For she hopes to meet
the beloved of earth in the heaven of the Dahcotahs.
And who will say that our heaven will not be hers? The God of the
Dahcotahs is ours, though they, less happy than we, have not been taught
to know him. Christians! are you without blame? Have you thought of the
privations, the wants of those who once owned your country, and would
own it still but for the strong hand? Have you remembered that their
souls are dear in His sight, who suffered for them, as well as for you?
Have you given bright gold that their children might be educated and
redeemed from their slavery of soul? Checkered Cloud will die as she has
lived, a believer in the religion of the Dahcotahs. The traditions of
her tribe are written on her heart. She worships a spirit in every
forest tree, or every running stream. The features of the favored
Israelite are hers; she is perchance a daughter of their lost tribe.
When she was young, she would have listened to the missionary as he told
her of Gethsemane and Calvary. But age yields not like youth to new
impressions; the one looks to the future, the other clings to the past.
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