in study; their eyes were bleared with poring over print and manuscript by
the light of the midnight lamp.

And yet, how much had they left unlearned! Mr. Eliot would put into their
hands some of the pages, which he had been writing; and behold! the
gray-headed men stammered over the long, strange words, like a little
child in his first attempts to read. Then would the apostle call to him an
Indian boy, one of his scholars, and show him the manuscript, which had so
puzzled the learned Englishmen.

"Read this, my child," said he, "these are some brethren of mine, who
would fain hear the sound of thy native tongue."

Then would the Indian boy cast his eyes over the mysterious page, and read
it so skilfully, that it sounded like wild music. It seemed as if the
forest leaves were singing in the ears of his auditors, and as if the roar
of distant streams were poured through the young Indian’s voice. Such were
the sounds amid which the language of the red man had been formed; and
they were still heard to echo in it.

The lesson being over, Mr. Eliot would give the Indian boy an apple or a
cake, and bid him leap forth into the open air, which his free nature
loved. The apostle was kind to children, and even shared in their sports,
sometimes. And when his visitors had bidden him farewell, the good man
turned patiently to his toil again.

No other Englishman had ever understood the Indian character so well, nor
possessed so great an influence over the New England tribes, as the
apostle did. His advice and assistance must often have been valuable to
his countrymen, in their transactions with the Indians. Occasionally,