This idea is not a phantom of my creation, it is the portrait of the original. It exists in me and independent of me. Thus, in myself I find proof of a first great cause.
I am now going to unite myself to that cause. To-morrow I lay this body down. The body will return to its original dust, and my spirit to its original—to the Great Spirit that gave it.
I have no desire to stay any longer. My tribe has become extinct. My race is passing away. The Indians of the American forest will live in history only—raise me up a little higher, Drake—there, that will do. I see the silver streaks in the east, and soon the sun will cast its cheerful rays over this beautiful landscape, to be seen, but not by me. Then Cahoonshee will have winged his way to the last hunting ground.
The whole party was standing by the dying man. His mind was clear, strong and vigorous, but his voice was weak.
The sun rose over the eastern hills and cast its rays in the old man’s face. A perceptible smile lit up his countenance, and he faintly said:
It is finished.
Thus died the last of the Cahoonshees.
A rude coffin is made, and Cahoonshee is carried to the house prepared for all living.
What a commentary on human nature. A few years before, the Delaware Valley swarmed with the red men of the forest. Now the last of his race is carried to his grave by the white man. Cuddeback and Gumaer on the left and Swartwout and Van Etten on the right, carry him to the grave, followed by the rest of the party, and bury him on a pine hill, west of his cabin.