steps
toward the Painted Desert, and there among the Indian people I would
find my model. Indian mothers are real mothers. Their greatest passion
is mother-love. Not a pampering, sheltering, foolish love, but a great,
tender love that seeks always what is best for the child, regardless of
the mother's feelings or the child's own desires. The first years of an
Indian baby's life are very simple. Apart from being fed without having
to catch his dinner, there is not much to choose between his existence
and that of any other healthy young animal. He and his little companions
dart about in sunshine and rain, naked as little brown kewpies. I have
never seen a deformed Indian baby or one with spinal trouble. Why?
Because the mothers grow up living natural lives: they dress in
loose-fitting, sensible clothing; they wear flat-heeled shoes or
moccasins; they eat plain, nourishing food; and they walk and ride and
work until almost the minute the child is born. They take the newborn
babe to a water hole, bathe it, then strap it on a straight board with
its little spine absolutely supported. Here it spends the first six
months of its existence.

The child's chin is bound round with a soft strip of leather, so that
its breathing is done through its nostrils; no adenoids or mouth
breathing among the Indians, and very little lung trouble as long as
they do not try to imitate the white man's ways.

Different tribes celebrate the birth of a child in different ways. The
gift is always welcome when a little new life comes into an Indian home.
The Hopi mother rubs her baby with wood ashes so that its body will not
be covered with hair. Then a great feast is held and thank-offering
gifts are received. Each relative brings an ear of corn to the mother
and gives a name to the child. It may receive twenty or more names at
birth, and yet in later life it will choose a name for itself or be
named by its mother.

Not so much ceremony greets the Navajo baby. Navajo mothers are far too
busy and baby additions are too frequent to get excited about. The
mother bathes herself and the newcomer in cold water, wraps him in his
swaddling clothes of calico, straps him on his board cradle, suspends it
on a limb, and goes on with the spinning or weaving that had occupied
her a few minutes before. All Indian babies are direct gifts from the
Powers That Be, and a token of said Powers' favor. A childless Indian
wife is pitied and scoffed at by her tribe.

A