A HOME LETTER.
BANFF, _July 26, 189--_.
Dear mother:
I know you will want to hear from your children as often as possible,
so I write to-day, for both Adelaide and myself, to tell you of our
wanderings, and of the wonderful scenes in the midst of which we are
resting this bright Sunday.
In my last letter mailed at Brandon, I told you about the railroad ride
from Montreal, north of the Great Lakes, through the country where the
Jesuit missionaries labored so nobly two centuries ago, and across the
green prairies and scorched alkali desert of Manitoba.
On the morning after that terribly hot day, we looked westward--and
our journey seemed likely to come to an end then and there. A mighty
barrier stretched across our path from north to south. Rising dimly,
through the morning mists, their summits hidden among the clouds, their
tawny flanks scarred with ravines and whitened with snow, rose the
Rocky Mountains.
Soon the train stopped, and we were told of a cascade in the woods
near by, bearing the Indian name of Kananaskis. Off we tramped across
a bit of flowery upland, snatching handfuls of aster, painted cup and
harebell as we went; then down through a thicket of blue-tipped firs,
until we heard the voice of many waters calling softly to us.
Another moment and we stood on the brink of the foaming, dashing,
sparkling cataract, pouring grandly down its rocky path, as it had done
in the days of Paul and Barnabas of Joshua; yes, and of Ahasuerus the
king. At the very moment when Queen Esther, the "Star," stood before
the haughty monarch pleading for her people, the stars above shone
above the white falls of Kananaskis as they do to-night; the rushing
waters lifted up their voice and hastened to their work in the lonely
forest; while the Father of all looked down on the silent firs, the
silver stream, and the proud walls of Shushan, patient and loving,
waiting for his children to know him and his wonderful works, and to
love and serve him with gladness of heart.
Oh, the mountains! How we climbed and climbed, the train winding, and
roaring, and straining every iron nerve to bear us to the high places!
At noon we were in the midst of them. They looked down upon us with
kindly faces, yet their granite peaks were awful in their grandeur,
uplifted thousands upon thousands of feet above us.
I wandered with a bright young girl in our party, Miss Bessie Percival,
whom the boys call "Captain Bess," down a steep path to the river's
brink. Beneath a sheltering fir which stretched its tiny crosses above
our heads, we stopped, and with a tiny, crackling fire beside us,
watched the snowy heights, and the hastening river. The harebells,
frailest and gentlest of flowers, were there too, to remind us that the
same Hand which which--
"Set on high the firmament,
Planets on their courses guided,
Alps from Alps asunder rent,"
was his who said to the storm, "Peace, be still!"--who "considered the
lilies," and who took little children in his arms and blessed them.
The waters of the large river which ran past us were turbid with soil
from their far-off source; but a small stream entered the larger one
near our little fir-shaded hearthstone, and this new-comer was fresh
from the snowy hill-tops, "clear as crystal." As far down as we could
see, the rivulet never lost its brightness, but swept onward with the
larger stream, sweetening and purifying it, yet "unspotted," like a
true and simple life in God's world.
There, I won't tire you any more to-night, dear mother. How it would
add to our pleasure if you were here! Adelaide gains strength every
day, the wholesome, hearty companionship of these young people doing
her quite as much good, I think, as the novelty and grandeur of the
scenes in which she finds herself. As for me, I ought to preach better
sermons all my life, for this trip. This afternoon while I was sitting
on the rounded piazza of the hotel, looking out upon the valley and
snowy mountain-tops, a bit of blank verse came into my mind. I'm going
to write it out for you. A fellow can send his mother poetry (?) which
he wouldn't show any one else, can't he?
Within thy holy temple have I strayed,
E'en as a weary child, who from the heat
And noonday glare hath timid refuge sought
In some cathedral's vast and shadowy nave,
And trembles, awestruck, crouching in his rags
Where high up reared a mighty pillar stands.
Mine eyes I lift unto the hills, from whence
Cometh my help. The murmuring firs stretch forth
Their myriad tiny crosses o'er my head;
Deep rolls an organ peal of thunder down
The echoing vale, while clouds of incense float
Before the great white altar set on high.
So lift my heart, O God! and purify
Its thought, that when I walk once more
Thy minister amid the hurrying throng,
One ray of sunlight from these golden days,
One jewel from the mountain's regal brow,
One cup of water from these springs of life,
As tokens of thy beauty, I may bear
To little ones who toil and long for rest.
Affectionately, your son,
ROSSITER.
P. S. I wish you knew that little "Captain Bess."
She is one of the freshest, sweetest, most unselfish girls I ever met.
Hardly an hour passes when she is not doing something for another's
comfort--adjusting old ladies' shawls, reading aloud, holding a tired
child, or something of the sort. In fact, she's the most like you,
mother, of anybody I ever met!