was the same to him as to us.  One day an Indian came to our missionary and said, “I know this religion is true.  The men who have walked in this new trail are better and happier.  But I have always been a warrior, and my hands are full of blood.  Could I be a Christian?” The missionary repeated the story of God’s love.  To test the man he said, “May I cut your hair?” The Indian wears his scalp lock for his enemy—­when it is cut it is a sign he will never go on the war-path again.  The man said, “Yes, you may cut it; I shall throw my old life away.”  It was cut.  He started for home and met some wild Indians who shouted with laughter, and with taunts said:  “Yesterday you were a warrior, to-day you are a squaw.”  It stung the man to madness, and he rushed to his home and threw himself on the floor and burst into tears.  His wife was a Christian, and came and put her arms about his neck and said:  “Yesterday there was not a man in the world who dared call you a coward.  Can’t you be as brave for Him who died for you as you were to kill the Sioux?” He sprang to his feet and said, “I can and I will.”  I have known many brave, fearless servants of Christ, but I never knew one braver than this chief who is now in Paradise.

I wish I could take you to a Christian Indian’s home.  You might see nothing but a plain log house, and you might wonder why the tears came in my eyes as he said to me, “That is my daughter’s room; the boys sleep up stairs; this is for me and my wife.”  They are tears of joy, for I knew them when they herded as swine, in a wigwam.  It is the religion of Christ which has brought respect for womanhood.

I want to take you far away in the forest to Red Lake.  The head chief, Mah-dwah-go-no-wind, was a remarkable man as a wild man, true, honest and brave.  He came and asked me to give him a missionary.  I loved him and we were warm friends.  I said “I cannot give you a missionary for the American Missionary Association has a missionary now in that field.”  The chief came again and again to see me.  He said:  “I want your religion.  If you refuse I will ask the Roman Catholics.”  I wrote Rev. Dr. Strieby, and told him the situation.  I said “The field is in my diocese.  I have the right to send a missionary there, but ask your consent because I will never be a party to present Christian divisions to heathen men.”  After due deliberation, the Association consented.  I am happy to tell you that that old chief and nearly all the adults of his band are faithful communicants.  At my last visit, the chief came to me and said, “My Father, since you were here, my old wife with whom I have lived fifty years, has gone to sleep in the grave.  I shall go to lie by her side.  I have heard that white Christians bless the place where they sleep as belonging to God.  Will you bless the place where my wife sleeps and ask God to care for it until he calls his children out of the grave?” We formed a procession of the Indians, the clergy and the old chief and myself, and marched around the place singing in Ojibway, “Jesus lover of my soul”; then I read appropriate scripture, made an address and offered prayer, and asked blessing on this “acre of God.”  After the service the chief said:  “I thank you for telling me I have a Saviour.  I thank you for blessing the place where my wife sleeps.  I have your face on my heart.  Good bye.”