“Stand up and let me see!” he exclaimed. Before I could give him any warning, he put his hand in the desk and felt about; he sprang back with a cry, “Ah! I’m bitten! Is it a snake?”
“No, it isn’t,” I answered; and, peering carefully into the desk, I drew out the buzzing thing and showed it to him; it was only a wasp fastened by its slender waist to a sheet of paper.
Although he felt relieved of his fright, the pain of the sting was arousing his anger, and I saw that there was trouble coming to me; but at that moment, the door opened and in walked the superintendent and the four fat men. Graybeard went forward and was introduced to them. There was a scramble by three of the large boys to get chairs from the dining-room for the visitors. When the gentlemen had made a quiet survey of our faces, they sat down and questioned Graybeard about the branches taught at the school, and the progress made by the pupils. In the meantime I had released my prisoner; it went buzzing around the room, and then maneuvered over the bald head of one of the visitors, who beat the air with his hands to ward it off.
“Frank, catch that wasp,” said Graybeard.
I caught the troublesome creature in my hat and turned it out of doors.
When the questioning of the visitors was over, Graybeard turned to us and said, “Now, children, pay strict attention; these gentlemen want to see what you have learned. I will put some questions to you.”
We became so silent that we could hear a pin drop. The visitors smiled upon us pleasantly, as though to encourage us.
“Who discovered America?” asked Graybeard. Dozens of hands went up. “Abraham, you may answer.”
An expression of amusement spread over the faces of the scholars as the great awkward boy stood up. Graybeard must have been bewildered by the sting of the wasp and the sudden appearance of visitors, else he would not have made such a blunder; for he knew very well what every boy and girl of the school could do; however there was no help for it now; Abraham Lincoln, standing with his hands in his pockets, had the floor; he put his weight on one foot and then on the other, the very picture of embarrassment; he cleared his throat, looked helplessly at me, and then at Brush—“Come,” said Graybeard, “we are waiting.”
“George Washington!” answered Abraham.
A titter ran around among the pupils. Graybeard’s face turned red, then white, as he said, “Abraham, take your seat. Brush, can you tell us who discovered America?”
“Columbus,” promptly answered the boy. Then a series of questions were asked, which the children answered voluntarily, and did credit to their teacher. The visitors nodded approvingly to each other. When the examination was over, the Agent arose and, addressing the school, said:
“You have acquitted yourselves well in this sudden and unexpected test; I will now ask you to spell for me. Here is a book,” said he, turning the leaves of a pretty gilt edged volume, “which I will give to the scholar who can spell best.”
Taking a spelling book, he gave out the words himself. We all stood up, and those who misspelled a word sat down. One by one the pupils dropped to their seats, until only Brush, a big girl, and I remained on the floor; finally I went down, and the girl and Brush went on; they were now in the midst of the hard words. At last Brush failed; the girl also misspelled the word; but as the prize book could not be divided, it was given to her.
“Are the children taught music?” asked one of the strangers.
“No,” replied the superintendent; “but they can sing nearly all of the Sunday-school hymns.”
“They should be taught music as well as reading and spelling,” remarked one of the gentlemen, then, addressing the children, he asked:
“Have your people music, and do they sing?”
“They do,” answered one of the large boys.
“I wish you would sing an Indian song for me,” continued the man. “I never heard one.”
There was some hesitancy, but suddenly a loud clear voice close to me broke into a Victory song; before a bar was sung another voice took up the song from the beginning, as is the custom among the Indians, then the whole school fell in, and we made the room ring. We understood the song, and knew the emotion of which it was the expression. We felt, as we sang, the patriotic thrill of a victorious people who had vanquished their enemies; but the men shook their heads, and one of them said, “That’s savage, that’s savage! They must be taught music.”
So it came about that every afternoon after this visit we spent an hour on a singing lesson. We learned quite a number of songs, but we sang them by ear, as it was difficult for us to understand the written music. We liked some of the songs we learned very much, and enjoyed singing them almost as well as our own native melodies. Although there were boys with richer voices, Brush was fond of hearing me sing a certain song we had been taught; we always had to give it when visitors came to the Mission. I can remember only the chorus:
“Laura, Laura, still we love thee,
Though we see thy form no more,
And we know thou’lt come to meet us,
When we reach that mystic shore.”
One day the teacher said that we must learn to sing in parts; hitherto we had been singing in unison as the Indians do; so he assigned the different parts to those scholars whom he thought could carry them. He met with no difficulty in selecting the soprano, contralto, and the tenor; but he could not find any boy who was willing to try the bass. He had given me the tenor,
