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."

I could keep you longer than I ought telling you of the lights and
shadows of missionary life. The North American Indian is the noblest
type of a wild man on the earth. He recognizes a Great Spirit, he loves
his home, he is passionately devoted to his people, and believes in a
future life. The Ojibway language is a marvel. The verb has inflections
by thousands. If an Indian says "I love" and stops, you can tell by the
inflection of the verb whether he loves an animate or inanimate object,
a man or a woman. The nicest shade of meaning in St. Paul's Epistles
could be conveyed in Ojibway, and I have heard a missionary say, "A
classic Greek temple standing in the forest would not be more marvelous
than this wonderful language."

The Indians are heathen folk and will often come to the Christian life
fettered by old heathen ideas, and some may stumble and fall; they did
in St. Paul's time; but I can say that some of the noblest instances of
the power of religion I have ever known have been among these poor red
men. I can recall death-beds where an Indian looked up in my face and
said, "The Great Spirit has called me to go on the last journey. I am
not afraid to go, for Jesus is going with me, and I shall not be
lonesome on the road."

I am happy to tell you that the clouds are breaking. Thousands of this
poor race are rejoicing in the light of the Gospel. The heart of the