Indian

Indians...wrapped in blankets,
Their faces hanging low.
Soft moccasin-footed creatures,
Every where they go.

Knocking on the white-man's door,
Mute they wait...and stand.
For a morsel in their sacks,
Holding out their hand.

Dark, dangling braids encircling,
Faces that are set.
Squinty eyes that look ahead,
In hopes what they will get.

Saddened people...they have been,
Inhabiting the land.
Hungry, molested, in their ways,
Traveling in a pony-band.

Down trodden...so down-trodden,
With their bedraggled kin.
As they were pushed aside,
And white-men filtered in.

E.P. 1908 - 1989

These pieces were carved by Ethel Pickett from the ends of a crate that held oranges.