“Who love the Lord aright,No soul of man can useless find;All will be precious in His sight,Since Christ on all hath shined.”—Keble.
“Who love the Lord aright,No soul of man can useless find;All will be precious in His sight,Since Christ on all hath shined.”—Keble.
“Who love the Lord aright,No soul of man can useless find;All will be precious in His sight,Since Christ on all hath shined.”—Keble.
“Who love the Lord aright,
No soul of man can useless find;
All will be precious in His sight,
Since Christ on all hath shined.”
—Keble.
Many and varied were my experiences among this people, some painful and distressing, some trying and toilsome, some bright and humorous, some hopeful and encouraging.
The kindness of the Indians as well as the whites, and their evident desire to do all they could for my comfort, helped to lighten many a burden and make smoother many a rough pathway.
I was “in journeyings oft”; sometimes on foot, overland, or on the back of an Indian “cayuse” (pony); more frequently by canoe, and, occasionally, on the deck of a steamer. At one time I was acquainted with nearly every settler within the bounds of my large field—about 160 miles wide by as many long.
After travelling some thirty miles and preaching at different points on the journey, I arrived one evening at an island where I had often preached before. As the day had been stormy and I had worked all the way, I was very wet. The old chief and his wife, both of whom were very kind and hospitable, made me welcome in their home. Pilingup wood, they built a big fire, and I hung my wet blankets around the fire on poles to dry.
“How glad we are the ‘laplate’ (missionary) has come,” the old wife commenced to say, in an undertone, as if to herself. “It is a long time since he was here before. We forget many of the good words he has said to us. Why don’t you come oftener, missionary, and tell us more of the good story, that wonderful thing, you tell us, about the Great Chief on High who gave His Son?” And then, as if recollecting the needs of her guest, she said: “Oh, I must get some supper for him.”
By this time she had a small basket that would hold water, threw in some potatoes, gave them a roll around in the water, and then put them into a pot on the fire. Reaching down a dried salmon from a pile which was stored on a platform over the bed, where the cats and rats and other animals ran over them, she gave it a big slap against the post to knock the thickest of the dirt off, and then held it up before the fire to warm and heat it, so that the skin would peel off.
Very soon the potatoes were boiled and rolled out in a little trough-like dish about two feet long, the salmon was broken in pieces and laid on top of the potatoes, and the whole was set before the Indian boy and myself.
All this time she was talking away to herself: “How good it is for the missionary to come. He has come through all the storm, and we must be kind to him.”
Having washed our hands, I asked a blessingupon the food, and were soon at our supper of salmon and potatoes. We were sure that one side of the salmon was fairly clean, for the skin had been torn off it, and as for the potatoes, they had their jackets on, but we had to eat without a bit of salt.
As we were working away quietly at the supper, the old man was stirring up the fire, keeping away the dogs, and doing everything he could to make things agreeable. All at once the old woman came and crouched down by my side, saying: “Oh, the good missionary, we are so glad you have come. I will help you to peel your potatoes.” And suiting the action to the word she seized hold of one out of the dish, and with about two scratches of her long finger-nails she tore off the jacket of one potato, and then handed it to me, saying, “Oh, it is so good of you to bring us the blessed light. I’ll help you, I will, to get your supper.” We would very much rather have peeled our own potatoes, and had her a little at a distance, with her wretchedly dirty-looking blanket.
Suddenly she sprang up, as if a bright idea had occurred to her, and exclaimed, “Oh, I had nearly forgot. I kept it for the missionary when he should come.” Out of a big old box she brought something tied up in a piece of dirty looking rag.
“I have kept this till the missionary would come,” she said, as she opened out before us a little flour—possibly the only flour they had had for months, as the people did not see much flour in those days. “I will make them a cake, I will.”
We were too busy to notice very closely what shewas doing, but we found in a few moments that she had the little flour in the same basket in which she had just washed the potatoes. We saw her give her hands a little rinse in the water, but we were never sure whether she threw this out or whether it was the same into which she put the flour. Soon, however, it was worked up into a paste, and taking it out in her hands she pressed it into a kind of cake. I had a chance then to notice her arms, bare from the shoulders, looking on the outside very black and dirty, and on the inside, where her cooking had removed some of the dirt, a little less dark. No wonder the cake was such a piebald looking thing!
This black and white cake was thrown into a hole, which she had scratched among the ashes, to bake, while our hostess got some hot water and made a kind of tea from certain herbs which they used, and which went under the name of “Indian tea.” In a few minutes, the cake, now quite baked, was poked out with a stick, broken in pieces and laid on a dish before us. With this and the tea, as dessert, we finished our supper.
Some have asked, “Did you eat it?” Certainly, we ate it, with all the relish we could, and would never have thought of refusing it after all the kindness shown by the dear old people of the house. It is true that these people were dirty beyond description, but out of a warm heart they did their best for us, and endeavored to make us comfortable, and we would have been meanly ungrateful if we had not appreciated it.
After a little religious service we retired to rest,not on the feather-bed that was offered us by the old chief, but with our own blankets, now warm and steaming, laid on some smooth rush mats; and though the dogs crowded around and seemed to quarrel as to which should be the nearest to us, and the fleas swarmed in such numbers as to drive sleep far away from one who was not used to them, we managed to rest very comfortably.
In the Fraser Valley, besides the fleas, we were besieged by myriads of mosquitoes, that bred in the swales and sloughs and low marshy places, particularly after high water. They literally swarmed, and in some places rose in clouds as one passed, millions of them.
I noticed in my journeys on horseback that my little pony, otherwise gentle and manageable, would jump and run at times in an unaccountable fashion. At such times the mosquitoes would strike my face and forehead like a storm of hail. Then it occurred to me that the intelligent little beast only ran when passing through the spots where these insects mostly swarmed, and henceforward I let him gallop.
The settlers tell of dogs and calves being killed by the mosquitoes, and one reputable gentleman maintains that he had in his possession at one time a cow whose tail had been so bitten by these venomous pests that it dropped off.
An amusing incident took place at Langley on one of my visits to the river. The high water was justgoing down, and the mosquitoes were very bad. I was invited to stop over night at the home of a settler, who had just built a little log house of two rooms on a ridge in front of a great swale. The father and mother slept in a little room partitioned off, and as the son-in-law was away, their daughter occupied the room with her parents and left to me the bed the young people had. The room was open to the shingles, and the hot day and cooling evening had brought in the little pests in swarms.
Our friends told me they had no mosquito-netting, but mother and daughter had invented something that they thought would enable the missionary to have a good night’s rest. They had taken a crinoline dress, spread like a full moon, all starched up and ready to use, and tying a rope to the waist, they hung it up over where my head and face were to be, and tacked it to the clothes and round the pillow. After prayer and good-nights I was given a candle and told to be careful in getting into bed, and to keep this thing tucked well around.
I did as I was told, dragged my weary limbs in under carefully, tucked the skirt around and was soon off in a doze. But, oh, the merry noise overhead, up and down and round and round, until finally they found their way, in some manner, inside my shield. They commenced to bore into my forehead. I stood the torture for a while, thinking it was but a few stragglers who, when they had had their fill, would leave. They, however, loaded up, and spread their wings with a whirring buzzing, as if to call others to the feast. It seemed as if hundredsaccepted the invitation. I tried to keep still, but all to no purpose. About two o’clock I thought if I could get the candle lighted and inside I could burn them out and no others would get in, and I might have the coveted rest. I lit the candle, got it safely inside, and commenced the work of slaughter. The candle was soon black with the dead insects.
The first thing I knew, the dress was ablaze all around me. In my half sleepy condition I had got too near the light starched material, and it caught like tinder. I jumped up and dashed it out with my hands, burning my fingers; but, oh, the poor dress! I fought the mosquitoes in the dark the balance of the night.
Next morning the old lady asked me how I had slept, and the whole thing came out. They laughed uproariously at my expense, and I—well, I made the best of the joke.
It was on this river that I met two “tenderfoot” Englishmen who were out looking for land. It was in the height of the mosquito season, and, unheeding the advice given them to take the steamer, they started off in a canoe, as they said, “to prospect and see the country.” Some days after I met them in Chilliwack, and the sight they presented was, to say the least, ludicrous. They had evidently been in the water, for the legs of their pants had shrunken until there was quite four inches between the ends and the tops of their socks. The mosquitoes had been getting in their work, for their necks and legs and wrists were red and swollen. It was like perpetual motion, for while there were few mosquitoesaround them, their hands were kept going scratching the bitten parts and making dashes at imaginary insects.
The comical appearance of these “new-comers” after their trip up the forest-lined banks of the Fraser reminds me of an occasion when I, too, must have presented a spectacle worthy to be laughed at.
I was making my way one evening from North Saanich to Victoria, about twenty-one miles, over a trail, poor enough at the best, but rendered all the more difficult by the presence of a dense fog. The little bit of daylight was soon gone, and the darkness which followed was impenetrable. I groped my way along, part of the time on hands and knees, to find the road.
Presently I came to a burning log heap a little off the trail, and as the night was very cold I warmed myself by the fire. Doubtful of my ability to go much farther in the darkness, I lay down beside the fire and slept—slept and dreamed that it was a fine day and I was having a delightful trip. Suddenly awakening, I felt that I must press on if I would catch theEnterpriseat eight o’clock that morning and proceed on my proposed visit to the mainland.
Daylight opening through the fog enabled me now to see my way, and on I sped, until finally I reached the outskirts of the city. I met many men going out to work, who would look at me strangely and nudge each other. When this was repeated several times I felt sure that it was something in mypersonal appearance which was attracting their attention.
Coming to the bridge tavern I stepped in. Just as I entered the door I overheard a girl say to her mother, “There’s a parson come in to have his bitters.” Nothing daunted, I refused the proprietor’s offer of a drink, and asked for a chance to wash.
I soon discovered the cause of the merriment of the passers-by. My face was black with the dust of the road and the smut of the brush-fire; my collar was dirty and wilted with perspiration; my necktie was awry, and all looked as if I might have been on a spree.
But my exertions were all for naught, for the boat I had hoped would leave at eight a.m. did not get off for a week, so dense were the fog and smoke.
Very early in our work among the Indians we were encouraged by a circumstance which gave us to see that our teaching of the commandments was having its effect upon them.
An exploring party, sent out by the Government, was preparing to start from Nanaimo across the Island. They hired a number of Indians as packers and guides. After having engaged these natives they hung around the town for some days doing nothing. When the week came to a close they immediately became active, and wanted to make a start on Sunday morning, but the Indians refused to go.
The first intimation we had of the difficulty was through a letter, written by the head of the partyand published in theDaily Chronicle, in which he stated: “Thanks to Brother Crosby, the Indians would not travel on Sunday, so we were detained another day.”
The fidelity of the Indians in keeping sacred the Lord’s Day was, until recent years, a source of great joy and satisfaction to us. Sometimes, it is true, they were not able to keep an accurate record of the days. But their sincerity of purpose is shown by the means some of them took to be sure of which day was the Sabbath.
Py-uke, the old chief of the Penelkuts, started soon after the missionary came to tie a knot on a string for each day in the week, and a double knot for Sunday. This he kept up for years, until he had a great ball of this native twine wound together as his time-keeper. This he kept, and if any members of the tribes around were in doubt about the day of the week, they would refer it to old Py-uke.
We have in later years been grieved to see thousands of fishermen at the mouth of the Fraser fishing on Sunday. The law in the case has had its damaging influence upon the Indians as well as the whites. There is no excuse for a law which permits fishing after six o’clock Sunday evening except that of commercial greed and indifference.