We were walking in the garden, after dinner, and looking at the
hives. There were the general, Margery, Peter, and ourselves. The
first was loud in praise of his buzzing friends, for whom it was
plain he still entertained a lively regard. The old Indian, at
first, was sad. Then he smiled, and, turning to us, he spoke
earnestly and with some of his ancient fire and eloquence.
"Tell me you make a book," he said. "In dat book tell trut'. You see
me--poor old Injin. My fadder was chief--I was great chief, but we
was children. Knowed nuttin'. Like little child, dough great chief.
Believe tradition. T'ink dis 'arth flat--t'ink Injin could scalp all
pale-face--t'ink tomahawk, and war-path, and rifle, bess t'ings in
whole world. In dat day, my heart was stone. Afraid of Great Spirit,
but didn't love him. In dat time I t'ink General could talk wid bee.
Yes; was very foolish den. Now, all dem cloud blow away, and I see
my Fadder dat is in heaven. His face shine on me, day and night, and
I never get tired of looking at it. I see him smile, I see him
lookin' at poor ole Injin, as if he want him to come nearer;
sometime I see him frown and dat scare me.
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