the southwest, as if imploring some one whom I could not see. This he
repeated for nigh upon half an hour, when he came back to the house,
where he got some beer and bread to eat, and a great loaf to carry away.
He said but little until he rose to depart, when he told my brother that
he had been to see the graves of his father and his mother, and that he
was glad to find them as he did leave them the last year; for he knew
that the spirits of the dead would be sore grieved, if the white man's
hoe touched their bones.

My brother promised him that the burial-place of his people should not
be disturbed, and that he would find it as now, when he did again visit
it.

"Me never come again," said the old Indian. "No. Umpachee is very old.
He has no squaw; he has no young men who call him father. Umpachee is
like that tree;" and he pointed, as he spoke, to a birch, which stood
apart in the field, from which the bark had fallen, and which did show
no leaf nor bud.

My brother hereupon spake to him of the great Father of both white and
red men, and of his love towards them, and of the measure of light which
he had given unto all men, whereby they might know good from evil, and
by living in obedience to which they might be happy in this life and in
that to come; exhorting him to put his trust in God, who was able to
comfort and sustain him in his old age, and not to follow after lying
Powahs, who did deceive and mislead him.

"My young brother's talk is good," said the old man. "The Great Father
sees that his skin is white, and that mine is red. He sees my young
brother when he sits in his praying-house, and me when me offer him corn
and deer's flesh in the woods, and he says good. Umpachee's people have
all gone to one place. If Umpachee go to a praying-house, the Great
Father will send him to the white man's place, and his father and his
mother and his sons will never see him in their hunting-ground. No.
Umpachee is an old beaver that sits in his own house, and swims in his
own pond. He will stay where he is, until his Father calls him."

Saying this, the old savage went on his way. As he passed out of the
valley, and got to the top of the hill on the other side, we, looking
after him, beheld him standing still a moment, as if bidding farewell to
the graves of his people.

May 24.

My brother goes with me to-morrow on my way to Boston. I am not a
little loath to leave my dear sister Margaret, who hath g