In the appreciation of beauty, which is closely akin to religious feeling, the American Indian stands alone. In accord with our nature and beliefs, we do not pretend to imitable, or to reproduce exactly the work of the Great Artist. That which is beautiful must not be trafficked with, but must only be revered and adored.

     I have seen in our midsummer celebrations cool arbors built of fresh-cut branches for council and dance halls, while those who attended decked themselves with leafy boughs, carrying shields and fans of  the same, and even making wreaths for their horses' necks. But, strange to say, they seldom make free use of flowers. I once asked the reason for this.

     "Why," said one, "the flowers are for our souls to enjoy; not for our bodies to wear. Leave then alone and they will live out their lives and reporduce themselves as the Great Gardener intended. He planted them; we must not pluck them, for it would be selfish to do so."

     This is the spirit of the original American. We  hold nature  to the measure of consummate beauty, and we consider its destruction to be a sacrilege.

     I once showed a party of Sioux chiefs the sights of Washington, and endearored to impress them with the wonderful achievements of civilization. After visiting the Capital and other famous buildings, we passed through the Corcoran Art Gallery, where I tryed to explain how the white man valued this or that painting as a work of genius and a masterpiece of art.

     "Ah!" exclaimed an old man, "such is the strange philosophy of the white man! He hews down the forest that has stood for centuries in its pride and grandeur, tears up the bosom of Mother Earth, and causes the silvery watercourses to waste and vanish away. He ruthlessly disfigures God's own pictures and monuments, and then daubs a flat surface with many colors, and praises his work as a masterpiece!"

     Here we have the root of failure of the Indian to approach the "artistic" standard of the civilized world. It lies not in our lacl of creative imagination - for this quality we are born artists - it lies rather  in our point of view. Beauty in our eyes, is always fresh and living even as God, the Great Mystery, dresses the world anew at each season of the year.

 

 

 

     We Indians have always been clear thinkers within the scope of our understanding, but cause and effect have not formed the basis for our thinking. We do not chart and measure the vast field of nature or express her wonders in the terms of science; on the contrary, we see miracles on every hand - the miracle of life in seed and egg, the miracle of death in a lightning flash and in the swelling deep!

     Nothing of the marvelous can astonish us - a beast could speak or the sun stand still. The virgin birth seems scarcely more miraculous than is the birth of every child that comes into the world, and the miracle of the loaves and fishes excites no greater wonder than the harvest that springs from a single ear of corn.

     Let us not forget that even for the most contemporary thinker, who sees a majesty and grandeur in natural law, science cannot explain everything. We all still have to face the ultimate miracle - the origin and principle of life. This is the supreme mystery that is the essence of worship and without which there can be no religion. In the presence of this mystery all peoples must take an attitude much like that of the Indian, who beholds with awe the Divine in all creation.