ho come not at your call. I am so glad
that the Great Spirit gives me authority to tell you that you may meet
your children again, and be happy with them for ever. But you must
listen to His words, which I bring to you from His great Book, and give
Him your hearts, and love and serve Him. There is only one way to that
beautiful land, where Jesus, the Son of the Great Spirit, has gone, and
into which He takes all the children who have died; and now that you
have heard His message and seen His Book, you too must come this way, if
you would be happy and there enter in."

While I was thus speaking, a big, stalwart man from the other side of
the tent sprang up, and rushed towards me. Beating on his breast, he
said, "Missionary, my heart is empty, and I mourn much, for none of my
children are left among the living; very lonely is my wigwam. I long to
see my children again, and to clasp them in my arms. Tell me,
Missionary, what must I do to please the Great Spirit, that I may get to
that beautiful land, that I may meet my children again?" Then he sank
at my feet upon the ground, his eyes suffused with tears, and was
quickly joined by others, who, like him, were broken down with grief,
and were anxious now for religious instruction.

To the blessed Book we went, and after reading what Jesus had said about
little children, and giving them some glimpses of His great love for
them, we told them "the old, old story," as simply and lovingly as we
could. There was no more scoffing or indifference. Every word was
heard and pondered over, and from that hour a blessed work began, which
resulted in the great majority of them deciding to give their hearts to
God; and they have been true to their vows.

CHAPTER TWELVE.

ON THE TRAIL TO SANDY BAR--SLEEPING ON THE ICE--THIEVISH ESQUIMAUX
DOGS--NARROW ESCAPE OF JACK--JOYOUS WELCOME--SOCIETY FORMED--BENJAMIN
CAMERON, ONCE A CANNIBAL, NOW A LAY HELPER--PLUM-PUDDING--A STRIKING
INSTANCE OF HONESTY.

In December, 1877, I made a journey to the Indians living at Sandy Bar.
As there were some experiences quite different from those of other
trips, they shall here be recorded.

Sandy Bar, or White Mud, as some call it, is over a hundred miles south
of Beren's River, where we then resided. We made the usual preparations
for our journey, getting sleds loaded with supplies for ourselves and
fish for our dogs, with all the cooking arrangements necessary for a
month's absence from hom