No family was
so poor as not thus to honor the dead. If all they possessed was a cow, it
was slaughtered for the occasion. Red Jacket desired nothing of this kind.
A pagan funeral for a distinguished person is a pompous affair, and lasts
for ten days. Every night a fire is kindled at the grave, and around it
the mourners gather, and utter piteous wails.
The wife and daughter were the only ones to whom he spoke parting words,
or gave a parting blessing. As his last hour drew nigh, his family all
gathered around him, but the children were not his own, they were step-
children, his own were all sleeping in the churchyard, where he was soon
to be laid.
His step-children he always loved and cherished, their mother had taught
them to love and honor him. The wife sat by his pillow and rested her hand
on his head. At his feet stood the two sons, now aged and Christian men,
and by his side the little girl, whose hand rested on his withered and
trembling palm. His last words were still, "Where is the missionary?" He
then clasped the child to his bosom, while she was sobbing in anguish, her
ears caught his hurried breathing, his arms relaxed their hold, she looked
up, he was gone.
There was mourning in the household, there was great mourning among the
people. The orator, the man of matchless gifts, of surpassing eloquence
was no more; and there were none to fill his place.
Red Jacket desired after his death, a vial of cold water might be placed
in his hand.
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