Travels in Alaska 



At the last meeting an old white-haired shaman of 

 grave and venerable aspect, with a high wrinkled 

 forehead, big, strong Roman nose and light-colored 

 skin, slowly and with great dignity arose and spoke 

 for the first time. 



"I am an old man," he said, "but I am glad to 

 listen to those strange things you tell, and they may 

 well be true, for what is more wonderful than the 

 flight of birds in the air? I remember the first white 

 man I ever saw. Since that long, long-ago time I have 

 seen many, but never until now have I ever truly 

 known and felt a white man's heart. All the white 

 men I have heretofore met wanted to get something 

 from us. They wanted furs and they wished to pay 

 for them as small a price as possible. They all seemed 

 to be seeking their own good not our good. I 

 might say that through all my long life I have never 

 until now heard a white man speak. It has always 

 seemed to me while trying to speak to traders and 

 those seeking gold-mines that it was like speaking to a 

 person across a broad stream that was running fast 

 over stones and making so loud a noise that scarce a 

 single word could be heard. But now, for the first 

 time, the Indian and the white man are on the same 

 side of the river, eye to eye, heart to heart. I have 

 always loved my people. I have taught them and 

 ministered to them as well as I could. Hereafter, I 

 will keep silent and listen to the good words of the 

 missionaries, who know God and the places we go to 

 when we die so much better than I do." 



At the close of the exercises, after the last sermon 



I 172] 



