He plead as but a few can plead. 
    With eloquence and might,
  He plead for a humanity,
    The Freedmen and the right.

  His soul and true nobility
    Went out in every word,
  And strongly moved for better things
    Was everyone that heard.

  Too soon has death made good his claim
    On him who moved us so;
  Too great and white the harvest yet,
    To spare him here below.

  O! “why this waste?”—­forgive me, Lord,
    I would not Judas be;
  Yet who will plead as he has plead,
    For Freedmen and for me?

  Perhaps, ah, yes!  I know he will—­
    This sleeping Prince of Thine,
  In many a multitude be heard,
    Yet plead for right and mine.

* * * * *

THE INDIANS.

LETTER FROM GRAND RIVER, DAK.

Dear Friends: 

I have never seen a worse day in the Territory than to-day.  The snow was about two feet deep and light.  Last night the wind began to blow, and to-day it is blowing a gale and the snow flies like powdered glass.  Neither man nor beast can endure it.  I cannot see my stable, which is within a stone’s-throw of the house.  I have wood and water enough in the house to last two or three days; so I shall not suffer personally, and I will spend the time of imprisonment in writing, if I can, between making fires.  The snow sifts through my door and window until I have a regular snowbank all along the inside of the house.  Though I am warm right by the stove, yet I cannot get the room warm enough to melt the snow.  Last winter and this are the hardest I have ever seen in the Territory.

So dear Dr. Powell has gone home!  No one should feel sorry for him.  How grand and glorious thus to be called home to God!  I do not think the work here will suffer because he has gone from our sight.  He is only promoted.  God will no doubt let him work on in heaven; only gone from the ills that the flesh is heir to.  Dead?  Oh no! he is not dead.  He is living evermore.  May we all be as ready as was he for the final call!

On the same day that he died, we trust that there passed through the gates with him one of our Indian boys, whose cause Dr. Powell had so eloquently pleaded.  Harry Little-Eagle died like a hero.  No one ever suffered more for four months than he, and not once did his faith fail.  He prayed and sang, and talked for Jesus as long as his strength held out.  The night before he died his voice returned, and he said:  “God gave it back to me and told me to talk to the people.”  He did.  He said:  “I am going home, God will give me a greater work there to do.  Do not cry.  You must keep a stout heart and give my message to all the people.”  Then he prayed, “O Father, keep a big work for me.  I have not lived here long.  I have only known thee a short time, and I have been a great sufferer.