, struck up--

O happy day that fixed my choice
On thee, my Saviour and my God,

and the chorus--

Happy day, happy day, when
Jesus washed my sins away,

was swelled by hundreds of voices, it was a glad moment for Jack White
and all of us. Religiously it was a warm time; but the water was very
cold, it being one of the chilliest days I ever felt in that genial
climate.

"You were rather awkward, Brother Fitzgerald, in immersing those
persons," said my stalwart friend, Elder John McCorkle, of the
"Christian" or Campbellite Church, who had critically but not unkindly
watched the proceedings from the bridge. "If you will send for me the
next time, I will do it for you," he added, pleasantly.

I fear it was awkwardly done, for the water was very cold, and a
shivering man cannot be very graceful in his movements. I would have
done better in a baptistery, with warm water and a rubber suit. But of
all the persons I have welcomed into the Church during my ministry, the
reception of no one has given use more joy than that of Jack White, the
Piute Indian.

Jack's heart yearned for his own people. He wanted to tell them of
Jesus, who could take away their sins; and perhaps his Indian instinct
made him long for the freedom of the hills.

"I am going to my people," he said to me; "I want to tell them of Jesus.
You will pray for me?" he added, with a quiver in his voice and a
heaving chest.

He went away, and I have never seen him since. Where he is now, I know
not. I trust I may meet him on Mount Sion, with the harpers harping with
their harps, and singing, as it were, a new song before the throne.

Postscript.--Since this Sketch was penciled, the Rev. C. Y. Rankin, in
a note dated Santa Rosa, California, August 3, 1880, says: "Mrs. White
asked me to send you word of the peaceful death of Jack White (Indian).
He died trusting in Jesus."

The Rabbi.

Seated in his library, enveloped in a faded figured gown, a black velvet
cap on his massive head, there was an Oriental look about him that
arrested your attention at once. Power and gentleness, childlike
simplicity, and scholarliness, were curiously mingled in this man. His
library was a reflex of its owner. In it were books that the great
public libraries of the world could not match--black-letter folios that
were almost as old as the printing art, illuminated volumes that were
once the pride and joy of men who had been in their graves many
generations