“Look!” and “Umatilla!”

Out of the forest came an aged Indian, of gigantic stature—­Umatilla, one of the chiefs of the Cascades; and beside him walked his only son, the Light of the Eagle’s Plume, or, as he had been named by the English, Benjamin.

Umatilla, like Massasoit, of the early colonial history of Plymouth, was a remarkable person.  Surrounded by warlike tribes, he had been a man of peace.  He was a lover of Nature, and every shining cloud to his eye was a chariot.  He personified everything, like the ancient Greeks.  He talked in poetic figures; to him the sky was alive, every event had a soul, and his mind had dwelt upon the great truths of Nature until he had become more of a philosopher than a ruler.

He had been the father of a large family, but six of his sons had died of the plague, or rather of the treatment which the medicine-men had used in the disease, which was to sweat the victims in hot earthen ovens, and then plunge them into the Columbia.

His whole heart in his old age was fixed upon his only son, Benjamin.  The two were seldom separated.  To make the boy happy was the end of the old chief’s life.

The two approached the courtly schoolmaster.

“White master,” said the old chief, “I have brought to you the Light of the Eagle’s Plume.  He is my heart, and will be the heart of my people when my suns are all passed over and my stars gone out.  Will you teach him to be a good chief?  I want him to know English, and how to worship the Master of Life.  Will you take him to your school lodge?”

The tall master bowed low, and took the Indian boy by the hand.

The boy was a princely youth.  His figure would have held the eye of a sculptor in long admiration.  The chisel of a Phidias could hardly have exceeded such a form.  His features were like the Roman, his eye quick and lustrous, and his lips noble and kindly.  He wore a blanket over his shoulders, gathered in a long sash, ornamented with shells, about his loins, and a crest of eagle plumes and shells on his head indicated his rank and dignity.  He could speak some words of Chinook, and English imperfectly.  He had mingled much with the officers of the Hudson Bay Company, and so had learned many of the customs of civilization.

“I am honored,” said the courtly, tall schoolmaster, “in having such a youth for my pupil.  Chief of the Umatillas, I thank thee.  All that is good in me will I give to your noble boy.  I live with my eye upon the future; the work of my life is to lead people to follow their better natures and to be true to their best selves.  There is a good angel in all men here”—­he put his hand on his heart—­“it leads men away from evil; it seeks the way of life; its end is yonder with the Infinite.  Chief of the Umatillas, I will try to teach the young man to follow it.  Do you understand?”

The aged chief bowed.  He caught the meaning of the thought, if not of the rather formal words.  He comprehended the idea that the tall schoolmaster believed goodness to be immortal.  The regions of the Cascades were indeed beautiful with their ancient forests and gleaming mountain walls, but he had been taught to believe that the great Master of Life had provided eternal scenes that transcended these for those who were worthy to receive them.