ten the two happy waifs of the woods with
any thought of what might happen to him, and even to them.

These children had but one thing to dread. There was but one terrible
word to them in the language. It was not hunger, not starvation,--no,
not even death. It was the _Reservation_! That one word meant to them,
as it means to all who are liable to be carried there, captivity,
slavery, degradation, and finally death, in its most dreadful form.

And why should it be so dreaded? Make the case your own, if you are a
lover of liberty, and you can understand.

Statistics show that more than three-fourths of all Indians removed to
Reservations of late years, die before becoming accustomed to the new
order of things.

Yet Indians do not really fear death. But they do dread captivity. They
are so fond of their roving life, their vast liberty--room! An Indian is
too brave to commit suicide, save in the most rare and desperate cases.
But his heart breaks from home-sickness, and he dies there in despair.
And then to see his helpless little children die, one by one, with the
burning fever, which always overtakes the poor captives!

"How many of us died? I do not know. We counted them at first. But when
there were dead women and children in every house and not men enough to
bury them, I did not count any more," said one of the survivors when
questioned.

In earlier times, some of these Reservations were well chosen--the one
on the Ummatilla, Oregon, for example. But of late years it would seem
as if the most deadly locations had been selected. Perhaps this is
thought best by those in authority, as the land is soon wanted by the
whites if it is at all fit for their use. And the Indians in such cases
are sooner or later made to move on.

This particular Reservation in California, however, never has been and
never will be required or used by any man, except for a grave.

Why, in the name of humanity, such things are left to the choice and
discretion of strangers, new men, men who know nothing about Indians and
care nothing for them, except so far as they can coin their blood, is
incomprehensible. It is a crime. Way out yonder, in the heart of a
burning plain, by the side of an alkali lake that fairly reeked with
malaria, where even reptiles died, where wild fowl never were found; a
place that even beasts knew better than to frequent, without wood or
water, save stunted sage and juniper and slimy alkali, in the very
valley of de