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FORM A.
WASHINGTON
R. G. STILLMAN
309 East Mercer, SEATTLE, WASHINGTON.
DECEMBER 19, 1938.
A PICTURE OF NORTHWEST INDIANS.
1. R. G. Stillman
509 East Mercer Streets
Seattle, Washington.
2. February, 1932.
3. Approximately fifteen miles northeast of 6ellingham, Whatcom County, Washington.
4. Lead obtained through farmer, name unobtained.
5. Alone.
6. See copy.
FORM 8
Personal History. of Infonont
WASHINGTON
R. G. Stillman
SEATTLE, WASHINGTON
DECEMBER 19, 1938.
A PICTURE OF NORTHWEST INDIANS.
R. 6. STILLMAN (Informant)
309 East Mercer Street, Seattle, Washington.
1. American (French, English and Scotch).
2. Lodi, Wisconsin, June 14, 1896.
3. Wife and child.
4. Wisconsin, Utah, Wyomin6, Oregon, Waehington, Alberta (Canada), Itigland,Franoe,
Belgium, Washington, New York, Washington, Oregon, California, Oregon
and Washington. (Note, Informant has lived in these places in this
7.
8. None
9.
10.
order).
S. Highsohool, Normal and some University.
6. Soldier, Preacher, Salesman, Merchant, Salesman, Asst. Editor
paper, Contractor (Builder), Writer.
A play produced by the bellingham Theater Build, 1933.
Westminister and Vancouver, 8. C. :during that year.
Contributor to TRAVEL MAGAZINE, 1934-3S.
Writing, Indian lore, sociology.
Tall, slender, medium complexion
of Rural News
Played in New
STATE: WASHINGTON
NAME OF WORKER: R. G. STILLMAN
ADDRESS: 509 Last Mercer Street, Seattle, Washington.
SUBJECT* A PICTURE OF NORTHWEST INDIANS. (Folklore).
We don't know our Indians not we modern whites. We are apt to think of
them, if at all, as feathered, fringed and half -naked savages howling about some
beleagured little pioneer group. We know the handsome hero will arrive in the
very nick of time and, to the refrain of martial music, hard -riding bluecoata will
put the painted devils to flight. Of course, this is the Indian of the screen,
the radio and wildwest magazines, and our intellect may tell us that the picture is
untrue. But, being what we are and living as we live, it is the impression most of
us hold-- if we have any impression at all.
In actuality, today's Indian is as far different from the "painted savage," as
the modern Englishman is from the skin -clad Angle or Saxon. He is, in fact, our
"forgotten man," bravely trying to adjust himself to conditions widely at variance
with his racial heritages; quietly endeavoring to surmount barriers of racial pre-
judice and misunderstanding so that his children, too, may live as white men live.
Let me illustrate with a paint ng-- a word -painting of the Nooksac tribe, one
of our most northwestern red peoples. If I can brush in detail, develop the high-
lights and color the whole with the rich, warm, human values-- if I can do this,
--then you, too, will more nearly understand the Indian. And, I shall have done my
part,
The white man hangs tight to the wheel of the little red car, his eyes peering
past the groaning rain -swipe and into the semi -opaque grayness of fog. The farmer
had said, 'Turn to the left along the river,' and he has done this. But, although
it seems miles since leaving the highway with its bordering of well -kept, prosperous
farms and dairy ranches-- miles of rutted, rain-puddled road where leafless limbs of
Folklore (Cont.)
immense alders and cottonwoods lean menacingly over the muddy track-- there is still
no sign of the thing he seeks. I must have missed it, the white man decides, and,
bringing the car to a stop, he shuts off his engine and looks about him.
There are trees to his rUht, reaching dripping, barren skeletons into
the vagueness of the fog. An old field, to his left, brush -clumped and brier -grown,
stretches stump -pocked surfaces into mysterious, grey obscurity. Over and around
him, the fog hangs, wet and cold-- shutting away the February sun and imprisoning
him in a little world of his awn, a world of dripping trees and dull, drab half
lights. He listens, and above the muffled murm of the nearby river and the steady
drip of moisture, he suddenly hears voices, muffled and thickened by the foggy blan-
ket. He turns sharply, his eyes probing the veiled distance ahead.
And, then he sees it. Surrounded by the indistinct lace of a fog -screened
grove, the shadowy bulk of a small church appears against the road. Even the dull
silver curtaining can not hide the dark crudity of its unpainted exterior, nor ob-
literate the ungainly sag of the little belfry perched on the steep, shake roof.
There are no lawns or landscaping. Just a drab little church set Ina grove of
leafless trees. Like a dreary old man, hunched over and shivering in the damp cold.
A few old cars stand in the wet grass, cars as dilapidated and unkft as the
building near which they are parked. There are people, too, on the wet planks of
the uncovered stoop. People who silently watch the white man as he gets to the
ground and starts toward them. Watch him with dark, expressionless eyes set in stolid,
masklike faces. ihown faces, like Old leather.
There is a long silence. 41en„ an old man speaks. "You from govIment?"
"No," the white man answers. "I'm a writer."
"Far newspapers?" This from a stocky youth who arises from his crouch a-
gainst the wall of the building and advances toward the white man.
he continues, "That's what we need. Publicity."
"2:hat's fine,"
Folklore (Cont.)
The white man explains he is not a reporter, but a free-lance who is interest-
ed in Indians and who is looking for material. "A farmer told me you were holding
a tribal meeting of the Nooksacs," he says.
For a moment the youth appears disappointed. Then, "Oh, you write books.
That's better yet. That's lots of publicity."
"Where is your chief?" the white man asks.
"Chief George? He's inside. I'm Anton George. We're cousins. Most of
1113 Nooksacs are Georges." The young man chuckles. "We ought to change the tribe
name to George. Come on, I take you to him."
The other people apparently pay no attention to the conversation. Their im-
passive brawn faces and inscrutable eyes are turned politely into the fog.
It is dark inside the little church, for the grey light of the world outside
is further veiled by festoons of spider's webs across narrow, high windows. The
walls are unpainted and unadorned and brownish -black with age. tough pews, double
ranked along the length of the room, leave a narrow aisle that leads directly to a
low platform and simple pulpit at the far end of the room. Two kerosene lane hang
from an indistinct ceiling, one over the pulpit and one centering the pews. A man,
standing on a box, is preparing to light the latter lamp. "That's Chief George,"
young Anton announces. "Hey, Chief. Here's a writer who wants to see our meeting."
The man continues with his fumbling, strikes a match and holds it against the
wick, then fie -replaces the chimney. A faint golden glow floods downward from the
reflector, washing over the aisle and pews nearby, pooling the corners of the room
and underneath the benches with black shadow. He gets down to the floor, and the
white man sees he is tall and broad -shouldered, his fine, large head crowned with
a glistening helmet of blue -black hair.
"You are welcome here," the Chief sayas a faint gutteral marring a deep voice,
otherwise deliberate and well modulated. "White people don't often bother about
us Nooksacs." He turns to the youth. "Anton. You show this man to a good place.
4
hlklore (Cont.)
Where he can see."
People are entering the buildings scattering themselves among the benches.
Twenty-five, thirty, perhaps thirty-five individuals come in. There are no
youngsters.
"Where are the children," the white man wants to knoll*. Anton George, who
is sitting beside him, explains that most of the children are attending the Indian
school at Taholah, sixty or seventy miles away. "Boarding school," he grins, "I
went there. They feed good."
Old people sit in the front pews, immediately under the pulpits-- old women
with bandanaed heads, gaudy shawls and moccaalined feet,— old men, grizzled, their
weathered, brawn faces net -worked with wrinkles. Their eyes bleared from a lifetime
of sun and winds and storms, and the smoky fumes from indoor, open fires.
Younger people settle in whispering groups over the room. Behind the white
man, a plump, brawn matron discussei finger waves with a slender, girlish woman
whose lighter cheeks underlaid with dusky rose, betray the infusion of white blood.
In the pew in front, three swarthy males argue cream -teats. "Don't make no differ-
ence what my barn test is," one is saying, "the creamery test is lower." "Why not,"
says another, "Ain't you a Nooksaen All three laugh.
Chief George lights the lamp over the pulpit and sits in the armchair immediate-
ly behind it. A heavy -set mans great, drooping mustaches dividing his face with a
bar of startling black, takes the chair beside him.
"That's the interpreter," Anton explains in a hoarse whisper. "Our old people
don't know American, and us young people don't understand the old Nooksac. We're
modern, us young people."
The slender woman leaves her plump companion, and, with minutebook and pencils,
establishes herself at a bare little table set at the right of the pulpit. She
flounces her blue silk skirts and pushes at her glistening, waved hair with fingers
Folklore (Cont.)
loaded with Woolworth jewelry. Then, she looks expectantly toward Chief George
who answers her smile and gets to his feet.
"This meeting of the Nooksac Tribe will come to order," he announces. "We
will now have the reading of the minutes of the last meeting."
The morning progresses. Problems are discussed. Roads, crops, prospects
for employment in logging camps, the efficiency of the government school in Taholah
e,
where their children are educated. Sometimes the interpretIr translates for the old
people who nod their heads in understanding. But they are silent and impassive,
seldom removing their eyes from the fine figure of their young chief.
The younger people are more vocal, each piece of business being met with maw
varying expressions of opinion. Always, Robert's Rules of Order regulates the
operation of the meeting. The numerous discussions are always orderly.
At last Chief George looks at his watch. It is nearly noon. mile always eat
a banquet at these meetings," he says, looking toward the white man. 'We would ap—
preciate our visitor being our guest."
The white man, pleased, nods his assent.
The women are excused, and, with a swishing of sk rte, an explosion of sudden
conversation and laughter, tramp into a side room. 011ie George calls a number of
men to the rostrum where they talk in law, guarded tones.
Outside, the fbg has risen, and the sun, bright with victory, is flooding the
world with triumphant splendor. "Let's go outdoors," Anton suggests. "Maybe we can
play baseball."
The women have finished their preparations and have called the men to the table.
Chief George, who has been talking to the white man, leads him to a chew at
the table's very head. "You are our guest," he explains, "You will sit here." The
old people scatter along the lower end, and the young men fill in the vacant places.
Folklore (cont.)
The women are busy with the serving.
The table is loaded with food. There is roast beef and pork and fried chicken
in huge platters-- and boiled salmon and slate of black smoked fish. There are
vegetables fresh from glass jars-- and a dark, sticky mess composed of salmon eggs.
There are rich, brown pies and handsome cakes-- and dried, wild berries heaped in
great bawls. Pitchers of creamy milk and pots of steaming, black coffee are car-
ried from diner to diner by brown -skinned women, intent that each shall eat and drink
to repletion. Young people gorge on the roast meats, the chicken, the vegetables and
pies. Old people eat heavily of the fish and cram their mouths with dried berries.
There is little conversation to inter:opt the business of eating.
At last, however, the weal is finished. Old People wipe their mouths with
the back of withered, vein -ridged hands. Some one passes toothpicks among the
young folks, and there is the scraping of morsels from between glistening* white
teeth. There is no apparent signal, but suddenly all rise from the table. The men
troop out into the sun where they smoke hand -rolled Bull Durham cigarettes and gather
around Chief George and the white man. Anton is talking about a proposed baseball
team from among the Nooksaca. wffe could get a good team," he boasts. "Maybe we
could play Bellingham." Chief George's amused eyes meet those of the white man,
and he smiles at the youth's enthusiasm.
There are many introductions'. The white man meets Charlie Adam, Billy and Antone
Jesus, Frank Moses, Arthur Noah and several Georges. "We don't use Nookaac names
anymore," Chief George explains. "Our fathers took Bible names when the priest
brought us the church."
The light -skinned woman, the tribal secretary, appears on the stoop. The women
have finished eating, and are ready to continue the meeting. Everyone re-enters the
building.
Folklore (Cont.)
Anton and the white men find their places. The old people sit together
under the pulpit. Younger people scatter in whispering groups of twos or threes
throughout the room. Chief George rises and steps to the edge of the platfuna.
The interpretr also gets to his feet and takes his place at the young thief's side.
There is sudden silence.
"We have finished our regular business," the Chief says. "We have eaten our
banquet. We have met with our friends and neighbors and relatives. Now, tbsTe is
just one thing left before we go hems."
"We have a writer with us who came as our friend. He has visited us to learn
about us so that he can write true things about us for white people to read•
"We appreciate his coming, and we would like to have him carry with him a gift
to remember us by. We haven't much, for we are poor people. Some of us got together
and figured we could do this-- we could take him into our tribe. As a brother. For,
he is our friend. I'd like to hear from you people on this."
The interpretr translated for the old people, his words harsh and gutteral—
madhine-gun-like clacking and peculiars throaty hisses. He finishes, and there is
deep silence. The white man feels all eyes upon him, and he flushes with pleased
embarasslent. Anton nudges him. "You make a speech after we elect you."
A
Suddenly a very old man totters to his feet from among the people on the front
pew. He carries the burden of years upon his bowed shoulders, and his head shakes
with the palsy of age. His bright plaid shawl slips from his shoulders to the floor
as, with an effort, he straightens himself. He raises rheumy eyes toward the chief and
a shaft of light from a narrow window bathes a face massed with tigy lines and criss-
crossed with deeper wrinkles.
There is a hush-- all eyes are fastened expectantly on the ancient figure, Anton
whispers, "That's John Tense. He's the oldest Nooksac. No one knows how old."
Folklore (Cort.)
The dead silence is broken by a quavPring voice chanting queer gutterals and
t
hisses-- thrill and piping with age. The interprer/e hangs intently on every
word, translating sentence for sentence as the old man speaks. There is growing
excitement as Jahn Tones progresses, and the white men imagines the room is filled
with shades-- shades of Nooksacs, long since gone. Strong, clean -limbed brawn
men, glorying in the freedom of great virgin forests and crystal—clear rushing
torrents.
e/
The intrepretr is translating. "It is me, John Tense speaking. Many years
have passed over me since I was young. So many I cannot count. Now I am old, and
my eyes are old. I see no longer except as if I were looking through muddy water.
"But inside me, it is clear, and I can see with the eyes of youth. It is like
a dream, but the dream is real and does not fade away. This I see, that once the
Nooksac were a great people. My father told me, and I have not forgotten. New I
see that it was true, and that a thousand warriors lived in the towns of the Nooksac.
They were great hunters who knew how to hunt the deer and bear, and how to take many
fish from the rivers. They were brave warriors who knew how to protect their lands
and homes from enemies. Even the wild Northmen feared the Nooksacs, and, although
they made slaves of the lummis and other tribes, they left the Nooksacs alone. There
was peace and plenty among the Nookeac towns.
"I see a sickness, a white man's sickness. But there was no white men. Hunters
and warriors come home to find their women and children dead upon the floor of the
houses. Braves ,tt forth to hunt and fall down and die. Their wives and sons never
te
see them again. I see that sickness made the Nooksacs weak and death lesared their
numbers until not three hundred warriors and women and children are left in the tribal
towns.
"But, I see they are not cowards, these three hundred people. They are brave
and fear no one. They hunt deer and take salmon and trade with their neighbors. They
make war on their enemiee and they are feared and respected.
Folklore (Cont.)
Now I see the first white men among the Nooksacs. They are friends, they
say, and are come to trade for our furs. They are welcomed in our houses. Our
wives and daughters serve them and our young men are as brothers. 'We will always
be your friends,' they say, and the Nooksacs believe their words are true.
"Now more white men come-- more than the stars in the sky.. "We are your
friends,' they say, and the Nooksacs welcome them. They cut dawn the trees of
the forest for their villages by the salt water. They dig in the ground and the
deer are frightened and run away into the hills. 'We are your brothers,' they say,
and teach our young men to drink strong drink and take the most beautiful of our
daughters for their awn use.
"Now their chiefs come to the Nooksacs. 'We are your brothers,' they say.
'We will always be your brothers. Give us land in the lowlands, for our people wish
to farm. Give us land and we will fill your bellies when you are hungry. Are we
not brothers?' they say. The old men of the Nooksacs speak together, 'What is this
they aek9. But there are so many, what can we do. They have promised to be our
brothers, let us believe them. After all, there are still many deer in the hills
and the rivers are filled with fish. And they have promised to fill us if we hunger.'
"New there are more white men— more than the grains of sand on the beadles.
Now, again, white chiefs come to the Nooksacs. 'Come,' they says you must live with
the Lummis. There is a reservation there for our red brothers. Our people must have
your lands. Then the old men talk together. 'Where are the deer?' they say. /where
are the salmon in the streams? The deer have fled from the hills for the white man
takes his forest cover. The salmon have forsaken the streams because the white man
soil the waters with their mills and diggings. The houses of the Nooksacs hold no
food and their bellies are lean. Maybe it is best we go to the reservation of the
Lummis. The white man has proesed to care for our hunger."
-10
Folklore (Cont.)
"Now a Nooksac steps forth in the council. 'Why should we go to live among
the Lummis?' he says. 'Why should we leave the lands of our fathers? Are we
not Nooksacs-- mountain people? Are the Lummis not shore people? The lummis are
not our brothers. They are a puny people, timid and fearful. Why should we be as
they/ We are Nooksacs, and our heritage is freedom. We have listened to the pro-
mises of the white men, and they have been like the morning mists. We have believed
they were our brothers, and now we are weak, there are only a few of us left. Let
that few remain in the lands where our fathers have died. Let that few, die, toot in
the lands of the Nooksac.'
"Then the white chiefs says "It is well.
You may choose for yourselireff. You
may go with the Lummis and be reservation Indians, or you may each receive an allot-
ment along the streams of your old territory, and be domain Indians. If you go to
the reservations, we will take care of you, for are you not our brothers? But, if
you take allotments, you must live as white men live, and abide by the laws of Wash-
ington. You will be as white men.'
"Now I see the Nooksacs have chosen. They have chosen allotments that they
might be free as white men. But, where is that freedom? White men have taken our
children from our houses to 'schools where they learn to be white men. But, can the
deer of the high hills become a caw by going to school? Can the eons of free Nook
sacs become farmers as are the whites? Can he learn the ways of slaves?
"Now I am old and my eyes see dimly. Bu, I see only a handful of people who
call themselves Nooksacs. The white man has promised many things. But this is
what his promises has brought to the Nooksace-- a handful of people left where once
there were many. I am an old man, yet I still live. Yet, I MMArt talk through an
ci
interpretAr to the sons of Nooksacs. Is this the promise of the white man?
"Today this is a tribal meeting. We Who are left of the once -great Nooksac
tribe are here in this little house. So true, it is that the Nooksac dies that our
young people cannot talk with the old. Maybe this is good. Maybe the day of the
Nooksac is finished just as the gun goes behind the salt water. Maybe this is as it
Folklore (Cont.)
should bes for the old people are old and soon will be passing away and the young
people live like white people and speak their language and eat their food.
"But I speak with grief to our white wilting -brother. Grief in my heart
for the memory of a once -great people who soon will be but the name of a river. Let
this brother put in his writings how the Nooksac believed the promises of the white
men. Let him write haw these promises destroyed a free people. Now I am wear), and
am finished."
The old man slumps into his place. A withered old woman replaces the bright
plaid scarf about his shoulders. There is a strangled hush over the room and dark
eyes are bright with some inner emotion. Anton nudges the white man. "That was
John Tenas. He's our oldest Nooksac."
Chief George looks over his little group. "I am ready for a motion to elect
our friend into the Nooksac tribe. Do I hear that motion?"
"I motion its" shouts young Anton, leaping to his feet.
"I second its" says. the plump brown matron who discusses finger -waves.
"All those in favor, say lays,' Chief George is smiling at the light brawn
aecretary.
There is a dhorua of "ayes."
"Those who oppose?
The white man is a Nooksac.