The Great Spirit

When the spirit swells my breast I love to roam leisurely among the green hills; or sometimes, sitting on the brink of the murmuring Missouri, I marvel at the great blue overhead. With half-closed eyes I watch the huge cloud shadows in their noiseless play upon the high bluffs opposite me, while into my ear ripple the sweet, soft cadences of the river's song. Folded hands lie in my lap, for the time forgot. My heart and I lie small upon the earth like a grain of throbbing sand. Drifting clouds and tinkling waters, together with the warmth of a genial summer day, bespeak with eloquence the loving Mystery round about us. During the idle while I sat upon the sunny river brink, I grew somewhat, though my response be not so clearly manifest as in the green grass fringing the edge of the high bluff back of me.

When my spirit stirs, I love to wander slowly among the green hills. Sometimes I sit at the edge of the murmuring Missouri and marvel at the vast blue sky above. With half-closed eyes, I watch huge cloud shadows play silently across the high bluffs opposite me. The sweet, soft rhythms of the river’s song ripple into my ear. My hands lie folded in my lap, forgotten for the moment. My heart and I lie small upon the earth, like a throbbing grain of sand. The drifting clouds, tinkling water, and warmth of a pleasant summer day speak eloquently of the loving Mystery around us. As I sat idly on the sunny riverbank, I grew a little. My growth was not as easy to see as that of the green grass along the high bluff behind me.

At length retracing the uncertain footpath scaling the precipitous embankment, I seek the level lands where grow the wild prairie flowers. And they, the lovely little folk, soothe my soul with their perfumed breath.

At last, I follow the uncertain footpath back up the steep embankment. I seek the level land where wild prairie flowers grow. These lovely little folk soothe my soul with their fragrant breath.

Their quaint round faces of varied hue convince the heart which leaps with glad surprise that they, too, are living symbols of omnipotent thought. With a child's eager eye I drink in the myriad star shapes wrought in luxuriant color upon the green. Beautiful is the spiritual essence they embody.

Their charming round faces, in many shades, make my heart leap with happy surprise. They, too, are living symbols of all-powerful thought. With a child's eager eyes, I take in the countless star shapes, rich with color against the green. The spiritual essence they embody is beautiful.

I leave them nodding in the breeze, but take along with me their impress upon my heart. I pause to rest me upon a rock embedded on the side of a foothill facing the low river bottom. Here the Stone-Boy, of whom the American aborigine tells, frolics about, shooting his baby arrows and shouting aloud with glee at the tiny shafts of lightning that flash from the flying arrow-beaks. What an ideal warrior he became, baffling the siege of the pests of all the land till he triumphed over their united attack. And here he lay—Inyan our great-great-grandfather, older than the hill he rested on, older than the race of men who love to tell of his wonderful career.

I leave them nodding in the breeze, but carry their imprint on my heart. I stop to rest on a rock set into the side of a foothill overlooking the low river bottom. Here the Stone-Boy, of whom the American aborigine tells, plays. He shoots his baby arrows and shouts with delight at the tiny flashes of lightning from their flying tips. What an ideal warrior he became! He held off the pests of all the land until he defeated their united attack. And here he lay, Inyan, our great-great-grandfather. He was older than the hill he rested on, older than the race of men who love to tell of his wonderful life.

Interwoven with the thread of this Indian legend of the rock, I fain would trace a subtle knowledge of the native folk which enabled them to recognize a kinship to any and all parts of this vast universe. By the leading of an ancient trail I move toward the Indian village.

Alongside this Indian legend of the rock, I want to explore the native folk's subtle understanding of their kinship with every part of this vast universe. I follow an ancient trail toward the Indian village.

With the strong, happy sense that both great and small are so surely enfolded in His magnitude that, without a miss, each has his allotted individual ground of opportunities, I am buoyant with good nature.

I feel a strong, happy certainty that God holds everyone, great and small, within his vastness. He gives each person, without fail, their own opportunities. This fills me with cheerful good nature.

Yellow Breast, swaying upon the slender stem of a wild sunflower, warbles a sweet assurance of this as I pass near by. Breaking off the clear crystal song, he turns his wee head from side to side eyeing me wisely as slowly I plod with moccasined feet. Then again he yields himself to his song of joy. Flit, flit hither and yon, he fills the summer sky with his swift, sweet melody. And truly does it seem his vigorous freedom lies more in his little spirit than in his wing.

Yellow Breast sways on the slender stem of a wild sunflower. As I pass nearby, he sings a sweet assurance of this. He stops his clear, crystal song and turns his tiny head from side to side. He watches me knowingly as I walk slowly by in my moccasins. Then he gives himself over to his joyful song again. Flitting here and there, he fills the summer sky with his swift, sweet melody. It truly seems that his spirited freedom lies more in his little spirit than in his wing.

With these thoughts I reach the log cabin whither I am strongly drawn by the tie of a child to an aged mother. Out bounds my four-footed friend to meet me, frisking about my path with unmistakable delight. Chän is a black shaggy dog, "a thoroughbred little mongrel" of whom I am very fond. Chän seems to understand many words in Sioux, and will go to her mat even when I whisper the word, though generally I think she is guided by the tone of the voice. Often she tries to imitate the sliding inflection and long-drawn-out voice to the amusement of our guests, but her articulation is quite beyond my ear. In both my hands I hold her shaggy head and gaze into her large brown eyes. At once the dilated pupils contract into tiny black dots, as if the roguish spirit within would evade my questioning.

With these thoughts, I reach the log cabin. I am drawn to it by the strong bond between a child and her aged mother. My four-footed friend bounds out to meet me, frisking around me with unmistakable delight. Chän is a black, shaggy dog, "a thoroughbred little mongrel" of whom I am very fond. Chän seems to understand many words in Sioux. She will go to her mat even when I whisper the word. Though generally, I think she follows the tone of voice. She often tries to imitate the sliding inflection and drawn-out voice, amusing our guests. But I cannot make out her words. I hold her shaggy head in both hands and gaze into her large brown eyes. At once, her wide pupils shrink to tiny black dots, as if her mischievous spirit is trying to evade my questioning.

Finally resuming the chair at my desk I feel in keen sympathy with my fellow-creatures, for I seem to see clearly again that all are akin. The racial lines, which once were bitterly real, now serve nothing more than marking out a living mosaic of human beings. And even here men of the same color are like the ivory keys of one instrument where each resembles all the rest, yet varies from them in pitch and quality of voice. And those creatures who are for a time mere echoes of another's note are not unlike the fable of the thin sick man whose distorted shadow, dressed like a real creature, came to the old master to make him follow as a shadow. Thus with a compassion for all echoes in human guise, I greet the solemn-faced "native preacher" whom I find awaiting me. I listen with respect for God's creature, though he mouth most strangely the jangling phrases of a bigoted creed.

Finally, I sit down again at my desk. I feel a keen sympathy for my fellow creatures, because I seem to see clearly again that all are related. The racial lines that once felt bitterly real now do nothing more than mark out a living mosaic of human beings. Even within that mosaic, men of the same color are like the ivory keys of an instrument. Each key resembles all the others, yet differs in pitch and tone. And some creatures, for a time, merely echo another’s note. They are like the figure in the fable of the thin, sick man. His distorted shadow, dressed like a real creature, came to its old master and made him follow it like a shadow. So, with compassion for all echoes in human form, I greet the solemn-faced "native preacher" waiting for me. I listen out of respect for God’s creature, though he speaks the discordant phrases of a bigoted creed most strangely.

As our tribe is one large family, where every person is related to all the others, he addressed me:—

Our tribe is one large family, and everyone is related to everyone else. Because of this, he addressed me:

"Cousin, I came from the morning church service to talk with you."

"Cousin, I came from the morning church service to talk with you."

"Yes?" I said interrogatively, as he paused for some word from me.

"Yes?" I asked, as he paused and waited for me to say something.

Shifting uneasily about in the straight-backed chair he sat upon, he began: "Every holy day (Sunday) I look about our little God's house, and not seeing you there, I am disappointed. This is why I come today. Cousin, as I watch you from afar, I see no unbecoming behavior and hear only good reports of you, which all the more burns me with the wish that you were a church member. Cousin, I was taught long years ago by kind missionaries to read the holy book. These godly men taught me also the folly of our old beliefs.

He shifted uneasily in his straight-backed chair and began: "Every holy day (Sunday), I look around our little church. When I don't see you there, I am disappointed. That is why I came today. Cousin, I watch you from afar. I see you do nothing improper, and I hear only good things about you. This makes me wish even more strongly that you were a church member. Cousin, long ago, kind missionaries taught me to read the holy book. These godly men also taught me how foolish our old beliefs were.

"There is one God who gives reward or punishment to the race of dead men. In the upper region the Christian dead are gathered in unceasing song and prayer. In the deep pit below, the sinful ones dance in torturing flames.

"There is one God who rewards or punishes the dead. Above, the Christian dead gather in endless song and prayer. In the deep pit below, sinners dance in flames that torture them.

"Think upon these things, my cousin, and choose now to avoid the after-doom of hell fire!" Then followed a long silence in which he clasped tighter and unclasped again his interlocked fingers.

“Think about these things, my cousin, and choose now to avoid the punishment of hellfire after death!” A long silence followed. During it, he tightened his interlocked fingers, then unclasped them.

Like instantaneous lightning flashes came pictures of my own mother's making, for she, too, is now a follower of the new superstition.

Pictures my own mother had made came to me like flashes of lightning. She, too, now follows the new superstition.

"Knocking out the chinking of our log cabin, some evil hand thrust in a burning taper of braided dry grass, but failed of his intent, for the fire died out and the half-burned brand fell inward to the floor. Directly above it, on a shelf, lay the holy book. This is what we found after our return from a several days' visit. Surely some great power is hid in the sacred book!"

"Someone with evil intentions knocked out the material between the logs of our cabin. They pushed a burning torch of braided dry grass through the opening, but their plan failed. The fire went out, and the half-burned torch fell inside onto the floor. The holy book lay on a shelf directly above it. We found this when we returned from a visit that had lasted several days. Surely some great power is hidden in the sacred book!"

Brushing away from my eyes many like pictures, I offered midday meal to the converted Indian sitting wordless and with downcast face. No sooner had he risen from the table with "Cousin, I have relished it," than the church bell rang.

I brushed many similar images from my mind and offered lunch to the converted Indian. He sat silently, looking down. As soon as he rose from the table and said, "Cousin, I enjoyed it," the church bell rang.

Thither he hurried forth with his afternoon sermon. I watched him as he hastened along, his eyes bent fast upon the dusty road till he disappeared at the end of a quarter of a mile.

He hurried there with his afternoon sermon. I watched him hurry along, his eyes fixed on the dusty road. He disappeared after a quarter of a mile.

The little incident recalled to mind the copy of a missionary paper brought to my notice a few days ago, in which a "Christian" pugilist commented upon a recent article of mine, grossly perverting the spirit of my pen. Still I would not forget that the pale-faced missionary and the hoodooed aborigine are both God's creatures, though small indeed their own conceptions of Infinite Love. A wee child toddling in a wonder world, I prefer to their dogma my excursions into the natural gardens where the voice of the Great Spirit is heard in the twittering of birds, the rippling of mighty waters, and the sweet breathing of flowers.

The little incident reminded me of a missionary paper someone had shown me a few days earlier. In it, a "Christian" fighter commented on a recent article of mine, grossly twisting the spirit of what I wrote. Still, I would not forget that the pale-faced missionary and the hoodooed aborigine are both God's creatures. Yet their own ideas of Infinite Love are very small indeed. Like a little child toddling through a world of wonder, I prefer my walks in nature's gardens to their dogma. There, the voice of the Great Spirit can be heard in the twittering of birds, the rippling of mighty waters, and the sweet breathing of flowers.

Here, in a fleeting quiet, I am awakened by the fluttering robe of the Great Spirit. To my innermost consciousness the phenomenal universe is a royal mantle, vibrating with His divine breath. Caught in its flowing fringes are the spangles and oscillating brilliants of sun, moon, and stars.

Here, in a brief moment of quiet, the fluttering robe of the Great Spirit awakens me. In my deepest awareness, the visible universe is a royal cloak, trembling with his divine breath. The sparkling, swaying lights of the sun, moon, and stars are caught in its flowing fringes.