, but to us, the powerful Iroquois
nation of the north, he is always the "Great White Father." For
once he came to us in our far-off Canadian reserves, and with his
own hand fastened decorations and medals on the buckskin coats of
our oldest chiefs, just because they and their fathers used their
tomahawks in battle in the cause of England.

So I, one of his loyal allies, have come to see his camp, known to
the white man as London, his council which the whites call his
Parliament, where his sachems and chiefs make the laws of his
tribes, and to see his wigwam, known to the palefaces as Buckingham
Palace, but to the red man as the "Tepee of the Great White
Father." And this is what I see:--

What the Indian Sees.

Lifting toward the sky are vast buildings of stone, not the same
kind of stone from which my forefathers fashioned their carven
pipes and corn-pounders, but a grayer, grimier rock that would not
take the polish we give by fingers dipped in sturgeon oil, and long
days of friction with fine sand and deer-hide.

I stand outside the great palace wigwam, the huge council-house by
the river. My seeing eyes may mark them, but my heart's eyes are
looking beyond all this wonderment, back to the land I have left
behind me. I picture the tepees by the far Saskatchewan; there
the tent poles, too, are lifting skyward, and the smoke ascending
through them from the smouldering fires within curls softly on the
summer air. Against the blurred sweep of horizon other camps etch
their outlines, other bands of red men with their herds of wild
cattle have sought the river lands. I hear the untamed hoofs
thundering up the prairie trail.

But the prairie sounds are slipping away, and my ears catch other
voices that rise above the ceaseless throb about me--voices that
are clear, high, and calling; they float across the city like the
music of a thousand birds of passage beating their wings through
the night, crying and murmuring plaintively as they journey
northward. They are the voices of St. Paul's calling, calling
me--St. Paul's where the paleface worships the Great Spirit, and
through whose portals he hopes to reach the happy hunting grounds.

The Great Spirit.

As I entered its doorways it seemed to me to be the everlasting
abiding-place of the white man's Great Spirit.

The music brooded everywhere. It beat in my ears like the far-off
cadences of the Sault Ste. Marie rapids, that rise and leap and
throb--like a stor