and for my people
alone would I give the dog."

At last the wonderful Dance Day arrived. His lordship, the Bishop of the
Anglican Church, drove down from the city of Brantford; with him the
Superintendent of Indian Affairs, and a man who understood both the
English and the Onondaga languages. Long before they reached the
"Longhouse" they could hear the wild beat of the drum, could count the
beats of the dance rattles, could distinguish the half-sad chant of the
worshippers. The kind face of the great bishop was very grave. It pained
his gentle old heart to know that this great tribe of Indians were
pagans--savages, as he thought--but when he entered that plain log
building that the Onondagas held as their church, he took off his hat
with the beautiful reverence all great men pay to other great men's
religion, and he stood bareheaded while old Ten-Canoes chanted forth
this speech:

"Oh, brothers of mine! We welcome the white man's friend, the great
'Black-Coat,' to this, our solemn worship. We offer to the red man's
God--the Great Spirit--a burnt offering. We do not think that anything
save what is pure and faithful and without blemish can go into the sight
of the Great Spirit. Therefore do we offer this dog, pure as we hope
our spirits are, that the God of the red man may accept it with our
devotion, knowing that we, too, would gladly be as spotless as this
sacrifice."

Then was a dog carried in dead, and beautifully decorated with wampum,
beads and porcupine embroidery. Oh! so mercifully dead and out of pain,
gently strangled by reverent fingers, for an Indian is never unkind
to an animal. And far over in a corner of the room was a little brown
figure, twisted with agony, choking back the sobs and tears--for was he
not taught that tears were for babies alone, and not for boys that grew
up into warriors?

"Oh, my dog! my dog!" he muttered. "They have taken you away from me,
but it was for the honor of my father and of my own people."

The great Anglican bishop turned at that moment, and, catching the sight
of suffering on little We-hro's face, said aloud to the man who spoke
both languages:

"That little boy over there seems in torture. Can I do anything for him,
do you think?"

"That little boy," replied the man who spoke both languages, "is the
son of the great Onondaga chief. No white dog could be found for this
ceremony but his. This dog was his pet, but for the honor of his father
and of his tribe he has