To me there is no more interesting 
an than the American Indian, the 
snuine full-blood of the southwest. 
‘ou may observe him, study him, 
tee but you can’t know him. 
ind before we white men ever will 
iow him, he will be gone. 
Long before Columbus ever found 
his country these brown men lived 
ight where they now live and lived 
rery much as they now live. The 
stoms and habits of centuries are 
f their blood and they can’t con- 
form to 1911. An Indian is an In- 
dian, and you can’t make him a 
white man. 
ere is a half-regal pride about 
fellows that compels respect 
ui admiration, and a reserve that 
you ean’t break through. 
Mexican can be made a servant 
n ten minutes, if the ‘‘tourista’’ is 
oose with his change. He will wash 
your feet if you ask it. He invites 
miliarity and tips. 
a Indian doesn’t want any- 
thing from the white man. He is 
icily independent. He doesn’t want 
patronage, favors or jobs. He wants 
ge to be let alone and he will 
take eare of himself. 
The Pueblo Indians of the Rio 
Grande with the Navajos as possible 
equals, are the finest race of the 
‘SO thwest. Splendid specimens of 
phy ysique, peaceable, industrious, (in 
a way) they will never ask any aid 
from the white man, if let alone. 
They won’t work—that is in the 
white man’s way. Work is  un- 
natural to them, and money worth- 
less to their mode of living. I never 
saw but one Rio Grande Indian do- 
ing real hard white man’s work, and 
he looked as much out of place un- 
loading lumber from a flat car as 
he would at a full dress ball. 
Here is a little illustration of what 
an Indian considers his work, or his 
duty: 
The Santa Clara river comes down 
through the dry country, a beauti- 
ful stream of coldness and clearness 
from the mountains. In many places 
‘a day’s work by a white man would 
_ divert enough water to irrigate three 
or four acres of soil that will pro- 
‘duce anything, when it has the mois- 
ture. 
An Indian will go up this river 
and plant perhaps a half acre of 
apple trees, and build a sort of a 
woven brush fence around it. He 
NORTH SHORE BREEZE 
[THE INDIANS OF THE RIO GRANDE, 
ittl le Stories of the Real Life and Conditions Among the Pueblo 
Indians of the Southwest Today. 
| .(By M. J. Brown, Epiror Lirrte Vauey, N. Y., Hus) 
will dig a ditch and let the water in. 
Then he will select a spot high above 
his ‘‘farm’’ and build himself a 
shade. Four long poles are set up 
making a square. Perhaps four feet 
from the ground he will put across 
a floor of piles, covering with reeds 
and brush. Four feet above he will 
lay the roof, the shade, built the 
same as the floor. And then he will 
settle down and wait for his orchard 
to bear—stay there and watch it, 
month in and out. 
That’s an Indian. 
This irrigated spot is many miles 
from his home village. It is a desert 
in the fullest meaning of the word. 
There is absolutely no life except 
the snakes and lizzards, and the 
the summer heat is something aw- 
ful. And the Indian will stay there 
day and night, month after month 
watching and irrigating a garden 
sized orchard the apples of which 
would hardly be worth a week’s 
work of a white man. That’s an 
Indian again. 
It’s the primative. Life to him 
is existence—time has no value. The 
Great Spirit didn’t intend he should 
work for money like the white man. 
About the only marks of progress 
I ever saw were three ‘‘grist mills’’ 
along the Santa Clara—and I was 
told that these were financed and 
installed by the Mexicans. They are 
called ‘‘molines,’’ little stone build- 
ings perhaps eight feet square, 
where a very crude arrangement 
grinds corn by water power. All 
three had been abandoned, and 
there was not enough left for one 
to get an idea of how they worked. 
I could never imagine what they 
were built for, in the long drive I 
made across this reservation I never 
saw a bit of vegetation that even 
resembled a corn stock. 
Pictures of the southwest Indians 
show the papooses as strapped in 
leather or wooded frames and car- 
ried on the mother’s back. I never 
saw a baby in one of these cradles. 
Around the village I have occasion- 
ally seen the racks kicking around, 
but the custom seems to have been 
discontinued. The papooses are 
carried on the mother’s back and 
hip and held there by the blanket. 
I have seen a mother carry a pair 
of youngsters on either hip and at 
the same time carry a ten quart 
water Jar, full, on her head. 
35 
From a distance the squaws all 
look like girls, and it keeps one 
guessing on their age when close 
by. They are all short in statue 
and all wear dresses to the knee— 
making them look like school girls. 
It keeps one guessing whether the 
young lady is trotting around 
her baby brother or whether the 
young Indian calls her mamma. 
To me the blanket seems to be the 
biggest nuisance ever handed down 
by custom. It is never fastened, but 
is held in place, always slipping 
down and always being adjusted. It 
seems to me that at least five hun- 
dred years ago they would have 
found something like a safety pin 
to snug it up, but it also seems that 
what was handy enough before 
Columbus is sufficiently convenient 
now, and it still goes. 
It is a very unusual sight to see 
a hat on a man or woman. Occas- 
ionally one will see a dilapidated 
old lid on some Indian who hangs 
around the white towns, but in the 
Indian villages, never. When it is 
very cold they will reef the blanket 
up over the head, and wind it 
around the body. But as a rule 
they are bareheaded, women, men 
and babies. 
I never saw an Indian sick, bald- 
headed, with poor teeth or with eye 
glasses. They tell me colds and 
pneumonia are almost unknown, 
and yet they are ever exposing 
themselves in a way that would kill 
a New York white man—sleeping 
out on the ground, bare-headed in 
the wind, ete. 
I don’t remember ever having 
seen a drunken Indian. They can’t 
get the fire water and they don’t 
try. They are kind to their families 
in their way, but of course the 
squaw must hunt the wood, carry 
the water and do what little work 
is necessary. The master can’t get 
Hiawatha out of his head yet. He 
still thinks his work is to go out 
and shoot the red deer. 
In the villages you will see the 
big pa Indian sit on the ground and 
direct his better half to build an 
oven. She will scoop up the mortor 
and plastering it on with her bare 
hands, while he will hold his 
blanket around his shoulders and 
grunt. 
The ovens are built mound-shap- 
ed, not inside the house but outside. 
They are a miniature of our char- 
coal oven, some times made of dobie 
and sometimes of stone, and cover- 
ed with some sort of cement. The 
inside is both fireplace and oven. 
They will build a _ hot fire, 
thoroughly heat the oven, then rake 
out the fire and put in the corn- 
