The weekly democratic statesman. [volume] (Austin, Tex.) 1871-1883, 1882-07-20
The Indians FIXTURE.

[Bill Nye in the Laramie Boomerang.]
The question of what is TO be the
glorious ultimately of the red man
in America is one which demands of
us, az a people, serious considcra-
ton. Will few fleeing years ex-
terminate from the face of the earth
race which has long filled our
fourth readers and school declama-
tions with crude OratOry, existing
only as a smoke-tanned, bead-trim-
med memory? Will the beautiful
picture of the brunette Indian
maiden at last become nothing but
the frOntispiece of time hOnored
legend and the trade mark of
fine cut factory? Let us hope
that it will not.
We have crossed the wide ocean
and wrested from these people their
lands, and then, to aud insult to in
jury, we have taught them the mys-
teries of our civilization.
With the white man came the doc
trine OF vicarious atOnement and the
open-back shirt. He brought with
him the dictionary and the garden
hose, salvation and saleratus. The
tale was soon told, and now on the
vertebr9 of the continent the tele-
phone and the morning paper are
crowding the red widOWer aud The
pigeon-toed scion of PoWhatan into
the moaning sea. The restless waves
of civilization and soap have crowd
ed old Rise-up-William Riley and
the whole tribe into the black
night of forgetfulness and death.
Gradually he has picked up his
household goods and his wife and
upright piano, and stolen toward
the couch of dying day. Now he
stands upon the rocky battlements
that border the new states, and,
bathed in red sunlight and nothing
else in particular, he shakes hands
with his approaching doom.
Had he taken more kindly to the
bath-tnb of the paIe-face and frater-
niZed more adequately with the
crash towel of the European, his
oblivion would have been less speedy
and the black tom-cat night of eter-
nal sleep less formerly.
Silent and unrelenting, unmoved
above the broad cemetery of his
ness and death, we cannot help adj
miriDg the brawny brave with
the undaunted eye and the buck
skin pants with the seat cut
off. Nature gave to thee, thou dusky
warrior, strength like the eagle and
swiftness in the chase, but IN her
wisdom denied thee the copper lin
ing that is required to meet and con-
quer the vintage of a progressive
age. The mountain lion may meet
thee and yield up his lite at thy
hands, but the juice of the centipede,
that lis distilled by the pale face and
sold to thee, tangles up the duode-
mum and cracks the crown sheet of
the digester.
Brave orator of the school book,
grim relic of the days of Pocahon-
tas, we watch with tear-dimmed
eyes thy closing hours. Adieu, thou
Indian mother, standing on the steep,
preclpitous shores OF eternity. Be-
hind thee rest the dead heroes
of thy race, and at thy side the
brindle relic of mighty tribe of In
dian dog, fatigued and listless, pets |
his favorite flea. No one can look |
upon this sad and smoky group IN
moved-tbe fading remnants of a
glorious petty larceny mob. Had |
he adopted the Prince Albert coat |
and the doctrine of a protective tar
iff, instead of the plug hat and the |
whisky sour, his future might have
been a Respondent one and his >1Ite
less clouded with failure and re-
We should learn from this to shun
the errors which have busted the |
glorious future of the red man. Let
us profit by his example and eschew
the flowing bowl. We should also
avoid the exposure of an outdoor
life. A constant communion with |
nature and wet feet shortens life,
and clouds the pathway with gloom
and catarrh.