Tulalip Indian School Classroom, May 1914. Courtesy J. A. Juleen / Everett Public Library’s Northwest History Room.
Teacher. “Now Mary, my dear, suppose I were to shoot at a tree with five birds on it, and kill three, how many would be left?”
Mary: “Three, ma’am.”
Teacher: “No, two would be left.”
Mary: “No there wouldn’t though. The three shot would be left and the other two would be flied away.” [1]
Anonymous. [A Mathematical conversation.] The Youth’s Companion: A Juvenile Monthly Magazine Published for the Benefit of the Puget Sound Indian Missions 2, no. 1 (July 1881): 39.
[1] Presumably the observer uses “flied” to indicate that Mary is very young. We should assume that the teacher is white and that Mary is a Tulalit student.
Contexts
Begun in 1881, The Youth’s Companion—a name that many nineteenth-century publications shared—was a monthly student magazine that published articles written by pupils of the Catholic-run boarding school located on the Tulalip Indian Reservation. A federally recognized tribe located in the mid-Puget Sound area, the Tulalip Tribes received reservation lands—22,000 acres—in 1855, with its legal boundaries established by President Ulysses S. Grant in 1873. According to the Tulalip Tribes website, “it was created to provide a permanent home for the Snohomish, Snoqualmie, Skagit, Suiattle, Samish, and Stillaguamish Tribes and allied bands living in the region.”
Nineteenth-century Indian boarding schools aimed to assimilate Native Americans into white culture. They separated children from their families, required students to dress like white Americans, and prohibited them from speaking their language. They also emphasized so-called “industrial” training: boys learned agricultural and industrial skills, while girls learned how to cook, sew, and clean a household. Students were often expected to become servants or to provide manual labor help for whites.
Like many contributions to Native American student periodicals, this conversation was published anonymously. Students living on reservations during this time often received educations governed by white religious authorities who emphasized moral training. This story represents a significant change from the didactic texts that students were normally expected to compose. It showcases Native intelligence in a period when most white Americans regarded the nation’s Indigenous people as inferior or even subhuman. The conversation also emphasizes how the Tulalip child sees the world differently, and in some ways more clearly than her white teacher. Humorous sketches like these were common in Native American texts.
Marr, Carolyn J. “Assimilation Through Education: Indian Boarding Schools in the Pacific Northwest,” University of Washington Libraries Digital Collection. This article includes historical contexts and features “A Typical Daily Schedule.”
———. “Between Two Worlds: Experiences at the Tulalip Indian Boarding School, 1905-1932,” Hibulb Cultural Center & Natural History Preserve.
Contemporary Connections
“Tulalip History Minute 04—The Tulalip Indian School presented by Mary Jane Topash,” the Tulalip History Project. Provides Tulalip-sponsored background on the tribe.
[Child enters, and sits down on a chair. Apron full of
flowers, and straw hat trimmed with them. Six little girls,
each decorated with one of the kinds of flowers mentioned,
come in and form a semicircle behind her.]
CHILD.
Such a long, weary walk have I taken—oh dear!
And the road is so dusty from Maplewood here!
But I wouldn’t have cared for the dust or the sun,
If the flowers would only have whispered me one,
Just one little story of breezes and birds,
Or told me the brooklet’s low murmuring words—
How white blossoms grow from the dark, leafy moold,
And who covers them up when they shiver with cold.
I ran by the brook to the old ruined mill,
The pines held their breath, and the woods were so still!
I’ve heard mamma talk of the language of flowers,
So there I saw watching and waiting for hours;
But not one single word would the naughty things say,
So I picked a great handful and then came away.
I found these wild roses in Sweet-brier Lane,
And, when I got back to the village again,
I stopped to see Nan at the foot of the hill,
To know if her flower-beds would use me so ill.
She gave me these roses, syringas, and pinks,
But not one of the beauties will say what it thinks;
So now I’ll sort over the flowers, while I rest,
And pick out for mamma the kinds she likes best.
Oh! I shouldn’t have minded how far I had walked,
If only the dear, pretty flowers would have talked.
DAMASK ROSE.
The crown of all the summer’s bloom,
The Queen of Flowers am I;
The blossoms that my sunlight share
With me in vain may vie.
But since this child who loves us so
Her tale of grief has told,
From my liege subjects leave to speak
No longer I’ll withhold.
Elizabeth Blackwell. The damask rose. Engraving, 1739, New York Public Library Digital Collections.
Mary Vaux Walcott. Wild Rose and Blue-eyed Grass. Watercolor on paper, n.d., Smithsonian American Art Museum, Washington, D.C.
PRAIRIE ROSE.
Clinging and swinging high up in the air,
Many a sight do I see;
Sights that are saddening and sights that are fair,
Sights that are common and sights that are rare,
All are spread out before me.
Golden-hair passes each morning to school,
Happy, and laughing, and bright, as a rule;
Golden-hair sometimes at night is in tears,
Walks as if weary with toil or with years;
What can the reason be?
Butterfly says (a sad gossip is he),
Once he peeped in the window, and happened to see
Golden-hair sitting along in disgrace,
With her hands tied behind and a very red face.
But I don’t believe it was she!
For little girls cannot be idle and play,
When even we roses keep growing all day.
SYRINGA.
An odorous breath from the southland
Floats by in my dreams at night,
And I see my fairer sisters
In their fragrant, creamy white.
Above them hang glowing roses,
That here blossom pale and cold;
And the jessamine clings in a starry mass
To the orange with globes of gold.
But when the chill daylight calls me,
I waken all sick at heart;
And not till I see the world around
Each atom doing its part,
Do I crush back the idle longing
That fills me with sweetest pain,
And bud, and blossom, and fade, and fall,
As a day wears on again.
WILD ROSES.
We wild roses have no story,
Few the words that we can say;
Some kind breeze may waft our fragrance
Out to those who pass our way.
Merry birches laugh above us,
Slender grasses wave below,
Humming-birds glance through our branches,
Busy brown bees come and go.
Day by day our buds, unfolding,
Welcome in the sunlight fair;
Night by night the fading blossoms
Shiver in the dewy air.
Elizabeth Nourse. Lilacs. Opaque watercolor and watercolor on fiberboard, 1891, Smithsonian American Art Museum, Washington, D.C.
Elizabeth Blackwell. Dandelion. Engraving, 1739, New York Public Library Digital Collections.
DANDELION.
Do you love me, little girl?
Love me while you may,
For I wither in your hand
Ere the close of day.
Life to us is short and golden
And our happy souls are holden
With a full and free delight;
So we raise our heads toward heaven,
Drinking in the blessings given,—
Sun by day and dew by night;
Till, upon some breezy morning,
All in misty white adorning
Each bright head,
Stand we, veiled and waiting, ready
To depart, with courage steady.
Angel breezes waft us slowly
Toward the azure, deep and holy,
Overhead.
Earthy longings all are o’er
Evermore.
WHITE WOOD-FLOWERS.
Where the pines ever sigh,
As the breezes go by,
And the waters keep time with their flow,
There we spring from the mold,
There we bud and unfold,
And daily more beautiful grow.
The blacker our leaf-bed, the whiter we rise;
Oh, say! have you never, far up in the skies,
With the sun in a shroud,
And the blast shrieking loud,
Seen snow-crystals fall from the dark, leaden cloud?
Through the long summer day
Merry butterflies play;
But when winter comes they all hasten away.
To what country they go
We blossoms don’t know,
But we are quite safe, folded under the snow.
CHILD.
Oh! you dear, charming beauties, how good you have been,
And what tales you can tell after once you begin!
You startled me so that you made me quite dumb;
Now tell me the rest of your stories at home;
For I have been absent for hours and hours,
And I must tell mamma “the language of flowers.”
“The LAnguage Of Flowers. A Dialogue for Girls.” The christian union 7, No. 21 (May 1873): 414.
Contexts
Floriography, the language of flowers, was a popular subject in the 19th century, during which many books were published as guides to floriography. According to Dr. Carol Howard, by the time the popular Language of Flowers by Kate Greenaway was published in London, there were over 100 such guides available (see link below).
Greenaway’s book contains the following flowers from this dialogue and their representations:
Damask rose: Brilliant complexion.
Syringa: Memory or Syringa, Carolina: Disappointment.
Dandelion: Rustic oracle.
Aster: Variety. Afterthought. (This is the closest match for the white wood-flower, which is likely Eurybia divaricata, the white wood aster).
Another text on floriography offers a preface on the subject. The excerpt below is from The Language of Flowers. The Floral Offering: A Token of Affection and Esteem; Comprising The Language and Poetry of Flowers by Henrietta Dumont, published in 1851.
“Why has the beneficent Creator scattered over the face of the earth such a profusion of beautiful flowers—flowers by the thousand and million, in every land—from the tiny snowdrop that gladdens the chill spring of the north, to the gorgeous magnolia that flaunts in the sultry region of the tropics? Why is it that every landscape has its appropriate flowers, every nation its national flowers, every rural home its home flowers? Why do flowers enter and shed their perfume over every scene of life, from the cradle to the grave? Why are flowers made to utter all voices of joy and sorrow in all varying scenes, from the chaplet that adorns the bride to the votive wreath that blooms over the tomb?
It is for no other reason than that flowers have in themselves a real and natural significance. They have a positive relation to man, his sentiments, passions, and feelings. They correspond to actual emotions. They have their mission—a mission of love and mercy. They have their language, and from the remotest ages this language has found its interpreters.
In the East the language of flowers has been universally understood and applied ‘time out of mind.’ Its meaning finds a place in their poetry and in all their literature, and it is familiarly known among the people. In Europe it has existed and been recognised for long ages among the people, although scarcely noted by the literati until a comparatively recent period. Shakespeare, however, whom nothing escaped which was known to the people, exhibits his intimate acquaintance with the language of flowers in his masterly delineation of the madness of Ophelia.
Recent writers in all languages recognise the beauty and propriety of this language to such an extent, that an acquaintance with it has now become indispensable as a part of a polished education.
Our little volume is devoted to the explanation of this beautiful language. We have made it as complete as our materials and limits would permit. We present it to our readers in the humble hope that we shall increase the means of elegant and innocent enjoyment by our ‘Floral Offering.’”
The Literary Gardenerby Carol Howard, Ph.D., professor of English and dean of academics, Warren Wilson College
Contemporary Connections
Flowers still have specific meanings, such as red roses for love, lilies for funerals, or poppies, which have come to be associated with remembering fallen soldiers due to the popularity of John McCrae’s World War I poem “In Flanders Fields.”
Scene I. – A large room in a country home. Mrs. Nevers seated, engaged in sewing. – Margaret standing by an open window, shaded with grape vines and honeysuckles. A bird cage containing several birds, hangs near. Margaret (after watching the motions f the mother-bird for some time.)
Margaret. There, now! – there you go again! you little foolish thing, you! Why, what is the matter with you? I should be ashamed of myself! I should so! Hav’nt we bought the prettiest cage in the world for you? Hav’nt you enough to eat, and the best that could be had, for love or money – sponge cake, loaf sugar, and all sorts of seed? Did’nt father put up a little nest for you with his own hands; and hav’nt I watched over you, you little ungrateful thing? – till the eggs they put there had all turned to birds – little live birds, no bigger than grasshoppers, and so noisy, ah, you can’t think? Just look at the beautiful clear water there – and the clean white sand. Where do you think you could find such water as that, or such a pretty glass dish – or such beautiful bright sand, if we were to take you at your word, and let you out with that little nest full of young ones, to shift for yourselves, hey? [The door opens, and Mr. Nevers enters.]
Mar. O father, I’m so glad you’ve come! What do you think is the matter of poor little birdy? [The father looks down among the grass and shrubbery, and up into the top branches, and then into the cage – the countenance of Margaret growing more and more perplexed, and more sorrowful every moment.] Mar. Well, father – what is it? Does it see anything? Mr. N. No, my love – nothing to frighten her; but where is the father-bird? Mar. He’s in the other cage. He made such a to-do when the little birds began to chipper this morning, that I was obliged to let him out; and brother Bobby he frightened him into the other cage, and carried him off. Mr. N. Was that right, my love? Mar. Why not father? He wouldn’t be quiet here, you know, and what was I to do? Mr. N. But, Moggy, dear – those little birds may want their father to help feed them; the poor mother bird may want him to help take care of them – or to sing to her. Mar. Or perhaps show them how to fly, father? Mr. N. Yes, dear. And to separate them just now – how would you like to have me carried off, and put into another house, leaving nobody at home but your mother to watch over you and the rest of my little birds? [Margaret muses a few moments, and then returns to the original subject.] Mar. But, father, what can be the matter with the poor thing? – you see how she keeps flying about, and the little ones trying to follow her – and tumbling upon their noses – and toddling about is if they were tipsy, and could’nt see straight. Mr. N. I am afraid she is getting discontented. Mar. Discontented! how can that be, Father? Has’nt she her little ones about her, and every thing on earth she can wish? And then, you know, she never used to be so before? Mr. N. When her mate was with her, perhaps. Mar. Yes, father – and yet, now I think of it, the moment these little wretches began to pee-peep, and tumble about so funny, the father and the mother both began to fly about the cage, as if they were crazy. What can be the reason? The water, you see, is cool and clear; the sand all bright: they are out in the open air, with all the green leaves blowing about them; their cage has been scoured with soap and sand, the fountain filled, and the seed-box – and – and – I declare, I cannot think what ails them! Mr. N. My love – may it not be the very things you speak of, things which you think ought to make them happy, are the very cause of all the trouble you see? The father and mother are separated! How can they teach their young to fly in that cage? How teach them to provide for themselves? Mar. But father – dear father -! [laying her little hand upon the spring of the cage door] dear father, would you?
Mr. N. And why not, my dear child? [He stoops and kisses her.] Why not? Mar. I was only thinking, father. If I should let them out, who will feed them? Mr. N. Who feeds the young ravens, dear? Who feeds the ten thousand little birds that are flying about us now? Mar. True, father; but they have never been imprisoned, you know, and have already learned to take care of themselves! Mrs. N. [looking up and smiling,] Worthy of profound consideration, my dear – I admit your plea, but have a care, lest you over-rate the danger and the difficulty in your unwillingness to part with your beautiful little birds. Mar. Father – [she throws open the door of the cage.]
Mr. N. Stay, my child? What you do must be done thoughtfully, conscientiously, so that you may be satisfied with yourself hereafter, when it is all over. Shut the door a moment, and allow me to hear all your objections. Mar. I was thinking, father, about the cold rains, and the long winters, and how the poor birds that have been so long confined would never be able to find a place to sleep in, or water to wash in, or seeds for their little ones. Mr. N. In our climate, my love, the winters are very short: and the rainy season itself does not drive the birds away; and then you know birds always follow the sun – if our climate is too cold for them, they have only to go farther south. But in a word, my love, you are to do as you would be done by. As you would not like to have me separated from your mother and you; as you would not like to be imprisoned for life, though your cage were crammed with loaf sugar and sponge cake – as you – – Mar. That’ll do, father! That’s enough! Brother Bobby! Hither, Bobby! Bring the little cage with you – there’s a dear.
Scene II. – Evening, Mrs. Nevers and Margaret seated – Enter Mr. N speaking loud as he comes forward. Mr. N. The ungrateful hussey! [1] What! After all that we have done for her; given her the best room we could spare – feeding her from our own table – clothing her from our own wardrobe – giving her the handsomest and shrewdest fellow for a husband within twenty miles of us – allowing them to live together till a child is born; and now, because we have thought proper to send him away for a while, where he may earn his keep – now forsooth! We are to find my lady discontented with her situation.
Mar. Dear father! Mrs. N. – Hush, child! Mr. N. – Ay, discontented – that’s the word – actually dissatisfied with her condition! The jade! – with the best of everything to make her happy; confits and luxuries she could never dream of obtaining were she free tomorrow – and always contented till now. Mar. -And what does she complain of, Father? Mr. N. – Why, my dear child, the unreasonable thing complains just because we have sent her husband away to the other plantation for a few months: he was getting idle here, and might have grown discontented, too, if we had not packed him off. And then instead of being happier, and more thankful – more thankful to her Heavenly Father, for the gift of a man child, Martha tells me that she has just found her crying over it, calling it a little slave, and wishing the Lord would take it away from her – the ungrateful wench! When the death of that child would be two hundred dollars out of my pocket, every cent of it! [2]
The Slave Market, Atlanta, Georgia, 1864.
Mrs. N. – After all we have done for her, too! Mr. N. – I declare I have no patience with that jade! Mar. Father – dear father! Mr. N. – Be quiet, Moggy, don’t teaze me now. Mar. – But father – [she draws her father to the window and points to the cage which still hangs there with the door wide open. He understands her and blushes – then speaks confusedly.] Dear father! Do you see that cage? Mr. N. – There go, be quiet, you are a child now, and must not talk about such matters until you have grown older. Mar. – Why not, father? Mr. N. – Why not! – Why, bless your little heart! – Suppose I were silly enough to open my doors and turn the poor thing adrift with her child at her breast – what would become of her? Who would take care of her? – who feed her? Mar. – Who feeds the young ravens, father? Who takes care of all the white mothers, and the white babies we see? Mr. N. – Yes, child – but then – I know what you are thinking of; but then – there’s a mighty difference, let me tell you, between a slave mother and a white mother – between a slave child and a white child. Mar. – Yes, father. Mr. N. – Don’t interrupt me: you drive every thing out of my head. What was I going to say? – Oh – ah! that in our long winters and cold rains, these poor things who have been brought up in our houses, and who know nothing about the anxieties of life, and have never learned to take care of themselves – and – a- a- Mar. – Yes, father; but could’nt they follow the sun, too? Or go farther south? Mr. N. – And why not be happy here? Mar. – But, father – dear father? How can they teach their little ones to fly in a cage? Mrs. N. – Child, you are getting troublesome! Mar. – And how teach their young to provide for themselves, father! Mr. N. – Put the little imp to bed, directly – do you hear! Mar. – Good night, father! Good night, mother – Do AS YOU WOULD BE DONE BY!
Fielder, Brigitte Nicole. Animal Humanism: Race, Species, and Affective Kinship in Nineteenth-Century Abolitionism. American Quarterly 65, no. 3 (Sept 2013), 487-514. The relationship between animal texts and anti-slavery activism, excerpts follow:
“Children’s literature against animal cruelty and children’s abolitionist literature are related both historically, through the overlapping social movements for abolitionism and animal welfare in the United States and England, and generically, in their shared sentimental approaches to evoking readerly sympathy.17 Before the animal welfare movement reached full speed in the late nineteenth century, the similarities of abolitionist and animal welfare rhetorics were visible in antebellum texts that emphasized the relation between how people treat animals and how they might treat other people.”
“The idea that certain kinds of animals ought not to be kept captive abounds in Northern antebellum children’s literature, and the similarities between abolitionist and anti–animal captivity stories make [these] texts … look very much like other abolitionist writing. While these poems might very well be read as animal welfare literature, they have been commonly regarded as abolitionist texts.26 The animals in these poems stand in for, or appear interchangeable with, enslaved people: their condition of captivity alludes to the similar condition of enslaved African Americans in the 1830s and 1840s … .”
