el on our ponies it took us many days to come over to this
place. But on the train it took us one half day to come to Miles City,
and that was one of the things that made me fear. It seems impossible how
the trains go so fast, and this thought came to my mind: This is of the
white people, who are so educated they can make the iron horse draw things
across the country so fast. My wish is that the Indians will come to be
like the white people, and be able to invent things, but the thought comes
to me that this will be impossible. As we came along, flying as a bird, I
looked out of the window, saw a country over which I had once hunted, and
the thought of the buffalo came back to me, and I cried in my heart. When
I get home I expect to stay there, and never leave my country again. I
shall never see this land any more. I expect to die at home. When I get
home I shall tell my people of the journey I had on the train, and what I
saw, and of my visit to this great country, of the speeches that we made,
of the pictures that were taken, and I know when I tell them they will be
glad.

[An Indian Communion]

An Indian Communion

[The Final Trail]

The Final Trail

THE FAREWELL OF THE CHIEFS

We are standing at the centre of a mighty circumference. An Indian world
revolves for the last time upon its axis. All the constellations which
gave it light have burned out. The Indian cosmos sweeps a dead thing amid
the growing lustre of the unfading stars of civilization and history. The
solemn hour passes, unmarked by any cataclysm of nature--volcano and
earthquake utter no speech--darkness and tempest rend no veil of this
crumbling life temple. In the deepening twilight all is silent--all speech
is vulgar. To utter a word here would be profanation. The remnant of a
race have gathered for shelter within the sacred walls of their council
lodge. The ashes of the council pipe have been scattered upon the ground.
In silence, deep, profound, awe-inspiring, the old Indian guard--the Last
of the Great Chiefs--break not the silence. Who can ask death to retreat?
And who put in shackles the decrees of destiny? The world annals contain
no heroism and no bravery more lofty and enduring than that furnished by
the record of the red man. But the summital requirement is at hand.
These old heroes, few in number,