Daily capital journal. (Salem, Oregon) 1903-1919, 1906-12-01

| ." Spahisu 10 the friend
VINO oent over him; IF you would
leave me I could die; II is your low.
ing kindness that keeps me here
20 away and close the door"
When that patient old man finally
passed away the whole countryside
mourned The white people of Mesa
urahde are singularly sympathetic
toward the dying tribe; they appre-
elate the tragedy of Cinon's unguid-
ed charges, and went to the funeral
IN the little chapel with fearful eyes
ana sympathy they did not ana
lyze.
The little church standing on n
Dill among the oaks aud poplars is.
within, one of those tragic places
that voice the upward striving of a
primitive people The old women
stood around sobbing, between their
lchants, bright handkerchlefs tied
over their white hair, the candies
OF the Indian acolytes welrdly light.
ing up their furrowed faces, their
ieet bare and black from the long
wanderings of scores of years. The
bright-clothed little babies crooned
and walled, clInging to the skirts of
the weeping women. Only the men
were silent. The whole tragedy
seemed written in their eyes. It was
realization of defeat and finally so
poignant II made the tears come.
And when Old Antonio, the brother
OF the dead chief broke down and
walled aloud, leaning on his stick.
his white head bowed and his face
twisted with pain, something seemed
to snap within one; 1t had grown
too bitter for tears.
The dead chief lay in a plain open
coffin, gay flowers packed close about
his still resigned face The box
stood between four chairs. and the
candles shed a pale light over the
whole scene: the old men and wom-
en- pressing close, those who under
stood, the young braves with bright
neck cloths and gayly clad girls
silent and self-consclous in the outer
circle-the new generation who could
not comprehend. The acolytes held
their candles waveringly; their stolid
brown faces were dirty and fearful.
and they watched the strange still
face wonderIngly.
The Aged Reader.
Old Angela, an Indian woman OF
near hundred years, read the Office
for the dead say read; the long
Latin service she chanted. she knows
quite by heart, as she knows every
Office OF the church. Father la
Pointe can not come often from
Escondido, and Old Angela has been
lay reader for a score of years.
Then the tragic little procession
wound out into the church yard. a
little Indian boy at the head bearins
the cross high. with wreath bound
around II. In this little sordid city
of the dead, neglected mounds and
wooden crosses. sudden realization
OF death seemed TO strike the bright
colored crowd. The wailing OF the
women rose 20 a shriller and more
piercing strain and the moaning OF
the men made a terrible minor.
They stood shaken with sobs about
the open grave. An Indian stepped
forward and ruthlessly nailed down
the black box. The thud OF the ham
mer strokes was terrible. Old An
tonic watched with a tense self-con-
troll then burst into dreadful sobs.
Then the chant for the dead
strange Indian chant was taken up
by the women. rising higher and
higher in the bright air, with a note
OF utter abandonment.
The white strangers leaned on the
fence trying 20 appear con-
servatlvely unmoyed. their eyes NIL
ing and sobs rising. In a far corner
Of the yard knelt an old stout woman
In red calico before a little grave.
Tho general loss 10 her was merged
In her personal loss. and the tears
streamed down her furrowed face as
she beat her breast with bony, work
worn hands.
On the outer edge OF the circle OF
Indians. looking on at the ceremony
with a strange tragic dlsdain. stood
he ioneliest figure in that little
,hurchyard, a half-breed,the son OF
a degenerate Engllshman OF noble
family The boys dark. proud I'M
indian features and slighter frame
are belled by the tragic eyes OF his