e world, the world is to you. Tell me only what kind of a
neighborhood you come from, and I will tell you what kind of a
neighborhood you are going to; we all see the world in ourselves. I will
educate the boy, and his father will protect the school. The Indian heart
is hot and revengeful, but it is honest and true. I intend to be honest
with the Indians in all things, and if there should occur a dance of the
evil spirits at the Potlatch, no harm will ever come to the log
school-house; and I do not believe that such a dance with evil intent to
the settlers will ever take place. Human nature is all one book
everywhere."

As he stood there that morning, with uncovered head, an unexpected event
happened. The children suddenly said:

"Look!" and "Umatilla!"

Out of the forest came an aged Indian, of gigantic stature--Umatilla, one
of the chiefs of the Cascades; and beside him walked his only son, the
Light of the Eagle's Plume, or, as he had been named by the English,
Benjamin.

Umatilla, like Massasoit, of the early colonial history of Plymouth, was a
remarkable person. Surrounded by warlike tribes, he had been a man of
peace. He was a lover of Nature, and every shining cloud to his eye was a
chariot. He personified everything, like the ancient Greeks. He talked in
poetic figures; to him the sky was alive, every event had a soul, and his
mind had dwelt upon the great truths of Nature until he had become more of
a philosopher than a ruler.

He had been the father of a large family, but six of his sons had died of
the plague, or rather of the treatment which the medicine-men had used in
the disease, which was to sweat the victims in hot earthen ovens, and then
plunge them into the Columbia.

His whole heart in his old age was fixed upon his only son, Benjamin. The
two were seldom separated. To make the boy happy was the end of the old
chief's life.

The two approached the courtly schoolmaster.

"White master," said the old chief, "I have brought to you the Light of
the Eagle's Plume. He is my heart, and will be the heart of my people when
my suns are all passed over and my stars gone out. Will you teach him to
be a good chief? I want him to know English, and how to worship the Master
of Life. Will you take him to your school lodge?"

The tall master bowed low, and took the Indian boy by the hand.

The boy was a princely youth. His figure would have held the eye of a
sculptor in long admiration. The chisel of a Ph