THE LITTLE ONES OF THE FLOCK
The Bishop loved the little ones of his dusky flock, and never was he so
happy as when they were gathered around him. For long years he was their
patient teacher, and gladly did he give up some of his time each day for
their sake. Indian children are full of fun and mischief, and many were
the pranks they would play upon their venerable teacher. Shrewd, too,
were they to watch the effect of their capers. They knew they could go so
far and no farther. When they saw the Bishop running his fingers through
his hair they knew a storm was brewing, and silence would ensue.
As he looked upon their little faces a deep love would come into his
heart, for he knew the life-history of each. That bright-faced little lad
had been rescued from a cruel father, or that little girl had been saved
from a life of degradation. During his long years in the North, over such
a vast sweep of country, he had relieved and saved many a little waif. He
could not bear to see them suffer, and sometimes his eyes were blinded
to their imperfections. Once, hearing the sobs of a child who was being
chastised, he marched to the schoolroom door and sought admittance. This
not being complied with immediately, with a mighty push he drove open the
door, seized the child from the teacher’s grasp, and, placing it upon his
knee, soothed it with parental affection.
The story of poor old Martha is a touching one. Her daughter’s child,
little Tommy, a miserable, misshapen creature, was very sick. They sent
for the Bishop, who did all in his power, but in vain. The child soon
passed away. Through his tender care he won their hearts, and not long
after the child’s death Martha came to him one cold, dark night, and
begged the Bishop “to give her some medicine to do her heart good; she
had pain there ever since Tommy died.” And there, in the quietness of
the mission-house, the noble teacher talked with her, telling her of the
great Physician of souls, and sending her away comforted.
The story of Jennie de Nord is one of much beauty and pathos, in which we
see the Bishop risking his own life to save a little child. Old De Nord
was a chief among the Fort Simpson Indians. He was a noted hunter and
trapper, strong and stalwart, and a loving father to his four motherless
children. Jennie was the only girl of the family, a regular little vixen,
with sparkling black eyes and a merry, roguish laugh. She was utterly
fearless, and her power of will and body were often the cause of wonder
even to her own people. She would face the wild, husky dogs of her
tribe, or launch a small canoe and paddle herself to visit her father’s
fish-nets. She admired her father’s gun very much, but it was too big for
her to handle. One day a white man came to the camp, and as he showed his
fine pistol, Jennie became much excited. She watched him closely, and
stood in breathless wonder when he fired it off for the entertainment of
the Indians. The next morning, when the white man awoke, his pistol was
gone. Somebody had stolen it! All became alert to find the thief. Then
Jennie, with her face all flushed, came forward with the weapon. She had
taken it from beneath the white man’s blanket while he slept, and hugged
it fondly throughout the night.
[Illustration: THE MISSION SCHOOL AT CARCROSS
At the Bishop’s left stands Miss Mary Ellis, who for years worked among
the Indians in the Yukon, and who was really the first teacher at
Carcross.]
For the first few years of her life Jennie was tended by an aunt, who
lavished much affection upon the child. Jennie was then given to the
care of another aunt, Takatse-mo by name, who was rather a stern woman,
and had several children of her own to care for. She did not act kindly
towards her new charge, and made her do very hard work, such as hauling
water from the river, chopping wood for the camp-fire, and many other
chores about the place. Besides this, Jennie was poorly fed. The little
round cheeks grew thin, and a forlorn look appeared upon her usually
merry face. While her relatives and neighbours were talking about this,
and wondering what to do, Jennie took the matter into her own hands,
and one day suddenly disappeared from the camp. Her aunt did not worry
herself at all about the girl’s departure. She said she would come back
when she felt hungry; but Jennie did not come back. She had taken no
food with her except a piece of hard, dried deer’s meat; neither did she
have any outer covering beyond her small blanket, which had served her
in early years, and was rather threadbare. The day after Jennie’s flight
the neighbours, and even the aunt, became much alarmed about her. The
snow was deep around Fort Simpson, and starving wolves prowled about the
woods. Their howls were often heard at night, and were responded to by
the camp dogs. At last it was resolved to consult the Bishop. “We must go
after the child at once,” was the reply, as soon as he heard the story;
and he immediately prepared to head the expedition. Snow-shoes and cloth
leggings were made ready; stout moccasins, and blankets, socks, fur cap,
and other things necessary for the journey. Just a little more than half
an hour after the news of Jennie’s departure reached the mission-house,
the Bishop and two Indians started off after the strayed waif. They
found it difficult to trace her, as the previous night had been windy,
and Jennie’s tiny footprints were covered up. They imagined she had gone
in search of her father, who was camped some distance away. Travelling
in this direction, they had much difficulty in making their way through
the tangled brushwood, and often they had to follow the river in order
to make any progress at all. Here they met the piercing north-east wind,
which cut their faces, and formed icicles on beard and eyelashes. For
ten miles they continued on their way without discovering any sign of
Jennie. The Bishop felt much discouraged, and was thinking of returning
to the Fort to try some other route. Suddenly one of the Indians uttered
an exclamation, and pointed upwards to a faint column of smoke slowly
rising among the dark fir-trees. New hope filled their hearts, and
quickly climbing the banks of the stream, they made straight for the
fire. Presently they caught sight of the clustered poles, which had been
a wigwam, and there they found a little huddled form lying in one corner,
clutching closely about her body the one poor frayed blanket. Opening her
eyes, and seeing the Bishop bending over her, she uttered the pitiful
word, “Ti-tin-tie” (I am hungry). Jennie had walked more than ten miles,
and reaching at last De Nord’s halting-place, her strength had given
out. Here she found her father’s gun, which had been left in a cache
loaded. This the girl had eagerly seized, and by firing it off obtained
a spark which started the fire. By this she had crouched, trying to keep
life in her body, when found by the rescuers. At once a roaring fire was
blazing up. Water was brought, a cup of tea made for Jennie, and after a
few hours’ rest the party set out on their return trip to Fort Simpson.
Jennie had to be carried most of the way, for she was not only much
exhausted, but her shoes were almost worn out. In his strong arms the
Bishop carried her part of the way, and how his heart must have rejoiced
at finding the lost lamb! But the trip cost him much. His clothes were
wet, for in places he had been forced to wade through overflowing water.
He could hardly reach Fort Simpson, so great were the cramps which seized
him, and for days he endured great suffering. But what did it matter?
Jennie was safe, and none the worse for her experience.
Four years later the Bishop was called upon to lay poor Jennie to rest.
Her father made her work harder than she was able to do. One day she
started with the dogs and sleds for the woods to bring in a deer her
father had killed. The journey was a long one, and when she returned to
the camp tired out, she complained of not feeling well, and lying down on
her bed of brushwood, died the next day.
Such a scene as this wrung the Bishop’s heart, and he did all in his
power to bring the little ones into the mission-schools, where they could
receive proper care. An interesting sight it was to see this shepherd
returning from some long trip, bringing with him several wild, dirty
little natives for his school.
Not only did the Bishop bring the children into the mission-school, but
time and time again he and Mrs. Bompas received some poor little waif
as their own. A few years after his consecration, little Jennie, a mere
babe, was thus taken to their hearts. She came to them, so Mrs. Bompas
tells us,
“At holy Christmas-tide,
When winter o’er our Northern home
Its lusty arms spread wide;
When snow-drifts gathered thick and deep,
Winds moaned in sad unrest,
My little Indian baby sought
A shelter at my breast.”
Upon this child they bestowed their affection; but alas! notwithstanding
the greatest care, it gradually wasted away, and passed to the great
Father above.
Some time later another was received into their home and hearts. This was
Owindia (The Weeping One), who was baptized Lucy May. A terrible tragedy
had been enacted at one of the Indian camps, from which the babe had
been marvellously rescued. Her mother had been cruelly murdered by an
angry husband, and as there was no one to care for her, the Bishop and
Mrs. Bompas took the motherless child. Great was the joy they received
from the little one, and with much pride she was taken to England several
years later, where, after some time, she died. Mrs. Bompas beautifully
tells the story of this waif in her little book, “Owindia.”
The Indian boys are great little hunters and trappers. The forest is
their home, and they read the world of Nature like an open book. They
have their numerous sports, too, paddling along the shore of some lake in
the summer-time, or coasting down a steep hill in the winter. The bank in
front of the Indian village, just across the river from Whitehorse, at
times is worn smooth from numerous little moccasined feet. Approaching
the place, one has to be careful not to be suddenly upset by a crouching
figure, sweeping down the hill, balancing himself with much skill upon
one foot. This little fellow in the picture was caught one bright day
enjoying his favourite sport.
Dogs are their constant companions, and they love them dearly. It is
interesting to watch Indian boys playing with these faithful animals.
Though savage and vicious to strangers, they obey the slightest command
of their little dusky masters. In the winter-time it is no uncommon
thing to see a lad speeding along the trail drawn by two or three lank
huskies. In the summer-time a rude waggon is often made, and seated upon
a soap-box, the boy will drive his patient dog with much pride.
These are the bright, active lads who are brought into the
mission-school, taught to read and write, and to receive the knowledge of
the loving Saviour. To see the little fellows in the wild, rude state in
the forest, and then behold them several months after they have entered
the school, you would hardly know they were the same children. They are
not naturally quick at learning from the printed page, and the Bishop at
times became much discouraged at their slowness, and said it was “like
writing in the sand instead of graving in the rock.”
[Illustration: AN INDIAN BOY SLIDING DOWNHILL AT WHITEHORSE]
[Illustration: THE DOGS RESTING AFTER A HARD DAY’S WORK
Brush of fir-trees is laid upon the snow, and upon this the dogs huddle
through the long cold nights.]
Several years ago I had a class of bright-eyed, dusky children at
Whitehorse. Day after day they were instructed in the mysteries of A, B,
and C. Then a list of simple words was carefully studied, such as “cat,”
“dog,” “pig,” “cow” and “boy.” At last, thinking they all knew the words
well, I asked the brightest boy in the room to repeat them once more for
the benefit of the whole class. Bravely and proudly he started, “C—a—t,
cat; d—o—g, dog.” Thus far he had no trouble. The next word was puzzling.
Slowly and carefully he spelled it out, “p—i—g.” He tried hard to
remember its meaning, and a breathless silence ensued. Suddenly his face
cleared, and proudly he spelt it again, “p—i—g, boy.” There was a roar of
laughter from his companions, and I do not think the young speller knows
to this day what they laughed at.
Indian children are fond of music, and they have very sweet voices. At
the Carcross Mission it is an interesting sight to see several rows of
well-dressed boys and girls, with books in their hands, singing lustily
some favourite hymn. Two of these little lads were recently brought to
the Whitehorse Hospital for a painful treatment. Visiting them the next
day, I saw a hymn-book lying by Johnny Black’s side. “Have you been
reading in this?” I inquired. “We have been singing, sir,” was the reply.
“And will you sing some to me?” I asked. Immediately the book was opened,
and in a quavering voice the little fellow sang the hymn beginning with
the following verse:
“Great God, and wilt Thou condescend
To be my Father and my Friend;
I a poor child, and Thou so high,
The Lord of earth, and air, and sky!”
Occasionally Tony, in the adjoining bed, would join in; but he was rather
weak, so he could not sing much. Listening to these two little lads, I
thought what a good work was being done—a work started in this diocese by
Bishop Bompas—in bringing such as these to the Saviour’s feet in love and
faith. These were the two little boys who at the Carcross Church took up
the collection regularly every Sunday.