Our track lay, at first, along the “Path of Souls,” and the still, grey air was only disturbed by a faint rustling and twittering of spirits on the march.  We seemed to have journeyed but a short time, when a red light shone on the left hand of the way.  As we drew nearer, this light appeared to proceed from a prodigious strawberry, a perfect mountain of a strawberry.  Its cool and shining sides seemed very attractive to a thirsty Soul.  A red man, dressed strangely in the feathers of a raven, stood hard by, and loudly invited all passers-by to partake of this refreshment.  I was about to excavate a portion of the monstrous strawberry (being partial to that fruit), when my guide held my hand and whispered in a low voice that they who accepted the invitation of the man that guarded the strawberry were lost.  He added that, into whatever paradise I might stray, I must beware of tasting any of the food of the departed.  All who yield to the temptation must inevitably remain where they have put the food of the dead to their lips.  “You,” said my guide, with a slight sneer, “seem rather particular about your future home, and you must be especially careful to make no error.”  Thus admonished, I followed my guide to the river which runs between our world and the paradise of the Ojibbeways.  A large stump of a tree lies half across the stream, the other half must be crossed by the agility of the wayfarer.  Little children do but badly here, and “an Ojibbeway woman,” said my guide, “can never be consoled when her child dies before it is fairly expert in jumping.  Such young children they cannot expect to meet again in paradise.”  I made no reply, but was reminded of some good and unhappy women I had known on earth, who were inconsolable because their babes had died before being sprinkled with water by a priest.  These babes they, like the Ojibbeway matrons, “could not expect to meet again in paradise.”  To a grown-up spirit the jump across the mystic river presented no difficulty, and I found myself instantly among the wigwams of the Ojibbeway heaven.  It was a remarkably large village, and as far as the eye could see huts and tents were erected along the river.  The sound of magic songs and of drums filled all the air, and in the fields the spirits were playing lacrosse.  All the people of the village had deserted their homes and were enjoying themselves at the game.  Outside one hut, however, a perplexed and forlorn phantom was sitting, and to my surprise I saw that he was dressed in European clothes.  As we drew nearer I observed that he wore the black garb and white neck-tie of a minister in some religious denomination, and on coming to still closer quarters I recognized an old acquaintance, the Rev. Peter McSnadden.  Now Peter had been a “jined member” of that mysterious “U.  P. Kirk” which, according to the author of “Lothair,” was founded by the Jesuits for the greater confusion of Scotch theology.  Peter, I knew, had been active