"Lives of great men all remind us
We can make our lives sublime,
And departing, leave behind us,
Footprints in the sands of time.
"Footprints that perhaps another,
Sailing o'er life's solemn main,
A forlorn and shipwrecked brother,
Seeing, may take heart again."
That is all beautifully true. It is also true that many a humble,
obscure life can teach us lessons of trust and loyalty, and devotion to
good things.
The story I am going to tell you is about a humble Indian girl, whose
forefathers had been all savages, but whose home was a Christian one
among the simple native children of the North.
Over fifty years before the time of our story, an unchristianized band
of Indians fished in the inland waters, trapped in the forest for mink
and otter, muskrat, bear or silver fox; and paddled the lake in birch
barks; sometimes supplementing their paddle strokes by a sail contrived
of a blanket fastened to a pole cut from a neighbouring bluff.
From far over the Atlantic came a brave man, with a heart full of peace,
and anxious to acquaint the native with the brightness of his own life.
It meant much to settle in such a district in early days, long before
the iron horse had made a path across the prairie; days when the trail
wound its wandering way over rock and soil, skirting the bluffs,
penetrating forest, mounting granite hills or hiding itself in rocky
ravines.
And even after the perils of the trail were passed, there still remained
the privations of the lonely Mission, cut off from companionship, with
the keen biting winds of winter, the ice-locked lake, the powdery-dry
snow falling and falling until one wondered if the air had turned to
snow, and when morning came little was left of the buildings except the
chimney tops; the whole Mission was buried in white as though shut up in
the garments of the tomb.
Twice a year the mail carrier braved first the heat of summer and then
the rigour of winter, and when the contents of the mail-bag were emptied
on the parlour floor what delight in once more touching the outside
world. It was like reading history after it was past to scan the doings
of the year. It was like a breath from the dear old home to see the
familiar postage stamps and to read the welcome words of dear ones from
letters, enclosing home flowers and fragrant love messages.
In all this life no one made greater sacrifice than the missionary's
wife, who saw no women save her dusky pagan sisters with the dark brown
eyes with a yearning look in them.
Many years ago Keewatin, the "North Wind" with his little daughter
Akwinanoh were sitting by their wigwam door looking down the long
stretch of the Northern Lake, when suddenly a strange apparition some
miles away startled them into attention. Their cry gathered almost the
whole camp, which watched with wonder and amaze a changing object moving
toward them, but unexplainable by even their keen Indian sight.
Whatever it was it gleamed and glistened in the setting sun until
finally Keewatin, with a glimmer of inspiration in his eyes, said, "I
know what it is. It is an island of light." He was nearer the truth
than he knew, for it was the tin canoe of the English missionary, the
tin reflecting, in scintillating rays, the sunlight, and the canoe
bearing the messenger of a light that so far had never yet shone for
them. Every stranger excites the curiosity of the savage man, but
Akwinanoh had a new object of interest from that day, for with the white
man came a tiny white baby that soon grew into the pet of the reserve!
The little daughter of the North Wind adopted the white man's child as
her special charge, and while the missionary worked and prayed to bring
the Gospel of the Christ-child into the hearts of the Saulteaux, another
little child slowly but surely worked its way into the life of the brown
maiden, transforming her, and through its gentle pressure Akwinanoh soon
yielded to the influence of the Gospel of Bethlehem's babe.
Later she became the Christian mother of her who was known as Betsy.
Betsy grew into a girlhood that was beautiful, even from the white man's
point of vision.
She was gentle as the breath of the south wind, with a sweet grace of
manner and a consistency of life that made her a strong support to the
man who came to them in his canoe.
To be a follower of Christ seemed natural to her, for she had His
spirit, and was full of unselfish thoughtfulness.
One day as she was walking along the river edge she saw a child slip and
fall. Without a moment's hesitation she plunged into the deep, brown
stream, six fathoms at the rock, and brought the child safe to its
parents' tepee. It was early in the spring and the waters were cold,
and before night a raging fever laid her low.
For weeks she suffered, waited upon by the heathen medicine man,
uncomplainingly swallowing the hideous compounds from his mix-all
bottles, and slowly sinking under the fatal grip of pneumonia.
The young husband refused at first to allow the approach of the white
doctor, and the missionary could only pray and hope.
Finally, when one day the light burned low, the obstinate young Indian
bowed before the compelling force of necessity, and proper medical
attendance began. Then the doctor took hold, nursing her as though she
were his own child; watching symptoms and succeeding in bringing back
hopeful conditions into the wasted frame.
It was a gay day when the report circulated through the camp that Betsy,
the beloved, was recovering under the magic spell woven around her by
the English medicine man, for no one could fail to notice the sweet
spirit and to wish for victory in the stern battle brought on through
her unselfish act.
One day in the evening, the missionary found her, oh so quiet and worn,
but gentle as ever. She could speak a little English and seemed glad to
think that she was cared for.
"Well, Betsy," said the missionary, "you have been very ill."
"Yes," she answered sweetly, "very ill, but the good light the white man
brought has been shining in my heart and all is well."
"We are glad, Betsy," said the missionary, "that God is going to spare
you. We could ill do without you. Your life has been a benediction to
the whole reserve."
"Oh, Missionary," said Betsy, weeping, "do not say that. When I think
of the story of His love it makes me ashamed. But I do wish my people
could feel and know as I do. I would like to stay among them for a
little while, for I love them. But sometimes I have a feeling in my
heart that perhaps it is not to be. I had a dream last night,
Missionary. Would you like to hear it?"
"Yes, Betsy," he replied, "but are you strong enough to talk so long?"
"Oh, yes; I feel quite strong this evening, thanks to the white doctor.
"I dreamed I was going along the trail when suddenly away before me I
saw a wonderful light. It was coming my way and as it got nearer it took
on the form of a person. Soon it stood beside me and I saw that it was
the face of Christ, but oh, it was too beautiful to describe! And I
said, 'Have you come for me?' 'No,' said a voice, 'not yet.' And I
thought I was so disappointed, and I said, 'Well, will you be long?'
And the answer was, 'No, not very long.' And as it spoke it
disappeared, and I awakened."
He listened, hushed and awestruck at the story of the dream of this
dusky sister of the plain.
"Well, Betsy," said he, after a moment of silence, "it is all well.
That dream may not come literally true, but the spirit of it is yours,
and some day He will come to your people, and when the right moment
arrives He will come for you too. Shall we pray, Betsy?"
"Oh, yes sir, pray," she said, "pray for me, but do not forget my
people, and my man."
The night shadows were growing darker as reverently he knelt beside the
prostrate form of that northern saint, Indian in race, but akin to God
the Father of us all. A daughter of the King, if ever there was one.
Then reaching out her hand, she took from a corner of the tent near her
couch a birch-bark basket, made by her own hands, and sewn with sweet
grass. Giving it to the missionary, she said, "Keep that as a
remembrance for your kindness in coming to see a poor sick Indian
child."
That night the northwest wind began to moan. Soon it bore down with the
terrific force of a gale, in howling wrath. Drenching rain fell; wild
gusts of storm dashed against the Mission buildings.
The wildness of the storm howling in mercilessness in the deep night
stillness struck chill to the heart of every one. It was one of those
sudden storms that sometimes sweep in gales over the north country, gone
in a few minutes, but ofttimes leaving a wake of destruction.
When morning dawned, some of the boats were driven fifty yards into the
forest; trees around the camp were stripped of limbs, and great rents
ran down the bark and fibre of more than one.
But the worst deed done by it was when it lifted the tent off Betsy's
sleeping form, and left her to the wild elements whose work was soon
finished in her death through shock and wet.
It was not long until the news spread throughout the settlement, and the
Indian wailing could be heard in that lonely, long-drawn lamentation
that is theirs.
Two days later crowds of Indians thronged the little Mission Chapel.
They came dressed in their prints of all colours and fantastic variety
of costume; some with yellow handkerchiefs on their heads. Purple,
blue, white, red were seen everywhere, but mourning was on every face,
and sorrow sat on every bowed form.
A touching service in Cree, with plaintive music set to the words of
Christian hymns, and then, one by one, men, women and children came to
the front and printed a kiss upon the cold brow of the dead woman, while
some whispered messages to her to be taken to the land of blessed
spirits.
It was a sad procession that wound its way through the Mission fields,
over the hills, across the bridge and up the opposite side of the
ravine. There, amid the wooden monuments that marked the resting-place
of relatives and friends, was laid the sacred dust of Betsy.
As the coffin was lowered, the conquering wind whistled its triumph
through the limbs of the trees in the near-by forest, but it was a
hollow triumph, for beyond the forest were the hills of light and faith
could see there the real conqueror, whose face once shone in beauty in
Betsy's dream, and who had come now for her in the guise of the storm on
which He rode, but who gave His weak one conquest through the storm.
Reverently they lowered her body, the worn-out jewel-case of Betsy,
simple-hearted, large-souled, unselfish Betsy; heaped the clods upon her
coffin; waved farewells across her grave and went back to the old life
where storms still raged and duties dared and dangers sought to breed
fears within. But many were made stronger now because of her.
Brave Betsy, dark of skin, but white of soul; true-hearted Betsy,
beloved of all, foe of none; she got her death through giving another
life, and for many a day her story will be told, and children will be
carried to the little Indian burying-ground and shown the simple wooden
cross, simple as herself, on which they will see in simple letters--
"BETSY"
*XXXII*
*A LIFE DEGREE*
The other day the papers announced that when the Prince of Wales returns
from his recent tour, he is to be given the Order of the Garter, the
highest honour in the Empire in civil life, just as the V.C. is the
highest in military service.
And it is a great honour to do some deed or fulfill some duty, so that a
college or a nation gives you some distinguished degree which allows you
to put letters after your name.
But it is all right to be proud of honours, if a fellow really earns
them by hard work or genuine service. The only kind to be shunned are
the kind you buy with money or get through some second-hand institution
without any standard of toil.
Yet, after all is said and done, the great majority of you will perhaps
never have a college degree, and will never be called over to meet the
king and kneel before him, dressed up in gorgeous court clothes, while
he strikes your shoulder with a sword and says, "Rise up, Sir Knight."
You may never be a big lawyer and write K.C. after your signature, to
show you can plead in the king's name; or K.C.M.G., to show you are one
of the select knights of the royal castle; but I want to suggest you can
still wear a title, and use the letters that stand for things worth
while.
"Say, Billy, would you not feel big if the day came when your friends
called you Sir William?" Who knows but what they may! The big men were
schoolboys with some one else, and you may be one of the coming big men.
You remember when Tom Brown went to Oxford, he used to walk around and
read the names of men like Raleigh and Wycliffe, and feel two inches
taller. He said, "Perhaps I may be going to make dear friends with some
fellow who will change the history of England. Why shall not I? There
must have been some freshmen once who were chums of Wycliffe and
Raleigh!"
Now, my point is that even if you do not, you need not fail.
Some day when you read, or now when you are reading Tennyson, you will
find a poem called "Idylls of the King," where he speaks of knights who
are "wearing the white flower of a blameless life," and who "live pure,
speak true, right wrong, follow the king----"
If you are that, then I have the power to confer on you titles, and
although you may not put the letters after your name, you can if you
care to--William Blank, K.C.
"K" stands for kindness, and you know,
"There's nothing so kingly as kindness;
And nothing so royal as truth;"
and you know,
"So may we in bonds of love,
Each living creature bind,
And make them gentle as a dove,
If we are only kind."
There is something very attractive about a kind man; and we should be
that, for we live in lands where Jesus has been heard of, and He has
filled the earth with kindness.
A street-car line was held up once in Brooklyn, the city with its roar
and busy bustle, all because a kitten had got on the rails. In China,
they would not have bothered, but we have learned to be kind, to be
friends even to animals.
"C" means courtesy, the behaviour of a lady and gentleman in heart and
home and street.
I met an Indian in the North land, which I have told you about in my
talks in "Boucher" and "Betsy," whose name was John Everett.
He had been a pagan Cree, but his tribe were now Christian. His clothes
were not the best and he was a poor fisherman, living in an Indian hut,
but I could have put him into Buckingham Palace; and while a lot of
things would have been new to him, he would not have disgraced himself,
for he was a perfect gentleman.
Courtesy means being courtly; that is, fit to stand in a court and not
be ashamed of your actions. Here is a definition I read of a gentleman,
and which I pass on to you:
"A gentleman is clean inside and out--a man who looks neither down to
the poor nor up to the rich; who is considerate of women, of children
and of everybody; who is too generous to cheat and too brave to lie; who
takes his share of the world and lets others have theirs; who can win
without bragging and lose without squealing."
But I can add three more letters, just as sometimes you see men whose
names have a lot of honours tacked on. John Smith, M.A., LL.D., C.M.S.
So I would like to confer on you not only K.C., but also R.S.P.
LL. D. means Doctor of Laws; and the one who has it can wear a wonderful
gown of red silk. K.G. means Knight of the Garter; the most
distinguished decoration of Great Britain, bestowed by the king, and won
only by a favoured few. It runs back nearly six hundred years, and
gives the one who receives it the right to wear special garments; a
black velvet hat with white ostrich feather plume, a gold collar with
twenty pieces of gold in it, and a silver star.
P.C. means Privy Councillor; one who belongs to the council that gives
special advice to the king on state affairs. They wear a Windsor
uniform with buckled shoes and knee breeches, and embroidered coats and
cocked hats, and they look quite dressed up when it is all on.
The trouble is, a man may be all this and yet not be very much else
except a clothes horse. He may be a knight without being knightly, or
have a degree and lack real worth.
But the degree I want you to get always stands for something real.