The Cabin on the Prairie Part 9

"Here it is," said the husband, pa.s.sing her the sheet; "better read it to the parson; there'll be plenty of time afore the meeting;" and he glanced 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 const.i.tution, 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 fort.i.tude 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 G.o.d 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 G.o.d would make that wilderness and solitary place glad with the sound of the gospel. He asked for the church privileges to which he had been accustomed, and he felt a.s.sured that G.o.d 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 G.o.d 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. G.o.d 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.'"

"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 G.o.d 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 G.o.d 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 call extended 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 pa.s.sed another delightful Sabbath, notwithstanding certain trifling violations of the proprieties of worship as observed in eastern a.s.semblies.

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. n.o.body, 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 G.o.d 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 of _his_ congregation the 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, _rightly_ dividing 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 multiplying of the loaves and fishes when Christ fed the fainting mult.i.tudes; 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, singular 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.

CHAPTER 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 laid upon 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 in _such_ a 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 calm the 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 G.o.d.

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 G.o.d to enable me to do as mother has advised, and as I see to be right in the circ.u.mstances."

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, that he felt like shouting praises to G.o.d; 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. G.o.d 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 shall use 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?"