have been intended for others and not for us and that very night, I
come upon this sign and it took every bit of doubt out of my heart.
"'For the promise is unto _you and your children_.' How could it be
plainer than that?"
As he closed the Book I said: "I, too, have a Book but I think
sometimes I have lost my way as I journeyed and I am going to put up
sign-boards of my own now, so I'll never lose my way again. There is
no use to camp in dark valleys when just beyond are the hills and the
springs. It's unwise to wander thru deserts of generalizations when the
promises are close at hand."
"Yes," added Jim, "what do we care whether King Agag was hewed to
pieces or not. We know the words of salvation."
XI
RAILROADING WITH THE KID
If there is anything that I have told you about Harbor Jim that sounds
feeble or sickly sentimental, I have told you an untruth. Turn back to
where I said it, and cross it out. It doesn't belong in this story.
It's rank injustice to Jim.
I have fished with a good many of the Landers. I have been fishing off
the banks when the weather has kept every man of us praying, who knew
how to pray, and I have had a chance to judge of these bronzed fellows,
big of hand and foot and the same of heart, most of them, as they met
the wind and weather, the fortunes of life on the sea and the shore;
and I want you to know I never have known and loved a manlier man than
Jim.
Maybe that was why I was surprised one morning as we were returning to
camp from a trip up the Humber River after salmon, to see the tears
rolling down his cheeks and to note that he hastily took his sleeve and
wiped his face and swallowed hard.
In this land of uncrossed lakes and unfished rivers, there is probably
not a fairer one than the Humber River and there are reminders of
Norway both on the lower and upper Humber.
It was with some difficulty that I had persuaded Harbor Jim to leave
his home for the trip inland to the Humber for salmon fishing. The
Lander does not take readily to a vacation, indeed, the average Lander
cannot afford to take one. After several days of argument, Jim gave in,
with this sentiment:
"I think the Lord must a been a good fisherman, else He wouldn't a
picked fishermen to follow Him. He wanted to swap stories with 'em now
and again. The Master knew by the ruffle and the shadow on the lake
when the fish was schooling and he told Peter where to let down his
nets. I have an idea He went away sometimes to fish as well as to pray
and that fishin' with Peter and John, they come to know each other
better."
After that Jim was as keen as a boy to get ready the lines and the
flies and to pack our little outfit. We went on the train to Deer Lake,
crossed the lower end of the lake and went up the river. We fished near
Steady Brook Falls and away up at Big Falls and the weather was all
that could be desired. We caught more salmon and trout than we needed
and we were bringing out all that the law would allow us to transport.
It had been the best week's fishing I had ever had, and there had
been some surprises. We had by chance fallen in with an old friend of
mine from the States and another day we had seen a stag of great size
following the birds down to a pool.
All had gone so well with us that I was at a loss to account for this
sudden demonstration of feeling. It was not like Jim. I knew him and
his way well enough, to know that he would not wish to be questioned,
so we tramped on in silence over the carry, and it was not for an hour
afterward that he ventured an explanation.
"There at the carry you may have thought it strange, the way I acted
up. That little fellow we seed there playing with his father's canoe,
made me think of little Peter. I've never mentioned him, I seldom do,
but I think a good deal about him and often I believe he is with me. He
made the carry and past over to Kingdom Come three years ago.
"Do you know sometimes when I used to watch my little Peter playing,
and the light and shadows would be around him, I used to think, pardon
me, he looked like the pictures I've seen of the carpenter's Son, His
Son. He was our first child, born out of our first wonderful love, but
he never was a strong child. I don't know why. I never could think
of him as becomin' a fisherman. He used to like better'n the average
child, to journey with us thru the land o' the springs during the
evenings, and I thought mebbe the Lord would call him to be a preacher,
though I never let on to him, what I was a thinkin'.
"When he was eight, he got kinder spindlin' and at the same time
he wanted to go to the woods and to see the island. He had another
hankering, too, that was to ride on the trains. He used to collect
engine numbers any time he was in St. John's. His mother used to say
that she believed he'd be an engine driver instead of a preacher.
"At first I didn't pay much attention when he asked to go, but as he
got thinner and paler, I began to take trips with him on the railroad.
We had great times together going to places and for a time they seemed
to chuck him up a bit. We went down to old Placentia one time. Ever
down there? It's a lovely old place; lies sprawled out on a sandy beach
with arms reaching round it and the hills sending down beauty on to
it. We climbed the hill across the gut from the town, Castle Hill, and
saw the crumbling ruins of the old French Fort and we went across to
Bradshaw's and saw the Communion set that was presented by King William
the Fourth.
"Sometimes we would take mother along and go to Top-sails and look
down the bay as we ate our lunch. Then one time we went over to Belle
Isle and saw the men working in the iron mines under the sea and Peter
talked about what he saw for weeks. I was worried a good deal about
him, but we both felt better on the trips. There was always something
to see. For miles our railroad gives you Conception Bay with now a
frame of hills and now one of spruces. Then in the centre of the
island are great lonesome barrens where the caribou come to feed and
the little nameless lakes are clustered. Peter had 'em all named, but
I think he used to change the names sometimes. There were so many his
little mind forgot the long list.
"Then 'twas fun to be on our railroad. It's a road that throws you
about some; makes an impression on you, and a good hard one, sometimes.
But it's the only railroad we've got in the Dominion and without it
our country wouldn't have the farms it has now, nor friends like you,
coming and going.
"I remember when we took the sleeper, the kid and I. We didn't often do
that; we couldn't afford it, but this time we were going over to the
Codroys and I put the little fellow to bed and sat down for a spell of
thinking, across the aisle from him. Suddenly the train gave a lurch.
Guess the engineer got kinder hot stoppin' to drive cows off the track
and we was a hittin' it up as much as thirty miles an hour. What do you
think? Little Peter come a flyin' down from his berth right into my
arms and he says, not hurt a bit, only tickled:
"'Pa, a fellow has to be put to bed more'n once to stay put on our
road.'
"He always called it our road, though he knew its short-comings as well
as I.
"We only took one winter trip and that was a long one and I blamed
myself many a time for taking the risk, though I don't know's it hurt
him any, and I'm sure I always kept him warm and covered. When we got
to Gaff Topsails, the track ahead was solid, sheer ice and the wind
swept fierce across it from the south. They strapped the train on the
track, so's it wouldn't tumble over. Seems funny now, but it wasn't
then. But we didn't suffer any. They had lots of food-stuff aboard
and when it give out the train hands went across the snow to the next
town to get more. It took us fifteen days to get to Petrie's. The
store-keeper at Petrie's had been up to St. John's to buy goods and he
was on the train with us, anxious to get home. He was kind to little
Peter and rode him pig-a-back every day, when it was too bad for him to
walk about.
"The store-keeper reached Petrie's in thirteen days, two days ahead of
the train, by walking the last ten miles. His folks was surprised, for
they didn't expect him until the train got in.
"Still that trip we made better time than the trains sometimes do in
the winter. One train took twenty-six days to get across the island.
"On these trips, Peter and I would come home with many a story to tell
mother and little Peter would be wildly excited and there would be big,
red spots in both his cheeks; and when the excitement of the trip was
over he would grow weary. He would cough and want to eat less and sleep
less, but always he was cheerful and a-planning for railroading with
his Dad."
It came time to camp for the night and Jim stopped the story, as he
started our fire and I began to put up our tent.
XII
THROUGH THE VALLEY WITH THE LITTLE FELLOW
When we had eaten our fill of fried salmon and blue-berry duff, that no
one could stir up and bake better than Jim, and the camp was tidied for
the night, Jim went on with his story.
He had come to the hard part of the story, the saddest part of his
life, and I was glad that it was dark; I knew it would be easier for
him. I was glad, too, that the camp fire was dying down, for thus I
would see less of suffering that might be revealed could I see his face
in the brighter light.
"I had the Grenfell doctor come. I'd sent ahead to have him met at
the Hospital Ship and a doctor, a great man from the States, on his
vacation, they said, come over here to our place. He was giving his
vacation because he loved Grenfell and the fishermen.
"Little Peter answered all of his questions and I was sheer proud of
him. I could see the Doctor liked the little man. He said to Peter,
when he had finished examining him:
"'I'll make you better, my little man, if I can. You take all the eggs
and milk the hens and the cows will let you have and grow so fat your
mother won't know you.'
"But to me, he said, when he walked down the road a piece with me:
"'You're Harbor Jim, they tell me, a man loved hereabouts for the
fights you've made to reach the harbor in a night of storm. I am hating
to tell you, Jim, but it's goin' to be a hard fight this time, the
hardest fight you ever had. There's a chance; but one lung is all gone
and the other's bad. I'll do my best, but if you have to go thru the
valley with the little fellow, I'll only hope you won't forget to live
up to your reputation.'
"Then he left me all manner of directions, about eggs and milk that was
to give him ammunition for the fight. Told me to soak him in sunshine
and so on. And I did just as he told me. I gave him his cod-liver oil,
when I had to invent fairy stories to get him to swallow it. I wrapped
him up in blankets and sat him in the sunshine. His mother did as much
or more'n I did. I used to listen of a night to see if he breathed all
right. I listened, when ever Effie was asleep, to see if I could tell
if he breathed as strong as he did the night before.
"Those days my heart was sore all the while, but I couldn't let on for
fear she'd know just how I felt."
Jim swallowed hard, but he had made up his mind to tell me the story
of little Peter and he wasn't the man to back down. He had a knife and
a piece of a birch and he was whittling away. The light would flare up
a moment and I could see him looking straight ahead into the fire and
whittling faster.
"Then I had to cover it up from him; for little Peter was sure that he
was getting better. Seems though the worse he got, the surer he was
he'd be better tomorrow. When he got so weak I had to carry him across
the room, he began to talk more about spring and railroading again with
his dad.
"Sometimes when I'd been off and was comin' home, I dreaded so seeing
him, thus weak, that I'd rather a-gone thru the Narrows on the darkest
night God ever made, than to face Peter with a jolly quip. So many
times then, and so many times since, I have thought, if I only could
have toted the load for him. If only my hand could a-held it up for
him. He was so little and frail and I was big and strong. And it was
the utter, awful helplessness of it that made it so hard to bear. We
wanted to help so bad and there was so very little that either of us
could do.
"We didn't have Clara then. She didn't come until afterward, and then
Peter was all we had. It didn't seem that we could give him up. I
reasoned with myself and I didn't one night forget the Book. But there
were nights when we halted at the springs that our mouths were so dry
and parched that even the Water of Life seemed not to be sufficient to
quench them.
"We went deeper and deeper into the valley. He grew weaker and weaker.
Just like a little flower that is fading away. One night he grew worse.
It was February, and I put on my snow shoes and started for St. John's
for a doctor. I walked away into the night and I got a doctor and was
back afore dawn.
"The doctor took his pulse and said:
"'He'll be crossing at the dawn.'
"Little Peter often listened to the Book and he was beginning to love
it, too; and just before the sun broke that cold, February morning, he
whispered:
"'God is light; in Him is no darkness at all.'
"Then it was morning, but oh, it was night and the valley for us!
The doctor left us and we sat alone, her hand in mine. Effie didn't
say anything; I think if she had I couldn't a bore it. And there was
no minister present. I was glad of that, too. I guess they all want
to help, but a good many on'em that I have knowed want to argue and
to tell you it's all right and you don't want to talk just then and
arguments don't offer much comfort. The time had come when only one
could comfort us and we had to find Him. Some do not find Him for days,
some for weeks, some never find Him again.
"The words that kept saying themselves over to me were these: 'Be still
and know that I am God.' I was some impatient, some bitter. I know I
oughtn't to have been, but I was, and I answered the Lord: 'I _am_
still; see me suffering here; is that all the message?'
"It was a good thing we had something to do. We had to see to the
little wasted body. We had to arrange for the service. We had to tidy
up the house. We shared it all, the new sorrow and the pain, just as
we had shared the wallet and the joys. The minister come way from St.
John's and I was grateful to him. I don't remember just what he said,
but I am sure that Peter was worthy all the good he said of him; and I
know that I needed all the prayer he made.
"But when it was all over and the house was so quiet, it was harder
still. It didn't do no good to listen for his breathing. There was no
need to think of eggs or milk for the little fellow's breakfast. He was
gone!
"I was very tired and I was about to turn in that night after the
funeral, when Effie said:
"'We need to halt by the springs more than ever.'
"I knew she was right, so with a sad heart I opened the Book. I never
knowed just how it was, perhaps the Lord himself guided my hands, but
we come to a little halt at the 14th chapter of John. It was the Spring
of Comfort and Peace, we so much needed. It was the place where so many
have camped before in their night of sorrow and gone forth strengthened
and rejoicing in the morning. We were very thirsty and it was real
water, the water of life and we drank as we never had drank before. He
spoke to us and said: 'Let not your heart be troubled!'
"I won't repeat that chapter, but it has never lost its power, to
refresh and comfort since the day He first uttered the words. If you
ever have to go again thru the valley yourself; halt there. It will be
the wisest thing you ever did.
"After that I was able to think clear again. I said to myself. I
trusted the Father before and He never did me wrong. I can't just
see, but I can trust and it will grow brighter and so it has, though
sometimes I don't see quite plain, even yet. I know that He must have
a place for the little fellow and He must know what Peter needs. He'll
know how to pick the best teachers and all the experiences he needs. My
Father is looking out for him. He can do no wrong."
For a little while all was quiet but for the chattering of the river as
it hurried on down to sea. The wind freshened in the trees. Messages
were passing above us. Jim brought a bundle of fresh wood and the fire
leaped into a cheerful blaze. There was not any more that needed to
be said. We both made an effort to shake off the sadness and fell to
talking of the weight of the day's salmon catch, as we undressed. We
carried but one little tent and slept together. Some hour after we had
gone to bed, I imagined Jim was trying to find out if I was asleep
without disturbing me. At last he decided that I was awake and said:
"I'm sure it's all right about little Peter. We're out of the valley
now and are finding again the sunny plain."
XIII
THE QUEER ONE
"Sartin sure! By the big dipper, it's sartin shame!" Bob McCartney
stood at my door all excitement as he delivered himself of these
explosives.
Bob is a short man and middle-wide, and he is on the increase. This
particular morning he stood on my stoop, the very personification of
heat. He took off his hat and mopped his head and his red face and
without waiting went on with his message.
"The Missus Jim is took sudden and terrible sick. Doc Withers is
there and don't know what ails her. Think of anything she could take?
Anything you know of she could do? Everybody is suggestin'! Neighbors
comin' an' goin' all the while, tryin' to do something for the Missus
Jim. Didn't seem to be anything more I could do. You can't try
everything to onct, so think's I, I'll go and see him. He comes from
New York an' mebbe he'll have a new idea."
"It might be a good thing to let one or two ideas have a chance," I
replied. "I've noticed that ideas that get rushed and crowded don't do
as well."
Bob brightened and pulling on his cap, backed down the stairs. "I'll
tell 'em to go slow and let the first ideas have a chance."
I wisely concluded that Jim would have all the help and more than he
needed and I did not call for three days. When I did Mrs. Jim herself
answered my knock and from just behind Jim shouted:
"She's all right again. Didn't prove so bad as we thought. Something
got inside of her that didn't belong there and soon's it got out, she
come along all right."
"Was it the doctor or you, Jim, that cured her?" I asked, as I sat down.
"I've been thinking o' that a good deal, this day," he answered.
"Everything traces back to the Almighty, when you let your thought
travel far enough, and I'd like to thank Him, first. I prayed a good
deal and though I don't need no thanks, I believe those prayers helped.
Then the neighbors helped. They loaned hot water bags and fetched
pillows, an' done all manner o' things, 'till thinks I, nobody ever
had such neighbors as us. Then there was Doc Withers. Now some folks
give all the credit to the docs, but I don't; neither do I take all the
praise from 'em. Their His servants, too, and I callate dividing up the
responsibility and the thanks for a cure is a mighty difficult task. I
know I ain't worthy to do it myself."
A knock, a quick, nervous knock came just then and Jim answered it,
throwing wide the door, as he always did, with his cheery, "Come right
in."
A thin, tall man with a long rain-coat and big, black-rimmed glasses
stepped in. Snatching off his gray Alpine hat, he introduced himself.
"I'm Clarence O. Jewett, of Boston. Am visiting in Newfoundland,
spending two and a half days here. Came in on the steamer 'Rosalind'
from Halifax, yesterday, going back tomorrow. In St. John's I was told
of Harbor Jim and that his wife was very ill, and I hired a car and
came out here and I am ready to give your wife a treatment. I have
been thinking that perhaps the Lord is using me to bring the only,
real, true religion to Newfoundland. When your wife has seen the light
and comes to know the truth that sin and everything material is a
delusion, deception and a snare, she will understand that being perfect
she cannot really suffer from an illusion. This earth and all things
upon which we look are but shadows. When your wife is whole again and
understands the non-reality of matter, she will testify and others may
hear and heed, until many on this island will come to praise the Lord
and to remember Clarence O. Jewett, of Boston, who brought the only,
real, true religion--"
At this moment, Mrs. Jim, who had stepped out at the knock, re-entered
the room and Jim had his first chance to speak.
"This is the Missus. The news you received is a little late, for she
has recovered. Since you are a mound-tripper and doin' the country,
probably we ought not to keep you. The road across is about five
hundred miles, and if you're goin' to see any more'n St. John's, you'll
have to hurry afore your ship sails. There was a man down here last
year who staid two days in St. John's and then wrote a book about
Newfoundland, but he skipped a few things."
The man was keenly disappointed. He changed his weight from one foot to
the other, for he had not yet taken the seat that Jim had offered him.
He took off his glasses and wiped them and then seating himself and
clearing his throat, resumed.
"The cure is but temporary. Your wife will not be well until she has
learned that there is but one thing to know and that is the truth and
the truth about the truth. And though you cannot expect to understand
it, I will start you on the way toward the one, only, real, true
religion."
"Am I supposed just to listen?" asked Jim, "or do you think I might
know enough to ask a question now and then?"
"Certainly, certainly," the queer man replied. "I have an answer for
every question that is absolutely logical. Take the question of the
existence of evil; that is the most puzzling question in all the world.
I have an answer to it that is entirely satisfactory. Nobody can
contradict it. Evil is matter. Matter does not exist. Therefore evil
does not exist and since it does not exist, it never could have been
created. Evil and matter are just wrong statements of mind. Do you see?
Is it perfectly clear to you?"
Jim gulped, as though he was in swimming and had accidentally swallowed
some salt water. I had come to have a profound admiration for Jim and
was coming more and more to appreciate his wholesome philosophy, and
now I was waiting to see what Jim would do with this man's statements.
"You have doused me beyond my depth, I guess," was the somewhat puzzled
reply of Jim. "It isn't plain to me. But heave ahead a little and mebbe
I'll get some idea of what port you're sailin' to. The only thing you
have said so far that has any familiar sound to me is what you said
about the one, only, real, true religion. I've heard that several times
before. Seems though most every kind o' religion and every different
church feels that it's got the one, only, real, true religion. Strikes
me, every blessed one on'em has got some of the real religion and also
some foolishness and smallness and no one on'em has got the pure,
undiluted article that Jesus Christ brought to the world. I think He
come the nearest to livin' the real religion. But how'd you discover
that your's was the only religion?"
The queer man evidently thought the question irrelevant, for he was off
again.
"It is now proved that all is mental or mind. _Your_ thoughts are
the opposites of mind. They do not exist. They are even as all other
things, non-existent, non-real. God is the only reality. There is no
thing outside of God. You are not separated from Him."
"Then," interrupted Jim, "how about the Prodigal Son? Didn't he get
separated from his Father?"
"That is speaking in terms of no-mind. You have not yet grasped the
thought. Nothing can exist but good. God never saw the Prodigal Son
until he came back, because he never has or can see anything evil."