AS the “Wooden Indian” has long been a by-word, and a popular symbol of stolidity in mind and body, I have thought it worth while to show that like more pretentious statuary he may furnish inspiration to the Muse of Poetry. Here is an advertisement in verse sent me by a lady of Seneca Falls, New York. “Where the stately Indian chieftian Stands in silence by the door, Down on Vall street, stop and peep in You will find a splendid store. Should you choose the weed Nicotian Choice tobaccos that inspire Whose sweet incense wins devotion To the smoking meerschaum’s fire, Would you purchase true enjoyment, Joy without a shade of sorrow; Would you rest from your employment With a fragrant rich cigarro, Formed from meerschaum, clay and brier, Tipped with amber, stemmed with cherry, Are the bowls for perfumed fire, Holding fumes that make men merry, Or, should you prefer to “quid” it, And to taste the weed’s dark juices, Warrington will not forbid it Neither need you make excuses. You who love the weed they call sweet, Plug or fine cut, twist or leaf, Go to Warrington’s at Vall street There where stands the Indian Chief.” ------------------------------------------------------------------------ [Illustration: PUNCH WITH IMPRESSIVE NOSE ANOTHER PUNCH—LESS FORTUNATE PUNCHINELLO AND NONDESCRIPT PUCK] ------------------------------------------------------------------------ VIII WHAT a sarcasm of Destiny it is that when we have driven out and killed off all the Indians who were so happy here, we write poetry praising them, novels about the good looking, brave, and almost, too saintly Red Man. And now it is seriously urged that a suitable Memorial be erected in New York Harbor to the Memory of the North American Indian whose ranks are thinning so rapidly, that within a comparatively few years more, the race will be obliterated by the advance of the white man’s civilization. That is rather a rosy way of describing the treatment the Indian has received. The proposed statue will be colossal in size and of bronze in construction, with outstretched arm, typifying a greeting from the primal American to the people of all other nations. That might be well represented by “Samoset,” illustrating the finer, better traits of the Indian, when he cried out a “Welcome, Englishmen” to the strangers who were landing. I have dwelt so much on this theme that I’m actually confusing the real Indian with a wooden statue. Never mind. Did you know that Schiller wrote an Indian Death song? I’ll quote a few verses: