THE UPLIFT
"Mother!"
What more common and beautiful word than this, a mere symbol, the
outward expression of the child heart within each of us. At any time
it is full of deep meaning, but how greatly intensified when repeated
by some suffering one in the dim morning hours, when "the casement
slowly grows a glimmering square."
"Mother!"
Keith bent over the quiet form on the rude bunk. For hours he had
anxiously awaited some sign of consciousness, and while the old man
with the white hair slept on the floor, rolled up in his one blanket,
he had kept watch.
"Mother, are you there?" and Joe's hand reached out into the air.
"Hush," soothed Keith. "You are safe, so go to sleep."
Joe opened his eyes and fixed them upon the missionary in a dreamy sort
of a way, then closed them again, and soon passed off into a peaceful
slumber.
Steadily the wounded man recovered under the careful treatment he
received. The blankness, caused by the concussion, which at the first
enwrapped his mind, rolled away as a dark cloud vanishes from the
mountain's brow. Keith was much with him during the first few days.
He knew the importance of keeping his mind filled with fresh, bright
thoughts, and not allowing him to brood upon Pritchen and the terrible
scene at the saloon. He told him stories of his experience among the
Indians, and many of their quaint ways. At times Joe would laugh
heartily at some amusing incident, and eagerly ask for more. Often
Keith read to him a story from a book or an old magazine, and when it
was finished they would discuss it together.
On such occasions, Sol Burke, the old man who owned the cabin, was
always an earnest listener. He seldom spoke, but would lean forward,
as if drinking in every word, and puff away steadily at his strong
black pipe. "Caribou" Sol, the name by which he was generally known,
was not the only one interested in these tales. Others drifted into
the shack, and listened too, strapping fellows, some of them, who would
remain very still while the story continued. It was in their own
cabins where they gave vent to their feelings.
"By gar," said one brawny chap, "that was a crack-a-jack yarn the
parson read to-day. It tickled me, it did, about that Trotty, and his
daughter. Wasn't she a brick?"
"And did ye see Sol when he read about the chap wid the kid in his
arms?" asked another.
"No, what about him?"
"Why, he leaned right over, and even forgot his pipe. I never saw such
a wistful look in any man's face."
"That's nothing. I guess we all looked pretty much that way."
One night when Joe was almost recovered, Keith walked back to his
lonely cabin lost in thought. He had been reading, as usual, and the
small shack had been crowded to its utmost capacity. For several days,
as he watched the men, he had been wondering what he could do to make
their lives a little brighter. He knew very well how cheerless were
their cabins. Four square walls of rough-hewn logs, unrelieved by
ornament or picture; a bunk, a sheet-iron camping stove, one or two
three-legged stools, and a small table filled the room, dimly lighted
by one feeble candle.
In addition to such dreary abodes were the long nights, the cheerless
silence, with no one to care whether a man lived or died; no news from
the great outside world, and one day dragging wearily to a close, only
to be succeeded by another, and then another, through long dreary
months. Sometimes the men would meet together, but the cabins were all
much alike. Perdue's store was the only bright spot, and there the men
wandered.
Keith thought of all this. What could he do? What right had he to be
a missionary, a saviour of souls, if he had no line to let out, or boat
to launch in the hour of need?
Reaching his cabin, he sat for some time at the small table where he
carried on his writing and translational work. His few choice books
looked down upon him from their rude shelves.
"Ah, old friends," he said, looking up at them, "if you could only
comfort those men, as you have comforted me, what a help you would be
now."
Then it was that the books spoke to him. They suggested an idea,
which, flashing along the brain, flushed the thinker's cheek.
The dogs squatting around wondered what had come over their master.
Yukon poked his nose into the listless hand, while Brisko, with
pricked-up ears, awaited some word of greeting. Keith heeded them not,
but sat long and quietly at the table working out his new plan.
"It will do!" he exclaimed at length. "Hey, Yukon, old boy! we'll beat
Perdue and his bad whiskey yet, won't we? Now, let's off to bed."
Next morning bright and early the missionary made his way to a long low
log building, standing by the side of the church, and not far from his
own cabin. In this was a large stove, which was soon sending out its
genial heat, and giving an air of comfort to the place. Keith looked
round with much satisfaction.
"Just what we want," he said to himself. "The Indians will not need it
until spring, and why should it remain here unused? A few more tables
from that whip-sawn lumber, the benches repaired, and things will be
quite presentable."
Then he set to work, and the manner in which he handled hammer, axe and
saw proved him well skilled in such matters.
He had been working for some time when the door opened, and Joe Simkins
entered. Simply greeting the missionary with "Hello!" he perched
himself upon a small table and gazed around the room.
"Good morning," replied Keith, pausing in the act of nailing a leg to a
rickety bench. "How's the neck?"
"First class; all healed up. My! it feels good in here, for it's
mighty cold outside."
"Better than Perdue's store?"
"Perdue's store be blowed! No more of that for me."
"So you don't intend to go there again?"
"Not much."
"But where will you spend your evenings?"
"Don't know; haven't many more to spend."
Keith looked up quickly. Joe had buried his face in his hands, and was
huddled on the edge of the table. Going to his side, he placed his
hand on the young man's shoulder.
"Joe!"
No answer.
"Joe, you don't mean it, surely! What's the matter?"
"But what's the use of living, and dragging out a dog's existence in
that wretched shack of mine, when in a second I can be free from all
the trouble."
"Yes, Joe, you may free yourself from the trouble in this life, but is
it manly to bring sorrow to others, and bow the heads of your dear
ones?"
Joe looked up. "No one cares for me," he said, half-defiantly.
"No one? Think again. Didn't you tell me that your father and mother
were living alone on a little farm back in Ontario, and that you, their
youngest child, were the last to leave the old home?"
"Yes."
"Joe," Keith spoke quietly, but with intense earnestness, "they are
poor and lonely. Day by day they toil long and hard. What comforts
have they in life? They sit alone, side by side, during the winter
evenings. They talk of you, think of you, pray for you, and wait some
word from you. You, the youngest, the last upon which they bestowed
their affection, are much in their thoughts. Isn't that a true
picture?"
"My God, it's too true!" broke from the young man's lips.
"Well, then, which will you do, add more trouble to their lives, bow
down their poor backs more than ever, and cause them to sit so still
through the long evenings, and just wait from day to day for the Master
to call; or will you win out here, bear the battle's brunt of gloom and
despair, then in the spring make a strike, to go back home rich, to
bring joy and comfort to your parents' declining years?"
For a time Joe did not speak. He was struggling hard, for the words
were telling upon him. "I never thought of it in that way," he said,
at length. "But you have cheered me up a bit, and if I can only stand
this winter I think I can win out. It is very lonely in this camp, and
a fellow gets so discouraged."
"How would this place do?" asked Keith. "How would you like to spend
your evenings here?"
Joe's eyes opened in surprise. "Come here! for what?"
"To read, play games, sing, chat, smoke, and perhaps debate subjects
with the rest of the men."
"To read! read what?" and Joe looked around in a puzzled manner.
"Books, magazines and papers, of course; what else would people read?"
"Say, parson, you're only joking, aren't you? Books, magazines, here
in this desolate hole! over a thousand miles from anywhere! Why we've
not had a letter or one word from the outside since last summer, and
now you talk about books, magazines and papers!"
"Well, suppose such a thing did happen," laughed Keith at Joe's
incredulity, "do you think the men would like it?"
"Like it? Well, I guess they'd like it. Some would, anyway, for they
are hungry, starving for reading matter. Didn't you see the way they
crowded into the cabin while you read to me? You should see the only
book we have in camp. It's a cheap copy of 'David Copperfield,' which
one of the boys got from a mission station over on the Mackenzie River
side, when he came in by way of the Peel. You'd hardly know it was a
book at all, with the covers off and the leaves all loose. I've read
it through three times this winter already, and some of the boys have
read it more than that."
A lump came into Keith's throat as he listened to this simple story,
and laying down his hammer he seized his cap and mittens. "Come, Joe,"
he said, "I want to show you something."
Together they made their way to the store room, behind the mission
house, which, when they had entered, Keith silently pointed to several
piles of magazines and papers stacked in one corner. Joe's eyes bulged
with amazement. He rubbed them, to make sure he was not dreaming.
"Gee-whiz!" he exclaimed. "Who'd have thought it!"
Then he began to examine the treasure. "'Illustrated London News!'
well I'll be jiggered! 'Corn Hill,' 'The Century,' 'Leisure Hour,'
'The Canadian Magazine,' and lots more, whole stacks of them; my, what
a treat! Say, parson, where did you get them?"
"They came with the mission supplies," was the response. "For years
they have been gathering there, and not long ago I was tempted to have
a big bonfire, and burn the oldest ones, as they were taking up so much
room. But now I'm glad I didn't."
"So am I," assented Joe. "But say," he continued, looking round the
room, "what's all that stuff for?"
"Oh, they're mission supplies for the Indians."
"And you sell the stuff?"
"Yes."
"Oh, then, that's what Pritchen and Perdue meant. I didn't understand
them at the time."
"Why, what did they say?" asked Keith.
"They said a lot; told what a grafter you are, that you supply the
Indians with all sorts of things, take their furs in return, and are
making a fortune out of them, all under the cloak of religion."
"And did they say that?" The missionary's tone was one of
astonishment, and an expression of pain crossed his face.
"Yes, but that's only a part of the stories. They're stirring up the
boys against you with all kinds of yarns."
"And what else did they say? Tell me, Joe."
The latter looked cautiously around, and in a low tone whispered
something into Keith's ear, which caused him to start back as if from a
blow.
"God help me!" he cried, placing his hands to his forehead. "Is it
possible! Is it possible!"
"Yes, Pritchen told it over and over again, so I heard last night.
Then he said that you killed the woman in a lonely place."
"Killed her! That I killed her?"
"Yes, and when he happened along and interfered, you struck at him with
a knife, and made the terrible scar on his breast which he showed the
boys."
"The brute! The brute!"
"You remember the night you pinned him over the bar, and were just
going to smash his face when you saw the scar which startled you so
much?"
"Yes, I remember it only too well."
"Well, he's making a mighty lot out of that, and the hard part is so
many of the boys believe him."
"Joe," said Keith, "it's cold here," and he shivered. "Let us take
some of these magazines in our arms and go back to the Indian school
room. It's warm there, and I want to tell you something."
"Now, sit down," he said, when they had reached the place, "and listen
to what I have to say, that you may know the truth.
"When I came here ten years ago the Indians were in a wretched
condition of semi-starvation. They sold their skins to a fur-trading
company, which sent a boat up stream for the very purpose. For
valuable furs they received cheap, gaudy dress material, useless toys,
and many other things they didn't need. They were being robbed right
along. After a while I induced them to give up this ruinous barter,
and deal with a more honest company, which agreed to send up a small
steamer twice a year, in the Spring and Fall. Now the Indians have
their own store, and keep those goods you saw on hand. I have never
made a cent out of the business, for the natives get everything. Once
a year they appoint one of their number to keep the store, and the lot
has fallen time and again to Amos, who is paid by the Indians for his
work.
"When a native brings in, say, a fox skin, he receives its value
according to the previous year's rate. If he needs tea and sugar he is
charged the same amount as was paid to the company---not a cent more.
When that fox skin is sold, if it brings more the Indian is credited
with the amount, but, if less, it is deducted. We have a simple yet
splendid system of accounts, which has taken years to perfect. At the
end of the year every Indian is given a statement of how he stands, and
so far there has been very little complaining.
"When an Indian does not wish to take up the full value of his furs in
goods at one time, he is given a number of large beads, their standard
of wealth, which he keeps on a stout string. Some of the natives have
saved up quite an amount in this way, and in times of sickness, or
during a bad hunting season, are not dependent on others.
"Then each Indian gives a portion of what he earns for the relief of
the needy, sick, and the aged, besides contributing something every
year to our Missionary Society. They are delighted with the whole
plan, and, while I oversee the business, I get nothing. Any one who
cares to do so may examine our system, and learn how straight it is. I
know very well that Perdue longs to get control of this trade, and in
fact did induce a number to buy from him. But that has been all
stopped since my return, and so he is very spiteful. You may tell any
one you like the whole truth, and how the Indians have been helped by
the system."
"I shall," replied Joe, and the look upon his face revealed his
sincerity.
"As to the next," continued Keith, "I shall be brief. No greater lie
has ever been fabricated against a human being than that. Pritchen
himself is the guilty one, and tries to shuffle the blame on me. Years
ago he was a squaw-man, among a tribe away to the North of us. I
visited that band, and one day on a lonely trail found that brute who
had fatally injured his Indian wife, and her babe at the breast.
Before she died, however, she left that scar upon him with the point of
a keen knife. The woman told me all just before her death, and gave in
my charge her only living child, a bright-eyed girl, who is now at
Klassan, and remembers it all."
"What! the girl here?" asked Joe in surprise.
"Yes, and it is all that we can do to prevent her from avenging her
mother's death."
"Does Pritchen know she's here?"
"No, I think not. But the girl has been following him like a shadow,
and watching his every movement, without as yet doing anything more.
She is rather strange of late, and we cannot understand her moods."
"But why does Pritchen fear you?"
"He knows me of old, and hates me for a number of reasons. But it's
not me he fears, but the Indians. He's a bully and a coward, and has a
great fear of death, with good reason, too. He is very shrewd, and
knows if he lays hands on me the Indians will tear him to pieces."
"Do the Indians know about him, and the deed he committed?" asked Joe.
"Only the girl and Amos, the catechist. The former for some cause has
never spoken to the rest, and I told the latter, but he is silent for
the same reason that I am."
"What's that?"
"The Indians are very impulsive, and if they knew that this man had
committed such a deed upon a helpless woman, and one of their own race,
too, I might not be able to restrain them. They are also feeling sore
over the contemptible trick Pritchen imposed upon them the day I
returned, and it would take very little to cause a complete outburst.
They never forget an injury or a kindness. As it is, they will spend
so much time out in the hills talking about that trick that I'm afraid
their hunting will suffer."
"But what are you going to do?" inquired Joe.
"Try to do my duty, and hold out till Spring. Then if he becomes too
offensive, and I see our mission will suffer, I shall hold a Council of
the leading Indians about the matter."
Joe leaned eagerly forward with an anxious look upon his face. "Say,
parson, I wouldn't wait till Spring if I were in your shoes. You'll
need their help before that."
"How do you know?"
"Pritchen will work through the miners. He'll not touch you himself,
that is quite evident, but he'll cut at you in some other way. I've
heard him talk; and you have no idea how he's poisoning the men's
minds."
"Never fear," returned Keith. "We're in the Great Master's keeping,
and He will look after us. But come, let us get something to eat. We
have talked too long already, though it has been a comfort to unburden
my mind. After our bite we must get this room ready for the men
to-night."
"And I'll round up as many as I can," replied Joe, as they set out for
the mission house.