The Cabin on the Prairie Part 5

"I guess pa's coming now," said Sarah, who, anxious to get to eating, had looked out to see if he was in sight. "No; it isn't he, either; I don't know who it is. How nicely dressed he is!"

At the latter exclamation the family urchins rushed in a body through the door, upsetting Sarah in their eagerness to see the wonder.

A gentlemanly, middled-aged man in black, with gold spectacles and pleasant countenance, approached.

Accustomed to the plainly-attired specimens of humanity that do the hard work of the frontier, the children, overawed by his appearance, shrank behind cabin and pigsty, in spite of his kindly invitations to stay, where they peeped at him in open-mouthed astonishment.

"Mrs. Jones, I presume," said he, bowing, as, abashed, she answered his polite rap on the door-frame.

"Yes, sir," she replied, wondering how he knew her name.

Entering, without being asked,--for Mrs. Jones was too confused to think of it,--he said,--

"I heard that your son had met with an injury, and as I was looking up children for the Sabbath school we are to organize next Sunday, I thought I would step in and see how he was, and how many of your little ones could attend."

"It is the missionary," whispered Tom, as his mother nervously smoothed the bed-clothes.

The good minister heard the remark, and not appearing to notice the mother's embarra.s.sment, stepped to Tom's side, and in a way that made both mother and son feel at ease, said,--

"I hope you are not seriously hurt, my lad."

"No, sir," replied Tom, grateful for his thoughtful kindness. "My face was burnt pretty badly by the powder; but it's nearly well now, and the black is coming off nicely."

"How did you contrive to get hurt so, at this season of the year? Boys sometimes get burned with powder on Independence Day. I once met with such an accident myself."

"How did it happen?" Tom ventured to inquire, for he loved dearly to hear a story.

"It was when I was about fourteen," replied the minister. "I was a wide-awake little good-for-nothing, and had for some weeks saved up my pennies to celebrate the Fourth with. I bought me a half pound of powder, and a little iron cannon, on wheels, and, as you may believe, antic.i.p.ated a jolly time. I had decided, the night before, to commence the day with a grand salute; and that it might produce the greatest effect, I crept softly down in my stocking feet, by my parents'

bed-room into the front hall, before daylight, and having loaded my little gun to the muzzle the evening before, I touched it off. It made a great noise, I a.s.sure you--all the louder, of course, because it was in the house; then, slipping on my shoes, I went into the streets, leaving the old folks to go to sleep again if they could. My first use of the powder, you see, did no harm to me, unless it made me careless.

When I got into the street, I found crowds of boys and men were there before me, making all the noise they could, firing off crackers, pistols, and guns, and making the foggy morning air resound with the music of tin horns and drums. Meeting a boy with a large horse-pistol, I bought it of him at a foolishly high price, and banged away with that till breakfast time. At the eastern extremity of the city, where I then lived, was a high hill, called Munjoy, on which the soldiers were to encamp that day; and after eating a hurried meal, I went there. Scores of white tents were pitched, occupied by men who sold all sorts of tempting eatables, while thousands of men, women, and children walked about. It was an exciting scene to me. The hill, indeed, was a glorious spot, for it overlooked the city on the one side, with its thousands of buildings and shaded streets, and on the other the harbor, with its shipping and wharves, and lovely islands, while the ocean stretched away as far as the eye could reach."

"I never saw the ocean," interrupted Tom.

"Well, I will tell you what it resembles. You have looked for miles and miles over the prairie--I mean a _rolling_ prairie, that in gentle swells of land extends till the sky shuts down upon it?"

"O, yes," answered Tom.

"Well, imagine that prairie turned to water, so deep that you could not touch bottom with the longest line you ever saw,--the ocean would look so; only remember that it is always in motion--ebbing, and flowing, and roaring, and dashing against the land and the rocks, its waves sometimes running very high, topped off with a white foam."

"O," said Tom, earnestly, "if I could only once see it!"

The minister studied Tom's expressive face a moment, and then said,--

"Perhaps you may, some day. But I was going to tell you how I got hurt. I had exploded all the powder, and was about tired of the pistol,--for you know such things don't satisfy a great while, after all,--when I came across some boys who were making volcanoes.

Volcanoes, you know, are burning mountains. They took some powder, wet it, worked it with their fingers into miniature hills, then put one end of a strip of match-paper in the top of each, and lighted the other end of the paper; this would burn slowly down into the top of the powder-hill; that would take fire and send up showers of sparks for quite a while, as it gradually consumed. This amus.e.m.e.nt fascinated me. So, buying a quarter of a pound of powder, I made a hill like those I had seen, and lighted the match-paper as I saw them light theirs; but when it had burnt all away, the hill did not burn.

Thinking, therefore, I had put too much water in mine, I stooped down and poured on from the paper some dry powder. In an instant it ignited from a smouldering spark, exploding also the contents of the paper which I held in my hand. My face was dreadfully burned, and became as black as a negro's."

"So did mine," said Tom; "but it is coming off nicely now."

"So I see," returned the minister, laughing; "and I dare say you worried almost as much about the _black_ as you did about the _burn_."

"Tom feared it would never come off," said the mother.

"Ah, that's just the way I felt. But I have found out since that there's something worse than a black face."

"What's that?" asked Tom.

"A black heart!" replied the minister.

"A black heart!" repeated Tom, in doubt of his meaning.

"Yes, my lad. What I mean is a heart blackened by sin. Ah, if folks worried more about _that_, and less about their looks, how much more sensible it would be!" Then, after a pause, he said,--

"But there is one thing for which we should be very grateful; and that is, that as there are remedies for us when we injure the body, and disfigure it,--as we did our faces, my son,--that can heal the injury, and bring the skin out all fresh and fair, so there is a great Physician, who can heal the hurt which sin has done our souls, and cause them to be pure and white forever. Isn't that a glorious thought?"

"Yes," whispered Tom, weeping.

"Yes," e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.ed the mother, with deep emotion.

"But," said the minister, "how many of these little folks"--for most of the children had ventured in, and stood listening spell-bound to his recital--"will come to Sunday school next Sunday?" And getting a promise that as many of them would be there as possible, he took leave, saying he hoped to call again soon.

The children's hearts were taken captive by their clerical visitor.

And well it might be so, for he was their true friend. And it mattered little to him that their dwelling was rude and comfortless, their clothing old and worn, and their manners uncultured. He loved them for his Master's sake, and for their souls' sake: for this he had left the elegances of his eastern home, and come out into the wilderness. He was a true man, and a true minister of Jesus Christ--seeking not a name, wealth, luxury, the favor of the rich and great, but to bring the straying lambs and sheep into the fold.

"I think we won't wait any longer for your father," said Mrs. Jones, after the children had got somewhat over the excitement caused by the missionary's call; and putting her hand into the oven to take from thence the plate of cakes, she looked in to see why she did not find them, exclaiming,--

"Why, where are the cakes? I certainly set them in here. Who has taken them away?"

The children gazed at each other in consternation.

"I'll bet it's some of Bub's doings," said Eliza; and noticing for the first time that he was not in the room, they hastened out to find him.

"Bub, Bub!" called the mother.

"Bub, Bub!" echoed the children, as they searched the field over, and looked into every nook and corner that they could think of. But there was no answer, and not a trace of him was to be found, until, at last, Charley called out,--

"Here's his stick!"

"He cannot be far off, then," said his mother, although she began to grow uneasy about him.

"No," said Robert, "for he rides that stick most all the time:" then he suddenly added, "Ah, you little rascal! I see you!" Then turning to the rest, he whispered, "Just look here, but don't make any noise!"

And Mrs. Jones and the children, gathering softly around the pen, peeping in, saw Bub, comfortably seated by the fawn, the cakes in his lap, eating them and feeding the gentle creature. Bub had teased the fawn the most, and Bub was the first to tame it.

[Ill.u.s.tration: BUB AND THE FAWN. Page 64.]