THE CAMP MEETING.
"It's the biggest thing out--beats a horse-race! My! it's a sight!
Don't miss it, boys. See you all down at Wilkins', sure."
It was "Nickel John" who was speaking, the fellow that the boys said
would do any evil deed for a nickel. It was down in front of the
Miners' Home among a great crowd of the boys, in the midst of whom
stood Job as an interested listener.
The coming event was no less than a Methodist camp-meeting down in
Coyote Valley the next Sunday. Of course he would go, said Job, as he
rode home; anything nowadays to avoid being alone with himself. Up at
the mill he told the fellows about it; and, when they dared him to be
there and go to the altar, he vowed that he would do it.
"All hail the power of Jesus' name!
Let angels prostrate fall."
Strong and clear, a great volume of sound, it rang out on the air that
never-to-be-forgotten Sunday morning, as Job rode Bess up the Coyote
road to Pete Wilkins' barn, now transformed into a sanctuary where the
Sierra District Camp-meeting was well under way.
"Bring forth the royal diadem,
And crown him Lord of all."
The rafters of the barn shook with the music, while it rolled out
through the great side and rear doors, thrown open so wide that the
old building looked like outdoors with a roof on. The big structure
was full to the doors, while around it all sorts of vehicles and nags
were hitched. To the right and left rows of tents stretched away. Just
outside, under the old oak, a portly dame was dishing out lemonade for
a nickel to late-comers, while a group of boys were playing leap-frog.
Job struggled through the outer crowd and pushed inside, only to find
himself in the center of "the gang," who greeted him with a wink and a
whisper, "The speakin' racket's next!"
"Oh, that with yonder sacred throng
We at His feet may fall!"
How grand it sounded! Such a host of voices were singing! Far up in
front, on a platform, surrounded by several preachers, gray-haired and
young, in varied attire, from the conventional black suit and white
tie to a farmer's outfit, was a little organ, and a familiar form was
sitting back of it and getting its old bellows to roll out the hymn.
The organist was no other than Jane, and her face flushed as she
caught Job's eye.
Just then the music stopped and a sweet-faced old man stepped up and
said, "Brethren and sisters, we have knelt at the Lord's table; let us
now tell of the Lord's love. Let us have fifty testimonies in the next
few minutes. Let us sing, 'I love to tell the story of Jesus and his
love.'"
The scene faded away; the music was a far-off echo, the barn was gone.
Job was back, a lad, in the old New England church; grandsir was
there, and mother, and the old, old friends, and Ned Winthrop was
poking him with a pin. That song!--how it brought them all back!
Just then be heard a murmur behind him, and looked up to see, near the
front, a trembling old man rise and begin to speak. He told of boyhood
days; he told of a young man's sins; of how one day on the old camp
ground back in York State he had learned that God loved him and could
make a man of him. Then he faltered as he told a story of sorrows, and
how at last, alone in the world, he awaited the angels that should
bear him home.
Job trembled. Unpleasant memories arose in his heart. He grew pale and
red, then bit his lips in excitement. He wished he was at home.
Testimony followed testimony. Love, peace and joy rang through all. At
last Jane rose--could it be possible? He hung on every word.
"Last night, down there at the bench, the Lord converted my soul. I
have been a poor sinner, but I know Jesus loves me, and I wish--I
wish," and she looked over to the far rear, "you would let him save
you;" and she sat down in tears.
Job was wildly angry. "The mischief take her!" he muttered. And Dan
leaned over and whispered, "See, she's gone daft, like the rest!"
The testimonies and love-feast were over, a prayer that made Job feel
as if Some One great and good was near, had been offered, and then it
was announced that the Rev. William Pendergast of Calavero circuit
would preach.
"What shall it profit a man, if he gain the whole world and lose his
own soul?"
It was a young, fresh, boyish face that looked into Job's as the
speaker uttered these words. Just such a bright, athletic, noble
fellow as every true boy secretly wishes to be. He caught Job's
attention and held it.
This was a very different thing from what he had thought sermons to
be. The young man talked of life here, not hereafter; he showed how a
man may live in this world and yet live a lost life; have gold and
lands, and yet lose all love and hope and peace and manhood. He
pictured the man who gains wealth and grows hard and loveless, and Job
thought of Andy Malden; he told of him who plunges into dissipation
and drink, and lingers a wreck in the streets, and Job knew he meant
Yankee Sam. Aye, he pictured a young life that grasps all the world
and forgets right and God and mother's Bible and mother's prayers, and
grows selfish and the slave of hate and trembles lest death come, and
Job thought of himself and the awful night in the snow and wished he
was miles away.
But wait! They are singing:
"Come, ye sinners, poor and needy,
Weak and wounded, sick and sore."
They have cleared the mourners' bench and are giving the invitation:
"Jesus ready stands to save you,
Full of pity, love and power."
Job trembles. Does that mean him? Tim Nolan the mill-man leans over
and whispers almost out loud: "Remember your bet, Job!"
Poor Job would have given all the gold in the Sierras to be out of
there. All the sins of his life rose before him, all his conceit and
boasting vanished. He was ashamed of Job Malden. He longed to sink
somewhere out of sight.
The preacher was talking again; the old, old story of the Prodigal Son
and how God's arms are always ready to take in a mother's lost boy.
The room swam before Job's eyes. The crowds were flocking to the
altar, the people were shouting, the boys were punching him and
saying. "Yer dursn't go!" Heaven, hell, sin and Christ were very real
to him all of a sudden.
"All the fitness he requireth
Is to feel your need of him."
How it happened he never knew, but just as Dan said, "Now, let's see
Job get religion," he rose, and, striding down the long aisle, he
rushed to the altar, and there, just where he had taken his first
drink on that awful Sunday, he threw himself in tears, a big,
heart-broken boy, with the thought of his evil life throbbing through
his brain.
It was late that night when Job left the camp ground, flung himself
across Bess' back and started home. The stars never looked down on a
happier boy. The burden, the hate, the bitterness in his heart, were
all gone. A holy love, an exaltation of soul, an awakening of all that
is best in a manly life, stirred him. The past was gone; "old things
had passed away and all things had become new." The world was the
same. Dan, with all his meanness, was in it. The saloon doors were
open, the gamblers still sat at midnight at the Monte Carlo. Grizzly
county had not changed, but he had. A new life was his.
As he galloped down the road, far away he heard them singing:
"Palms of victory, crowns of glory, I shall wear,"
and a strange feeling came over him. He took up the refrain, and,
looking up at the stars, he seemed to see his mother's face afar off
among the flashing worlds. The tears stole down his cheeks, tears of
joy, as, galloping on through the night toward home, again he sang:
"Palms of victory, crowns of glory, I shall wear."