new sort of 
curve, fame and fortune would wait on 
him. lie would become a popular idol. 
Yet if he were to develop a brain and a 
presence superior to that of Daniel Web¬ 
ster the white man would not send him 
to Washington—not from New England. 
All this brings up the old question of 
what education is, and how it is fitted to 
the individual. This Indian girl, when 
she goes out to make a living, finds her 
"diploma” an ornament and not much 
more. I have no doubt these Indians 
felt that this printed proof of a white 
man’s education would prove a tool or 
weapon to use in the battle of life, but in 
this lonely place it has little value, be¬ 
cause the education is not suited to their 
walk of life. In order to make use of 
such education the Indian must go out 
into places where the color line has faded 
out. In Cuba or South America such an 
education would be a decided asset, but 
here in the Connecticut wood's it is of 
little value. And I think we may safely 
say that much the same thing is true of 
many white boys and girls who sport 
their “diplomas” until stern experience 
convinces them that they are really un¬ 
trained for any > practical work. With 
all its faults the old-fashioned district 
school did fit boys and girls for the life 
they were most likely to lead. Not only 
that, it gave them the ambition and the 
energy to go on and earn something bet¬ 
ter if need be. The trouble with our mod¬ 
ern system of education, as I see it, is 
that it is turning out too manv children 
like this Indian girl—educated in such a 
way that they find little use for their edu¬ 
cation. 
***** 
But I have a friend, an educator, who 
quotes Ben Jonson: 
“The thirst that from the soul doth rise 
Calls for a drink divine,” 
and he claims that education should drive 
men on to search for such a drink. No 
one knows better than I do the great sat¬ 
isfaction and glory which comes from a 
study of literature, yet I have known peo¬ 
ple to become so intoxicated on this “di¬ 
vine drink” that they became incapable 
of making a living. I was interested in 
learning what books this Indian family 
read. They evidently read a daily paper 
—though what can the daily record of 
American life really mean to one who 
feels that he has no share in the respon¬ 
sibilities of government? There is a pub¬ 
lic library in a town only a few miles 
away, and frequently this entire family 
will spend all of Saturday afternoon in 
the reading room. I do not know of any 
white farm family that will do that. The 
woman says she prefers poetry. Dong- 
fellow is her favorite poet. She has read 
“Hiawatha,” but never heard of “Ra¬ 
mona,” by Helen Hunt Jackson. The aver¬ 
age white family would prefer Whittier. I 
heard one man speak of him as “the 
Quaker poet who carried a Yankee 
punch.” In this Indian family the man 
preferred war stories, while the children 
like the books which most interested 
white boys and girls. The old language 
of the Pequots has mostly disappeared. 
One or two members of the tribe speak a 
sort of jargon, and there are said to be 
several books printed in the old language. 
I asked these people to give me a few 
Indian words, but about all they could 
think of was “Vamoose”—'get out! This, 
however, was not applied to us! There 
seemed to be a curious lack of interest in 
history or biography. The Indian seems 
to feel that his ancestors were the orig¬ 
inal owners of the land. It was taken 
away from them, and since they have had 
little part in its development they are not 
much interested in the various struggles 
for its possession. As for biography, as 
they and their children are mostly denied 
the social right to climb up as many 
white men have done—what is the use? 
At one time during his life every white 
boy can imagine that he will some day be 
President. The Indian boy can have no 
such vision. If we 'Stop for a moment to 
consider how much the ambitions of life 
are determined by what we consider its 
possibilities we may understand why such 
people will read for amusement rather 
than for instruction. Is this brown girl, 
scrubbing at her tub, better off for the 
right to display her diploma? In one of 
his histories Parkman analyzes the In¬ 
dian character at considerable length. 
He makes it out a strange mixture of 
rough nobility and very ignoble practice. 
What strikes me most is the hopeless 
outlook of these people, the resignation 
with which they seem willing to accept 
their fate without a struggle. I knew of 
a half-breed Indian in Florida who mar¬ 
ried a negro woman. He developed a 
good business in live stock. He ran this 
business in Summer, made money at it, 
and in Winter he and his wife traveled 
through the North—not asking full social 
equality, but getting as much out of it 
as any other tourists. He was a citizen 
—not a ward—and he set a good-tem¬ 
pered, restrained example for Ms race. 
Others could do the same, but I think the 
chief trouble is that a ward of the gov¬ 
ernment cannot show the character and 
independence of the citizen. That is go- 
(Continued on page 1120) 
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