“My tradition say a great deal,” was the answer, “It say some good, some bad.”

“May I ask of what tribe you are?”

The red man turned his eyes on us kindly, as if to lessen anything ungracious there might be in his refusal to answer, and with an expression of benevolence that we scarcely remember ever to have seen equalled.  Indeed, we might say with truth, that the love which shone out of this old man’s countenance habitually, surpassed that which we can recall as belonging to any other human face.  He seemed to be at peace with himself, and with all the other children of Adam,

“Tribe make no difference,” he answered.  “All children of same Great Spirit.”

“Red men and pale-faces?” I asked, not a little surprised with his reply.

“Red man and pale-face.  Christ die for all, and his Fadder make all.  No difference, excep’ in color.  Color only skin deep.”

“Do you, then, look on us pale-faces as having a right here?  Do you not regard us as invaders, as enemies who have come to take away your lands?”

“Injin don’t own ’arth.  ’Arth belong to God, and he send whom he like to live on it.  One time he send Injin; now he send pale-face.  His ’arth, and he do what he please wid it.  Nobody any right to complain.  Bad to find fault wid Great Spirit.  All he do, right; nebber do anyt’ing bad.  His blessed Son die for all color, and all color muss bow down at his holy name.  Dat what dis good book say,” showing a small pocket Bible, “and what dis good book say come from Great Spirit, himself.”

“You read the Holy Scriptures, then—­you are an educated Indian?”

“No; can’t read at all.  Don’t know how.  Try hard, but too ole to begin.  Got young eyes, however, to help me,” he added, with one of the fondest smiles I ever saw light a human face, as he turned to meet the pretty Dolly’s “Good-morning, Peter,” and to shake the hand of the elder sister.  “She read good book for old Injin, when he want her; and when she off at school, in ‘city,’ den her mudder or her gran’mudder read for him.  Fuss begin wid gran’mudder; now get down to gran’da’ghter.  But good book all de same, let who will read it.”

This, then, was “Scalping Peter,” the very man I was travelling into Michigan to see, but how wonderfully changed!  The Spirit of the Most High God had been shed freely upon his moral being, and in lieu of the revengeful and vindictive savage, he now lived a subdued, benevolent Christian!  In every human being he beheld a brother, and no longer thought of destroying races, in order to secure to his own people the quiet possession of their hunting-grounds.  His very soul was love; and no doubt he felt himself strong enough to “bless those who cursed him,” and to give up his spirit, like the good missionary whose death had first turned him toward the worship of the one true God, praying for those who took his life.