As a young brave pants and puzzles over his first trail, so the
grown warrior feels in his understanding of his God. He gropes
blindly through dark ravines.
"White Eyes speaks few words to-day, for he is learning wisdom; he
bids his people hearken to the voice of the White Father. War is
wrong; peace is best. Love is the way to peace. The paleface
advances one step nearer his God. He labors for his home; he keeps
the peace; he asks but little; he frees his women. That is well.
White Eyes has spoken."
The old chief slowly advanced toward the Christian Indians. He laid
aside his knife and tomahawk, and then his eagle plumes and
war-bonnet. Bareheaded, he seated himself among the converted
redmen. They began chanting in low, murmuring tones.
Amid the breathless silence that followed this act of such great
significance, Wingenund advanced toward the knoll with slow, stately
step. His dark eye swept the glade with lightning scorn; his glance
alone revealed the passion that swayed him.
"Wingenund's ears are keen; they have heard a feather fall in the
storm; now they hear a soft-voiced thrush. Wingenund thunders to his
people, to his friends, to the chiefs of other tribes: 'Do not bury
the hatchet!' The young White Father's tongue runs smooth like the
gliding brook; it sings as the thrush calls its mate.
Pages:
131
132
133
134
135
136
137
138
139
140
141
142
143
144
145
146
147
148
149
150
151
152
153
154
155