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1- Write a paper about How does the narrator deal with assimilation–almost like an immigrant–in the story “School Day of an Indian Girl.”2- Use only the provided resource.3- No longer than 2 and a half pages. 4- Use simple words
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The School Days of an Indian Girl
Zitkala-Sa
Creation of machine-readable version Judy Boss ( )
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This version available from the University of Virginia Library
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http://etext.lib.virginia.edu/
Commercial use prohibited; all usage governed by our Conditions of
Use:http://etext.lib.virginia.edu/conditions.html
1994
About the print version
The School Days of an Indian Girl
Zitkala-Sa
Atlantic Monthly
New York
1900
Volume 85
Published: 1900
Englishfiction; proseNative AmericanWomen WritersYoung Readers
Revisions to the electronic version
August 1994 corrector Jamie L Spriggs, Electronic Text Center, University of Virginia
tagged with TEI-conformant SGML
[email protected]. Commercial use prohibited; all usage governed by our
Conditions of Use: http://etext.lib.virginia.edu/conditions.html
THE LAND OF RED APPLES.
THERE were eight in our party of bronzed children who were going East with the missionaries.
Among us were three young braves, two tall girls, and we three little ones, Judewin, Thowin, and
I.
We had been very impatient to start on our journey to the Red Apple Country, which, we were
told, lay a little beyond the great circular horizon of the Western prairie. Under a sky of rosy
apples we dreamt of roaming as freely and happily as we had chased the cloud shadows on the
Dakota plains. We had anticipated much pleasure from a ride on the iron horse, but the throngs
of staring palefaces disturbed and troubled us.
On the train, fair women, with tottering babies on each arm, stopped their haste and scrutinized
the children of absent mothers. Large men, with heavy bundles in their hands, halted near by, and
riveted their glassy blue eyes upon us.
I sank deep into the corner of my seat, for I resented being watched. Directly in front of me,
children who were no larger than I hung themselves upon the backs of their seats, with their bold
white faces toward me. Sometimes they took their forefingers out of their mouths and pointed at
my moccasined feet. Their mothers, instead of reproving such rude curiosity, looked closely at
me, and attracted their children’s further notice to my blanket. This embarrassed me, and kept me
constantly on the verge of tears.
I sat perfectly still, with my eyes downcast, daring only now and then to shoot long glances
around me. Chancing to turn to the window at my side, I was quite breathless upon seeing one
familiar object. It was the telegraph pole which strode by at short paces. Very near my mother’s
dwelling, along the edge of a road thickly bordered with wild sunflowers, some poles like these
had been planted by white men. Often I had stopped, on my way down the road, to hold my ear
against the pole, and, hearing its low moaning, I used to wonder what the paleface had done to
hurt it. Now I sat watching for each pole that glided by to be the last one.
In this way I had forgotten my uncomfortable surroundings, when I heard one of my comrades
call out my name. I saw the missionary standing very near, tossing candies and gums into our
midst. This amused us all, and we tried to see who could catch the most of the sweetmeats. The
missionary’s generous distribution of candies was impressed upon my memory by a disastrous
result which followed. I had caught more than my share of candies and gums, and soon after our
arrival at the school I had a chance to disgrace myself, which, I am ashamed to say, I did.
Though we rode several days inside of the iron horse, I do not recall a single thing about our
luncheons.
It was night when we reached the school grounds. The lights from the windows of the large
buildings fell upon some of the icicled trees that stood beneath them. We were led toward an
open door, where the brightness of the lights within flooded out over the heads of the excited
palefaces who blocked the way. My body trembled more from fear than from the snow I trod
upon.
Entering the house, I stood close against the wall. The strong glaring light in the large
whitewashed room dazzled my eyes. The noisy hurrying of hard shoes upon a bare wooden floor
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increased the whirring in my ears. My only safety seemed to be in keeping next to the wall. As I
was wondering in which direction to escape from all this confusion, two warm hands grasped me
firmly, and in the same moment I was tossed high in midair. A rosy-cheeked paleface woman
caught me in her arms. I was both frightened and insulted by such trifling. I stared into her eyes,
wishing her to let me stand on my own feet, but she jumped me up and down with increasing
enthusiasm. My mother had never made a plaything of her wee daughter. Remembering this I
began to cry aloud.
They misunderstood the cause of my tears, and placed me at a white table loaded with food.
There our party were united again. As I did not hush my crying, one of the older ones whispered
to me, “Wait until you are alone in the night.”
It was very little I could swallow besides my sobs, that evening.
“Oh, I want my mother and my brother Dawee! I want to go to my aunt!” I pleaded; but the ears
of the palefaces could not hear me.
From the table we were taken along an upward incline of wooden boxes, which I learned
afterward to call a stairway. At the top was a quiet hall, dimly lighted. Many narrow beds were in
one straight line down the entire length of the wall. In them lay sleeping brown faces, which
peeped just out of the coverings. I was tucked into bed with one of the tall girls, because she
talked to me in my mother tongue and seemed to soothe me.
I had arrived in the wonderful land of rosy skies, but I was not happy, as I had thought I should
be. My long travel and the bewildering sights had exhausted me. I fell asleep, heaving deep, tired
sobs. My tears were left to dry themselves in streaks, because neither my aunt nor my mother
was near to wipe them away.
THE CUTTING OF MY LONG HAIR.
The first day in the land of apples was a bitter-cold one; for the snow still covered the ground,
and the trees were bare. A large bell rang for breakfast, its loud metallic voice crashing through
the belfry overhead and into our sensitive ears. The annoying clatter of shoes on bare floors gave
us no peace. The constant clash of harsh noises, with an undercurrent of many voices murmuring
an unknown tongue, made a bedlam within which I was securely tied. And though my spirit tore
itself in struggling for its lost freedom, all was useless.
A paleface woman, with white hair, came up after us. We were placed in a line of girls who were
marching into the dining room. These were Indian girls, in stiff shoes and closely clinging
dresses. The small girls wore sleeved aprons and shingled hair. As I walked noiselessly in my
soft moccasins, I felt like sinking to the floor, for my blanket had been stripped from my
shoulders. I looked hard at the Indian girls, who seemed not to care that they were even more
immodestly dressed than I, in their tightly fitting clothes. While we marched in, the boys entered
at an opposite door. I watched for the three young braves who came in our party. I spied them in
the rear ranks, looking as uncomfortable as I felt.
A small bell was tapped, and each of the pupils drew a chair from under the table. Supposing this
act meant they were to be seated, I pulled out mine and at once slipped into it from one side. But
when I turned my head, I saw that I was the only one seated, and all the rest at our table
remained standing. Just as I began to rise, looking shyly around to see how chairs were to be
used, a second bell was sounded. All were seated at last, and I had to crawl
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back into my chair again. I heard a man’s voice at one end of the hall, and I looked around to see
him. But all the others hung their heads over their plates. As I glanced at the long chain of tables,
I caught the eyes of a paleface woman upon me. Immediately I dropped my eyes, wondering why
I was so keenly watched by the strange woman. The man ceased his mutterings, and then a third
bell was tapped. Every one picked up his knife and fork and began eating. I began crying instead,
for by this time I was afraid to venture anything more.
But this eating by formula was not the hardest trial in that first day. Late in the morning, my
friend Judewin gave me a terrible warning. Judewin knew a few words of English, and she had
overheard the paleface woman talk about cutting our long, heavy hair. Our mothers had taught us
that only unskilled warriors who were captured had their hair shingled by the enemy. Among our
people, short hair was worn by mourners, and shingled hair by cowards!
We discussed our fate some moments, and when Judewin said, “We have to submit, because they
are strong,” I rebelled.
“No, I will not submit! I will struggle first!” I answered.
I watched my chance, and when no one noticed I disappeared. I crept up the stairs as quietly as I
could in my squeaking shoes, — my moccasins had been exchanged for shoes. Along the hall I
passed, without knowing whither I was going. Turning aside to an open door, I found a large
room with three white beds in it. The windows were covered with dark green curtains, which
made the room very dim. Thankful that no one was there, I directed my steps toward the corner
farthest from the door. On my hands and knees I crawled under the bed, and cuddled myself in
the dark corner.
From my hiding place I peered out, shuddering with fear whenever I heard footsteps near by.
Though in the hall loud voices were calling my name, and I knew that even Judewin was
searching for me, I did not open my mouth to answer. Then the steps were quickened and the
voices became excited. The sounds came nearer and nearer. Women and girls entered the room. I
held my breath, and watched them open closet doors and peep behind large trunks. Some one
threw up the curtains, and the room was filled with sudden light. What caused them to stoop and
look under the bed I do not know. I remember being dragged out, though I resisted by kicking
and scratching wildly. In spite of myself, I was carried downstairs and tied fast in a chair.
I cried aloud, shaking my head all the while until I felt the cold blades of the scissors against my
neck, and heard them gnaw off one of my thick braids. Then I lost my spirit. Since the day I was
taken from my mother I had suffered extreme indignities. People had stared at me. I had been
tossed about in the air like a wooden puppet. And now my long hair was shingled like a
coward’s! In my anguish I moaned for my mother, but no one came to comfort me. Not a soul
reasoned quietly with me, as my own mother used to do; for now I was only one of many little
animals driven by a herder.
THE SNOW EPISODE.
A short time after our arrival we three Dakotas were playing in the snowdrifts. We were all still
deaf to the English language, excepting Judewin, who always heard such puzzling things. One
morning we learned through her ears that we were forbidden to fall lengthwise in the snow, as
we had been doing, to see our own impressions. However,
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before many hours we had forgotten the order, and were having great sport in the snow, when a
shrill voice called us. Looking up, we saw an imperative hand beckoning us into the house. We
shook the snow off ourselves, and started toward the woman as slowly as we dared.
Judewin said: “Now the paleface is angry with us. She is going to punish us for falling into the
snow. If she looks straight into your eyes and talks loudly, you must wait until she stops. Then,
after a tiny pause, say, ‘No.'” The rest of the way we practiced upon the little word “no.”
As it happened, Thowin was summoned to judgment first. The door shut behind her with a click.
Judewin and I stood silently listening at the keyhole. The paleface woman talked in very severe
tones. Her words fell from her lips like crackling embers, and her inflection ran up like the small
end of a switch. I understood her voice better than the things she was saying. I was certain we
had made her very impatient with us. Judewin heard enough of the words to realize all too late
that she had taught us the wrong reply.
“Oh, poor Thowin!” she gasped, as she put both hands over her ears.
Just then I heard Thowin’s tremulous answer, “No.”
With an angry exclamation, the woman gave her a hard spanking. Then she stopped to say
something. Judewin said it was this: “Are you going to obey my word the next time?”
Thowin answered again with the only word at her command, “No.”
This time the woman meant her blows to smart, for the poor frightened girl shrieked at the top of
her voice. In the midst of the whipping the blows ceased abruptly, and the woman asked another
question: “Are you going to fall in the snow again?”
Thowin gave her bad password another trial. We heard her say feebly, “No! No!”
With this the woman hid away her half-worn slipper, and led the child out, stroking her black
shorn head. Perhaps it occurred to her that brute force is not the solution for such a problem. She
did nothing to Judewin nor to me. She only returned to us our unhappy comrade, and left us
alone in the room.
During the first two or three seasons misunderstandings as ridiculous as this one of the snow
episode frequently took place, bringing unjustifiable frights and punishments into our little lives.
Within a year I was able to express myself somewhat in broken English. As soon as I
comprehended a part of what was said and done, a mischievous spirit of revenge possessed me.
One day I was called in from my play for some misconduct. I had disregarded a rule which
seemed to me very needlessly binding. I was sent into the kitchen to mash the turnips for dinner.
It was noon, and steaming dishes were hastily carried into the dining room. I hated turnips, and
their odor which came from the brown jar was offensive to me. With fire in my heart, I took the
wooden tool that the paleface woman held out to me. I stood upon a step, and, grasping the
handle with both hands, I bent in hot rage over the turnips. I worked my vengeance upon them.
All were so busily occupied that no one noticed me. I saw that the turnips were in a pulp, and
that further beating could not improve them; but the order was, “Mash these turnips,” and mash
them I would! I renewed my energy; and as I sent the masher into the bottom of the jar, I felt a
satisfying sensation that the weight of my body had gone into it.
Just here a paleface woman came up to my table. As she looked into the jar she shoved my hands
roughly aside. I stood fearless and angry. She placed her red hands upon the rim of the jar. Then
she gave one lift and a stride away from the table. But lo! the pulpy contents fell through the
crumbled bottom
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to the floor! She spared me no scolding phrases that I had earned. I did not heed them. I felt
triumphant in my revenge, though deep within me I was a wee bit sorry to have broken the jar.
As I sat eating my dinner, and saw that no turnips were served, I whooped in my heart for having
once asserted the rebellion within me
THE DEVIL.
Among the legends the old warriors used to tell me were many stories of evil spirits. But I was
taught to fear them no more than those who stalked about in material guise. I never knew there
was an insolent chieftain among the bad spirits, who dared to array his forces against the Great
Spirit, until I heard this white man’s legend from a paleface woman.
Out of a large book she showed me a picture of the white man’s devil. I looked in horror upon the
strong claws that grew out of his fur-covered fingers. His feet were like his hands. Trailing at his
heels was a scaly tail tipped with a serpent’s open jaws. His face was a patchwork: he had
bearded cheeks, like some I had seen palefaces wear; his nose was an eagle’s bill, and his sharppointed ears were pricked up like those of a sly fox. Above them a pair of cow’s horns curved
upward. I trembled with awe, and my heart throbbed in my throat, as I looked at the king of evil
spirits. Then I heard the paleface woman say that this terrible creature roamed loose in the world,
and that little girls who disobeyed school regulations were to be tortured by him.
That night I dreamt about this evil divinity. Once again I seemed to be in my mother’s cottage.
An Indian woman had come to visit my mother. On opposite sides of the kitchen stove, which
stood in the centre of the small house, my mother and her guest were seated in straight-backed
chairs. I played with a train of empty spools hitched together on a string. It was night, and the
wick burned feebly. Suddenly I heard some one turn our door-knob from without.
My mother and the woman hushed their talk, and both looked toward the door. It opened
gradually. I waited behind the stove. The hinges squeaked as the door was slowly, very slowly
pushed inward.
Then in rushed the devil! He was tall! He looked exactly like the picture I had seen of him in the
white man’s papers. he did not speak to my mother, because he did not know the Indian
language, but his glittering yellow eyes were fastened upon me. He took long strides around the
stove, passing behind the woman’s chair. I threw down my spools, and ran to my mother. He did
not fear her, but followed closely after me. Then I ran round and round the stove, crying aloud
for help. But my mother and the woman seemed not to know my danger. They sat still, looking
quietly upon the devil’s chase after me. At last I grew dizzy. My head revolved as on a hidden
pivot. My knees became numb, and doubled under my weight like a pair of knife blades without
a spring. Beside my mother’s chair I fell in a heap. Just as the devil stooped over me with
outstretched claws my mother awoke from her quiet indifference, and lifted me on her lap.
Whereupon the devil vanished, and I was awake.
On the following morning I took my revenge upon the devil. Stealing into the room where a wall
of shelves was filled with books, I drew forth The Stories of the Bible. With a broken slate pencil
I carried in my apron pocket, I began by scratching out his wicked eyes. A few moments later,
when I was ready to leave the room, there was a ragged hole in the page where the picture of the
devil had once been.
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IRON ROUTINE.
A loud-clamoring bell awakened us at half past six in the cold winter mornings. From happy
dreams of Western rolling lands and unlassoed freedom we tumbled out upon chilly bare floors
back again into a paleface day. We had short time to jump into our shoes and clothes, and wet
our eyes with icy water, before a small hand bell was vigorously rung for roll call.
There were too many drowsy children and too numerous orders for the day to waste a moment in
any apology to nature for giving her children such a shock in the early morning. We rushed
downstairs, bounding over two high steps at a time, to land in the assembly room.
A paleface woman, with a yellow-covered roll book open on her arm and a gnawed pencil in her
hand, appeared at the door. Her small, tired face was coldly lighted with a pair of large gray eyes.
She stood still in a halo of authority, while over the rim of her spectacles her eyes pried
nervously about the room. Having glanced at her long list of names and called out the first one,
she tossed up her chin and peered through the crystals of her spectacles to make sure of the
answer “Here.”
Relentlessly her pencil black-marked our daily records if we were not present to respond to our
names, and no chum of ours had done it successfully for us. No matter if a dull headache or the
painful cough of slow consumption had delayed the absentee, there was only time enough to
mark the tardiness. It was next to impossible to leave the iron routine after the civilizing machine
had once begun its day’s buzzing; and as it was inbred in me to suffer in silence rather than to
appeal to the ears of one whose open eyes could not see my pain, I have many times trudged in
the day’s harness heavy-footed, like a dumb sick brute.
Once I lost a dear classmate. I remember well how she used to mope along at my side, until one
morning she could not raise her head from her pillow. At her deathbed I stood weeping, as the
paleface woman sat near her moistening the dry lips. Among the folds of the bedclothes I saw the
open pages of the white man’s Bible. The dying Indian girl talked disconnectedly of Jesus the
Christ and the paleface who was cooling her swollen hands and feet.
I grew bitter, and censured the woman for cruel neglect of our physical ills. I despised the pencils
that moved automatically, and the one teaspoon which dealt out, from a large bottle, healing to a
row of variously ailing Indian children. I blamed the hard-working, well-meaning, ignorant
woman who was inculcating in our hearts her superstitious ideas. Though I was sullen in all my
little troubles, as soon as I felt better I was ready again to smile upon the cruel woman. Within a
week I was again actively testing the chains which tightly bound my individuality like a mummy
for burial.
The melancholy of those black days has left so long a shadow that it darkens the path of years
that have since gone by. These sad memories rise above those of smoothly grinding school days.
Perhaps my Indian nature is the moaning wind which stirs them now for their present record.
But, however tempestuous this is within me, it comes out as the low voice of a curiously colored
sea-shell, which is only for those ears that are bent with compassion to hear it.
FOUR STRANGE SUMMERS.
After my first three years of school, I roamed again in the Western country through four strange
summers.
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During this time I seemed to hang in the heart of chaos, beyond the touch or voice of human aid.
My brother, being almost ten years my senior, did not quite understand my feelings. My mother
had never gone inside of a schoolhouse, and so she was not capable of comforting her daughter
who could read and write. Even nature seemed to have no place for me. I was neither a wee girl
nor a tall one; neither a wild Indian nor a tame one. This deplorable situation was the effect of
my brief course in the East, and the unsatisfactory “teenth” in a girl’s years.
It was under these trying conditions that, one bright afternoon, as I sat restless and unhappy in
my brother’s cabin, I caught the sound of the spirited step of my brother’s pony on the road which
passed by our dwelling. Soon I heard the wheels of a light buckboard, and Dawee’s familiar
“Ho!” to his pony. He alighted upon the bare ground in front of our house. Tying his pony to one
of the projecting corner logs of the low-roofed cottage, he stepped upon the wooden doorstep.
I met him there with a hurried greeting, and as I passed by, he looked a quiet “What?” into my
eyes.
When he began talking with my mother, I slipped the rope from the pony’s bridle. Seizing the
reins and bracing my feet against the dashboard, I wheeled around in an instant. The pony was
ever ready to try his speed. Looking backward, I saw Dawee waving his hand to me. I turned
with the curve in the road and disappeared. I followed the winding road which crawled upward
between the bases of little hillocks. Deep water-worn ditches ran parallel on either side. A strong
wind blew against my cheeks and fluttered my sleeves. The pony reached the top of the highest
hill, and began an even race on the level lands. There was nothing moving within that great
circular horizon of the Dakota prairies save the tall grasses, over which the wind blew and rolled
off in long, shadowy waves.
Within this vast wigwam of blue and green I rode reckless and insignificant. It satisfied my small
consciousness to see the white foam fly from the pony’s mouth.
Suddenly, out of the earth a coyote came forth at a swinging trot that was taking the cunning
thief toward the hills and the village beyond. Upon the moment’s impulse, I gave him a long
chase and a wholesome fright. As I turned away to go back to the village, the wolf sank down
upon his haunches for rest, for it was a hot summer day; and as I drove slowly homeward, I saw
his sharp nose still pointed at me, until I vanished below the margin of the hilltops.
In a little while I came in sight of my mother’s house. Dawee stood in the yard, laughing at an
old warrior who was pointing his forefinger, and again waving his whole hand, toward the hills.
With his blanket drawn over one shoulder, he talked and motioned excitedly. Dawee turned the
old man by the shoulder and pointed me out to him.
“Oh han!” (Oh yes) the warrior muttered, and went his way. He had climbed the top of his
favorite barren hill to survey the surrounding prairies, when he spied my chase after the coyote.
His keen eyes recognized the pony and driver. At once uneasy for my safety, he had come
running to my mother’s cabin to give her warning. I did not appreciate his kindly interest, for
there was an unrest gnawing at my heart.
As soon as he went away, I asked Dawee about something else.
“No, my baby sister, I cannot take you with me to the party to-night,” he replied. Though I was
not far from fifteen, and I felt that before long I should enjoy all the privileges of my tall cousin,
Dawee persisted in calling me his baby sister.
That moonlight night, I cried in my mother’s presence when I heard the jolly young people pass
by our cottage. They
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were no more young braves in blankets and eagle plumes, nor Indian maids with prettily painted
cheeks. They had gone three years to school in the East, and had become civilized. The young
men wore the white man’s coat and trousers, with bright neckties. The girls wore tight muslin
dresses, with ribbons at neck and waist. At these gatherings they talked English. I could speak
English almost as well as my brother, but I was not properly dressed to be taken along. I had no
hat, no ribbons, and no close-fitting gown. Since my return from school I had thrown away my
shoes, and wore again the soft moccasins.
While Dawee was busily preparing to go I controlled my tears. But when I heard him bounding
away on his pony, I buried my face in my arms and cried hot tears.
My mother was troubled by my unhappiness. Coming to my side, she offered me the only printed
matter we had in our home. It was an Indian Bible, given her some years ago by a missionary.
She tried to console me. “Here, my child, are the white man’s papers. Read a little from them,”
she said most piously.
I took it from her hand, for her sake; but my enraged spirit felt more like burning the book,
which afforded me no help, and was a perfect delusion to my mother. I did not read it, but laid it
unopened on the floor, where I sat on my feet. The dim yellow light of the braided muslin
burning in a small vessel of oil flickered and sizzled in the awful silent storm which followed my
rejection of the Bible.
Now my wrath against the fates consumed my tears before they reached my eyes. I sat stony,
with a bowed head. My mother threw a shawl over her head and shoulders, and stepped out into
the night.
After an uncertain solitude, I was suddenly aroused by a loud cry piercing the night. It was my
mother’s voice wailing among the barren hills which held the bones of buried warriors. She
called aloud for her brothers’ spirits to support her in her helpless misery. My fingers grew icy
cold, as I realized that my unrestrained tears had betrayed my suffering to her, and she was
grieving for me.
Before she returned, though I knew she was on her way, for she had ceased her weeping, I
extinguished the light, and leaned my head on the window sill.
Many schemes of running away from my surroundings hovered about in my mind. A few more
moons of such a turmoil drove me away to the Eastern school. I rode on the white man’s iron
steed, thinking it would bring me back to my mother in a few winters, when I should be grown
tall, and there would be congenial friends awaiting me.
INCURRING MY MOTHER’S DISPLEASURE.
In the second journey to the East I had not come without some precautions. I had a secret
interview with one of our best medicine men, and when I left his wigwam I carried securely in
my sleeve a tiny bunch of magic roots. This possession assured me of friends wherever I should
go. So absolutely did I believe in its charms that I wore it through all the school routine for more
than a year. Then, before I lost my faith in the dead roots, I lost the little buckskin bag containing
all my good luck.
At the close of this second term of three years I was the proud owner of my first diploma. The
following autumn I ventured upon a college career against my mother’s will.
I had written for her approval, but in her reply I found no encouragement. She called my notice
to her neighbors’ children, who had completed their education in three years. They had
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returned to their homes, and were then talking English with the frontier settlers. Her few words
hinted that I had better give up my slow attempt to learn the white man’s ways, and be content to
roam over the prairies and find my living upon wild roots. I silenced her by deliberate
disobedience.
Thus, homeless and heavy-hearted, I began anew my life among strangers.
As I hid myself in my little room in the college dormitory, away from the scornful and yet
curious eyes of the students, I pined for sympathy. Often I wept in secret, wishing I had gone
West, to be nourished by my mother’s love, instead of remaining among a cold race whose hearts
were frozen hard with prejudice.
During the fall and winter seasons I scarcely had a real friend, though by that time several of my
classmates were courteous to me at a safe distance.
My mother had not yet forgiven my rudeness to her, and I had no moment for letter-writing. By
daylight and lamplight, I spun with reeds and thistles, until my hands were tired from their
weaving, the magic design which promised me the white man’s respect.
At length, in the spring term, I entered an oratorical contest among the various classes. As the
day of competition approached, it did not seem possible that the event was so near at hand, but it
came. In the chapel the classes assembled together, with their invited guests. The high platform
was carpeted, and gayly festooned with college colors. A bright white light illumined the room,
and outlined clearly the great polished beams that arched the domed ceiling. The assembled
crowds filled the air with pulsating murmurs. When the hour for speaking arrived all were
hushed. But on the wall the old clock which pointed out the trying moment ticked calmly on.
One after another I saw and heard the orators. Still, I could not realize that they longed for the
favorable decision of the judges as much as I did. Each contestant received a loud burst of
applause, and some were cheered heartily. Too soon my turn came, and I paused a moment
behind the curtains for a deep breath. After my concluding words, I heard the same applause that
the others had called out.
Upon my retreating steps, I was astounded to receive from my fellow students a large bouquet of
roses tied with flowing ribbons. With the lovely flowers I fled from the stage. This friendly token
was a rebuke to me for the hard feelings I had borne them.
Later, the decision of the judges awarded me the first place. Then there was a mad uproar in the
hall, where my classmates sang and shouted my name at the top of their lungs; and the
disappointed students howled and brayed in fearfully dissonant tin trumpets. In this excitement,
happy students rushed forward to offer their congratulations. And I could not conceal a smile
when they wished to escort me in a procession to the students’ parlor, where all were going to
calm themselves. Thanking them for the kind spirit which prompted them to make such a
proposition, I walked alone with the night to my own little room.
A few weeks afterward, I appeared as the college representative in another contest. This time the
competition was among orators from different colleges in our state. It was held at the state
capital, in one of the largest opera houses.
Here again was a strong prejudice against my people. In the evening, as the great audience filled
the house, the student bodies began warring among themselves. Fortunately, I was spared
witnessing any of the noisy wrangling before the contest began. The slurs against the Indian that
stained the lips of our opponents were already burning like a dry fever within my breast.
But after the orations were delivered a deeper burn awaited me. There,
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before that vast ocean of eyes, some college rowdies threw out a large white flag, with a drawing
of a most forlorn Indian
