“Who love the Lord aright,
No soul of man can useless find;
All will be precious in His sight,
Since Christ on all hath shined.”
--_Keble._
Many and varied were my experiences among this people, some painful and
distressing, some trying and toilsome, some bright and humorous, some
hopeful and encouraging.
The kindness of the Indians as well as the whites, and their evident
desire to do all they could for my comfort, helped to lighten many a
burden and make smoother many a rough pathway.
I was “in journeyings oft”; sometimes on foot, overland, or on the
back of an Indian “cayuse” (pony); more frequently by canoe, and,
occasionally, on the deck of a steamer. At one time I was acquainted
with nearly every settler within the bounds of my large field--about
160 miles wide by as many long.
After travelling some thirty miles and preaching at different points
on the journey, I arrived one evening at an island where I had often
preached before. As the day had been stormy and I had worked all the
way, I was very wet. The old chief and his wife, both of whom were very
kind and hospitable, made me welcome in their home. Piling up wood,
they built a big fire, and I hung my wet blankets around the fire on
poles to dry.
“How glad we are the ‘laplate’ (missionary) has come,” the old wife
commenced to say, in an undertone, as if to herself. “It is a long time
since he was here before. We forget many of the good words he has said
to us. Why don’t you come oftener, missionary, and tell us more of the
good story, that wonderful thing, you tell us, about the Great Chief on
High who gave His Son?” And then, as if recollecting the needs of her
guest, she said: “Oh, I must get some supper for him.”
By this time she had a small basket that would hold water, threw in
some potatoes, gave them a roll around in the water, and then put them
into a pot on the fire. Reaching down a dried salmon from a pile which
was stored on a platform over the bed, where the cats and rats and
other animals ran over them, she gave it a big slap against the post to
knock the thickest of the dirt off, and then held it up before the fire
to warm and heat it, so that the skin would peel off.
Very soon the potatoes were boiled and rolled out in a little
trough-like dish about two feet long, the salmon was broken in pieces
and laid on top of the potatoes, and the whole was set before the
Indian boy and myself.
All this time she was talking away to herself: “How good it is for the
missionary to come. He has come through all the storm, and we must be
kind to him.”
Having washed our hands, I asked a blessing upon the food, and were
soon at our supper of salmon and potatoes. We were sure that one side
of the salmon was fairly clean, for the skin had been torn off it,
and as for the potatoes, they had their jackets on, but we had to eat
without a bit of salt.
As we were working away quietly at the supper, the old man was stirring
up the fire, keeping away the dogs, and doing everything he could to
make things agreeable. All at once the old woman came and crouched down
by my side, saying: “Oh, the good missionary, we are so glad you have
come. I will help you to peel your potatoes.” And suiting the action
to the word she seized hold of one out of the dish, and with about
two scratches of her long finger-nails she tore off the jacket of one
potato, and then handed it to me, saying, “Oh, it is so good of you to
bring us the blessed light. I’ll help you, I will, to get your supper.”
We would very much rather have peeled our own potatoes, and had her a
little at a distance, with her wretchedly dirty-looking blanket.
Suddenly she sprang up, as if a bright idea had occurred to her, and
exclaimed, “Oh, I had nearly forgot. I kept it for the missionary when
he should come.” Out of a big old box she brought something tied up in
a piece of dirty looking rag.
“I have kept this till the missionary would come,” she said, as she
opened out before us a little flour--possibly the only flour they had
had for months, as the people did not see much flour in those days. “I
will make them a cake, I will.”
We were too busy to notice very closely what she was doing, but we
found in a few moments that she had the little flour in the same basket
in which she had just washed the potatoes. We saw her give her hands
a little rinse in the water, but we were never sure whether she threw
this out or whether it was the same into which she put the flour. Soon,
however, it was worked up into a paste, and taking it out in her hands
she pressed it into a kind of cake. I had a chance then to notice her
arms, bare from the shoulders, looking on the outside very black and
dirty, and on the inside, where her cooking had removed some of the
dirt, a little less dark. No wonder the cake was such a piebald looking
thing!
This black and white cake was thrown into a hole, which she had
scratched among the ashes, to bake, while our hostess got some hot
water and made a kind of tea from certain herbs which they used, and
which went under the name of “Indian tea.” In a few minutes, the cake,
now quite baked, was poked out with a stick, broken in pieces and laid
on a dish before us. With this and the tea, as dessert, we finished our
supper.
Some have asked, “Did you eat it?” Certainly, we ate it, with all the
relish we could, and would never have thought of refusing it after all
the kindness shown by the dear old people of the house. It is true that
these people were dirty beyond description, but out of a warm heart
they did their best for us, and endeavored to make us comfortable, and
we would have been meanly ungrateful if we had not appreciated it.
After a little religious service we retired to rest, not on the
feather-bed that was offered us by the old chief, but with our own
blankets, now warm and steaming, laid on some smooth rush mats; and
though the dogs crowded around and seemed to quarrel as to which should
be the nearest to us, and the fleas swarmed in such numbers as to drive
sleep far away from one who was not used to them, we managed to rest
very comfortably.
MILLIONS OF MOSQUITOES.
In the Fraser Valley, besides the fleas, we were besieged by myriads of
mosquitoes, that bred in the swales and sloughs and low marshy places,
particularly after high water. They literally swarmed, and in some
places rose in clouds as one passed, millions of them.
I noticed in my journeys on horseback that my little pony, otherwise
gentle and manageable, would jump and run at times in an unaccountable
fashion. At such times the mosquitoes would strike my face and forehead
like a storm of hail. Then it occurred to me that the intelligent
little beast only ran when passing through the spots where these
insects mostly swarmed, and henceforward I let him gallop.
The settlers tell of dogs and calves being killed by the mosquitoes,
and one reputable gentleman maintains that he had in his possession at
one time a cow whose tail had been so bitten by these venomous pests
that it dropped off.
An amusing incident took place at Langley on one of my visits to the
river. The high water was just going down, and the mosquitoes were
very bad. I was invited to stop over night at the home of a settler,
who had just built a little log house of two rooms on a ridge in
front of a great swale. The father and mother slept in a little room
partitioned off, and as the son-in-law was away, their daughter
occupied the room with her parents and left to me the bed the young
people had. The room was open to the shingles, and the hot day and
cooling evening had brought in the little pests in swarms.
Our friends told me they had no mosquito-netting, but mother and
daughter had invented something that they thought would enable the
missionary to have a good night’s rest. They had taken a crinoline
dress, spread like a full moon, all starched up and ready to use, and
tying a rope to the waist, they hung it up over where my head and face
were to be, and tacked it to the clothes and round the pillow. After
prayer and good-nights I was given a candle and told to be careful in
getting into bed, and to keep this thing tucked well around.
I did as I was told, dragged my weary limbs in under carefully, tucked
the skirt around and was soon off in a doze. But, oh, the merry noise
overhead, up and down and round and round, until finally they found
their way, in some manner, inside my shield. They commenced to bore
into my forehead. I stood the torture for a while, thinking it was but
a few stragglers who, when they had had their fill, would leave. They,
however, loaded up, and spread their wings with a whirring buzzing, as
if to call others to the feast. It seemed as if hundreds accepted the
invitation. I tried to keep still, but all to no purpose. About two
o’clock I thought if I could get the candle lighted and inside I could
burn them out and no others would get in, and I might have the coveted
rest. I lit the candle, got it safely inside, and commenced the work of
slaughter. The candle was soon black with the dead insects.
The first thing I knew, the dress was ablaze all around me. In my half
sleepy condition I had got too near the light starched material, and
it caught like tinder. I jumped up and dashed it out with my hands,
burning my fingers; but, oh, the poor dress! I fought the mosquitoes in
the dark the balance of the night.
Next morning the old lady asked me how I had slept, and the whole thing
came out. They laughed uproariously at my expense, and I--well, I made
the best of the joke.
It was on this river that I met two “tenderfoot” Englishmen who were
out looking for land. It was in the height of the mosquito season, and,
unheeding the advice given them to take the steamer, they started off
in a canoe, as they said, “to prospect and see the country.” Some days
after I met them in Chilliwack, and the sight they presented was, to
say the least, ludicrous. They had evidently been in the water, for
the legs of their pants had shrunken until there was quite four inches
between the ends and the tops of their socks. The mosquitoes had been
getting in their work, for their necks and legs and wrists were red
and swollen. It was like perpetual motion, for while there were few
mosquitoes around them, their hands were kept going scratching the
bitten parts and making dashes at imaginary insects.
“A PARSON AFTER HIS BITTERS.”
The comical appearance of these “new-comers” after their trip up the
forest-lined banks of the Fraser reminds me of an occasion when I, too,
must have presented a spectacle worthy to be laughed at.
I was making my way one evening from North Saanich to Victoria, about
twenty-one miles, over a trail, poor enough at the best, but rendered
all the more difficult by the presence of a dense fog. The little
bit of daylight was soon gone, and the darkness which followed was
impenetrable. I groped my way along, part of the time on hands and
knees, to find the road.
Presently I came to a burning log heap a little off the trail, and as
the night was very cold I warmed myself by the fire. Doubtful of my
ability to go much farther in the darkness, I lay down beside the fire
and slept--slept and dreamed that it was a fine day and I was having a
delightful trip. Suddenly awakening, I felt that I must press on if I
would catch the _Enterprise_ at eight o’clock that morning and proceed
on my proposed visit to the mainland.
Daylight opening through the fog enabled me now to see my way, and on I
sped, until finally I reached the outskirts of the city. I met many men
going out to work, who would look at me strangely and nudge each other.
When this was repeated several times I felt sure that it was something
in my personal appearance which was attracting their attention.
Coming to the bridge tavern I stepped in. Just as I entered the door I
overheard a girl say to her mother, “There’s a parson come in to have
his bitters.” Nothing daunted, I refused the proprietor’s offer of a
drink, and asked for a chance to wash.
I soon discovered the cause of the merriment of the passers-by. My face
was black with the dust of the road and the smut of the brush-fire; my
collar was dirty and wilted with perspiration; my necktie was awry, and
all looked as if I might have been on a spree.
But my exertions were all for naught, for the boat I had hoped would
leave at eight a.m. did not get off for a week, so dense were the fog
and smoke.
INDIANS RESPECT THE SABBATH.
Very early in our work among the Indians we were encouraged by a
circumstance which gave us to see that our teaching of the commandments
was having its effect upon them.
An exploring party, sent out by the Government, was preparing to start
from Nanaimo across the Island. They hired a number of Indians as
packers and guides. After having engaged these natives they hung around
the town for some days doing nothing. When the week came to a close
they immediately became active, and wanted to make a start on Sunday
morning, but the Indians refused to go.
The first intimation we had of the difficulty was through a letter,
written by the head of the party and published in the _Daily
Chronicle_, in which he stated: “Thanks to Brother Crosby, the Indians
would not travel on Sunday, so we were detained another day.”
The fidelity of the Indians in keeping sacred the Lord’s Day was, until
recent years, a source of great joy and satisfaction to us. Sometimes,
it is true, they were not able to keep an accurate record of the days.
But their sincerity of purpose is shown by the means some of them took
to be sure of which day was the Sabbath.
Py-uke, the old chief of the Penelkuts, started soon after the
missionary came to tie a knot on a string for each day in the week, and
a double knot for Sunday. This he kept up for years, until he had a
great ball of this native twine wound together as his time-keeper. This
he kept, and if any members of the tribes around were in doubt about
the day of the week, they would refer it to old Py-uke.
We have in later years been grieved to see thousands of fishermen at
the mouth of the Fraser fishing on Sunday. The law in the case has had
its damaging influence upon the Indians as well as the whites. There
is no excuse for a law which permits fishing after six o’clock Sunday
evening except that of commercial greed and indifference.