The Great Spirit
When the spirit swells my breast I love to roam leisurely among the
green hills; or sometimes, sitting on the brink of the murmuring
Missouri, I marvel at the great blue overhead. With half-closed eyes I
watch the huge cloud shadows in their noiseless play upon the high
bluffs opposite me, while into my ear ripple the sweet, soft cadences of
the river's song. Folded hands lie in my lap, for the time forgot. My
heart and I lie small upon the earth like a grain of throbbing sand.
Drifting clouds and tinkling waters, together with the warmth of a
genial summer day, bespeak with eloquence the loving Mystery round about
us. During the idle while I sat upon the sunny river brink, I grew
somewhat, though my response be not so clearly manifest as in the green
grass fringing the edge of the high bluff back of me.
At length retracing the uncertain footpath scaling the precipitous
embankment, I seek the level lands where grow the wild prairie flowers.
And they, the lovely little folk, soothe my soul with their perfumed
Their quaint round faces of varied hue convince the heart which leaps
with glad surprise that they, too, are living symbols of omnipotent
thought. With a child's eager eye I drink in the myriad star shapes
wrought in luxuriant color upon the green. Beautiful is the spiritual
essence they embody.
I leave them nodding in the breeze, but take along with me their impress
upon my heart. I pause to rest me upon a rock embedded on the side of a
foothill facing the low river bottom. Here the Stone-Boy, of whom the
American aborigine tells, frolics about, shooting his baby arrows and
shouting aloud with glee at the tiny shafts of lightning that flash from
the flying arrow-beaks. What an ideal warrior he became, baffling the
siege of the pests of all the land till he triumphed over their united
attack. And here he lay—Inyan our great-great-grandfather, older than
the hill he rested on, older than the race of men who love to tell of
his wonderful career.
Interwoven with the thread of this Indian legend of the rock, I fain
would trace a subtle knowledge of the native folk which enabled them to
recognize a kinship to any and all parts of this vast universe. By the
leading of an ancient trail I move toward the Indian village.
With the strong, happy sense that both great and small are so surely
enfolded in His magnitude that, without a miss, each has his allotted
individual ground of opportunities, I am buoyant with good nature.
Yellow Breast, swaying upon the slender stem of a wild sunflower,
warbles a sweet assurance of this as I pass near by. Breaking off the
clear crystal song, he turns his wee head from side to side eyeing me
wisely as slowly I plod with moccasined feet. Then again he yields
himself to his song of joy. Flit, flit hither and yon, he fills the
summer sky with his swift, sweet melody. And truly does it seem his
vigorous freedom lies more in his little spirit than in his wing.
With these thoughts I reach the log cabin whither I am strongly drawn by
the tie of a child to an aged mother. Out bounds my four-footed friend
to meet me, frisking about my path with unmistakable delight. Chän is a
black shaggy dog, "a thoroughbred little mongrel" of whom I am very
fond. Chän seems to understand many words in Sioux, and will go to her
mat even when I whisper the word, though generally I think she is guided
by the tone of the voice. Often she tries to imitate the sliding
inflection and long-drawn-out voice to the amusement of our guests, but
her articulation is quite beyond my ear. In both my hands I hold her
shaggy head and gaze into her large brown eyes. At once the dilated
pupils contract into tiny black dots, as if the roguish spirit within
would evade my questioning.
Finally resuming the chair at my desk I feel in keen sympathy with my
fellow-creatures, for I seem to see clearly again that all are akin. The
racial lines, which once were bitterly real, now serve nothing more than
marking out a living mosaic of human beings. And even here men of the
same color are like the ivory keys of one instrument where each
resembles all the rest, yet varies from them in pitch and quality of
voice. And those creatures who are for a time mere echoes of another's
note are not unlike the fable of the thin sick man whose distorted
shadow, dressed like a real creature, came to the old master to make him
follow as a shadow. Thus with a compassion for all echoes in human
guise, I greet the solemn-faced "native preacher" whom I find awaiting
me. I listen with respect for God's creature, though he mouth most
strangely the jangling phrases of a bigoted creed.
As our tribe is one large family, where every person is related to all
the others, he addressed me:—
"Cousin, I came from the morning church service to talk with you."
"Yes?" I said interrogatively, as he paused for some word from me.
Shifting uneasily about in the straight-backed chair he sat upon, he
began: "Every holy day (Sunday) I look about our little God's house, and
not seeing you there, I am disappointed. This is why I come today.
Cousin, as I watch you from afar, I see no unbecoming behavior and hear
only good reports of you, which all the more burns me with the wish that
you were a church member. Cousin, I was taught long years ago by kind
missionaries to read the holy book. These godly men taught me also the
folly of our old beliefs.
"There is one God who gives reward or punishment to the race of dead
men. In the upper region the Christian dead are gathered in unceasing
song and prayer. In the deep pit below, the sinful ones dance in
"Think upon these things, my cousin, and choose now to avoid the
after-doom of hell fire!" Then followed a long silence in which he
clasped tighter and unclasped again his interlocked fingers.
Like instantaneous lightning flashes came pictures of my own mother's
making, for she, too, is now a follower of the new superstition.
"Knocking out the chinking of our log cabin, some evil hand thrust in a
burning taper of braided dry grass, but failed of his intent, for the
fire died out and the half-burned brand fell inward to the floor.
Directly above it, on a shelf, lay the holy book. This is what we found
after our return from a several days' visit. Surely some great power is
hid in the sacred book!"
Brushing away from my eyes many like pictures, I offered midday meal to
the converted Indian sitting wordless and with downcast face. No sooner
had he risen from the table with "Cousin, I have relished it," than the
church bell rang.
Thither he hurried forth with his afternoon sermon. I watched him as he
hastened along, his eyes bent fast upon the dusty road till he
disappeared at the end of a quarter of a mile.
The little incident recalled to mind the copy of a missionary paper
brought to my notice a few days ago, in which a "Christian" pugilist
commented upon a recent article of mine, grossly perverting the spirit
of my pen. Still I would not forget that the pale-faced missionary and
the hoodooed aborigine are both God's creatures, though small indeed
their own conceptions of Infinite Love. A wee child toddling in a wonder
world, I prefer to their dogma my excursions into the natural gardens
where the voice of the Great Spirit is heard in the twittering of birds,
the rippling of mighty waters, and the sweet breathing of flowers.
Here, in a fleeting quiet, I am awakened by the fluttering robe of the
Great Spirit. To my innermost consciousness the phenomenal universe is a
royal mantle, vibrating with His divine breath. Caught in its flowing
fringes are the spangles and oscillating brilliants of sun, moon, and