Brushing away from my eyes many like pictures, I offered midday meal to
the converted Indian sitting wordless and with downcast face. No sooner
had he risen from the table with "Cousin, I have relished it," than the
church bell rang.

Thither he hurried forth with his afternoon sermon. I watched him as he
hastened along, his eyes bent fast upon the dusty road till he
disappeared at the end of a quarter of a mile.

The little incident recalled to mind the copy of a missionary paper
brought to my notice a few days ago, in which a "Christian" pugilist
commented upon a recent article of mine, grossly perverting the spirit
of my pen. Still I would not forget that the pale-faced missionary and
the hoodooed aborigine are both God's creatures, though small indeed
their own conceptions of Infinite Love. A wee child toddling in a wonder
world, I prefer to their dogma my excursions into the natural gardens
where the voice of the Great Spirit is heard in the twittering of birds,
the rippling of mighty waters, and the sweet breathing of flowers.

Here, in a fleeting quiet, I am awakened by the fluttering robe of the
Great Spirit. To my innermost consciousness the phenomenal universe is a
royal mantle, vibrating with His divine breath. Caught in its flowing
fringes are the spangles and oscillating brilliants of sun, moon, and
stars.




THE SOFT-HEARTED SIOUX