oldest
Protestant chapel in the Dominion. On its walls are painted prayers in
Mohawk, and it contains an old register that King Edward had signed in
1861. The Prince added his own signature to this before going into the
churchyard to see the grave of Joseph Brant.

In the little enclosure before the church were the youngest descendants
of the loyal Joseph Brant: ranks of Mohawk boys in khaki, and small
Mohawk girls in red and grey. They sang to the Prince in their own
language, a singular guttural tongue rendered with an almost abnormal
stoicism. The children did not move a muscle of lips or face as they
chanted; it might have been a song rendered by graven images.

In the main square of Brantford the Prince was elected chief of the Six
Nations. This ceremony was carried out upon a raised and beflagged
platform about which a vast throng of pale-faces gathered. Becoming a
chief of the Six Nations is no light matter. It is a thing that must
be discussed in full with all ceremonies and accurate minutes. The
pow-wow on the platform was rather long. Chiefs rose up and debated at
leisure in the Iroquois tongue, while the pale-faces in the square, at
first quite patient, began to demand in loud voices:

"We want our Prince. We want our Prince."

And to be truthful, not merely the pale-faces found the ceremony
lengthy. Gathered on the platform were a number of Mohawk girls,
delicate and pretty maidens, with the warmth of their race's colour
glowing through the soft texture of their cheeks. They were there
because they had thrown flowers in the pathway of the Prince. At first
they were interested in this olden ceremony of their old race. Then
they began to talk of the wages they were drawing in extremely modern
Canadian stores and factories. Then they looked at the ceremony again,
at the clothes the Indians wore, at the romance and colour of it, and
they said, one to another:

"Say, why have those guys dressed up like that? What's it all about,
anyhow? What's the use of this funny old business?"

The romantic may find some food for thought in this attitude of the
modern Mohawk maid.

In the end, after a debate on the fitness of several names, the Prince,
as president of the pow-wow, gave his vote for "Dawn of Morning," and
became chief with that title. But apparently he did not become fully
fledged until he had danced a ritual measure. A brother chief in
bright yellow and a fine gravity, came forward t