Facts, Fiction and Factors
Some Striking Stones of the Hudson’s Bay Company Pioneers and Others
By COLONEL GEORGE H. HAM
Í GEORGE HAM FORGOT !
¡= TT is regarded as a miracle when Col. George g
g J. Ham forgets anything. But the letter below |
H will show he missed one detail of a prank played g
s nearly .half a century ago.
§§ This letter is a part of one of the scores of g
3 letters Col. Ham and this magazine are receivg
g in g from MACLEAN’S readers in almost every g
g city and town in Canada—and many of the g
g hamlets. From P.E.I. and Dawson City, the g
3 Midlands of England and Prince Rupert, B.C., g
g they come. The letter, from which a few seng
g tences are given below, is from one of the docg
g tors who participated in the famous prank Col. g
g Ham described in his article in the Oct. 1 s
g MACLEAN’S: -
g Perth, Ontario, 3
g 10 Oct., 19-20. g
3 Dear George Ham:— g
g I scarcely know how to express my pleasure g
g at reading your article in the last issue of g
g MACLEAN’S MAGAZINE. g
g You certainly compliment me very highly by g
g associating that little escapade of mine upon g
g you and the doctors of Winnipeg with similar g
g articles about Canada’s most noted transient =
3 residents from the British Isles. -
g Your memory must be good, as all you say g
3 is true, but you forgot to say that Dr. McArthur ^
§§ v arrived in his slippers, pyjamas and bathrobe. 3
g I now cannot go down town without meeting s
g several who come forward laughing, shake hands g
3 with me and say, “That was a good joke of |j
Ü yours which George Hain tells about you." r
BEFORE the advent of the railways, the Hudson’s Bay Company was the biggest institution between the Great Lakes and the Pacific Ocean. Its tercentenary was recently celebrated in right royal style, as became the importance of the event. It had posts all through the West, and it was the great purveyor for the few scattered people in that illimitable domain.
It is not my purpose to write a history of the Hudson's Bay Company, but to pay a tribute to the officers of that company as I knew them. They were, scarcely without exception) either Scotch or of Scotch descent, and whether in the Arctic circle, the broad plains, the northern wilderness or in the growing western cities one was glad to meet them. The MacTavishes, the Andersons, the Macfarianes, the Macdougalls, Macdonalds, Christies, McMurrays, Campbells, Hamiltons, Stewarts, Sinclairs, Rosses, Cowans, Cowies, Taylors, McKenzies, Fortescues, Bells, Wattses, Balsillies, Simpsons, Rankins, Grahames, Murrays, McLeans, Ilardistys, Clarkes, Belangers, Wilsons, Traills, Camsills and others I cannot recall, formed a great group in my days, as their forefathers did before them.
And with them, a century and a half ago and since then, many of the noted clansmen of the famous Scottish chiefs, whose fortunes were lost at the memorable battle of Culloden in 1746, which extinguished the hopes of the house of Stuart, afterwards came to Canada. They had participated in that bloody engagement, and having lost all, and to avoid the fierce persecutions which followed, fled to this country of refuge. They were distinguished for heroic courage and daring enterprise. Coming to Canada they at once sought employment in the adventurous schemes of the fur traders of the Northwest.
Intrepid Scotch Voyageurs
THIS bold blood gave new vigor and additional energy to the affairs of the traders. These men and their descendants were the intrepid voyageurs who pushed their fortunes to the Saskatchewan and the Athabasca over a century ago. The blood which flowed in the bands of Culloden is the blood of those fearless Scotsmen who dared warring tribes and frozen regions and unknown hardships, who discovered the Mackenzie River, who first crossed the Rocky Mountains, and first planted the British flag on the Arctic seas. In the veins of many Bois Bruleg and Metis girls on the Red River flows the blood of the men who fought with Lochiel near Inverness on the 15th April, 1746.
The vast region of British America is full of the unwritten traditions of the daring exploits of these men through a wilderness of territory larger than all Europe, and it only needs the glamor of the glittering pen of a Scott to weave these wild annals into stories as fascinating as Waverley, and as charming as the wonderful romances of Fenimore Cooper. In old journals can be read how the great Cardinal Richelieu headed “The Company of the Hundred Partners,” in 1637, engaged in the fur trade in Canada, which company continued for thirty-six years, and which has had successors continuously, till finally merged into the Great Hudson’s Bay Company, which carries on its extensive operations at the present time. So that the Red River, the Saskatchewan and the far-off Athabasca are linked back to the days of Louis XIV in France, and to the great chiefs and clans of Scotland who fought at Culloden, where the flag of the Stuarts went down forever%
One can recall with pleasant memories the "glorious gatherings of. the Hudson’s Bay men and their friends.
When you met men from the Arctic circle, from the Pacific Coast, from the plains and the forests of the great West, from all points of the compass—except the South—men who had grown grey in the service, who had lived lonely but wonderful lives amongst aborigines, you felt that no matter how much the policy of the company in by-gone days might be criticized and condemned—for it’s always the pioneer who gets the most of it—you were meeting grand old men. The slogan of the company was “Pro pelle cutem”—skin for skin—and in all its dealings with the aboriginal world faith was always strictly kept. That’s what guaranteed the safety of Hudson’s Bay men, wearing Scotch caps and displaying the Union Jack in the dark days of the Sioux massacre in Minnesota. That was the guarantee in the Old Fort Garry days that the goods purchased were just what they were represented to be. That’s why the Hudson’s Bay Company and its faithful officials and employees did not palm off cheap goods on the innocent Metis or Indians.
HOSPITALITY was unbounded and they were as glad to see a visitor as the wearied wanderer was to seek their comfortable quarters.
Mr. Hamilton, who was stationed ’way up north where he received his mail only once a year, was a subscriber to the London Times and, as he told me, he had a morning paper every day in the year, his copy being exactly one year old. He religiously read only one copy a day. He died in Peterboro some years ago and his death was greatly regretted.
Joseph Hargrave’s “Red River” was a splendidly written book, now almost forgotten. I remember him in Winnipeg, a cultured gentleman, who had never before worn shoe covering but moccasins. I met him with his first pair of leather boots, and he walked clumsily as an ox. But he didn’t write with his feet.
Larry Clarke, of Prince Albert, was a host whose hospitality could never be forgotten by those who enjoyed it. Johnny McTavish, after whom I named my first boy, was everybody’s friend, John Balsillie, James Anderson, Jim McDougall, Horace Belanger from Murray House on Lake Winnipeg, whose laugh was the most infectious I ever heard—who can ever forget them? And they are but a few of the army of Hudson’s Bay men, who in days gone by wielded a great influence amongst the untutored people of the land. Some of the names are familiar to the residents of many an Ontario town, whither several of the factors of the Hudson’s Bay Company retired at the close of their service to spend the evening of their busy lives in peaceful dignity, always men of outstanding character in the community.
Some of Joe’s “Fakes”
AMONGST my good old
friends is JoeDillabough,
for years on the Chicago press. Joe is Canadian born, but drifted to Chicago in the early ’80’s and was the first cub reporter of the Times.
What he doesn’t know of the seamy side of life in that great city is not worth knowing.
When Joe was taken ill some years ago, we sent him out to the Canadian Rockies to recuperate, and incidentally to tell the world of the magnificence of the scenery around and about them, and how it enthralled the prominent people from the east. Joe’s first dispatch was about the unfortunate disappearance of a bishop and several priests from some outlandish country, the name of which 1 have forgotten, in a chasm at Banff, and of their timely rescue by Manager Mathews, of the C.P.R. hotel. It appeared in the Montreal evening papers and on going to Toronto that night I sat beside a stranger while the berths were being made up when he casually remarked that: “This is a
queer story in to-night’s paper—this rescue of the Bishop and priests from a chasm at Banff.’’ I asked in what particular way was it queer, and he said he came from that
far-away land and they never had a Bishop there. And I said, “Oh, Joe.”
Then the next dispatch was about the drowning of a large number of Indians in Lake Louise, while crossing the ice on their wray to a potlach. It was widely published.
I wrote Joe that there were no Indians in that locality, and if there were, they would not cross the lake but follow the trail around Lake Louise, but if they did cross the ice, they couldn’t possibly drown for the ice was a couple of feet thick. Joe naively replied that there were some of the most elegant liars in the Rocky Mountains he had ever known of. My experience is that these talented descendants of Ananias are not altogether confined to that scenic region.
Nearly a generation ago Clinton Snowden was a celebrated copy-reader on the Times. Snowden went to Tacoma about 1892. It was he who hit upon the plan of sending George Francis Train, the great national crank, around the world on a 60-day tour, “Tacoma to Tacoma,” to beat the record of Phineas Fogg, the Jules Verne character in “Around the World in Eighty Davy’s.” By the same token Train was the original of Fogaril the Verne story. It will be recalled that Nellie Bly,’ a Canadian newspaper woman working in New York, set out to out-do Train’s record and beat it by a day or so. Nellie was a Brockyille girl or from one of the towns near there. Train, by the way, was a financial genius in his younger days and the real father-promoter of the Union Pacific Railway. He introduced “trains” in London and Australia.
Several Gory Sequences
THE celebrated Cronin case was one of Joe’s assignments, and it was one of the most cold-blooded murders in the country’s annals. I am only referring to it, because one of the scenes was laid in Winnipeg. Dr. Cronin was an earnest and honest patriotic Nationalist, and belonged to the notorious Camp 20. Suspecting that the immense sums of money contributed to the “Cause” were being stolen by the “Triangle,” which controlled the Camp and diverted the funds to the Triangle’s personal benefit, he openly denounced Alexander Sullivan, its chief, and, strenuously as they tried to silence him, he still continued to openly charge them with theft. They could only quiet him by getting him out of the way, and he was lured to the Carlson cottage one night and foully murdered. Pat McGarry, Frank T. Seahlan and other friends visited the newspaper offices and told of their suspicions. They were right. John M. Collins, a Camp 20 member, then a traffic cop at Lake and Clark Sts., identified Martin Burke at Winnipeg. John later became chief of police at Chicago. He died of pneumonia a couple of years ago. George Hubbard, chief in 1889, who sent Collins to the ’Peg, recently died in Florida. Alex S. Ross, assistant chief in ’89, who brought Burke back to Chicago, died some years ago. He was a brother of Duncan C., the great athlete, and Wm. J. Ross, now of Fort William, and former superintendent of bridges, C.P.R., under John M. Egan. Detective John Broderick, who worked up tho case in Winnipeg, died a few years ago, and George A. II. Baker, assistant states-attorney for Cook County, committed suicide in Chicago by strangling himself with a trunk strap.
When Alex. Sullivan, head of the Triangle, died at St. Joseph’s Hospital, Chicago, Joe covered the story for the Tribune. He was the son of a British Army officer, once stationed at Fort Amherstburg, Ont., and was born there. The Cronin murder has been followed by many tragedies on both sides, or factions. It was John Fleming, an expoliceman, who tipped to Joe the scoop that John Sampson (“Major”) had been offered $100 by Dan Coughlin (Big
Continued on page 64
Facts, Fiction and Factors
Continued, from page 25
Dan), a Chicago city detective, to slug Cronin and that tip led to Dan’s connection with the case and to Joe’s story of his hiring of the white horse from Pat Dinan, the liveryman, which was used when Cronin was lured to his death in the Carlson cottage. Dan became a fugitive from justice following the bribing of jurors in an Illinois Central Railway civil court action, and he died in Honduras. He was led into the bribery case by Pat O’Keefe, special agent for the Illinois Central Railway, and formerly in the same capacity for the C.P.R. under Egan, in Winnipeg. O’Keefe and Aleck Ross, years before going to Chicago, had been partners as whiskey detectives in and around Rat Portage, Ont. They had quarrelled up there over a pair of rubber boots and remained enemies for yearsin Chicago until they were brought together in Mel Wood’s saloon on Clark St., where they shook hands and made up, renewing an old and fast friendship. !
A Detective By Accident
MARTIN BURKE was captured and sentenced 'to life imprisonment and nearly everyone connected with the case came to a tragic end. John Broderick and I became very intimate while he was in Winnipeg and he generally spent his evenings at my house. He told us one night how he happened to become a detective. He was a cop and had a warm friend, a brother policeman, on the next beat. It was their custom, if they did not meet at the adjoining ends of their beats, to hit the pavement with their batons, as a reminder of their presence. His friend not being on time late one night, John gave the usual signal. To his surprise, out jumped a man from a jewelry store, and ran down the street, with John after him. After a long chase, the culprit dashed down an alley-way where at the corner was an ash-barrel. To steady himself in making the sharp curve, John struck the barrel with his baton, and gave the culprit’s hand a smart blow, which caused him to yell with pain. He got another crack on the head, and John dragged him to the police station where he was identified as a notorious burglar for whom the police had been vainly searching for some time.
“I knew enough to keep my mouth shut as to the accidental capture,” John said laughingly, “and they made me a detective, with several promotions since. I knew more than the parrot which talked too much.”
After thirty-seven years’ work on the Chicago press, Joe is now secretary of the Chicago Zoological Gardens Committee of the Forest Reserve District of Cook County, and his many friends in Canada know that he can efficiently fill the position. The great zoological tract is 300 acres in extent and was presented to the public by Mrs. Edith Rockefeller McCormick, daughter of John D. Rockefeller. She is the wife of Harold F. McCormick, Chicago president of the International Harvester Co.
It was through another'Joe—Joe Page, that great Canadian baseball promoter— that I met the notorious “Hinky Dink,” who has, been, an alderman of Chicago for years iand/years and has remained one
notwithstanding the strenuous efforts of the reform element to defeat him. His real name is Michael McKenna, and his first ward colleague in the council 20 odd years is “Bath House Jawn”—John J. Coughlin. The Dink really is a “square little guy” and became a great pal of W. T. Stead, when he was here getting material for his book, “If Christ Came to . Chicago.” On that visit Stead lived among the hobo fellows and, with them, actually was a “iVhite wing,” pushing a broom in the streets that he might get color for his story. Hinky’s ^special claim for popularity is that he never goes back on “the boys,” no matter at what hour of the night or early morn he arises to go bail for any poor unfortunate in the police toils,-and it is said that never has he been deceived by those he has helped out of
The Great Humorist
MARK TWAIN was, in the minds of a multitude, the greatest humorist that America has ever produced. Some of his works are classics, and he gave that human touch to his characters that endeared them to the hearts of his readers. Although his gifted pen is laid away forever, his writings still live as Dickens’ have lived, and his characters are undying. What is more human than his Tom Sawyer and Huckleberry Finn, his Col. Mulberry Sellars, in the “Gilded Age,” his “Prince and Pauper,” and what works will outlast his Tales of Western Life, and the “Innocents Abroad”?
While I could not say that I was at all intimate with Mark, I have met him a number of times, and have heard him speak brilliantly, and also, while suffering great bodily pain, pathetically endeavoring to be his own bright sunshiny self at banquets, when another person similarly stricken in health would have been a-bed, at home or in the hospital.
I knew Mark better than many others did, however, through my good friend, Ralph W. Ashcroft, now of Montreal, who for many years was his business manager ; his wife, Mrs. Ashcroft, (formerly Miss Lyon) was Mark’s capable secretary. They have a thousand and one recollections of Mark, and some day, it is to be hoped, they will collaborate and give the world a more realistic insight of the dead author than has ever yet been presented.
Few men who ever spoke in public could sway an audience more readily than could Mark Twain. It was a delight to him to play upon the emotions of his hearers, and to transport them in the twinkling of an eye from the verge of tears to the realm of laughter. But I recall two occasions on which his art failed him.
He had been visiting a friend who lived in a small town in New York state, and while there was asked by the superintendent of a local charitable institution if he would be kind enough to come there and talk to the intimates. He said he would be delighted to do so. The next evening, when Mark stepped on the platform of the auditorium, he viewed an audience of both sexes and all ages, and portraying various degrees of intelligence. This was*
somewhat perplexing, and, for a moment, he was at a loss tp decide what kind of a talk to give them. However, he launched forth in a general way, and, after a few moments, as he tells it, “I fired a mild one at them.” But there was no response— not even the faintest suggestion of a laugh. All sat with their eyes glued on him, wrapt in wonderment, admiration and respect. This was a poser to Mark, but he continued to talk, and, in a minute or two, he “selected a stronger one and hurled it into their midst.” The result was the same—a morgue-like silence emanating from a group of animate corpses.
Mark’s friend was on the platform with him, and Mark looked appealingly at him. He detected a twinkle of amusement in his friend’s face, but got no encouraging look from him. Mark paused, mentally surveyed his last joke and its manner of delivery, and found both flawless. He was bewildered, but, nevertheless, decided to make a final attempt. He felt that his reputation as a humorist was at stake.
So he continued talking, and finally launched an anecdote that had never failed in his experience to turn an audience inside out with laughter and shrieks of applause. But not a glimmer of amusement was perceptible in-his audience— not the remotest suggestion of a laugh or a smile. He was furious — mad right clear through at his failure—and he commenced to “to take it out of” his audience in sarcastic vein, ending his talk by complimenting them on their acute appreciation of humor and wit. When he reached his friend’s home, he asked him if he could explain their stupor.
“Why, didn’t you know?” said his friend: “They’re all deaf mutes!”
Mark and the “High-brows”
ON THE other occasion, Mark had quite a different audience—the faculty and the graduating classes of Columbia University in New York. On the platform with him were several eminent men of international reputation. Knowing the company he would be in, Mark decided that this occasion would be a suitable one at which to show an intellectual audience that he was something more than a humorist—to show them that he was a philosopher and a man of parts in a literary way. He selected for this purpose the beautiful poem which he had written in memory of his daughter Susy, and which had not then been published. He decided to read this to the gathering, at the close of his talk. Mark’s turn came, and he delighted his audience with one of the most delicately witty speeches he had ever made. They thought he had finished, but he kept on his feet, and they continued applauding. He raised his hand beseeching silence, and then said: “I would like, now, ladies and gentlemen, to read you some serious verse that I composed recently. It is an appreciation of my—” The applause was renewed with fourfold force, the laughter fairly shook the building. Mark looked visibly pained; he appeared to be (as he was) deeply distressed. This served only to accentuate and prolong the demonstration. Finally they quieted down, and, very solemnly, Mark said: “But, ladies and gentlemen, what I wish to read to you is sacred in my eyes. It refers to—”
But it was no use—the shrieks of laughter drowned his words. After exhausting themselves, the audience waited for more, waited for “the joke.” But Mark merely said, in as grieved a tone as he truly felt: “I see, my friends, that you are in no mood this evening to treat me seriously, so I will not burden you further.” And he sat down, amid a deafening demonstration. Such wit, they thought, was delicious. He could have cried with chagrin. Few, if any, in that audience yet know of their unwitting faux pas.
So it was with Harry Lauder, two years ago, when speaking in a Congregational Church in Montreal. He charmed his audience with a few quaint sayings, and then referred to the Great War, and to the loss he had sustained through the death of 'his son. It was very pathetic, but a number of people sitting in front of him shook with laughter. They thought he was still funny to Sir Harry’s utter disgust and to the disgust of others, who like myself felt the man’s sorrow and tearfully sympathized with him in his
Mark was a very shrewd investor. Whenever he made a few thousand dollars on a book or lecture tour, he would put the
money into some sound enterprise. It is , not generally known that he was the [ man who developed what is now the j linotype, the first ftypesetting machine, j
The Human Cash Register OE WAS very much interested in the cash register, and, when he died, was one of the owners of a machine which was almost human. It would register a purchase of say $2.65, gobble up a $5 bill, and automatically hand the customer his change, viz: a two dollar bill, a twenty-five cent piece, and a dime. The change would always come out in the highest possible denominations. Mark figured on having a phonograph attached to the cash register, which would say: “Here’s your change, madam. Thank you very
The late H. H. Rogers, of Standard Oil Co. fame, often gave him valuable advice regarding investments. On one occasion Mark decided to have a little fun at Rogers’ expanse. He went to his office one day and told him he was going to invest some money in a brick-yard that could make bricks cheaper, and better and faster than any other brick-yard on earth, and he wanted Rogers to invest $50,000 too. Mark told Rogers all about the wonderful method of making these marvelous bricks, and took up about an hour of Rogers’ valuable time, finally saying: “Now, Henry, I want your
cheque for $50,000, and I want it NOW.” “But,” said Mr. Rogers. “There’s one important thing about the matter that you haven’t told me.”
“What is that?” asked Mark.
“Why,” said Mr. Rogers, “where is this brick-yard of yours located?”
. “Oh,” exclaimed Mark disgustedly, “if you want to know that, the deal’s off!” As a matter of fact, the brick-yard was a myth. It didn’t exist. All that Mark was after was to get Rogers to write out the cheque, so that he could have the laugh on him.
Col. Ham As A Linguist
WHEN at school I was taught English, Latin and Greek and a smattering of French, I could translate Latin like a book, was considerably “off” in my Greek, and anybody but a Frenchman could easily understand my French. I tried to learn the Indian language out West, but made a mighty poor fist of it. However, I was a fairly apt pupil when I studied the Chinook language out in British Columbia in 1886. There were on the Pacific Coast at that time many nationalities and numerous small tribes of Indians who couldn’t understand each other. The Chinook language, which consisted of words from the different tongues, was then concocted, and while it wasn’t as fluent and smooth as the French, it was decidedly more useful amongst the aborigines and those who traded with them, and was almost universally used up the coast and in parts of the interior.
Unfortunately, we have only two tongues in Quebec Province and I naturally became a little rusty in my Chinook. But I still remember that some of the words bave a wide range of meaning, and the particular one in the speaker’s mind is conveyed by shrugs of the shoulders and contortions of the hands. In this polyglot of words the origin of many of them can be readily understood. For instance “pa-pa” in Chinook means father in English, and “ma-ma” means mother. But the-similarity falls away in grandfather, who is a "chope.” I’m a chope. Bed is bed, and salmon is salmon, but “tyee” salmon is spring salmon or chief salmon, “tyee” being chief or “supreme” or “highest” andin fact alsomeans “God.” The devil is “diaub,” which is not far from the French diable. Man is man, but a boy or young man is “tenas man.” “Tenas” means small, few, little, according to the sense in which it is used in conversation; and “hyas” is very great and also very large, and to show how varying it may be used, “hyas aukutte” means a long time ago, and “hyas tillicum” a great friend, a big friend, either referring to one’s stature or his intimacy, as the case may be.
The returned veterans will be interested in learning that a cootie is an "in-apoo.” “Kah-kah” is not easily misunderstood for a crow, nor “tik-tik” for a watch, for an , English-speaking infant calls it that. “Co-sho” is a hog, pork—not so far away from the French cochon. A dime is a “bit,” a word freely used in other places than | British Columbia. A doctor is “doc-tin,” I and patients have learned that tin always
accompanies the doe after all is over “Hee-hee” is laughter, only we don’t have as much e’s in ours. A handkerchief is “Kat-at-shum,” but we English with a cold frequently snort out ker-choo when using one. “How do you do?” is “Klahow-ya?” which is a corruption of “Clarke, how are you?” with which a popular factor of the Hudson’s Bay Company of that name was usually greeted. It may be sarcasm, but “élite” in Chinook means slave in English. An apple is “pomme” in French and “la-pome” in Chinook. “Chuck” is water in Chinook and with some of us chuck is the slang for food. “Cultus” means almost anything that is N. G. “Klootchman” is not a man, but a woman or for that matter a female of any animal, which is pretty tough on the fair
“Kumtux” is to know, but “halo kumtux,” a very common expression, is supposed to mean stupid. “La-pote,” which is not very far away from the French “la porte,” means the same thing— a door. There is a sort of consanguinity between a looking-glass and “She-lok-um.” “Siam” means a grizzly bear, and we have always connected that word with sacred elephants. “Tum-tum” is the heart, the desire, the will, but with us tum-tum or tummy is another part of a child’s anatomy.
Guess that is about all I can remember of this jargon which sounds queer, but not any queerer than our own if you just consecutively pronounce aloud the common everyday words, bough, cough, dough, trough, ’nough, plough, rough, slough, Lough, and tough, and then find that the English words ending in “ough” are as variously pronounced as if spelt bow, coff, doe, troff, nuff, plow, ruff, slew, lockh, and tuff. And ours is a language and theirs a jargon.
Indian Humor and Imagery
TT IS a pretty general belief that the
Indian never laughs. This is incorrect. The red man enjoys a joke as well as the white or black or yellow, and his imagery is poetic.
When I visited Mekastin, Chief of the Bloods, and told him I had come to learn
about the intended uprising of the Indians in the West, who were charged with the proposed slaughtering of all the whites in the Northwest, he smilingly asked:
“And if you believe this how dare you come here without a gun to defend yourself?”
I nonchalantly replied, putting my hand over my upper vest pocket:
“Oh, 1 have something here that will kill any Indian 1 ever met.”
He, very interestedly, wanted to know what it was, and I produced a lead-pencil. The whole tribe present laughed heartily when it ivas translated to them and dubbed me “The Man with the Lead Pencil.” Next time I met Red Crow was in Winnipeg on his way to Europe, whither the Canadian Government had sent him and other chiefs for civilizing and education. I took the band to an ice cream parlor and as he ate his first dish, the chief called it “white snow” and said that on the next fall of it he would send down all his squaws to secure a large supply.
TN TAKING them to the theatre that ■l night, the electric lights were turned on; gazing up at them, he put his hands over his mouth, and exclaimed, “Oh my, oh my, oh my, the white man is wonderful. See! he has plucked a lot of little stars from the skies to light the village with. He is wonderful.” And to this day Red Crow imagines those lights are little stars captured from heaven and utilized by the angelic corporation of Winnipeg for street lighting purposes. “Around the World in Eighty Days” was the play produced and my dusky guests uninterestedly viewed the opening scenes. But when the Deadwood stage was attacked by Indians there came a decided change in their demeanor. All called out encouragingly in the Indian tongue to their fellow reds on the boards, and they became greatly excited and their unceasing activities of person and guttural whoops attracted more attention to our group than did the actors. After the show we met their brothers in red, who belonged to another tribe, and it was explained to them that this was only play-acting and stage robbery was now obsolete.