We've come such a long way. I remember when we thought the feathers were the food part of a bird. But the Indians showed us differently.
The Indians were jolly company today. I wonder, though, if we should have made them eat at a separate table from us. I know the village elders decided that was best. But they also decided chimneys gave Satan a way into our homes. Bad call, that. Half the village almost choked to death.
Still, the VE's are pretty wise. They were definitely right about burying seeds a little, instead of just leaving them atop the ground. Once we started doing that our crops really picked up. The elders were also right about giving grain alcohol to our babies. Our babies sleep so much better now! We all do.
Still, I don't know about having the Indians eat at a separate table. I know there's nothing in the Bible specifically about Indians, but I can't help but think of the way our Lord and Savior used to eat with all kinds of undesirables. Would he have sat, and hammered bread with the Indians? I think he might have.
Of course, the Indians seem to like not sitting at our tables. For one, they hate utensils. I don't know if we're ever going to get those people to stop eating with their hands. In retrospect, it would have been wise of us to have mastered the utensils ourselves before trying to persuade the Indians to use them. If only Wallace hadn't stuck himself in the cheek during our demonstration—or if Smith hadn't cracked his tooth with a spoon. How the Indians laughed. It was kind of funny. That Smith can really curse.
Sometimes, though, it seems like the Indians are mostly laughing at us. It's almost like they don't comprehend that we're their betters. I know that one Indian was laughing at my shoes. He nudged his friend—and if he didn't say "buckle," I've never built a fence. Those two were out of line, period.
Like the "moccasins" they wear are so great.
Actually, they are. I kind of want a pair of those moccasins for myself. Of course, I would call them moccas: no "sins" for me! But the truth is, our shoes are just too blasted heavy. And for Jehovah's sake, do we really need heels on our shoes? Heels are fine for getting around on the cobblestoned lanes of London, but out here in God's wilderness, they're hardly an asset. The only reason we caught that huge delicious bird was because the creature was simply too stupid to run away. But other than that moronic beast, I can't hunt anything in these shoes. Animals flee for miles. Our shoes just make too much blangnamit noise.
But an Indian! Sometimes they are as quiet as a shadow. That one who snuck up on me today scared me half to death. But I guess he was just curious about my musket. They're such an ignorant people. When I let him hold my gun, the befuddled ruffian didn't know what to do with it. He kept pointing the firing end right in his own face! Savages simply cannot comprehend an instrument as complex as a gun. At first I was a little worried that the Indian had discovered where we keep our weapons—it's not like we guard the village armory, or anything. But after watching him bumble his way around that gun—and then finally, laughing, give up and hand it back to me—I knew there was nothing whatsoever to be concerned about. Those unlearned heathens could no sooner figure out what to do with a gun than I could build one of those conical things they live in—those hee-tees, pee-pees, or whatever they call them.
No, the Indians won't give us any trouble. They're content just to be near us, and to benefit from all we teach them. And if they want to have the occasional laugh at our expense, what harm does it do? After all, we are all in this together, are we not? This is God's great and bountiful land; He has seen to it that we all have all that we need, and vast amounts more. We and the Indians shall grow into one prosperous people! Give thanks!
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