An Indian Scorns Work Of Any Kind - That Is Only For
Squaws.
The squaws will scratch up a bit of ground with sticks, put a
little seed in, and then leave it for the sun and rain to do with as
it sees fit.
No more attention will be paid to it, and half the time
the seed is not covered.
One old chief raised some wheat one year - I presume his squaws did all
the work - and he gathered several sackfuls, which was made into flour
at the agency mill. The chief was very proud. But when the next
quarterly issue came around, his ration of flour was lessened just the
amount his wheat had made, which decided all future farming for him!
Why should he, a chief, trouble himself about learning to farm and
then gain nothing in the end! There is a fine threshing machine at the
agency, but the Indians will have nothing whatever to do with it. They
cannot understand its workings and call it the "Devil Machine."
As we were nearing the Indian village across the creek from us, we
came to a most revolting spectacle. Two or three Indians had just
killed an ox, and were slashing and cutting off pieces of the almost
quivering flesh, in a way that left little pools of blood in places on
the side. There were two squaws with them, squatted on the ground by
the dead animal, and those hideous, fiendish creatures were scooping
up the warm blood with their hands and greedily drinking it!
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