Astumastao hesitated not; but choking back her emotions she began in
sweet and soothing notes the song we have already heard her sing:
"Jesus, my all, to heaven is gone,
He whom I fix my hopes upon;
His track I see, and I'll pursue
The narrow way, till him I view."
When she had sung two or three verses the sick man said, "Who is this
Jesus?"
Not much was it that was remembered through all the long years that had
passed away since Astumastao had received her last Sabbath school
lesson, but she called up all she could, and in that which still clung
to her memory was the matchless verse: "For God so loved the world, that
he gave his only begotten Son, that whosoever believeth in him should
not perish, but have everlasting life." The sick man was thrilled and
startled, and said, "Say it again and again!" So over and over again
she repeated it. "Can you remember anything more?" he whispered.
"Not much," she replied, "only I remember that I was taught that this
Jesus, the Son of the Great Spirit, said something like this: `Him that
cometh to me I will in no wise cast out.'"
"Did they say," said the dying man, "that that included the Indian? May
he, too, go in the white man's way?"
"O yes," she answered; "I remember about that very well. The missionary
was constantly telling us that the Great Spirit and his Son loved
everybody--Indians as well as whites--and that we were all welcome to
come to him. Indeed it must be so, for there are the words I have
learned about it out of his great book: `Him that cometh to me I will in
no wise cast out.'"
"Sing again to me," he said. And so she sang:
"Lo! glad I come; and thou, blest Lamb,
Shalt take me to thee, as I am;
Nothing but sin have I to give;
Nothing but love shall I receive."
"What did you say his name was?" said the dying man.
"Jesus," she sobbed.
"Lift up my head," he said to his weeping wife. "Take hold of my hand,
my niece," he said. "It is getting so dark I cannot see the trail. I
have no guide. What did you say was his name?"
"Jesus," again she sobbed. And with that name on his lips he was gone.
Call not this picture overdrawn. Hundreds of these Indians have long
lost faith in paganism, and in their hours of peril, or in the presence
of death even, many of them who have learned but little about
Christianity cling to those who have some knowledge of the great
salvation and strive to grope into the way.
The two women were alone on the island with their dead, and with no
canoe by which they could return to the distant mainland. But Indian
women are quick at devising plans to meet emergencies, and so Astumastao
speedily resolved on a plan to bring help to them. What she did was
this. She cut a long pole from a clump of tall, slender trees which
grew near their wigwam, and then securely fastening her shawl to it, she
hoisted it up as a signal on a point where it was visible from the
shore. Soon it was observed, and help came speedily.
There was a good deal of genuine sorrow expressed by the Indians in
their own quiet way. After many questions had been asked and answered,
they wrapped up the body in birch bark, and conveyed it across to the
mainland, and there buried it with their usual Indian pagan rites, much
to the regret of Astumastao.
Left alone with her aunt, who was quite feeble, upon Astumastao fell the
chief work of supplying food for both. Bravely did she apply herself to
the task; and such was her skill and industry that a good degree of
success crowned her efforts, and very seldom indeed was it that their
wigwam was destitute of food. Often had she some to spare for the old
and feeble ones who, according to the heartless custom of some of the
tribes, when they reach the time of life when they can neither snare
rabbits nor catch fish, are either thrown out of the wigwams in the
bitter cold, and left to freeze to death, or they are deserted in the
forests, and left to be devoured by the wild beasts.
Astumastao, when a poor orphan child, had been rescued and kindly cared
for, and she never forgot those early days and kindly deeds performed
for her happiness, and so now we see her ever striving to comfort or
help others.
During the remaining part of the summer which followed the sad death of
her uncle, she succeeded in killing a number of reindeer, which are at
times very plentiful in those high latitudes. Annoyed by the numerous
flies, these reindeer frequently rush into the great lakes and rivers;
and as the Indians can paddle their light canoe much faster than these
animals can swim, they easily overtake and kill them.
Astumastao, with a couple of other Indian girls, succeeded in killing
quite a number of them. Their plan was to lash a sharp knife to the end
of a pole, and then when they had paddled near enough they stabbed the
deer and dragged it ashore. All the deer do not give up without a
struggle. This Astumastao found to her cost one day. She and a couple
of young maidens about her own age had hurried out to try and kill a
famous deer whose many-pronged antlers told that he was one of the great
monarchs of the forest. When they tried to get near enough to stab him,
he suddenly attacked the canoe with such fury that, although Astumastao
succeeded in mortally wounding him, yet he so smashed the canoe that it
was rendered useless, and the girls had to spring out and swim to the
shore, which was a long way off. However, they reached it in safety,
amid the laughter of the people, who had observed their discomfiture.
Nothing daunted, however, the plucky girls quickly secured another canoe
and paddled out and brought in their splendid deer.
When the long, cold winter set in again, Astumastao applied herself very
diligently to the work of trapping and snaring rabbits and some of the
smaller fur-bearing animals. In her hunting excursions she followed her
plans of the preceding winters, and often plunged farther into the dense
forest to set her traps and snares beyond those of any other woman
hunter.
Here, in the solitude of nature, she could sing to her heart's content
while deftly weaving her snares or setting her traps. On one of these
trips she caught a glimpse of a black fox, and suspecting him to be the
thief who had been robbing her snares of some rabbits during the last
few days, she resolved if possible to capture the valuable animal. His
rich and costly fur would buy her and her aunt some valuable blankets
and other things much required for their comfort. Returning quickly
back to her wigwam, she succeeded in borrowing a fox trap from a
friendly hunter, and then making all preparations she started very early
the next morning for the spot where she intended to set her trap. The
distance was so great that she had to tramp along for several hours on
her snow-shoes ere she reached the place. But the air was clear and
bracing, and hoping for success in her undertaking she felt but little
fatigue. Skillfully she set the trap, and then walking backward, and
with a heavy balsam brush carefully brushing out her tracks, she
retraced her steps to the ordinary trail, and began collecting her
rabbits and partridges from the snares. Although the fox had robbed her
of several, yet she was more than ordinarily successful and gathered
sufficient to make a heavy load.
At one place the path led her through a dense, gloomy part of, the
forest, where the great branches of the trees seemed to interlock above
her head, and shut out the greater part of the light and sunshine. But
she was a brave Indian maiden who knew no such thing as fear, and so,
throwing her heavy load over her shoulder, and supporting it with the
carrying strap from her forehead, she cheerily moved along, thinking how
happy she would be if she captured that fox to-morrow, when suddenly the
shriek of a wild beast rang in her ears, and she was hurled down on her
face to the ground.