Under Graybeard’s rooms was the schoolroom where we struggled with arithmetic, geography, history, and A.B.C., up to the Fifth Reader. This room corresponded in size to our dormitory, but it had no middle post.
The dining-hall, where on my arrival I had taken fright and stampeded head foremost into the cellar, was in the middle of the first story. It was very large and held, beside the three long tables, a big stove in the middle between two large posts. I remember these posts very well, I kept close company with one of them, on my return from a runaway expedition; and it was on this occasion that I had my first love adventure—but I must not anticipate.
The rooms on the two stories above the dining-hall were occupied, one as playroom for the girls, the others by the various employees.
On the same floor with the schoolroom and the dining-hall, at the north end of the building, was the chapel. Here we sat in rows on Sunday mornings, afternoons, and evenings, and on Thursday evenings, ranged on long, high, wooden benches without backs, our feet scarcely touching the floor, and listened (sometimes) to sermons which were remarkable for their length and sleep-enticing effects. I had many delightful dreams in this chapel, about Samson and his jawbone war club, the fight between David and Goliath, and of the adventures of Joseph the dreamer—stories that were the delight of my boyhood. Brush, one of my dearest friends at the school, knowing my weakness, secured a seat back of mine on purpose to support me when I was in a slumberous mood. I shall never forget his goodness; he now sleeps in the cemetery just above the Mission.
The two large rooms over the chapel were occupied by our superintendent and minister. Above his apartments was the girls’ dormitory, while over all stretched the haunted, ghostly attic.
There were other buildings grouped around: to the back stood the storehouse and the smokehouse; out of the latter came our delicious hams and our sermons, for a part of this building was used as the minister’s study. Then there was the great barn where we boys played hide-and-seek in the haymow; the corncrib with its yellow wealth showing between the boards; and the dusty wheat-bins with padlocked doors. Below on the bottom were the Government saw and grist mills, where we often went to see the grinding of the Indians’ grain and the large trees sawed into lumber for Agency use or for the Indians’ houses. The carpenter and blacksmith shops were also down there, and a long wooden house for the occupancy of the Government employees. All of these buildings stood for the fulfilment of the solemn promises made by the “Great Father” at Washington to his “Red Children,” and as a part of the price paid for thousands and thousands of acres of fine land.
Although there were high hills just back of the school, from which one could get excellent views of the surrounding country, we boys preferred to go up into the belfry on the top of the main building for our observations. We did not go often; two difficulties were in the way: the securing of permission from the superintendent, as but few boys could be trusted up there; and we must go through the haunted attic to get to the belfry. No boy during my school days ever went up there alone.
My friend Brush, being quite a favorite with the superintendent, often had permission to go, and took me with him. When we were once in the belfry, we felt safe from the annoyances of the devil and the other horrible things in the attic. The superintendent, without the asking, let Brush have a big spyglass, which the other boys were not permitted to use, and with it we could see far beyond the river and the valley that stretched in the distance to the opposite bluffs, that were always nearly hidden in a bluish haze. Bringing the glass to a closer range, we could see below, on our side of the river, the rich fields of the Mission and of the Indians; and we used to watch the Indians and the hired men of the school at work there. Sometimes we caught sight of a steamboat far down the river coming up, trailing a long line of smoke; then, with great excitement, we would run down and tell the boys, and all of us would hasten to the highest point near the school and watch the “mystic boat” as it slowly made its way along the winding stream.
To the south of the Mission, overlooking the Missouri and a small lake, stood the highest bill for miles around. This was known by the Indians as “the hill on which Umʻ-pa-ton-ga2 was buried.” He was one of the greatest chiefs of the Omahas.
Before schools of any kind were known among the Omahas, Indian parents warned their boys and girls against a free association with the children of persons who did not bear a good character. “Who was that you were playing with?” a father or mother would ask. “Nobody knows the child’s family—beware of him, do not go with him, he will throw upon you the habit of lying or stealing. Go with children whose parents are respected by the people.” Such advice would be given by the reputable men and women of the tribe to their children as to choosing their playfellows.
At the school we were all thrown together and left to form our own associates. The sons of chiefs and of prominent men went with the sons of the common people, regardless of social standing and character. The only distinction made was against cowardice; the boy who could not fight found it difficult to
