STORY ABOUT AN INDIAN.


A poor sick man might go to the door of some rich person's house and ask
relief for himself and not be able to obtain admittance; but if he
brought in his hand a paper written by the son of the master of the
house, whom he had met with in a distant land, and in his name asked for
the relief, his request would be granted for the sake of the master's
son.

Now we all need friends and every one tries to get and keep a few
friends. Children will love a little dog, or a lamb, or a dove, or a
bird. The little boy will talk to his top, and the little girl will talk
to her doll, which shows that they want a friend; and if the top and the
doll could talk and love them, they would feel happier.

Some years ago there was an Indian in the State of Maine, who for his
very good conduct had a large farm given him by the State. He built his
little house on his land, and there lived. The white people about him
did not treat him so kindly as they ought. His only child was taken sick
and died, and none of the whites went to comfort him, or to assist him
in burying his little child. Soon after, he went to the white people,
and said to them--"When white man's child die, Indian may be sorry--he
help bury him--when my child die, no one speak to me--I make his grave
alone. I can no live here, for I have no friend to love me."

The poor Indian gave up his farm, dug up the body of his child, and
carried it with him 200 miles through the forest, to join the Canada
Indians.