To this day the Indian is known as “Old Musha,” the name given to him by the people whom he befriended in their distress, because mush was the chief article of the diet that his hospitality provided for them. Truly did Shakspere write:-- “Blow, blow, thou winter wind, Thou art not so unkind As man’s ingratitude!” That Indians know how to be beautifully courteous to their guests, I have long experienced. I have eaten at banquets at Delmonico’s and the Waldorf-Astoria (New York), the Hotel Cecil (London), the Grand Hotel (Paris), and many and various hotels between the Touraine (Boston) and the Palace of San Francisco and the Hotel del Coronado. And I have seen more vulgarity and ill-breeding at these choice and elaborate banquets, more want of consideration, more selfishness, and more disgusting exhibitions of greediness and gluttony than I have seen in twenty-five years of close association with Indians. I was once expected to eat at an Indian chief’s _hawa_, or house. The chief dish was corn, cut from the cob while in the milk, ground, and then made into a kind of soup or mush. A clean basketful was handed to me, with the intimation that I was to share it with two old Indians, one on my right, one on my left. I asked my hostess for a spoon, for I knew I had seen one somewhere on one of my visits. She hunted for the spoon, in the meantime sending to the creek for an _esuwa_ of fresh, clean water. When it was brought, she carefully washed her hands and then gave the spoon seven scrubbings and washings and rinsings before she handed it to me. I felt safer in using it than I do many a time at a city restaurant when the “culled brother” brings me a spoon that he has wiped on the “towel” which performs the multifarious duties of wiping the soiled table, the supposedly clean dishes, the waiter’s sweaty hands, and--far oftener than people imagine--the waiter’s sweaty face. During the time we were waiting for the spoon the old Indians by my side sat as patiently and stoically as if they were not hungry. When the spoon was handed to me, I marked a half circle on the mush in front of me, in the basket, then divided the remainder for them. Each waited until I had eaten several mouthfuls before he inserted his own fingers, which served as his spoon, and then we democratically ate together. Now, to me the whole affair showed a kindly consideration for my feelings that is not always apparent in so-called well-bred strangers of my own race. I’ve had many a man light a cigar or a cigarette at a table at which I’ve been compelled to sit in a restaurant with never a “By your leave!” or “Is this agreeable?” From the Indian we imagine that we ought not to expect much of what we call “higher courtesy,” yet I find it constantly exercised; while from the civilized white race we expect much, and, alas! often are very much disappointed.