“Archdeacon Tims came out here in 1883,” said Canon Stocken, “and I came out in 1885. I was under Archdeacon Tims until 1888, and since 1895 I have been in charge of this mission. In the early years the outlook was dark. We sowed, and there was no visible harvest. It was difficult to reach the hearts of the Blackfeet. They had been fearless, fierce and successful fighters, and there seemed no room in their minds for beautiful and holy thoughts. Unlike other Indians, they even had no hope of ‘Happy Hunting-Grounds.’ Their barren imaginations only pictured aimless, restless wanderings on adjacent sand-hills after death. With dread and in a spirit of propitiation, they worshipped the sun, the moon, the earth, and the water. For them the weasel, the eagle, the crow, the otter, and the beaver were sacred, and they wore the skins and feathers of those creatures as charms. Thefts, murders, and crimes of all sorts were lauded if the penalty were escaped; and preservation from the penalty was invariably attributed to the protecting influence of some charm. Unlike Indians of the north and the east, the Blackfeet knew of no Great Spirit. There was no hope in life, no hope in death, for that poor, unhappy people, whose God was their belly, whose glory was in their shame, who minded earthly things. “Of course, through the schools, it proved possible to make some progress with the Blackfeet children. But I felt that, here as elsewhere, the work of reaching the adults was of supreme importance. Hoping against hope, we took all opportunities to try and illumine the minds of the chiefs, the braves and the squaws. For fifteen years with heavy hearts we laboured. Then on a sudden came our abundant reward. It was in the early spring of 1898. The schools, the hospital, the preaching, the conversations from time to time—all those influences yielded fruit in the day of blessing when we witnessed the birth of the Spirit among the Blackfeet. I will tell you what happened. “For some time we had succeeded in attracting a few Indians to our Sunday services—merely a handful, among whom the only regular attendant was a young man named Kaksakin, which means ‘An Axe.’ One Sunday I was walking from the schoolroom, where the service had been held, and proceeding slowly towards the mission-house. I had been discoursing on the life of St. Paul, which had been the theme of my sermons for several months past. The old, old question was running in my mind—when would the great change come to my people? As I walked a hand was placed on my shoulder, and, turning, I found that three members of my congregation had followed me. Young Axe was one, Pukapinni (‘Little Eyes’) was another, and Pukapinni’s brother Matsenamaka (‘Handsome Gun’) was the third. Young Axe was the first to speak. He told me of his desire to become a child of God and to be baptised. Then the others said the same: and my heart leapt when I saw the eager sincerity on their faces.