I want to take you far away in the forest to Red Lake. The head chief, Mah-dwah-go-no-wind, was a remarkable man as a wild man, true, honest and brave. He came and asked me to give him a missionary. I loved him and we were warm friends. I said "I cannot give you a missionary for the American Missionary Association has a missionary now in that field." The chief came again and again to see me. He said: "I want your religion. If you refuse I will ask the Roman Catholics." I wrote Rev. Dr. Strieby, and told him the situation. I said "The field is in my diocese. I have the right to send a missionary there, but ask your consent because I will never be a party to present Christian divisions to heathen men." After due deliberation, the Association consented. I am happy to tell you that that old chief and nearly all the adults of his band are faithful communicants. At my last visit, the chief came to me and said, "My Father, since you were here, my old wife with whom I have lived fifty years, has gone to sleep in the grave. I shall go to lie by her side. I have heard that white Christians bless the place where they sleep as belonging to God. Will you bless the place where my wife sleeps and ask God to care for it until he calls his children out of the grave?" We formed a procession of the Indians, the clergy and the old 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."