They touch the heart of that which they seek to express, in simple language, while we stumble through the phraseology of mythology and ages and leave a sentiment so buried in verbiage that it is all but lost. It must be the communion and mutual understanding which is given by living close to nature. The common language of the birds and beasts and redmen, where all are attuned. A little extract from the "Song of the Falcon," will serve to illustrate :

"Birds, ye wild birds, whom the high gods made,

And gifted with powers of wonderous kind,

Why turn ye so fearfully shy and dismayed,

To gaze on the heavens you're leaving behind?"

Have you ever stood in the old orchard or leafy grove, and seen the wild scurry and flutter of birds to hide in the grass or the leafy bower? The sun may be shining, and no sign of tumult or danger anywhere, except a stampede among the little feathered families. Yet, far up in the azure blue floats in tranquil circles, one, and perhaps two, of the keen eyed enemies of the little birds. No word picture in the classics has so vividly described this common incident in nature.

Indians educated at Carlisle return to their tribes and the education gives them no better expression. Neither are they improved in arts, their work on the canvass with the single exception of landscape work is as crude as that of native ochre painted on the mountain sides. Their minds for the most part are as immature as children, and the love of the recondite runs through all their lives.