The Dead Papoose
The Indian mother, when her child dies, does not believe that swift angels bear it into the glorious sunshine of the spirit-land; but she has a beautiful dream to solace her bereavement. The cruel empty places, which everywhere meet the eye of the weeping white mother, are unknown to her, for to her tender fancy a little spirit-child fills them.
It is not a rare sight to see a pair of elaborate tiny moccasins above a little Indian grave. A mother’s fingers have embroidered them, a mother’s hand has hung them there, to help the baby’s feet over the long rough road that stretches between his father’s wigwam and the Great Chief’s happy hunting grounds.
Indians believe that a baby’s spirit cannot reach the spirit-land until the child, if living, would have been old enough and strong enough to walk. Until that time the little spirit hovers about its mother. And often it grows tired—oh so very tired! So the tender mother carries a papoose’s cradle on her back that the baby spirit may ride and rest when it will. The cradle is filled with the softest feathers, for the spirit rests more comfortably upon soft things—hard things bruise it—and all the papoose’s old toys dangle from the crib, for the dead papoose may love to play even as the living papoose did.