thunder an' _lightnin'_ this time."



A Pagan in St. Paul's Cathedral

Iroquois Poetess' Impressions in London's Cathedral


It is a far cry from a wigwam to Westminster, from a prairie trail
to the Tower Bridge, and London looks a strange place to the Red
Indian whose eyes still see the myriad forest trees, even as they
gaze across the Strand, and whose feet still feel the clinging
moccasin even among the scores of clicking heels that hurry along
the thoroughfares of this camping-ground of the paleface.

So this is the place where dwells the Great White Father, ruler of
many lands, lodges, and tribes, in the hollow of whose hands is the
peace that rests between the once hostile red man and white. They
call him the King of England, but to us, the powerful Iroquois
nation of the north, he is always the "Great White Father." For
once he came to us in our far-off Canadian reserves, and with his
own hand fastened decorations and medals on the buckskin coats of
our oldest chiefs, just because they and their fathers used their
tomahawks in battle in the cause of England.

So I, one of his loyal allies, have come to see his camp, known to
the white man as London, his council which the whites call his
Parliament, where his sachems and chiefs make the laws of his
tribes, and to see his wigwam, known to the palefaces as Buckingham