79CHAPTER VI.MRS. JONES’S STORY.–THE GRAY WOLF.
“Was it soverydifferent east, mother,” asked Tom, one day, “where you came from, from what it is here?”
“Different in what respects?” she inquired.
“O,” he answered, hesitatingly, “I mean, were folks as poor and ignorant as–as–”
“As we are, you were going to say,” said she, placidly, finishing his sentence for him.
“I don’t think that you and father areignorant,” he replied, looking confused; “but–”
“I understand what you mean, Tom. No; where your father and I were born, and where we were married, the country was thickly settled. All the children went to school, and there were no such cabins as the one we live in, but nice, framed houses of wood, stone, or brick.”
“Were there no poor people there?”
“Yes, as many as there are here,–a great many in the large cities,–and they found it very hard getting along.”
“Were yours and father’s folks very poor?”80
“No; they were in comfortable circumstances.”
“Then why, mother, did you come west, and why do we live as we do now?”
As she did not at once reply, the lad, busy once more with his own thoughts, forgot that he had asked the question. He had often revolved the matter in his own mind, but had never before ventured to speak of it. His mother’s conversation with him, after his injury by the gun, had shown him the folly of his plan of leaving home clandestinely; but dissatisfaction with his lot grew with his growth and strengthened with his strength. It was a great mystery to him how his mother could consent to live so, for so many years. He would look at the black and crazy loggery, with its clay “chinking,” that was ever more cracking, and crumbling, and falling to the floor, leaving holes between the logs, through which the wind and rain entered; and the one rickety chair, and the rude benches and boxes for sitting accommodations, and the bedsteads, composed of rough oaken slabs, spiked at the head and side to the walls, and a rough post at the unsupported corner, and the cracked and rusted stove and leaky funnel; and then he would look at his mother, who, despite her coarse and dingy dress, seemed so superior to her condition; and the more he realized the contrast, the81more he marvelled. When he was younger, he had noticed this incongruity between his gentle mother and her wretched surroundings; and now he sometimes wished he could be insensible to it, it made him so unhappy. How restless he became–how like a caged eaglet, as he pondered the subject by night and by day–none knew save the watchful friend who moved so gently about the dark-lighted cabin, and kept so uncomplainingly at her tasks.
And his father seemed to him, in his way, as much of a mystery as his mother. Was he contented with the roving life he led? and did he never realize the deprivations of his wife and children? Did father and mother ever know brighter days? and were they never to see them again? And was it duty for him to keep on in the same way, sacrificing every rising aspiration and pure taste, and getting nothing in return but poor food and clothing, a comfortless home, and a mind undeveloped and unfurnished?
Seated on the end of a box, shelling corn by drawing the ears against the back of a broken scythe, he had been working and thinking through the evening, while the children slept, with no one to notice his absent-minded labor but his ever-wakeful mother.
“I will not endure it,” he mentally exclaimed; and, by way of emphasis, he drew the ear of82corn he held against the edge of the scythe with unusual force, at the same instant springing to his feet with a cry of pain, and a finger in his mouth, upsetting his seat, and sending the contents of the box rolling across the floor, and into the gaping cracks.
“O, I’ve scraped my finger awfully!” he said, with grimaces that added nothing to his personal attractions.
“Why, how did you do it, my son?” asked the mother, although she knew very well.
“Why, you see, I was thinking about something, and pulled my finger, instead of the cob, against the edge.”
Mrs. Jones laid back the strip of bleeding flesh into the place from which it had thus unceremoniously been torn, and from which it hung by a bit of skin, and carefully bound up the wound.
Then, sweeping the scattered kernels into a heap, and restoring them to the box, she seated herself in a little dislocated chair, and said,–
“There, don’t shell any more now, Tom; I have something to say to you. You asked why we came west. The time has come when you had better know something of our history; it may help you decide your course of action.
“Your father and I were born in Connecticut,83in the same town. We attended school together in our early childhood, and often played together. Both of our families were respectable–your father’s quite so, although not so well off as to property as mine. He was a bright, promising boy, quick to learn, warm-hearted, and conscientious. I never knew him guilty of any of the petty meannesses too common among school children. He was sensitive to a fault, but had high notions of honor, and despised falsehood and deception in any form. When I was seventeen I became secretly engaged to him. My parents did not suspect this, nor did any of the household, except a younger sister, to whom I confided my secret. I now think it would have been better for all concerned had I from the first been open in the matter, and frankly stated to my mother what my preference was. But I knew that he was not their choice for me. They were ambitious to have me marry brilliantly, as the phrase went,–that is, wealthily and in style,–and he was young, and had his fortune to carve out pretty much for himself. He knew what their hopes were concerning me, matrimonially, and, that I might be perfectly free to break the engagement, should I repent of it, rarely saw me, nor did any correspondence pass between us. My regard for him did not lessen on this account, for I understood his motives. When he was of84age, his father died, leaving him a thousand dollars as his portion. With this he went into business, with good prospects, in a neighboring city. I shall never forget how earnestly he spoke, one evening, as we parted after a brief interview.
“‘Mary,’ said he, ‘I will be rich. I’ve set my mind on that; and then your father won’t be ashamed to own me as a son-in-law, and I shall come and claim you.’
“It seemed noble and heroic for him to speak thus; but my heart smote me with foreboding, and I answered,–
“‘But what if you do not succeed?’
“‘Iwillsucceed;’ he replied, impetuously. ‘What a manwillshe can do.’
“Ah, how foolish and sinful it is to worship money and show, as my parents did; how much suffering it has caused me! and how equally unwise and presumptuous it was for a young man, stung by the pride of others, to make that the rule of his life, and go forth in his own strength to build up a fortune, so that he mightdemandme of my parents as an equal, and thus gratify his own pride! I see it now, but not clearly then.
“Joseph, for a time, was prosperous. Everything he turned his hand to was remunerative;85and when we met, his manner was confident and hopeful.
“‘Let the old gentleman look down upon me now if he chooses,’ he would say; ‘he won’t always do it.’
“He had been a year in business when a partnership was proposed to him by a man of education and gentlemanly appearance. Joseph spoke to me about it, and I said,–
“‘You are doing well enough now. Why not be contented to go alone? I have often heard that partnerships are poor ships to sail in.’
“‘Well,’ said he, ‘there’s something in his appearance that I do not quite like, and I think I shall not take him in.’
“But as the man came with the highest testimonials as to his character, ability, and influence, with the hope of greatly enlarging his business, a copartnership was entered into. Mr. Jacques, the partner, was Joseph’s senior in age–a stout, robust man, with a high forehead, light hair, always carried a cane, was jovial, and good-natured in the extreme, fond of telling a good story, but sharp in trade. I met him on one occasion, and there was something in the turn of his eye–a restless, jerking, selfish expression–that made me shrink from him. Joseph was proud of his acquisition, and, remembering my caution,86asked me what I thought of him. I well remember the reply that leaped to my lips.
“‘Didn’t you say that he was religious?’
“‘He professes to be,’ said he.
“‘I fear that it is only a cloak to his real character. If he is a Christian, I do not know what grace has done for him; but if I do not misread his face, he is constitutionally dishonest.’
“But every thing went on smoothly, and Joseph would say to me when we met,–
“‘My partner loves scandal a little too well–is apt to talk against others; but one thing I’m sure of–he’s honest.’
“One morning, some months after this conversation, I chanced to meet Joseph as he was going to the office; he looked pale and careworn.
“‘O,’ said he, ‘I have had the most singular exercise of mind. Some folks are troubled with sleeplessness; but I never was until last night. I went to bed feeling as well as usual, but could not sleep. I was not unusually tired, had taken a light supper, and saw no reason why I should be so wakeful. I turned and tossed in bed, and shut my eyes; but all in vain. I even laid my finger on my wrist, that the counting of my pulse might, by the monotony, induce slumber; when, suddenly, before my mind’s eye stood my partner; it seemed as real as life; and with the appearance87came little remarks of his, little acts and words, which, as they ranged themselves along like the links in a chain, revealed him to me, against my will, as a deceiver and a dishonest man.’
“He was much excited, and hurried to town. Mr. Jacques, as I afterwards learned, was there before him, and met him with his bland smile and well-turned compliments; and, strange as it may seem, scarcely an hour had passed before he had charmed away every shadow of suspicion. Matters now went on as before for a few weeks, when Joseph had another sleepless night, and a more convincing unfolding of his partner’s real character; and the next night, after the office had been closed, he spent in examining the books of the concern, and detected a number of artfully-contrived fraudulent entries in the handwriting of his partner, for, according to agreement, the latter kept the accounts. Further revelations showed that he had been gradually abstracting the stock. As soon as Mr. Jacques saw that he was being found out, his gentleness and politeness were all gone, and he raged like a beast of prey. Joseph attached his furniture at his dwelling, but found it had all been made over to his son–a young lawyer in the city; meanwhile the dishonest man had fled with his ill-gotten gains, leaving the business in a frightfully complicated88state. The result was, as is often the case when a man begins to go down in his affairs, although he may be ever so deserving and innocent, there are enough to give him a push. It was so with him. In vain did Joseph, by his books, show that he was doing well up to the cruel embezzlements, and that if he was dealt leniently with, he could recover his standing, and go on as prosperously as before; his creditors, one after another, ferociously pounced upon him; he got through one trouble only to meet another, until utter failure came. The effect on Joseph was lamentable in the extreme. He sat by his fire at home, day after day, for weeks, with his head buried in his hands, in utter despair. Had some kind friend stepped forward and started him anew, what a deed of mercy it would have been! But the men whom he accommodated with money, when prosperous, turned their backs upon him now.
“Recovering somewhat from the shock, he sought again and again for employment; but his short-sighted and relentless creditors would factorize his earnings, and thus oblige him to leave.”
“Factorize!” asked Tom, interrupting her; “what is that?”
“Why,” said the mother, “if a man owes another, the creditor attaches his wages, and when89the man presents his bill to his employer, he finds that he cannot pay him anything. In vain he went to distant places to earn a subsistence. Shrewd lawyers were put upon his track; he was ferretted out, until, discouraged, he came to me one day, and said,–
“‘Mary, the hounds are after me from morning till night. They dog my steps wherever I go, and give me no chance to retrieve my fortunes. I am going to the west; and it isn’t right to hold you to your engagement any longer, for I can never, on my part, fulfil it. The odds are against me here, and, what is worse, I’ve lost my courage and hope; I have come to bid you good by.’
“‘If you do not care for me any longer,’ I said, ‘say so. You’ve struggled hard, and have merited a better result; it isn’t your fault that you have failed. God forbid that I should break my promise. If you must go west, you are not going alone. I shall go with you, and shall this very night tell my parents all about my engagement, and get their consent to our marriage.’
“He shook his head. But feeling that it had been cowardly in me not to have mentioned the subject before, whatever the result might have been, in a few words I frankly, and with a composure that surprised myself, told them the whole story. My father was a quick-tempered, imperious90man, and my mother lived only for this world: the result you can easily imagine. But I felt that my duty was plain; and we were quietly married. Having a little money of my own, joining it with what your father had by him, we started towards the setting sun. But what was that?” said Mrs. Jones, stopping in her recital, as a strange sound fell upon her ear.
It was a long, fiendish yell, swelling upon the still night air over the unbroken solitudes of the prairie; it was most appalling. Tom and his mother hastened to the window; they saw a noble buck, his antlers held aloft, flying with his utmost speed, pursued by two dark-looking objects, that gained rapidly on him.
“It’s the gray wolf,” said Tom, “chasing a deer. How I wish I had a rifle! I could bring one of them down easy as not,”–as they dashed by, with short, quick yells, following their prey into the woods that skirted the river.
“I hope the poor creature will escape,” said Mrs. Jones, with a sigh; and she resumed her narrative. “I was not long in seeing, on our journey out, that a dreadful change had been wrought in your father by his business troubles. It had given him an unconquerable disgust of society, which he has not yet outgrown, making him uneasy and restless wherever he has been; and this, Tom, is the secret of his wandering91life; and this is why I never feel that I can complain at any of the changes in our hard, unsettled career as a family.”
Tom, who had listened absorbed to this before unread chapter in the family history, was deeply moved, and, while the tears filled his eyes, asked, in tremulous tones,–
“Do you think father’ll ever get over it, mother?”
“Tom,” replied she, “your father has a true heart and a good mind, and I believe that, in some way, good will yet come out of this long-continued trial. He’s taken a great liking to the missionary; and Mr. Payson seems to understand him better than most, and I am praying that the acquaintance may lead to something brighter for him; and, Tom,” she added, “I have told you this that you may see a new reason for not being in haste to leave your father and mother. There is one passage in the Bible I often think of, which directs us to both hope and quietly wait for the salvation of God. Your father’s mistake, when he went into business, was, that he was in too great haste to accomplish his own will. This is apt to be the error of the young. They are sanguine of success, and they rush into the battle of life without waiting to put on the armor of faith. What the young want in setting out, Tom, is a Guide and a Helper, who92cannot err, and will not forsake them. An old man in our town used to say, ‘Never try to kick open the door of Providence.’ I want you, Tom, to wait patiently till Providence opens the door for you. Then you need not be afraid to go forward.”
93CHAPTER VII.A SABBATH ON THE PRAIRIE.
Extracts from the Missionary’s Diary.
Yesterday I preached my first sermon in a log cabin. When I awoke in the early morning, and looked out of the little window at the head of my bed in the rough, low-roofed attic, a new world seemed to break on my sight. Instead of the narrow, noisy streets and tenanted blocks of the populous eastern city, my eyes rested on one vast green field stretching to the arching horizon, over which brooded a profound silence, intensified by the sacred hush of the Sabbath.
My host offered his own cabin for the forenoon service. His son–a sturdy young man of eighteen, inured to pioneer life–had ridden far and wide to give notice of the meeting, and he was confident of a good attendance. I anticipated the labors of the day with some misgivings, for I had become slavishly accustomed to the use of written sermons; but here, before a log-cabin audience, to speak from manuscript94was not to be thought of. For once, at least, I must trust to the grace of Christ, and speak as the Spirit gave utterance. My study was a corner of the loft, my library a pocket Bible.
“Where do all these people come from?” I ejaculated in pleased surprise, as, for a full hour before the time appointed, men, women, and children, afoot, in wagons and ox-teams, continued to arrive. And through the cracks in the loosely-laid, unnailed floor, I could see members of the family engaged in contriving sitting accommodations for the growing congregation. Unplaned oaken boards, placed across trunks, boxes, and huge blocks, soon filled the room, every seat being occupied, while groups of men stood about the door outside, or sat upon the embankment. I would have a “full house” certainly. And what effort had been made by these frontier folk to attend I could easily imagine. Some had walked many miles for the purpose; most had come quite a distance. And the earnest, thoughtful faces that met my gaze, as I descended the ladder, and read the opening hymn,–how reverently their heads were bowed for prayer, and with what hushed interest they listened to the discourse,–I can not soon forget. One woman, who sat surrounded by her family, wept from the announcement of the text till the close of the sermon–wept for joy that, once95more, after long deprivation of sanctuary privileges, she could hear the word of God. It was a scene for a painter–that log cabin crowded with representatives of every state in the Union, in every variety of garb, and of all ages, from the gray-haired backwoodsman to the babe in its mother’s arms. No costly organ was here, with its gentle, quiet breathings, or grand and massive harmonies; no trained choir; no consecrated temple, with its Sabbath bell, and spire pointing heavenward; no carpeted aisles and “dim religious light,” and sculptured, cushioned pulpit. But I could not doubt the presence of the Spirit. And when, at the close, “Praise God, from whom all blessings flow,” was sung to Old Hundred,–sung as if with one voice and soul, the clear, sweet tones of childhood blending with the deeper sounds of manhood and womanhood,–the rough, rude building seemed as the gate of heaven.
My appointment for the afternoon was at a small settlement eleven miles away.
A charming drive through the “oak openings” and over the rolling prairie brought us to the cabin which was to serve as meeting-house. It was a long, low, one-roomed building, the logs of which it was constructed still rejoicing in their primitive covering of bark, the openings between them being closed with clay thrown in by hand.96Mr. G., the owner,–a short, gray-haired, brisk little man with a wooden leg, gave me a cordial welcome, and, to show how willing he was to have the meeting in his cabin, pointed to his shoemaker’s bench, and various articles of furniture, including a bedstead, trundle-bed, and bedding, which had been removed from the room, and piled in admirable disorder outside.
“You have been to a great deal of trouble,” I remarked.
“None too much,” he cheerily replied. “I am an old soldier, you see, and that’s why I have to hobble about on this,” pointing to the ancient artificial limb. “I was in the war of 1812, belonged to the cavalry, and at the battle of–”
“Husband,” gently interposed his wife,–an intellectual-looking woman, with a face expressive of goodness,–“the minister will not care to hear of war to-day;” adding, with a blush, “You must excuse us, sir; but it is so long since we have seen one of your profession, or attended religious services, that the days seem too much alike; there is little here to remind us that the Sabbath should be kept holy. O, it is so dreadful–so like heathenism–to live without the ordinances of the gospel! No Sunday school for our children and youth, no servant of God to counsel the dying, comfort the bereaved, and point the heavy-laden to Christ!”97
“Such a state of things must, indeed, be a great trial to those who love the Saviour,” I observed.
“Yes; and what adds to the trial,” she continued, “is, that members of churches, after they have been here awhile, fall into great laxity in respect to the Lord’s day. Those who were exemplary east, are here seen starting upon or returning from a business journey on Sunday. O, we need some one to gather these straying sheep, and unite them by the public means of grace: many of them, I doubt not, are secretly longing for this. For more than a year I have been praying that God would send a servant of his this way.”
“And sometimes, I dare say, you have felt almost discouraged,” I suggested.
“Yes,” she replied, weeping; “but last week something came to strengthen my faith, and later, intelligence that you were to visit us. Months ago I wrote east for a donation of good reading to scatter among the settlers, but received no response till, last Tuesday, a package of books, tracts, and religious papers arrived. In one of the papers was an article entitled ‘The Pulpit and the Beech Tree.’”
“Here it is,” said the husband, passing her the sheet; “better read it to the parson; there’ll be plenty of time afore the meeting;” and he98glanced at a venerable clock screwed to a log over the wide-mouthed clay-stick-and-stone fireplace.
She read as follows: “Nearly a score of years ago, a pioneer sought a home in one of the Western States. He selected a ‘quarter section’ in a dense wilderness, and soon entered upon the arduous work of clearing a farm. He was a man of athletic constitution, and well adapted to cope with the trials on the frontier. He was in the prime of life; and in those days a man was famous according as he had ‘lifted axes upon the thick trees.’ This man was ranked among the leading characters in that region. He could bear up with fortitude under all trials and privations, except those of a religious kind.
“Before his removal to the west, he had enjoyed the privileges of a large and well-regulated church, in which he had for years been a prominent member. To be thus suddenly deprived of those blessed means of grace caused him many painful feelings, and at times almost incapacitated him for ordinary duties. This subject pressed so heavily on his mind, that he often sought relief in laying his wants before God in prayer. One day he enjoyed near access to the throne while on his knees in a secluded part of the forest. He prayed earnestly that God would make that wilderness and solitary place glad with the sound of99the gospel. He asked for the church privileges to which he had been accustomed, and he felt assured that God could grant them. So much was he engaged in pleading for this blessing, that he forgot his work. His family looked for his return to dinner, but he came not. They were alarmed, and, making search, found him on his knees. To this man of God there was something peculiarly pleasant in the memory of that approach to the mercy-seat. He loved the spot on which he had knelt, and determined to mark it. It was by the side of a beech tree. He ‘blazed’ it, so that in after years it might remind him of the incident that I have related.
“That prayer was speedily answered. God put it into the hearts of the people of that region to build a sanctuary in the desert. They have now the stated means of grace. That pioneer is one of the officers of the church. The membership is near eighty. The cause of religion seems to be flourishing among them. Not long since it was my privilege to preach in their house of worship; it was filled with an intelligent congregation. At the close of the services, the old man gave me a history of his praying under the beech tree, and, with tears in his eyes, closed by saying, ‘That tree stood only about five feet from the very spot where you stood while preaching for us to-night.’”100
“There,” said she, at the conclusion of the narrative, “I felt that this was a word in season to me. I fell upon my knees, and, with increased earnestness, pleaded for the privileges of the gospel, and rose feeling, as did the pioneer, that God would grant the request. But how did my heart leap with glad surprise the next day,–that is, last Wednesday,–when a neighbor called to consult me about a place for you to preach in!”
But it was time for service. There was the same thronged attendance and absorbed attention as in the morning. How delightful to proclaim the tidings of great joy to those who are hungering for the word of life! How different from ministering to fashionable worldly hearers, who gather in the house of God for intellectual entertainment, or from motives of custom, respectability, or ostentation, and who are hardened by the very abundance of spiritual instruction!
At the close of the services, with the social freedom of western intercourse, I was introduced to most present, and they all seemed anxious that I should make a home in their neighborhood. How different it would be to settle with this new people, on the precarious subsistence which I might get for my family here, preaching, and perhaps keeping house, in a log cabin, from the situation I must fill, should I accept the call101extended by the large and wealthy church in N. A frontier parish on a prairie, on the outskirts of civilization, and a city parish,–what a contrast! But my heart is strongly drawn towards this people. Should I remain with them, what would my money-loving, place-seeking, eastern friends say?
I have passed another delightful Sabbath, notwithstanding certain trifling violations of the proprieties of worship as observed in eastern assemblies.
It struck me quite ludicrously, at first, to see mother’s listening to the preaching while nursing or dandling their infants. Yesterday a fat, burly baby, who, by some singular good fortune, had an apple,–for we never see that fruit here,–let it drop from his fat fist, and it rolled nearly to my feet; and the mother, not in the least disconcerted, gravely came and picked it up, and returned it to her boy. Nobody, however, was disturbed by the incident; all appeared to take it as a matter of course. And I confess I like this absence of fastidious conventionalities. Why should the mother be kept from the house of God because she may not bring her child with her? “Suffer the little children to come unto me, and forbid them not,” said the great Preacher when the disciples would drive out ofhiscongregation102the mothers and their infants. Is the servant more particular than his Lord?
Then, too, the uncouth garments of many of my log-cabin hearers,–how unlike the elegant and costly apparel worn in our eastern sanctuaries! But I like the western way best as to dress. I enjoy seeing the poor, in his plain attire, sitting unabashed by the side of the man in “goodly apparel.” And when I consider what thousands of starving souls are kept out of Christian churches because they cannot dress in broadcloth and silk, and how much money is wasted and vanity indulged by the bedizened crowds that throng our sanctuaries, I am thankful that the reign of fashion is unknown on the frontier.
But these hardy pioneers are bold and independent thinkers. The preacher must show himself “a workman that needeth not to be ashamed,rightlydividing the word of truth,” if he would keep his hold on their respect. It will not do to be careless even in teaching the Sabbath school. I was suddenly reminded of this yesterday. Speaking on the subject of benevolence, I had remarked that the poorest of us, if we were careful not to waste, might have something that we could spare as well as not to those needier than ourselves. And I inquired if any scholar could tell me what scripture enforced this lesson. As no one responded, I read the account of the multiplying103of the loaves and fishes when Christ fed the fainting multitudes; and coming to the words, “Gather up the fragments, that nothing be lost,” I asked, “Do not these words show that we ought to save the pieces, that we may give them to the hungry?”
“No, sir,” promptly answered a lad of about sixteen.
Thinking he had misunderstood the question, I repeated it, saying, “I asked, Thomas,”–for that was the boy’s name,–“if this language does not teach that we should save what we are apt to throw away, that we may have something to give the poor.”
“I do not think it does,” he replied.
“Why not?” I inquired.
“Jesus told the disciples to share the nice new loaves with the people, and to keep the bits and ends for themselves.”
He was right. I had unconsciously been making that great miracle of mercy teach stinginess! How often I had heard it explained to polished audiences in New England in the same way, and not a criticism offered. Yet the one who pointed out this strangely-common error was a child belonging to one of the most thriftless of these frontier families. His name is Jones; and he is, I think, a lad of promise, in whom I am becoming much interested, as also in his father, a restless,104singular being, but who is more of a man, in my judgment, than he seems.
I am getting to feel more and more deeply that duty calls me to labor here. If it were not for my dear wife and children, I should decide at once to remain. But how could she get along in this out-of-the-world place? Can she relinquish the comforts of her eastern home, and share with me, for the Master’s sake, the privations of the wilderness? The settlers are kind, and say we shall not suffer. A subscription paper has been started, and has already a goodly array of names; and brother Palmer–an excellent man of some means–says he will furnish me money with which to build a neat cottage.
105CHAPTER VIII.TOM’S VICTORY.
Tom retired to bed the night after his mother had confided to him the history of his father’s business trials, feeling that she had conferred an honor upon him in thus sharing with him her life-secret, and that he understood his parents as he never did before. He was conscious, also, that she had put him under new obligation to be always frank with her, as she had been with him; that she had, in fact, made the obligation very sacred, for he realized that it was an act of condescension in her thus to make him the repository of her secrets, while to share his with her was but the duty of a child, and for his own advantage. And he thought, “How can I now desert the family for any imaginary good, and leave her to reproach me by her patient cross-bearing for dear father and the children’s sake?”
It cost him a bitter struggle to act in accordance with this view. In the darkness of the night he wrestled long and hard to put down the wish to free himself from the burden that was now laid106upon his conscience. He, the squatter’s son, in his wretched life, had built up a golden future for himself, as the ambitious young, of every condition, are sure to do when once the heart is roused to wish, and the mind to plan, for great things. And now, to give it all up, and come down to the cheerless drudgery of home-service insucha home,–it could not be expected that he could do this, only after a severe conflict with his own nature, if at all. It is true his mother had exhorted him to wait for Providence to open the door before him. But he could not help recalling, with an aching heart, through how many long, weary years she had waited; and what door of relief had been opened for her? And was she not a thousand fold more deserving of such an interposition than he? He reflected on this point till his brain was in a whirl; the more he pondered the matter, the darker it seemed.
“I am called,” he reasoned, “to keep by the family if I never see brighter days–that’s the meaning of her words, and the demands of my lot. Am I ready to do this–to be true to duty, if it involves, as it has to her, poverty, seclusion from privileges, toil, suffering, obscurity?”
He knew that he ought thus to decide, and to decide cheerfully. But he could not. He tried again and again to reach the decision only to recoil from it. His will was powerless to calm107the rebellion within. Ah, the pioneer’s ragged son had been precipitated into a solemn moral crisis, which tested him, and showed him how weak he was! The tumult of feeling, and sharpness of the battle, had, at length, cast him into utter despair, when his mother’s remark concerning his father’s mistake in setting about getting rich by the strength of his own will, abruptly recurred to him.
“What did she mean by that?” he asked; and he sat bolt upright in bed to consider the point.
He could not, however, quite master the idea, and wished his mother was awake, that she might explain herself. Then his mind returned to the subject, and lo, the mist rolled away, and the truth shone out.
“I see it: father should have sought direction and strength of God. And that is just what I ought to do. He can give me grace to perform my duty,–yes, even to choose it.”
And Tom, under the inspiration of the light that was breaking in upon his soul, resolved,–
“I’ll ask God to enable me to do as mother has advised, and as I see to be right in the circumstances.”
And covering his face with his hands, he lifted up his heart in prayer. As he prayed, a heavenly peace seemed to pervade his whole being. It stole upon him so gently and unexpectedly, that108he felt like shouting praises to God; and at last, unable to keep his marvellous happiness to himself, he called, softly,–
“Mother, mother!”
“What do you wish, my son?” she asked, always ready to answer her children’s calls.
“O, mother,” he replied, “I have been struggling and praying, and I’ve got the victory.”
Instantly she was kneeling on the rough floor by his side,–she understood him,–and tears of grateful joy ran down her face, and she said,–
“It is as I would have it, Tom. God has taken you up, and all will be well.”
Next morning Tom arose with a peaceful, serious face. His mother did not allude to the happy change that had transpired within him during the night, but as she busied herself about breakfast, she would occasionally wipe away the tears, for her heart was full.
“Mother,” said he, as they finished their frugal meal, “I’ve been thinking it would be a good plan to get up all the wood we can while the weather is pleasant. Winter’ll be coming along by and by, and it’ll be so nice to have a warm fire all the time then, and not have to wade through the snow after something to burn.”
“Yes,” she replied, “we have not had our Indian summer yet; and while that lasts we shall109use but little fuel, and if you and the children are smart, you can get quite a pile ahead.”
“Why is the beautiful spell we have in fall called Indian summer?” he asked.
“Because,” replied his mother, “the Indians were in the habit of attacking the white settlements then; they don’t go on their war expeditions after cold weather sets in. And,” she added, sighing, “I shall be glad when snow comes, for I shall feel that we are safe until spring opens.”
“The Allens are dreadful mad about their cattle,” remarked Tom. “The old man tracked them to a ravine in the woods, and found that his oxen had been killed and dressed: the horns and hide lay on the ground, and the blood was scarcely cold, but not an Indian was to be seen. He couldn’t even find a trail, and he’s an old Indian-fighter, you know.”
“Have any Indians been seen near here, since?”
“Yes; Mr. Payson, the missionary, saw one the other morning as he was going from Root River settlement to Slough Creek. He was passing the Norwegian’s cabin, near the grove, when suddenly a Sioux galloped by on his pony, giving a loud whoop as he rode out of sight. And Mrs. Pingry had a great scare. Her husband was away after supplies, and she was alone about her work, when the door opened and an Indian stalked110in and took a seat. Pretty soon a second came, and did the same, and then another; until a dozen sat round the room, silently smoking their pipes. She says she knew by their manner and the way they were painted that they intended mischief. She determined, however, not to appear frightened, and went on with her work. Soon one of them got up and broke open her husband’s trunk, and then the rest fell to rummaging the house, helping themselves to whatever they wished; and she was expecting they would next assault her, when, to her relief, she heard the barking of a dog, and the rumbling of wheels, at which the savages took alarm, and in a moment were gone.”
“And what,” asked Mrs. Jones, “do the settlers think of this?”
“O, they only laugh about it. They don’t expect any serious trouble. They say that the chiefs have had a grand talk with the government agent, and declare that they wish to be on good terms with us. But some of our people do all they can to provoke the Indians, and say they would like to have a brush with the red-skins!”
“But what’s that?” he exclaimed, as loud shouts and the barking of dogs broke on their ears. Mrs. Jones and Tom hurried to the door, and saw some men and boys chasing a large animal across the prairie.
“A bear! a bear!” cried a neighbor, rushing111breathlessly up to Tom, saying, “Is your father at home? Tell him to come on, and we’ll pepper his carcass!” and without waiting for an answer, or explaining whose carcass he meant, he hastened after the others.
The creature that they were pursuing was so fat that he did not run very swiftly, and the dogs gained on him; aware of which, he was making desperate efforts to gain the shelter of a small grove not far off, while stringing along for quite a distance behind were his pursuers. Some were hatless, a few had guns, but most were armed with pitchforks or clubs; and one man, in his zeal, carried a piece of rusty stove-pipe, although what use he proposed to put it to in capturing Bruin, it was difficult to imagine, unless he intended, should Bear gain the grove, tosmoke him outwith it. The truth is, he was putting up a stove in his cabin when the cry of “Bear, bear,” interrupted his labors, and he joined the chase, forgetting that he held anything in his hand. He was wiry, lank, and long-legged, with sandy hair that came down straight and thin upon his shoulders, and being without his coat, with pants that reached only half way between his knees and ankles, he cut a ludicrous figure as he straddled on, followed by a short, dumpy man, who, waddle as ambitiously as he might, swiftly fell behind,112without, however, seeming in the least discouraged.
“There, they are surrounding the grove,” said Tom, as the men and boys spread out from the centre till they had encompassed Bruin’s leafy retreat.
Soon there was the report of guns, and not long after, the hunters returned, looking tired and disappointed.
“The bear must have got away,” said Mrs. Jones.
But Charley came rushing towards her, and, throwing up his cap, cried,–
“O, isn’t it fun! It wasn’t a bear, mother; it was only Mr. Abbott’s black hog that he lost last fall, and thought was dead. He had run wild, feeding on roots and acorns, and was awful fat. But they didn’t know ’twas a hog till they shot him, the dogs kept up such a yelping, and the grass and bushes hid him so. They’ve gone after a wagon to take him home.”
But Tom was at work making an opening in the fence nearest the woods; seeing which, Charley called out,–
“What you doing that for, Tom?”
“I’ve been thinking,” answered Tom, pleasantly, “that we shall want some wood near the cabin next winter, instead of digging it out of the snow, and I’m fixing a place to drag it through.”113
“Yes, children,” added the mother, “Tom and I have been talking it over. Suppose you take hold together and see how big a pile you can get up. It will be so nice to have plenty of wood to cook the corn-cakes with, and keep us comfortable when it’s freezing weather!”
The project pleased the youngsters, even to Bub, and, headed by Tom, they began at once to put it into execution.
It is customary in new countries for the first comers to help themselves freely to the trees on government land, for logs with which to construct their cabins, and to rive into shingles and saw into boards; and many a sinewy oak had fallen before the frontiersman’s axe in the woods near the Joneses, leaving the brawny limbs upon the ground. There were also many dead trees still standing, and from these sources dry, hard wood of the best quality could always be obtained.
Tom directed operations. The limbs and small dead trees were thrown or dragged in piles a certain distance towards the field; from there another took them to the opening in the fence, and from thence others of the youngsters pulled them up to the house. The girls and boys had a merry time of it, Sarah making the woods ring with her bird-like voice as she sang at her task, while many a joke was exchanged by the lively little company. But no one of them entered on the114labor with more zeal, and a higher appreciation of his own services, than Bub.
“That child is always under foot,” said Eliza, as she stumbled over him while tugging along a scrawny limb.
“You ought to go into the house,” said Tom; “I’m afraid you’ll get hurt.”
“No, I won’t,” answered the child, “tause I dot to tarry in the wood;” and seizing a long branch under one dimpled arm, and a short, heavy one under the other, to make good his words, with the will of an older head, he started for the cabin.
Out from under his arm would be wrenched the long one by some bush beside the path, and Bub would pick it up and pull at it until it had cleared itself, when down would go the big piece from the other arm. Then he would bravely lift it again, his baby frock going up with it; and thus dropping his load and picking it up, with an occasional tumble, which he would not cry about, he reached the house, dragging his load in through the door, to the imminent danger of knocking over the old stove. He now rested from his labors to eat a cold potato and a piece of his mother’s much-loved corn-cake, which, while disposing of, he dropped asleep, his rosy cheeks crammed to their utmost capacity.
“Pooh!” cried Charley, coming noisily in to115see if dinner was most ready, “why didn’t you keep to work, like the rest of us?”
Bub resumed eating, and replied, dignifiedly,–
“Tause I found out that it wasn’t fun.”
The unexpected effect of his answer on Charley, who received it with uproarious laughter, highly offended the child; and when Charley was out of sight, he said to his mother,–
“I isn’t never going to work no more.”
“Ah, why not?” she inquired.
“Tause I don’t like to work.”
“Then,” said she, “you’ll never make a man.”
“Do men have to work?” he asked.
“Certainly,” she replied.
“Then I won’t be a man,” he answered, decidedly.
“Won’t!” exclaimed his mother; “what, then, will you be?”
“I sail be a missernary, and walk wound, and wear dold dlasses!”