The daily morning journal and courier., 1897-08-17
AN AGED INDIANS COMMISSION.
Continued from Fourth Page.)


 the years when he and her husband had breasted, side by side. the perils of the frontier. She then took my hand and in tones broken with feeling and with the native accent, thanked me. I wished as much of the service in In- dian as possible, and gave out the opening hymn In their own book, the Mohawk. The hyms have not been rendered into their own tongue Singularly enough, while the other tribes have the utmost difficulty in acquiring the Tuscarora, these have little in using the other dialects
 The sweetness of the Indain women's singing is simply indescribable. They modestly draw their blankets far over their heads and hold their books under heath. and there issue sounds sweeter and more plaintive than I have ever heard elsewhere. The bass voice of the Indian Is full and sonorous, and in per feet unison, but it is the treble that always strikes strangers, and is long in leaving their ears. I then read the Savior's words of institution, which | were rendered, sentence by sentence,lby
 
 cobs to pray,-the same whom younow, 30 years since that day, congratulate in the wish of his heart fulfilled in the completion of a new house of worship. His voice was always the nearest like flute of any l have heard, and 1t was now low and subdued by the feeling of the hour. As he went on, l could hear sobs from under the drawn blankets and his own voice at times almost checked. The name of the Savior, "Gaysus," was often uttered, and the name of the aged saint was coupled with it in his petition. When he finished | it was almost as if all in the room had ceased breathing; tears were on all faces; they streamed down from the sightless eyes, and the lips quivered with emotion and with muttered words of her own tongue. It was Bochim of tenderness, but not of wailing. As the clements were distributed the sense that it must probably be the last time for her we were meeting with, seemed 1 to rest so deeply on all, that it also seemed as if it might be our own last time. Again the singing; then the end. As I stood before the aged one for adieu, she placed both her hands on my head and said: "Son ot Bates Cooke, my husbands friend, I thank you!" Even under present feeling, the memo ries of half a century gone make their claim.
 The Wednesday following there came ring at my door. As l opened the | tall, fine form of the chief was again before me, I could not keep from eX- claiming, John, your mother?" "Ts gone!" said he, and for minute could say no more. She left us this morning Will you come up and bury her?" It was something not to be forgotten, that burial The entire nation, old and young, was there. And when I spoke to them from the Savior's words, Yer fly; I say unto you, I will drink no more of the fruit of the vine, until the day that I drink it new in the kingdom of God" it seemed to all, as to myself, that we had been present and partici- pants indeed in Last Supper.
 That solemn scene: The aged one "doing this for her burial" the believ- ing ones, the singing ones, doing this In communion at once with her and with their Lord; the loving deacon and members who survive, and rejoice ir their new house of worship; this now ! seems all that has been given to the establishingand support of the Tusca- rora mission.-Joshua Cooke in the New York Evangelist.