the writer supposed that he was the only worker in the Mississippi Indian
field—a lame toiler in a mighty expanse! Recent days have demonstrated
others in the Choctaw part of the work, one, a specialist, but the Chickasaw
investigation lags. Much could yet be done—much should be done and done
quickly ‘ere Oblivion sets her fatal and final seal on all investigation.
No Indian tribe in
the South, certainly none in our beloved Mississippi, has a richer martial
history than the Chickasaw. Bancroft calls them “the most interpid warriors
of the South.” It is well known that they gave shelter to the hunted Natchez,
flying from the vengeful French, and, in later times, even to Whites, such
as refugee Tories, hounded by their own kith and kin. Time after time they
met the Bourbon and caused the lilies of France to trail in the dust.
Let us no longer
neglect their history during the time they dwelt east of the Mississippi.
One heritage they left us: their beautiful names, which linked to our hills
and streams remain as mementoes of the never conquered race. It is a pleasure
to record in Clio’s blotted book that already they are a great people in
the West and a worthy component part of the giant nation in whose veins
flow so many diverse bloods,—the giant whose mighty hands touch the gates