One of the first Indians to attract our attention at Norway House was a
venerable-looking old man of more than usual height. His appearance was
quite patriarchal. His welcome had been most cordial, and his words
seemed to us like a loving benediction. He called us his children, and
welcomed us to our home and work in the name of the Lord Jesus.
As he was very aged, and had to come a long distance from his home to
the Sunday morning service, we invited him, on the first Sunday after
our arrival at the Mission, to dine with us. He was very grateful, and
said this would enable him to remain for the afternoon native service,
which he dearly prized. He was not only a blessed Christian, but a
natural gentleman. We were so drawn towards him that we invited him to
dine with us, and then rest awhile, each Sabbath between the services.
Like all the old Indians, his age was unknown, but it must have been
over a century, as men above fifty said he was called an old man when
they were boys. The fact that his name had been on the Hudson's Bay
Company's book for eighty years, as a skilful hunter, makes it quite
safe to class him as a centenarian.
His testimony to the blessedness of the Gospel was very clear and
delightful. He "knew Whom he had believed," and ever rejoiced in the
blessed assurance that he would have grace given to keep him to the end.
He was one of the first converts of the early Missionaries, and had
remained true and steadfast. He had been a successful Class Leader for
many years, and faithfully and well did he attend to his duties. If any
of his members were not at the meeting, he knew the reason why before
the next evening, if they were within five or six miles of his home.
As he lived a couple of years after we reached the Mission, we got to be
very well acquainted, and it was ever a blessing to talk to him of
spiritual things. I had a very convincing evidence one day of the
thoroughness with which he had renounced his old pagan life and its
sinful practices. We had been talking on various subjects, and the
matter of different kinds of beliefs came up. As he had a very
retentive memory, and I had been told that he was the best authority on
old Indian religions and superstitions, I took out of my pocket a note-
book and pencil, and said, "Mismis" (English, "Grandfather"), "I want
you to tell me some things about your old conjurings and religions. I
may want to write a book some time, and put some of these things in it."
The dear old man's face became clouded, and he shook his head and
remained silent.
I urged my request, saying I felt certain he, from his great age, must
have much to talk about. For his answer, he sat down in his chair, and,
putting his elbows on his knees, buried his face in his hands, and
seemed lost in a kind of reverie.
I waited for a few minutes, for all was hushed and still. His family
had heard my question, and they had become intensely interested. The
silence became almost painful, and so I said in a cheery strain, "Come,
grandfather, I am waiting to write down what you have to say."
Suddenly he sprang up in a way that startled us all, and, stretching out
his hand like an orator, he began:--
"Missionary! the old wicked life is like a nightmare, like a bad dream,
like a terrible sickness that made us cry out with pain. I am trying to
banish it, to forget it, to wipe it out of my memory. Please do not ask
me to talk about it, or to bring it up. I could not sleep; I should be
miserable."
Of course I put up my book and pencil, and did not further trouble the
dear old man, who seemed so loth to talk about his old belief.
The next Sunday after this interview we had a Fellowship Meeting in the
church. One of the first to speak was this venerable grandfather. He
said, "The Missionary wanted me to talk to him about my old religion. I
could not do it. It was my enemy. It only made me miserable. The more
I followed it, the more unhappy I was. So I have cast it out of my
life, and from my heart. Would that I could wash it out of my memory!"
Then he added, "But perhaps the memory of it helps to make me love my
Saviour better, as I can remember from what He has saved me. I was so
far from him, and so dark and sinful He reached down His strong arm and
lifted me out of the dark place, and put me into the light. O, I am so
thankful Jesus saves me, and I love to talk about it."
And he did talk about it, and our hearts rejoiced with him.
Of him it could be truthfully said, "What he once loved he now hates,
and does it so thoroughly that he does not even wish to talk about it."
While writing these pleasant memories, perhaps I cannot do better than
here record the remarkable closing scenes of the life of this venerable
old man, the patriarch of the village. His family was a large one. He
had several sons. Worthy, excellent men they were. About some of them
we shall have interesting things to say. The youngest, Edward, it was
my joy to lead into the sweet assurance that his sins were all forgiven.
In July, 1889, he was ordained, in Winnipeg, to the office and work of
the Christian ministry.
Martin, another of his sons, was one of my most loved and trusted
guides, and my companion, for thousands of miles, in birch canoe by
summer, and dog-trains by winter. We have looked death in the face
together many times, but I never knew him to flinch or play a coward's
part. Supplies might fail, and storms and head-winds delay us, until
starvation stared us in the face, and even the Missionary himself began
to question the wisdom of taking these wild journeys where the chances
were largely against our return, when from Martin, or one of the others,
would come the apt quotation from the Sacred Word, or from their musical
voices the cheering hymn which said,--
"Give to the winds thy fears;
Hope, and be undismayed:
God hears thy sighs, and counts thy tears,
God shall lift up thy head.
"Through waves and clouds and storms
He gently clears thy way:
Wait thou His time, so shall this night
Soon end in joyous day."
Very precious and very real were many of the blessed promises, and their
fulfilment, to us in those times of peril and danger, when death seemed
to be so near, and we so helpless and dependent upon the Almighty arm.
Another son of this old saint was Samuel, the courageous guide and
modest, unassuming Christian. He was the one who guided his well-loaded
brigade up the mighty Saskatchewan river to the rescue of the whites
there, and having safely and grandly done his work, "holding on to God,"
went up the shining way so triumphantly that there lingered behind on
his once pallid face some radiance of the glory like that into which he
had entered; and some seeing it were smitten with a longing to have it
as their portion, and so, then and there, they gave themselves to God.
Of him we shall hear more farther on.
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One day when the venerable father met his class, he told his members
that his work was nearly done, and very soon indeed he expected to pass
over to the better land. Although as well as he had been for months,
yet he had a premonition that the end of his life was near. Very
lovingly and faithfully did he talk to them, and exhorted them to be
faithful to the end.
The next day he sent for me, and requested me to appoint one of his sons
as leader of his class, if I thought him worthy of the place.
I said, "We do not want to lose you. Your class members all love you.
Why resign your position?"
A strange look in his face told me that he had set his heart on joining
another company, and that it seemed as though he were only postponing
his departure until his little affairs on earth were set in order.
"I am going very soon now, and I want to have everything settled before
I go; and I shall be so glad to see my son William leader of my class,
if you think it best."
As the son was a most excellent man the appointment was made, much to
the aged father's delight.
The next day he had assembled all the old members who had renounced
paganism and become Christians at the same time as he did, over thirty
years before. There were enough of them to fill his house, and all came
who possibly could. They sang and prayed together, and then he stood up
before them and addressed them in loving and affectionate words.
As I sat there and looked upon the scene, while, for about an hour, he
was reviewing the past, and talking of God's goodness in bringing them
out of paganism, and conferring so many blessings upon them, I thought
of Joshua's memorable gathering of the elder people at Shechem to hear
his dying charge. At his request I administered to them all, and those
of his many relations who were worthy, the sacrament of the Lord's
Supper. It was a most impressive time. He Whose dying we celebrated
seemed in Spirit very blessedly near.
Then perhaps another hour was spent, at his desire, in singing his
favourite hymns and in prayer. He entered with great spirit into the
devotions, and many said afterwards, "Heaven seemed very near." I shook
hands with him and said, "Goodbye," and returned to my home. With the
exception of a little weariness on account of the exciting services
through which he had passed, I saw no change in him. His voice was just
as cheery, his eye as bright, his grip as firm as usual, and I saw no
reason why he should not live a good while yet.
About an hour after, while talking the matter over with Mrs Young, and
giving her some of the specially interesting incidents of the memorable
services with our dear old friend, there was a sudden call for me by an
Indian, who, rushing in without any ceremony, exclaimed, "Come quickly;
grandfather is dead!" I hurriedly returned with him, and found that the
aged patriarch had indeed passed away.
They told me that after I had left them he continued for a time to speak
loving words of counsel and advice to them. Then, as had been his
habit, he lay down on his bed, and drew his blanket around him, as
though prepared for rest. As they knew he must be weary, they kept very
still, so as not to disturb him. Not hearing him breathe, one of them
touched him, and found that he had fallen into that sleep which here
knows no waking. He was not, for God had taken him.
It was a remarkable death. The great difficulty among us seemed to be,
to realise the presence of death at all. He suffered from no disease,
and never complained of pain. His mind was unclouded till the last. In
his humble position he had done his work, and done it well; and so now,
with all the confidence of a loving child resting in the arms of a
mother, he laid his head down on the bosom of his Lord.
With rejoicings, rather than weepings, we laid in the little graveyard
all that was mortal of William Papanekis. We missed him very much, for
his presence was like the sunshine, and his prayers were benedictions
upon us all.