he time of their moving away,
but for a while I had not met them, except at the services, and so did
not know how they were prospering. When the cold winter set in, I
arranged with my good Brother Semmens that we would take our dog-trains
and go and make pastoral visits among all the Indian families on the
outskirts, and find out how they were prospering, temporally and
spiritually. It was ever a great joy to them when we visited them, and
by our inquiries about their fishing and hunting, and other simple
affairs, showed we were interested in these things, and rejoiced with
them when they could tell of success, and sympathised with them when
they had met with loss or disaster. Then they listened reverently when
we read from the blessed Word, and prayed with them in their humble
homes.

One bitterly cold day towards evening we drove up to a very poor little
house. We knocked at the door, and in answer to a cheery "Astum,"--the
Indian for "Come in,"--we entered the little abode. Our hearts sank
within us at the evidences of the poverty of the inmates. The little
building was made of poplar logs, the interstices of which were filled
up with moss and clay. The floor was of the native earth, and there was
not a piece of furniture in the abode, not a table, chair, or bedstead.
In one corner of the room was an earthen fireplace, and, huddled around
a poor fire in it, there sat a widow with a large family of children,
one of whom was a cripple.

We said a few words of kindly greeting to the family, and then, looking
round on the destitute home, I said sorrowfully, "Nancy, you seem to be
very poor; you don't seem to have anything to make you happy and
comfortable." Very quickly came the response,--and it was in a very
much more cheery strain than my words had been,--

"I have not got much, but I am not unhappy, Missionary."

"You poor creature," I replied, "you don't seem to have anything to make
you comfortable."

"I have but little," she said quietly.

"Have you any venison?"

"No!"

"Have you any flour?"

"No!"

"Have you any tea?"

"Have you any potatoes?"

When this last question of mine was uttered, the poor woman looked up at
me, for she was the widow of Samuel Papanekis, and this was her answer:
"I have no potatoes, for, don't you remember, at the time of potato
planting Samuel took charge of the brigade that went up with provisions
to save the poor white people? And Samuel is not here to shoot