An Indian’s Gift

IN a portion of the Southern Territory, from

which the red man has now been driven, I once

attended a large protracted meeting held in the

wild forest. The subject on which the preacher

dwelt, and which he illustrated with surpassing

beauty and grandeur, was "Christ and him

Crucified." He spoke of the good Shepherd,

who came into the world to seek and to save the

lost. He told how this Saviour met the rude

buffeting of the heartless soldiers. He drew a

picture of Gethsemane and the unbefriended

Stranger who wept there. He pointed to Him

as he hung bleeding upon the cross.

The congregation wept. Soon there was a

slight movement in the assembly, and a tall son

of the forest, with tears on his cheeks, 

approached the pulpit and said, " Did Jesus die

 for poor Indian? Me have no lands to give to

 Jesus, the white man take them away; he give

 him my dog and my rifle." The minister told him

 Jesus could not accept those gifts. "Me give

 Jesus my dog, my rifle and my blanket: poor

 Indian, he got no more to give, he give Jesus


The minister replied that Christ could not accept

them. The poor, ignorant, but generous child

of the forest bent his head in sorrow and 


He raised his noble brow once more, and

fixed his eye on the preacher, while he sobbed

out, " Here is poor Indian, will Jesus have

him?" A thrill of unutterable joy ran through

the soul of the minister and people, as this fierce

son of the wilderness now sat, in his right mind,

at the feet of Jesus. The Spirit had done his

work, and he who had been so poor, received

the earnest of an inheritance, which will not fade

when the diadems of earth shall have mouldered

for ever. 

Am. Messenger.