THE long, terribly cold winter was nearly over, when my hibernating was
enlivened by a caller,—a man of some note with us, having traits which
mark the frontier chieftain.
Brave, and physically powerful, he sometimes takes the law into his own
hands, and settles quarrels. Not a few "new country" differences, of
threatening aspect, have vanished before his stalwart form. As when,
for example, a tempting "claim" was in dispute, and the rival party
had gathered in force to drive the other away. Coolly listening to the
altercation, he would espouse the side he judged in the right,—perhaps
the weaker; then, laying aside his coat, as their champion, offer to
decide the case by an appeal to muscular force, announcing himself
ready to meet "any three" of the trespassers. But, however, the
challenge was not accepted. Whether the sight of that huge fist excited
fear, or conscience, or both, it proved a potent pacificator.
He was also well read,—a fluent public speaker, when once under way,
and in debate, an opponent not to be despised. A politician, too, he
had graced more than one new State legislature. And though in his early
days in Maine he stood well as a church-member, he was now, alas! an
avowed skeptic;—perhaps not a strange sequence to years of migratory
life in California and the West.
Many a fine chat had Mr. B. and I enjoyed together, seated before
the ample clay-stick-and-stone fireplace in his cabin, as he solaced
himself with his pipe of an evening; and though, at times, I pressed
home the claims of religion, he was not offended, if not convinced.
But this was before the fierce wintery blockade had cut off neighborly
intercourse.
The object of his call was at once stated. It appeared that, recently,
having got out of supplies, he had ventured to break a road to M—, a
settlement eleven miles distant, to buy flour and other stores. While
there, he heard that a lad, twelve years of age, was frozen to death
on the prairie, the first of the season, and that the parents were
so deeply afflicted that it was feared the mother's reason would be
unsettled. His sympathies being stirred, he visited the sorrowing
household to offer consolation. To his surprise, his words were
powerless. Nothing he could say, however kind or well-reasoned, reached
their case; and, baffled, he saw they needed divine sympathy, of which
he could not speak. He advised them, therefore, to call in a Christian
minister.
Weepingly, they rejoined that they knew not as there was one in all the
region.
"There is one tarrying in my neighborhood," he replied, "and I doubt
not he will cheerfully come, preach a funeral discourse at your house,
and do all he can for your peace of mind."
"And now," said he, after narrating the above, "if you will set a time
to go over, I will carry them word, that they may arrange for your
coming, and give due notice of the sermon."
It was with no little satisfaction that I made the appointment. For
what more exalted privilege than to bear the balm of the gospel to
bleeding hearts! Moreover, the testimony my infidel friend had thus
unwittingly borne to Christianity, was exceedingly gratifying, and led
me to hope for his further enlightenment.
The day set for the services at M— dawned calm and clear, with a slight
relenting of the cold. A good brother had offered the use of his
handsome span and a generous pair of "runners," and calling for Mr.
B., who, with a show of reluctance, consented to accompany us, we set
out. A choir had been extemporized for the occasion. It was composed
of persons originally from various States and from Canada, a miniature
specimen of western society. Strewing the bottom of the long pung with
clean straw, and taking our seats thereon, the better to screen us from
the sharp, frosty air, and carefully enveloped in blankets and buffalo
robes, the ride was made quite comfortable.
"There's the house!" said Mr. B., at length, as we began to ascend a
swell of land, on which stood a pretty painted cottage, reminding one
of New England. On the extended ridge grew the burr oak, with almost
the regularity of cultivation,—producing the illusion that we were
passing through an eastern orchard. In the background were cleared
fields, well fenced, and the river belted with forest trees. It was a
charming place, and an exclamation of delight broke from our company.
One glance assured us that this was the abode of taste and thrift. The
interest awakened by exteriors was not lessened when I met the inmates.
The master of the house impressed me as a large-hearted, industrious
man in his business enterprises, and in social relations kind and
affectionate. His wife and a married sister entered the room soon after
our arrival, neatly dressed in mourning; the former pale and worn; the
gentle, refined face of the latter, sad and sympathizing. They were
from Vermont, accustomed to the best influences of that goodly State,
the stamp of which was indelibly placed on them.
The story of the parent's sorrow was heart-touching.
Judson, the son they mourned, was the eldest of five children,—a child
of promise; "the flower of the family," as the neighbors expressed
it. He had a mind mature beyond his years, and was a dutiful son. For
some weeks before his decease, a change had taken place in his health.
Without any known cause, his bodily strength wasted.
And, on the subject of religion, his feelings became tender and
earnest. That ripening for the Reaper, by unearthly culture, sometimes
witnessed in children, despite the most unpropitious circumstances,
just ere they pass away, was his blessed experience. Deep questions
about God and Christ and Heaven he revolved by himself. Questions of
duty he was often propounding to the parents' slumbering consciences.
His father had been a consistent member of the church, and faithful
in family duties years before, but in the absorbing cares of
frontier life, and the destitution of religious privileges, becoming
backslidden, he had forsaken the family altar, and his conversation was
utterly worldly. The son, with shadows of eternity deepening on his
pathway, and the Spirit gently leading him, became unhappy in view of
the parental shortcomings.
With tearful, pleading eyes, he would often say, "Oh, why don't father
read the Bible and have prayers as he used to, mother?"
And the mother would ponder these things in her heart.
One day an elk had been shot some three miles out on the prairie, and
a party were going with a wagon to bring it in. Watson Freeman, a
companion of Judson's, and two years his senior, was going with the
hunters, and Judson asked his mother's permission to accompany him.
Contrary to her custom, for she watched over her idol with jealous
care, she gave her consent, "scarcely knowing," as she told me, "what
she said." The boys, as the team went slowly, soon got out and followed
on behind. Excited by the expedition, they noticed not that the horses
were gradually leaving them, till a great weariness fell on the more
delicate of the two. He complained of being too tired to walk, and his
young friend called to the men: "Stop a moment and let Judson get in.
He's tired!"
"Can't wait," replied the hunter; "if he wants to ride he must run and
catch up!"
The poor boy tried to rouse himself to hasten, but in vain.
His companion, alarmed, entreated the driver to wait, saying, "Do stop,
just a moment, Judson's so weak! Do let him get in; he can't run a
step; he can scarcely walk!"
"Well, let him stay where he is, then!" was the rough answer. "If he's
too much of a baby to walk he ought to have staid at home!" And quickly
the wagon was out of sight.
Meanwhile the cold increased. The sky became overcast. And a
snow-squall, such as frequently sweeps the prairies of the northwest
in late autumn, set in. The blinding flakes were whirled about with
the fury peculiar to the storm where the wind, unobstructed, gathers
mightiest force, and the enfeebled boy felt a deathly chill striking to
his vitals, and said, "O Watson, I'm freezing to death!"
His companion saw the danger, and, exposing himself to the terrible
air, as he took off his own coat, and wrapped his friend in it, he
replied, cheerfully, "There! That will keep you warm, I guess. Now take
hold of my hand, and we'll go right home. I'll help you all I can. 'I'
can find the way!" And, turning about, they started for the settlement.
Those who have known, as I have, the hardy pioneer to become bewildered
and lost close to his own dwelling, when overtaken by one of those
violent tornado-like storms, his cries for help drowned in the roar of
the tempest, will understand the nature of the task which that brave
young heart proposed to itself.
An instance of the kind occurred about the time of the event I am
relating. A settler, experienced in frontier life, had gone to attend
to his cattle, which were yarded in a temporary rail enclosure, a few
rods from his cabin. While busied there, suddenly the dusky wing of
the snow-tempest obscured the heavens. Hastily finishing his task,
he started for home. Already every object was hidden in the awful
gloom, and how the maddened gusts charged upon, and smote and baffled
him!—pelting him with the cruel sleet; filling eyes and nostrils, nay,
almost burying him with the driving drifts. The sharp coldness cut to
the bones. The whole air was in commotion,—hissing, howling, wailing,
groaning. Downward rushed the heavy snow-clouds, upward shot opposing
columns, with surprising speed and strength; from every quarter to
every quarter the whirlwind hurled the swift moving flakes. He had
cleared forests in Michigan, and conquered hardships in prairie land,
but now the strong man was at his wit's end; hoping each moment, as
he was tossed about in the mighty tumult, to reach his destination,
only to be perplexed in his disappointment. Meanwhile, the families
at home—for two occupied the dwelling—had become alarmed for him. Two
stout men set off for his rescue, shouting his name. They returned,
unable to cope with the rage of the elements. Getting their guns,
they made another attempt. The report of the firearms reached the
lost man's ear. He had been whirled about near the locality from
whence he had started; and when the sound of the gun reached him, in
his bewilderment, he was going directly out "to the solitudes of the
prairie." A moment more and he would have been beyond recovery.
It was a mile and a half to the nearest dwelling, and they had gone
only a few rods when Watson perceived his playmate could proceed no
further, and, with a heroism beyond his years, he took him on his back
and bore him on, on; the raging winds disputing the way, and the snow
beating against him pitilessly.
Three quarters of a mile—the neighbors afterward estimated—did that
noble boy carry his precious burden, nerved to strange strength by the
love that was in his heart, and the consciousness that life or death
hung on the issue. But the hands about his neck relaxed their hold,
and his own step faltered; so, coming to a lonely oak, he leaned his
charge against it, and covering him up carefully with the over-garment,
bidding him not to be afraid, fled for help.
As soon as possible, he returned with a wagon, accompanied by its owner
and a neighbor. By the side of the tree they found him, covered with a
fleecy robe, sitting there still and silent, a faint trembling of the
pulse was all that told that life was not extinct. What had been his
thoughts there alone amid the wild storm; what the tenacity with which
his young heart clung to life,—the yearnings for father, mother, little
brothers; what the agonized soul-cries that ascended above the voices
of the tempest, piercing heaven, or what visions of angel ministrants
strengthening him in the last conscious struggle, there was none to
tell. He was speechless.
Laying him gently in the vehicle, they drove for his home. Bursting
open the door, they bore the child in,—rash, kind men! "Judson was
dead!" Not an intimation had the parents received that evil had
befallen their son, since a few short hours before he had gone forth
in his young joy. The blow fell with stunning force, it was so sudden,
so unexpected; and while the father was sorely stricken, the mother
mourned in an agony that "refused to be comforted."
"Oh, that he had been taken away from before our eyes by disease, then
we might have been prepared for it!" she exclaimed. "But to have him
perish all alone, with no one near to speak to, no one by to soothe his
last moments! Left, too, so brutally by neighbors who, if they had been
at all humane, might have saved him from such a fate. And to bury him
without a minister of the gospel to speak to us from God's word, and
offer prayer, it was so revolting, so dreadful!"
"Did you have no funeral service?" I asked.
"Yes; but it was so different from what we needed, and from what we
had been accustomed to. We were told that a settler, three miles from
here, a smart capable man, was a preacher. And, although he was a
Universalist, rather than have none of the offices appropriate to such
an event, my husband invited him to officiate. He made some remarks,
but did not pray, saying he was not used to praying. And so my boy was
buried! We have never felt right about that funeral, and when I heard
of you, I felt 'so' glad! I have not heard a sermon for more than two
years, yet I prize such privileges."
But silently the neighbors had assembled from miles around, some on
foot, more in ox-teams. The rooms were crowded with an intelligent,
strongly-marked audience, decorous and sympathizing. A deep hush was
over all as I read those solemn, sweetly-consoling passages in the
Bible that lead the thoughts from the perishable to the unchangeable,
and reveal the life to come. How wondrously significant were they in
that grief-shadowed, pioneer home! And how touching the oft-sung hymn,—
"Thus fades the lovely, blooming flower,
Frail, smiling solace of an hour!"