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HUNTING INDIANS IN A TAXI-CAB


------------------------------------------------------------------------

[Illustration:

  TACOMUS]


------------------------------------------------------------------------


HUNTING INDIANS IN A TAXI-CAB

by

KATE SANBORN

Author of
“Adopting an Abandoned Farm,”
etc., etc.


[Illustration: Publisher’s Logo]






Richard G. Badger
The Gorham Press
Boston

Copyright 1911, by Richard G. Badger
All rights reserved

The Gorham Press, Boston, U. S. A.




------------------------------------------------------------------------




               “Yes sir, you do well to purchase one of
               these figures, for sir, the Indians on the
               American Continent is fastly disappearing,
               both in flesh and wood.”




------------------------------------------------------------------------




                         LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS


                                                     PAGE

               Tacomus                             Frontispiece

               My nameless, footless Squaw             15

               A young and pretty mother               21

               A Highland Chieftain                    21

               A Brave Gazing                          21

               On the Watch                            21

               The Goddess of Liberty and three        25
                 other attractive Ladies

               Squaw with Papoose and other            29
                 charmers

               Saint Tammany of the Delaware Tribe     33

               “We are tending strictly to             33
                 business”

               A Representative of the National        39
                 Game

               Jockey with cigar box                   39

               Hunter                                  39

               Policeman                               39

               Sothern as “Dundreary”—the others       43
                 you may name as you please

               Punch with Impressive Nose              47

               Another Punch, less fortunate           47

               Punchinello and Nondescript             47

               Puck                                    47

               Jim Crow, made 87 years ago             51

               Please name him?                        51

               Four of a Kind                          55

               Sagamore, Sachem or Pow-wow             59

               All High Rollers                        63

               Place aux Dames                         65

               A Poseur                                75

               Lady Enjoying the Weed                  75

               A Jolly Party                           75

               “And Last of All an Admiral Came”       75


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                     HUNTING INDIANS IN A TAXI-CAB




------------------------------------------------------------------------


                     HUNTING INDIANS IN A TAXI-CAB




                                   I


TO make my title complete, it should read “Hunting Indians in a Taxi-cab
with a Camera.”

Nature lovers long since found out that the camera was the best weapon
to take into the woods, and mighty hunters are now depicted as using the
auto to carry them to the wild and to bring back their trophies.

It was reserved for one of my friends to follow the trail to the city of
New York, as his happy hunting ground and to hire a taxi-cab there for
the express purpose of hunting a desirable Tobacco Sign Indian. After
two days of vain search, he came across a prize.

The Indian stood, a splendid specimen, in Bleecker street, in front of a
combination barber and tobacco store; he was nine feet, seven inches
tall and was standing on a two-foot pedestal, posing as a Herald of
Choice Tobacco; an ignominious position for such a superb creature.

He was purchased, after a deal of haggling over the price, for he was
minus a nose and was at that time suffering from a bad weather crack
extending diagonally across his stomach, well up into his chest.

An old man on the same street, who was engaged to box and crate the
Indian, was deeply interested in him and also in the march of Time and
the disappearance of many of our traditions and relics in this
comparatively new country, and said to my friend, “You do well to
purchase one of these figures, for, sir, the Indians on the American
continent is fastly disappearing, both in flesh and wood.”

He was next sent to a cabinet maker to receive surgical treatment—his
rather serious wounds filled up and a new hawk-like nose grafted on in a
clever manner.

The proud owner writes, “I then turned him over to the Sign-painter, to
have his leather leggings, his warlike feathers, and a few other
accessories cleaned up and retouched.

“I got into some very interesting discussions with the Sign-painter on
High Art, what Art meant, and various kindred topics, while my Indian
was being rejuvenated. I wish I could remember some of these
conversations with the local Knight of the Brush, but we certainly
discussed some of the loftiest principles in his line of paint and
color.”

“Tacomus” was then sent to one of the largest and most attractive
country seats in Massachusetts, where he has found a fitting home and
now stands on a small knoll, his earnest face turned towards forest,
hills, and streams; a noble addition to the many charms of a far famed
and beautiful estate.

In his left hand Tacomus grasps a long barrelled gun, originally a flint
lock, a real gun which had seen service and which he had when
discovered.

Many go to gaze at him, admire, and express themselves about this new
comer. One child looked way up and exclaimed, “His head is in the
skies!” then timidly touched his toes and ran away.

Tacomus bears the name of an old Indian Chief, who with his sons, first
sold the land which is now the town of Dudley, to Governor Winthrop’s
representatives, in old Colonial Days.

[Illustration:

  MY NAMELESS, FOOTLESS SQUAW]


The proud possessor of this impressive Brave says, “I felt that I had
secured a great prize and an unusually handsome Indian. I also fondly
thought I was the first to discover the value of our old tobacco signs
for lawn decoration; but found later that a woman had seized the idea
first, and about fifteen years before. Visiting her ‘Breezy Meadows,’ I
noticed that she had placed two old wooden Indians near a veritable
wigwam or tepee on her ‘Adopted Farm!’ So to her I take off my hat and
courteously bow.”

This complimentary allusion is intended for me, but I make no claim to
this honor; it is difficult and risky to try to prove oneself the first
in any line of discovery and no doubt there are scores of others who
have rescued these statues from oblivion, by giving them a place of
refuge.

It was the enthusiasm of this friend which suggested to me the idea of
collecting the best surviving specimens of the Tobacco Sign Indian and I
soon found that I must take a hint from the modern nature-lover, and do
most of my hunting with the aid of the camera.


------------------------------------------------------------------------




                                   II


MY first wish for an Indian was to add to the effect of my wigwam. I’ve
always been rather partial to the Indian race because there is a
tradition (which cannot be verified) that my great grandmother, Abigail
Eastman Webster, had a slight infusion of Indian blood. She was a noble
looking woman, I have been told, with rather a dark skin and large black
eyes. Her son, Daniel Webster, possibly owed to her his swarthy
complexion and wonderful eyes, like “Lanterns on a dark night,” as the
Websters were mostly of a florid complexion, and addicted to red hair.

I feared my dear old Indian (my first purchase) might look too much like
an advertisement as he carried a bunch of cigars in his right hand, so
this was removed and replaced by a tomahawk.

Next I suspected my unnamed brave might feel lonely; any way he looked
so, as he was from the busy Bowery of New York, so I begged friends to
aid me in providing him with an attractive spouse.

Many hunted but in vain; at last there was a squaw reported from
Leicester, Mass., but alas! she had lost both feet. With the usual pedal
appendages she would have cost $35.00, “but seeing as how she was
crippled, she might go for $15.00.”

I bought her and she looks all right with her stumps of ankles set deep
in the ground and heavy stones around them to keep her firmly planted.
The couple seem very real and human to me and I am often startled in the
twilight by coming on the pair without thinking that they are always
there. I intend to put a Cupid in the bushes near by or behind a
sassafras tree, to make it a little more exciting. I regret not giving
them any names but may do so, if I can decide on something appropriate.
I have a splendid portrait of Tecumseh, but that name does not seem
right.

And what a long list there is; I will only give a few, as Massasoit,
Squanto, Black Hawk, Pontiac, Red Jacket, Leather Stocking, Quizquiz,
Katsa, Red Cloud, Many Horns, Spotted Wolf, Yeh-toot-sah, Yok-ki-e-to,
and finally the name I like best, “Samoset,” that good Indian who was
the first to welcome the Puritans in 1621, saying “Welcome Englishmen,
Welcome Englishmen!” He told the Pilgrims to possess the land, as those
to whom it had belonged were swept away by a pestilence. So Samoset, it
shall be and the woman? No “set” to her for her knees have no bend to
them, “Squaw-without-feet” is true and sounds like some of their queer
names.

[Illustration:

  A YOUNG AND PRETTY MOTHER
  A BRAVE GAZING
  A HIGHLAND CHIEFTAIN
  ON THE WATCH]


I own that I am a bit superstitious about Indians and fancy I am liked
and protected by them, after several unusual experiences which I take
this opportunity to refer to the Society for Psychical Research. In
California, years ago, just after I had put up my wigwam at home, I was
barking as for the last twenty years with a chronic bronchial irritation
and was urged to visit a remarkable healer who had “suddenly been
controlled by the spirit of a cultivated woman, a medical missionary,
who had been most successful in India but who had died after a few years
of brilliant practice.” Making an engagement two weeks in advance, which
was necessary, owing to the great rush to be cured, I took a massage
treatment and greatly enjoyed the talk of the returned missionary, which
was all at once broken up by her place in the rubber’s mind being
usurped by a powerful American Indian who, through the medium, kept up a
vigorous yet not rough rubbing, slapping and putting hot hands all about
my throat; talking too as he worked, so enthusiastically. I think he was
a pretty knowing individual for this is what he said. “Ugh! Ugh! Wah!
Wah! This Squaw, she talkem heapum, she now quite bad off, but Ugh Wah!
we patch her up! Will make her pokagee! Yes, Pokagee!” Then he left as
quickly as he came and I noticed that poor Mrs. Seldon was breathing
hard and was in a profuse perspiration. When she opened her eyes, she
sighed and inquired in her own quiet, gentle way, “Have you had a good
rub?” That evening, I went to a Reception for some of the Professors of
Stanford University with the promise of being “Pokagee” still in my head
and as one of the gentlemen was a teacher of the Indian languages and
dialects, I ventured in a timid, hesitating manner to inquire “May I ask
if there is such a word as Pokagee in any Indian dialect?”

And the learned man replied at once, “Certainly.”

“Please tell me what it means.”

“It is used to express cured, or in perfect health.”

“O, thank you,” I said, “and just one more question—what tribe has that
word?”

“The Pottawatamie.”

And strange to relate my Astral Masseur had belonged to that particular
tribe. I forgot to say that he spoke of his pleasure over the Tepee I
had built on my grounds and said the Indians long ago loved to walk and
hunt in my woods. And he added, “They like to go to Tepee now; seems
like their own place.”

Again a friend took me to one of the best known and most valued medical
women in New York for a shampoo and a treatment of my face which
certainly did need to be steamed and electrified. Imagine the general
astonishment when another Indian spirit kindly “controlled” the
masseuse, (something which she affirmed had never happened before) and
he wished to encourage me about my heart as several doctors still in the
flesh had been criminally or at least brutally frank about its condition
and I was naturally alarmed. And he said “No need worry about heart; you
no got bad heart, only what I call nervous heart. You got scared but you
stay out doors and let books alone. When you go home go to the Tepee and
stand by it, and some of us will go walk with you. We are often there.”

Whatever that was, it did me much more good than the physicians, who
frightened me into an abnormal and utterly useless despondency, but
whose charges were so high as to increase my temperature and heart
action. So me for the Medicine Man of Mystery—with thanks. Excuse this
personal digression.


------------------------------------------------------------------------

[Illustration:

  GODDESS OF LIBERTY AND THREE OTHER ATTRACTIVE LADIES]


------------------------------------------------------------------------




                                  III


LIKE his prototype, the stalwart Red man, who once regarded this
beautiful, broad land as his own, the Tobacco Sign Indian is now rapidly
disappearing from all city streets by order of officials because the
figures encumber places of business.

He has a distinct genealogy for it is believed that the wooden statue
came first into existence in England as a Tobacco sign because Sir
Walter Raleigh, who carried the plant back from his trip to America,
told of the Indian’s Pipe of Peace and the joys of smoking, besides
enjoying it himself. Naturally the Brave himself should be used to
advocate its use.

So, it became the symbol of cigar stores both in England and other
countries, as the striped pole belongs to the Barber, who in old times
used to bleed his patrons as well as shave them, and the frisky Goat
called attention to “Bock Beer.”

Soon all of these will have gone.

A great variety of such signs were found in New York, and several other
cities while hunting in a taxi. The most common is the Brave gazing,
with right hand over brow; next an Indian Queen or a young girl with a
tobacco leaf or bunch of cigars in hand; Squaw with Papoose; Minnehaha,
a very pretty girl, offering cigars; Punch and also Punchinello, this
last extremely comical both in face and figure. The one whose photo you
see here cost $50 at second hand and the present owner would not sell
it, she says, for twice that sum. And as we scoot here and there in all
sorts of out of the way places, we see a Policeman, a Baseball Player, a
Hunter in appropriate garb, a handsome Highland Chieftain. Cupid is not
omitted; of course not, he is popular and found everywhere. Actors of
the past generation have been honored: Edwin Forrest as Metamora, and
the elder Sothern as Lord Dundreary. One of these pictures was taken in
front of a cigar store in Worcester, the sign is nearly fifty years old
and the Indian was formerly the Figure Head of a merchant vessel; if he
could speak, wondrous tales of danger and wild adventure would come from
his lips.

His owner would not take a fortune for him, so his future is secure.
This one is believed to be the oldest Indian sign in New England as it
is more than 75 years old. He is now kept inside the store for fear of
injury.


------------------------------------------------------------------------

[Illustration:

  SQUAW WITH PAPOOSE AND OTHER CHARMERS]


------------------------------------------------------------------------




                                   IV


THE Indian which has stood on top of Tammany Hall for nearly forty years
deserves special mention. He was not placed in that elevated position as
a tobacco sign, although a number of the modern chieftains display
cigars and tobacco in their liquor stores. There is no significance
connected with the figure in that direction. One of the oldest Tammany
Sachems writes me that some one proposed an arched ornament for the then
fine building in Fourteenth street in the year 1878, and the figure
decided upon to complete the effect was that of the Indian Chief
Tammenand, or St. Tammany, so called to make a little fun of the various
Saints of other organizations, as St. Francis, St. Andrews and so on.

My friend further says that in England and on the Continent in early
times, a favorite sign of tobacconists was first a colored boy, then
later an Indian King or Queen. He adds, “I remember in my boyish days
many Indian figures, in front of cigar shops; stalwart Indian Chiefs
holding out a bunch of cigars, or an Indian Princess with a Tobacco
leaf. Some of the latter were cleverly carved, ornamented dress and
scarf with usually one breast exposed.”

I read in a recent Daily, that a cook in New York, minus work and a
place to lay his head, took unwisely three drinks and four knives and
dashed out into the crowded street, throwing up a knife to show his
dexterity as a juggler!

In his excited condition, he happened to cut his own hand; the sight of
blood made him more wild, and glaring at one of the wooden Indians who
seemed to be staring at him, he attacked him fiercely with heavy hacks
and thwacks until hurried away by a passing policeman.

This last fleeting statue even figures in one of the World’s funny
series of the trials of the “Newly Weds.” That two toothed baby, who,
with all his pranks never ceases to fascinate, wanted one of these
Indians to take home and only closed his mouth when his adoring and
long-suffering Dad had bought one and carried it along with them, with
his befeathered head sticking out one way and legs the other. No doubt
there are many capital jokes connected with this subject, but the first
one to look up an odd theme has a hard hunt for facts. I know that a
well known Steel Magnate gave a beautiful church to the town where his
mother lived, at her request.

And not entirely satisfied, she next begged him to get a statue of some
Saint to make the gift perfect and adorn the grounds. He promised, and
soon a long box came directed to his mother but alas! it proved to be
one of the wooden men, of which we are talking. Her son was fond of
practical jokes!

A friend has told me that the Indians of Oklahoma resent these
representations of people of their race and want to suppress them all.
It is difficult to find any in many of our large cities; photographers
write that they have been obliged to hunt not in a taxi or auto, but by
groping in store lofts and dark attics and that then the figures must be
taken “down and out” to get a right light on them.

[Illustration:

  SAINT TAMMANY OF THE DELAWARE TRIBE
  “WE ARE TENDING STRICTLY TO BUSINESS”]


Every man to whom I have appealed for aid in making my story
interesting, through pictures, has been most courteous and amiable. I
have written to absolute strangers—often to a Post Master for the name
of a skilful photographer in his town, another perfect stranger, and
have always been answered promptly and sometimes with enthusiasm.
Several have refused pay, saying they had got real pleasure out of the
work and were sorry there was nothing more to do. Sometimes they were
obliged to crawl out on a roof and shovel away snow to rescue the poor
Indian.


------------------------------------------------------------------------




                                   V


TO show the genuine interest shown in my collection I will offer one
letter from a business man in Worcester, Mass:

    “Dear Miss Sanborn:—I have come across these figures and think
    you may use them. They are good examples of their craft and are
    quite clear. First Punch, he is over eighty years old and is
    whole from his knee down. I haven’t taken his face because he
    would have to be got down in order to do so, but if you say you
    do want it and can wait a week for it I am perfectly willing to
    take same and not have the other one show; really he has a
    strong face and I can, no doubt, get a good clean picture, front
    view.

    Am going to tell you all I can remember about them; if it is of
    no use to you, no harm is done.

    First: The Squaw, stands in front of a store; her owner has had
    same about ten years; she has a lovely face as you see and
    originally came from Boston.

    Second, Punch, formerly owned by a German, claimed there were
    but two like it in this country.

    Third, “Humpty Dumpty,” a likeness of the original Geo. L. Fox,
    who was the original “Humpty Dumpty.” In conversation with Mr.
    Sawyer, he said that how he happened to get the figure was thus:
    “A man in Woonsocket, R.I., took it for a bill due him; he in
    turn had means of getting rid of a lot of tobacco among the
    fishermen of Gloucester, so he gave the sign for the tobacco
    which he in turn sold to the fishermen at Gloucester. Now should
    you care for any of these, I’ll do them all under one
    consideration. No more pay; you have overpaid me already for the
    little I have been able to do and I’m unwilling to accept any
    more.”

    I desire also to heartily thank Mr. Jacob Riis, who is one of
    the busiest and kindest men in New York. He allowed me to use
    his description in his last book, “The Old Town,” of an Indian
    who was a chum of his in childhood and he writes me that he has
    sent home to Ribe for a special picture of the Sign he
    describes. Here is his story of his friend.

    “We boys in the Old Town were strictly prohibited from smoking
    under the School rules, which prescribed the rod for every
    offence. In consequence, we did it on the sly, thinking it manly
    and fine. At his desk at home, Father smoked all the time, and
    so did everybody else. Many a pound of Kanaster have I carried
    home from the tobacconist’s shop, the one in Gronnegade, with
    the naked brown Indian smoking a very long pipe.

    “From the moment the ‘Last of the Mohicans’ fell into my hands,
    I looked upon him as a friend and brother. There was something
    between us which the grown-ups knew nothing about. He must be
    acquainted with Uncas and Chingachgook and Deerslayer, for he
    was of the good Delawares and not of the wicked Hurons.

    “He swings from his hook yet, and I confess to a nodding
    acquaintance when I pass him in the street. His pipe is still
    the biggest part.” In one of Mr. Riis’ letters he says,
    “Certainly you may use the Indian in the Old Town and here is a
    picture of him. He is fixed now on the wall. In my childhood he
    swung from a hook smoking his long pipe. You merely see the hand
    that holds it in this picture.

    “Good luck with your book and with all your work.

    “I am glad you have a farm. It is the only way to live.”

                                                   Faithfully yours,
                                                     JACOB A. RIIS.”


------------------------------------------------------------------------

[Illustration:

  REPRESENTATIVE OF THE NATIONAL GAME
  JOCKEY WITH CIGAR BOX
  HUNTER
  POLICEMAN]


------------------------------------------------------------------------




                                   VI


HERE’S a New York Politician’s opinion about the Indians he knew. “Say,
Spielberg, were you in the Assembly at Albany in 1901?”

“No, this is only my second term. Let me explain how they do things up
there. I went there, full of enthusiasm for the public service. Being a
new member, I scarcely expected to get on one of the big committees, but
I thought I was entitled to something. The Speaker put me on the Indian
Affairs Committee. The only Indians I knew anything about were the
braves of the Tammany tribe, but I was willing to learn. I read the
works of J. Fenimore Cooper so as to get posted on Indian Affairs. When
I got a pretty good grip on the subject I waited for a meeting of my
committee, but couldn’t find any. Near the close of the session I went
to an old member of the Legislature and asked him if there were any
Indians in the state and if so what was I supposed to do for them.

“‘Indians in New York?’ he came back. ‘Plenty of them. You come from
Manhattan and must have noticed a number of them in front of cigar
stores with uplifted tomahawks. These Indians are exposed to all kinds
of weather and it is your duty to observe the weather effect and be
ready to report on the same when the committee meets.’

“I asked him when the committee did meet and he said, ‘I have been here
for the past six years and it has not met yet, but it is likely to meet
any day.’”

Sometimes tobacco signs are painted on boards, and of such a curious
example is to be seen at the door of a small establishment bearing the
sonorous name of the “Mephisto Cigar Store.”

It is a typical representation of the typical stage demon, dressed in
tights and furnished with the regulation bat like wings.


------------------------------------------------------------------------

[Illustration:

  SOTHERN AS “DUNDREARY”—THE OTHERS YOU MAY NAME AS YOU PLEASE]


------------------------------------------------------------------------




                                  VII


AS the “Wooden Indian” has long been a by-word, and a popular symbol of
stolidity in mind and body, I have thought it worth while to show that
like more pretentious statuary he may furnish inspiration to the Muse of
Poetry. Here is an advertisement in verse sent me by a lady of Seneca
Falls, New York.

                “Where the stately Indian chieftian
                 Stands in silence by the door,
                 Down on Vall street, stop and peep in
                 You will find a splendid store.
                 Should you choose the weed Nicotian
                 Choice tobaccos that inspire
                 Whose sweet incense wins devotion
                 To the smoking meerschaum’s fire,
                 Would you purchase true enjoyment,
                 Joy without a shade of sorrow;
                 Would you rest from your employment
                 With a fragrant rich cigarro,
                 Formed from meerschaum, clay and brier,
                 Tipped with amber, stemmed with cherry,
                 Are the bowls for perfumed fire,
                 Holding fumes that make men merry,
                 Or, should you prefer to “quid” it,
                 And to taste the weed’s dark juices,
                 Warrington will not forbid it
                 Neither need you make excuses.
                 You who love the weed they call sweet,
                 Plug or fine cut, twist or leaf,
                 Go to Warrington’s at Vall street
                 There where stands the Indian Chief.”

------------------------------------------------------------------------

[Illustration:

  PUNCH WITH IMPRESSIVE NOSE
  ANOTHER PUNCH—LESS FORTUNATE
  PUNCHINELLO AND NONDESCRIPT
  PUCK]


------------------------------------------------------------------------




                                  VIII


WHAT a sarcasm of Destiny it is that when we have driven out and killed
off all the Indians who were so happy here, we write poetry praising
them, novels about the good looking, brave, and almost, too saintly Red
Man. And now it is seriously urged that a suitable Memorial be erected
in New York Harbor to the Memory of the North American Indian whose
ranks are thinning so rapidly, that within a comparatively few years
more, the race will be obliterated by the advance of the white man’s
civilization. That is rather a rosy way of describing the treatment the
Indian has received.

The proposed statue will be colossal in size and of bronze in
construction, with outstretched arm, typifying a greeting from the
primal American to the people of all other nations.

That might be well represented by “Samoset,” illustrating the finer,
better traits of the Indian, when he cried out a “Welcome, Englishmen”
to the strangers who were landing.

I have dwelt so much on this theme that I’m actually confusing the real
Indian with a wooden statue. Never mind. Did you know that Schiller
wrote an Indian Death song?

I’ll quote a few verses:

                 “Well for him! he’s gone his ways,
                  Where are no more snows;
                  Where the fields are decked with maize
                  That unplanted grows;

                  Where with beasts of chase each wood,
                  Where with bird each tree,
                  Where with fish is every flood
                  Stocked full pleasantly.

                  He above with spirits feeds;
                  We, alone and dim,
                  Left to celebrate his deeds,
                  And to bury him.”

------------------------------------------------------------------------

[Illustration:

  JIM CROW—(made 87 years ago)
  PLEASE NAME HIM]


------------------------------------------------------------------------




                                   IX


I am told that a Collector went about in Baltimore twenty years ago and
bought up all the best of these signs in that city, for their carving
was often admirable, spirited, and artistic. A friend sends me an
interesting history of that “Ancient Baltimorean, the Cigar Store
Indian,” written in 1908 for a paper of that city.

On good authority, it is stated that there are 2,000 tobacco stores in
Baltimore. One finds them in all parts of the city, on street corners,
in basements, in the middle of blocks and fronting alleys.

It is estimated that 150 of these 2,000 tobacco stores are identified by
a wooden figure just as a barber shop is identified by a ribbon-striped
pole. The wooden figures are almost always found to represent an Indian,
although occasionally there are other figures.

And so they may be found differing in size, coloring, ornamentation,
state of repair and general condition, or rather, in most cases, general
debility.

To review the history of these Indians one would naturally look to a
tobacconist of age, with years in the business of dealing in and
manufacturing of smokers’ articles, and in interviewing several of such
many facts of interest may be learned.

The oldest tobacconist in Baltimore is venerable Mr. Caspari, of Calvert
street, one of whose figures was mentioned above.

Mr. Caspari’s story of the Indian is as follows: “The first figures were
made by ship carpenters 125 years ago and were carved out of lengths of
old seasoned masts.

“In those days of individual effort and prosperity cigar stores were few
and far between, and for a sign to identify them they used the figure of
an Indian, because from the Indian, the white man first received
tobacco.

“At first the figure was painted on each side of a board. This was
placed in front of the store. From that evolved the carving of the
figure from solid wood as a new idea and more attractive and
progressive, as well as more expensive and valuable.

“Fifty years ago no tobacconist would think of opening a store without a
figure. Now the men in the trade think that to put an Indian out is to
waste money.

“When I started business, in 1861, my stock cost me $30, and I had a
figure that cost $40. I had to have the sign, though it cost more money
than the stock inside. Since then I have been 46 years in business on
one (Calvert) street,” said Mr. Caspari.

In 1864 he hired a man from New York to make figures for him. The first
figure was a small one, representing an Indian squaw. This was sold in
Baltimore in 1865 and brought $15.

These figures were made out of old masts. Each one was handmade with
saw, knife, chisel and such tools of the trade. The sculptor would work
on five or six different ones in turn and take, on an average, about a
week’s time to finish a figure.

Mr. Caspari has sold figures in many other towns and cities.

In the old days, customers coming in and wanting a figure would choose
some new design, and so “Girls of the Period” were next in vogue. These
were fanciful, flashy figures and very attractive.

[Illustration:

  “FOUR OF A KIND”]


“Pipitone, on Charles street, near Baltimore, years ago bought one of
these fancy figures,” said Mr. Caspari, “and soon after a storm blew it
to Baltimore street, damaging it badly. He brought it back and had it
repaired and painted and about two months after that a horse ran away
and the wagon caught the figure and broke it to pieces.”


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                                   X


IN 1868 or 1870 “Fritz in Ireland” was acted by J. K. Emmet at the
Holliday Street Theatre, in Baltimore, and the actor sang his famous
lullaby to one of these “Girls of the Period” figures. After these Mr.
Caspari offered drum majors, represented with Uncle Sam breeches and
clothed to correspond.

Then came “Champagne Charley,” with side whiskers, red coat, striped
trousers and holding a bottle in one hand, at which he pointed a finger
of the other.

Then came the soldier. This figure carried a genuine old musket.

Next appeared the “Scotch Girl,” with Tam-o-shanter and plaid dress,
like a bag-pipe player.

With a large assortment of figures on exhibit to choose from, Mr.
Caspari did a good business. Every cigar store that started had one.

New customers looking about for a figure would come in with a new idea
and new designs would be made to order. Mr. Caspari had 100 figures on
exhibition at one time.

Last were made Punches and clowns. This was about 20 years ago. After
that the trade fell off and the stock was sold out.

The value of figures depended on the size, amount of work and time
necessary to finish them and on their newness of design and
ornamentation. They cost new, from $15 up to $250. One Mr. Caspari sold
for $400.

He bought a little darky figure at one time on Pratt street that had
resisted the elements for 150 years. This little figure was about 30
inches high.

During the war, on a St. Patrick’s Day, he dressed the darky in a green
coat, with a clover leaf and tall hat. An Irish soldier came along and,
seeing the darky, became incensed and knocked it off its block,
exclaiming vehemently against its being an Irish “nigger.”

On another St. Patrick’s Day a drunken Irishman, seeing the darky in
similar patriotic regalia, made such a disturbance that a policeman had
to be called.

Figures were sold all over Baltimore and were repaired frequently. Some
were more exposed to the elements than others. Some were of such design
that portions were more easily broken off than was the case with others.


------------------------------------------------------------------------

[Illustration:

  “SAGAMORE, SACHEM OR POW-WOW”]


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                                   XI


TO repaint a figure cost from $10 to $15. They were always painted
flashily with high-grade paint and trimmings of genuine gold or silver
or whatever metal was called for. Some had earrings, others beads,
bracelets or necklaces to repaint fancifully. Then the feathers of the
Indian required the highest artistic blending of colors.

Mr. Caspari had scores of paint pots used in connection with this branch
of his business. Each held a different colored paint.

As a rule figures required repainting every 18 months, although Mr.
Fricke’s Indian, bought 25 years ago, has had but three coats of paint.

“But they never could get the color again as it was at first,” says Mr.
Fricke.

The 2-foot law as applied to obstructions of sidewalks has been one of
the main causes for the removal of the Indian and such figures.

Mr. Hutchingson has in front of his store on Gay street an Indian maiden
which came into his possession with other stock in 1896. A former owner
once recognized it and stated that he had had it for 30 years.

Mr. Hutchingson says this is the only Indian that experienced and
survived the big fire of 1904. The Church of the Messiah, corner of Gay
and Fayette streets, was the only church that burned, and this Indian
saw it burn and was herself blistered and cracked. Since then she has
had a new coat of paint.

George Eikenberg, on East Fayette street, has had a figure in front of
his store for 30 years. Mr. Decker, of North Gay street, above Belair
Market, has an Indian made by a Mr. Gato on North Caroline street. Mr.
Decker bought it in 1879, and the only repairing done has been on one
arm that was accidentally broken off. It has been painted every two
years and has always done good service.

Incidentally, Mr. Gato, the sculptor, was a short man and had to stand
on a chair to carve part of the Indian, which is itself a small one.


------------------------------------------------------------------------

[Illustration:

  PLACE AUX DAMES]


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                                  XII


MISS Wurach, 733 West Pratt street, Baltimore, states that her father
started in business 51 years ago and that she and her brother now
continue to keep the store, her father being dead. The figure in front
is the second one used in 51 years. The age of the present figure is not
known.

Mr. Bringman’s Indian figure, on West Baltimore street, is very old and
very impressive in appearance, being of unusually large size and
displaying great muscular development. It has required much repairing
about the feet and on one thigh.

Very interesting is the story of F. Dreves’ figure, on West Fayette
street, above Park avenue, as told by Mr. Dreves.

The late Mr. Dreves, Sr., at one time dealt in Indian figures.

Sailing vessels that for a long time plied up and down the coast of
America and across the Atlantic carrying merchandise and passengers
would become unfit for further use at sea and were then dismantled.

Often the masts of these old sailing vessels would be trailed in the
water and towed into port. These portions of masts would, in the water,
become hardened, or even petrified. They were of large size and
furnished excellent material for wood carving of all kinds.

About 35 years ago the late Mr. Dreves obtained two lengths of such
masts and wished to have two Indian figures carved from them.

He found a German sculptor from Munich who had carved figures now to be
seen adorning the Capitol at Washington.

The German sculptor had never seen an Indian, but when shown pictures of
the figures he was to carve exclaimed: “O yes, that’s the American,”
meaning that the Indian was the only native American.

Each Indian completed cost $115 in the raw wood.


------------------------------------------------------------------------

[Illustration:

  ALL HIGH ROLLERS]


------------------------------------------------------------------------




                                  XIII


THE Indians carved by the German sculptor are represented with catamount
hide for covering. A quiver of arrows is fastened over the left
shoulder. In the right hand is a bow and the left hand holds a bunch of
tobacco leaves.

Evidence of the skill and training of the now departed German sculptor
may be seen in the figure. Every muscle visible on the human form is
executed in its exact relation.

The little depression about the kneepan, the lines of the shinbone and
the condyles of the elbow joint are perfect.

The brother of Mr. Dreves’ Indian was purchased by Mr. Oppelt and may
now be seen in front of his store on Park avenue.

This Indian was sold to the present Mr. Oppelt’s father 35 years ago for
about the price of carving and material as given above.


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                                  XIV


JOHN E. Owens made a great hit with his popular play “The Live Indian,”
in which he took down and hid a stunning figure, that had stood many
years before a cigar store, in fact considered to be one of “the oldest
inhabitants.”

Made up as an exact counterpart of this, he mounted the pedestal and
waited until midnight, when he broke into the store, and hastened away,
rich in booty; not leaving, however, till he had replaced the insulted
Indian in his rightful place.

This was an irresistibly comical sight. But the wooden Indian must go;
his death knell has been rung. In the old days, a cigar store without
this symbol, would be as lacking in life as a one ring Circus at the
present time. All has changed: you can walk street after street in any
city, and pass tobacco stores by the score but your old friend is not
there. Tobacco sales are now managed by advertisements and gaudy
lithographs of chorus girls smoking cigarettes, or fancy pictures just
to catch the eye. These are the new favorites and soon the Indian Sign
will be obsolete; a relic of the ages.

This fact suggested making a collection to preserve his memory.

I fancy I hear some one say, “This seems to end rather abruptly.” That
is true; but just as Horace Greeley said, “The way to resume is to
resume,” I think the way to stop is to stop. And it is a triumph of self
control in a woman to stop short when she really has nothing more to
communicate.

I hope that this little historic Souvenir, will be desired by every man
who smokes and every woman who “loves the odor of a good cigar.” Like
Col. Sellers, I have prepared a bottle for each eye.

And now in a whisper let me close with a treasonable quotation from
Kipling:

“A woman’s only a woman—but a good cigar is a smoke!”


------------------------------------------------------------------------

[Illustration:

  A POSEUR
  A JOLLY PARTY
  LADY ENJOYING THE WEED
  “AND LAST OF ALL AN ADMIRAL CAME”]




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Transcriber’s note:

    ○ Several of the page numbers in the List of Illustrations were
      corrected.

    ○ Missing or obscured punctuation was silently corrected.

    ○ Typographical errors were silently corrected.

    ○ Inconsistent spelling and hyphenation were made consistent only
      when a predominant form was found in this book.