The Prairie Chief | Page 2

probably unknown to the reader, we will try to convey in English as
nearly as possible the slightly poetical tone of the one and the rough
Backwoods' style of the other.
"It seems strange to me," returned the Indian, "that my white brother
thinks and cares so little about his Manitou. He thinks much of his gun,
and his traps, and his skins, and his powder, and his friend, but cares

not for Manitou, who gave him all these--all that he possesses."
"Look 'ee here, Whitewing," returned the trapper, in his matter-of-fact
way, "there's nothing strange about it. I see you, and I see my gun and
these other things, and can handle 'em; but I don't know nothin' about
Manitou, and I don't see him, so what's the good o' thinkin' about him?"
Instead of answering, the red man looked silently and wistfully up into
the blue sky, which could be seen through the raised curtain of the
wigwam. Then, pointing to the landscape before them, he said in
subdued but earnest tones, "I see him in the clouds--in the sun, and
moon, and stars; in the prairies and in the mountains; I hear him in the
singing waters and in the winds that scatter the leaves, and I feel him
here."
Whitewing laid his hand on his breast, and looked in his friend's face.
"But," he continued sadly, "I do not understand him, he whispers so
softly that, though I hear, I cannot comprehend. I wonder why this is
so."
"Ay, that's just it, Whitewing," said the trapper. "We can't make it out
nohow, an' so I just leaves all that sort o' thing to the parsons, and give
my mind to the things that I understand."
"When Little Tim was a very small boy," said the Indian, after a few
minutes' meditation, "did he understand how to trap the beaver and the
martin, and how to point the rifle so as to carry death to the grizzly
bear?"
"Of course not," returned the trapper; "seems to me that that's a foolish
question."
"But," continued the Indian, "you came to know it at last?"
"I should just think I did," returned the trapper, a look of self-satisfied
pride crossing his scarred visage as he thought of the celebrity as a
hunter to which he had attained. "It took me a goodish while, of course,

to circumvent it all, but in time I got to be--well, you know what, an'
I'm not fond o' blowin' my own trumpet."
"Yes; you came to it at last," repeated Whitewing, "by giving your
mind to things that at first you did not understand."
"Come, come, my friend," said Little Tim, with a laugh; "I'm no match
for you in argiment, but, as I said before, I don't understand Manitou,
an' I don't see, or feel, or hear him, so it's of no use tryin'."
"What my friend knows not, another may tell him," said Whitewing.
"The white man says he knows Manitou, and brings a message from
him. Three times I have listened to his words. They seem the words of
truth. I go again to-day to hear his message."
The Indian stood up as he spoke, and the trapper also rose.
"Well, well," he said, knocking the ashes out of his pipe, "I'll go too,
though I'm afeared it won't be o' much use."
The sermon which the man of God preached that day to the Indians was
neither long nor profound, but it was delivered with the intense
earnestness of one who thoroughly believes every word he utters, and
feels that life and death may be trembling in the balance with those
who listen. It is not our purpose to give this sermon in detail, but
merely to show its influence on Whitewing, and how it affected the
stirring incidents which followed.
Already the good man had preached three times the simple gospel of
Jesus to these Indians, and with so much success that some were ready
to believe, but others doubted, just as in the days of old. For the benefit
of the former, he had this day chosen the text, "Let us run with patience
the race that is set before us, looking unto Jesus." Whitewing had been
much troubled in spirit. His mind, if very inquiring, was also very
sceptical. It was not that he would not--but that he could not-- receive
anything unless convinced. With a strong thirst after truth, he went to
hear that day, but, strange to say, he could not fix his attention. Only
one sentence seemed to fasten firmly on his memory: "It is the Spirit

that quickeneth." The text itself also made a profound impression on
him.
The preacher had just concluded, and was about to raise his voice in
prayer, when a shout