The book of the American Indian — Text and Context
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The source record for The book of the American Indian — Text and Context measures this digital text at 92,662 words, 6 hr 43 min estimated reading time, and 38 detected text sections.
The text analysis averages about 15.8 words per sentence, while the detected sections provide another way to judge how the source is divided.
Project Gutenberg metadata also associates the work with “Frontier and pioneer life -- West (U.S.),” connecting these edition facts with the source record’s subject description.
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gnity appealed even to the teacher’s unæsthetic mind, and his eyes grew dim with prophetic sadness. The mother drew near, and Tomacham turned and spoke to her and told her what the white man said.
“No, no!” she wailed.
Then Tomacham was resolved: “No, my friend, I cannot do it. Let me have him one more day. I cannot bear to leave him to become a white man to-day. See, there is his mother, waiting, weeping; let him be a small, red brave till to-morrow. I have given my word; I will bring him.”
With some understanding of the chief’s ache in the heart Seger consented, and Tomacham let his young warrior stay home for one more day of the old kind.
What sorrowful ceremonies took place in that well-smoked tepee Seger did not know, but next day the chief came again; he was very sorrowful and very tender, but the boy’s face was sullen, his head drooping.
Slowly the father said: “Friend, I have thought all night of what you have said to me. The mother is singing a sad song in our tepee, but we have decided. We give our boy into your hands; teach him the road.”
And with a quiet word to his son the heroic red man turned and went away to hide his quivering lips. It was as if he had given his son to an alien tribe, never to see him again.
When the mother saw her boy next day she burst into a moan of resentful pain. All his wild, free grace was gone. His scissored hair was grotesque. His clumsy gray coat pinched his shoulders, his trousers were absurdly short, and his boots hard and clumsy. He slunk into the circle of the fire like a whipped dog and would not lift his head even in reply to questions. Tomacham smoked hard to keep back the tears, but his mind was made up, his word given. “We are on the road—we cannot turn back,” he said, though it cut him to the heart to see his eaglet become a barnyard fowl.
By this time Seger had reduced the school to something like order, and the pupils were learning fast; but truancy continued to render his afternoon sessions farcical, for as soon as they had eaten their midday meal many of the children ran away to the camp across the river and there remained the entire afternoon. Others paid no heed to the bell, but played on till weary before returning to the school. In all this rebellion Atokan was a leader, and Seger, after meditating long, determined on a form of discipline which might have appalled the commander of a regiment of cavalry. He determined to apply the rod.
Now this may seem a small thing, but it was not; it was a very momentous thing. It was indeed the most dangerous announcement he could make to a warlike tribe chafing under restraint, for red people are most affectionate parents and very seldom lay violent hands upon their children or even speak harshly to them. Up to this time no white man had ever punished a red child, and when Seger spoke to the agent about it he got no help; on the contrary, the old Quaker said:
“Friend Seger, I think thee a very rash young man and I fear thee will involve us all in a bloody outbreak.” Then he added, “Can’t thee devise something else?”
“I must have discipline,” argued Seger. “I can’t have my pupils making a monkey of me. There are only four or five that need welting, and if you give me leave to go ahead I’ll make ’em toe the mark; otherwise, I’ll resign.”
“Thee can go ahead,” testily exclaimed the agent. “But thee sees how we are situated. We have no troops in call. Thee knows, also, that I do not approve of force; and yet,” he added, in reflection, “we have made a failure of the school—thee alone seems to have any control of the pupils. It is not for me to criticize. Proceed on thy way, but I will not be responsible for any trouble thee may bring upon thyself.”
“I will take all that comes,” responded Seger—who had been trained in the school of the Civil War, “and I will not involve you in any outbreak.”
That night Seger made his announcement: “Hereafter every scholar must obey my bell—and return to the schoolroom promptly. Those who do not will be whipped.”
The children looked at him as if he had gone crazy.
The book opens not with a panoramic view of the Plains but with a specific, almost bureaucratic observation: the Indian Agency at Darlington was "dull and commonplace if not actually dispiriting." This mundane detail sets the stage for a work that repeatedly juxtaposes the everyday realities of reservation life with the remembered grandeur of the buffalo-hunting era. Garland, who traveled and interviewed Native people, structures his narratives around moments of transition—a mother's sacrifice, a chief's council, a dance forbidden. The movement between scenes is often abrupt, shifting from a quiet domestic interior to the open prairie or a tense negotiation, mirroring the abrupt changes forced upon the tribes.
Recurring Images of Abundance and Loss
Across the excerpts, a specific image recurs: the buffalo as both sustenance and symbol. In the account of Sitting Bull, the narrator recalls a time when "the hills were clouded with buffalo, the cherries are ripening in the thickets." This pairing of animal and plant abundance appears in several stories, grounding the reader in a seasonal, land-based economy. Yet the same passages note that the buffalo "were always shifting ground" and "mysteriously appear and disappear." Garland uses this natural cycle to foreshadow the more permanent disappearance to come. The contrast between the plenty of the past and the scarcity of the reservation era is not stated directly but emerges through these repeated, almost ritualistic descriptions of game and harvest. The reader is left to connect the dots between the cherry thickets and the agency's dullness.
Voice and the Framing of History
Garland employs a layered narrative voice. Many sections are told by an unnamed Native narrator who uses phrases like "my people" and "as you white men call them." This creates an intimate, first-plural perspective that directly addresses the reader as an outsider. The narrator often corrects or reframes white perceptions: Sitting Bull was called "a fierce warrior, ever ready to kill, when the truth is he protected those who came to his camp." This corrective impulse runs throughout the excerpts, but Garland does not fully abandon the third-person omniscient style of the period. The result is a hybrid voice—part memoir, part history, part editorial—that shifts between insider testimony and detached observation. The reader must attend to who is speaking and when, as the narrative authority is not uniform.
Structure: From Vignette to Chronicle
The table of contents reveals a deliberate structural arc. The book begins with short, titled stories—"Wahiah—A Spartan Mother," "Nistina," "The Iron Khiva"—each focused on a single character or event. These read like literary sketches. But the longest section, "The Silent Eaters," is a fourteen-part chronicle of Sitting Bull's life, from his rise to power through the Battle of the Little Bighorn to his death. This shift from vignette to sustained biography suggests a movement from the general to the particular, from legend to documented history. The earlier stories establish themes—motherhood, warfare, medicine—that the Sitting Bull narrative then embodies in a single, historically grounded figure. The reader moves from a series of impressionistic portraits to a detailed case study, a structure that rewards attention to recurring motifs.
Movement Between Interior and Exterior
Garland frequently moves his scenes between the enclosed space of a lodge or agency building and the open landscape. In the Sitting Bull account, the chief "laid aside all weapons" inside his lodge, carrying only his pipe-bag and fan, while outside the "hills were clouded with buffalo." This interior-exterior contrast is not merely scenic; it defines the terms of power and vulnerability. Inside the lodge, decisions are made with calm authority; outside, the buffalo roam, enemies approach, and white men's boats come up the Missouri. The agency itself is described as a place where the "sun blaze" beats down, a liminal zone between the old world and the new. By alternating between these settings, Garland creates a rhythm of council and action, reflection and consequence, that mirrors the precarious balance of Plains life.
Readers should note that Garland's work is a composite: part fiction, part oral history, part editorial. The illustrations by Frederic Remington, listed in the front matter, add a visual dimension that often romanticizes the very subjects the text tries to depict with nuance. Approach each story as a crafted artifact of its time—1923—when the frontier was officially closed but its myths were being rewritten. The book rewards those who read slowly, tracking the recurrences of buffalo, council fires, and the word "quiet."
The rain kept drumming on the windows while I sat with Garland’s Book of the American Indian, the Ghost Dance fading into Remington’s dusty illustrations. When I closed it, a stray thought about gathering places drifted me toward Old Boston Taverns and Tavern Clubs — Story, Setting & Ideas. Different world entirely, yet somehow the same quiet need for warmth and company, for stories told around a table.
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