It has already been made clear to you that the sojourn of the troop of
Boy Scouts in the southern Maine woods during this summer was simply a
vacation in which there was a relaxation of rigid discipline such as
attended their hikes and what may be called business outings. A certain
part of each week-day was devoted to drill; the bugle was sounded
morning and evening; the National Flag was saluted; yells practiced and
so on. The leader simply kept the youngsters on edge, as may be said.
They were given full liberty most of the time, with freedom to use the
canoes for fishing in the lake, or to wander in the woods studying
trees, bird and insect life, as the varying tastes of the boys prompted.
One of the most enjoyable treats of the boys was that of story telling.
This took place in the evening after supper, the extinguishment of the
outdoor fires, the putting away of the dishes and the setting of things
to rights. Scout Master Hall was never at a loss for an instructive or
amusing “yarn,” but was too wise to give the boys a surfeit. He
encouraged them in the discussion of different subjects, to explain what
they had read and to try their own skill at story telling.
“Never hurry in relating anything,” said he, “for to do so is to weaken
its effect and cause impatience on the part of your listeners. Try to
bring out all the points; don’t grow garrulous or wander from the main
thread; don’t preach, or fish for a moral where there isn’t any, and
finally stop when you are through.
“Now, nothing is more certain than that Uncle Elk has an exhaustless
fund of stories in his wealth of knowledge and experience. You have me
with you always—or at least a good deal of the time—while we shall not
have him half as much as we wish. Let us, therefore, use him while we
can. Uncle Elk, tell us a story.”
Every boy clapped his hands and looked expectantly at the old gentleman
sitting modestly in the background. He bowed in recognition, while those
who were seated in chairs shifted them around and those on the floor
adjusted their positions so as to face him.
“As Michael would say, this is so sudden that I am uncertain for the
moment how best to comply with your wishes; but while listening to the
examination of our young friend and the well chosen words of Mr. Hall, I
called to mind the record of a man who lived and died many years before
any of you were born, and who in many respects will serve as a model for
all Boy Scouts.”
And this is the story which Uncle Elk told, and concerning which I wish
merely to say that it is strictly true in every particular:
“One of the strangest characters who had to do with the settlement of
the Middle West was Jonathan Chapman, born in New England in 1770. He
was of gentle birth, and well educated, but was ill treated by a young
woman. I have never heard the particulars, but it is said she turned him
away in favor of another person, and Chapman felt so bad he made an
exile of himself.
“Now, boys, quite likely when you become a few years older, you will
meet some young woman who you will feel sure is the finest person of her
sex that ever lived, and perhaps you will think life isn’t worth while
unless you can win her love. I hope you will have no such
disappointments, but, if you do, don’t let it break your heart. You have
heard the old saying that there are as fine fish in the sea as ever were
caught. So there are thousands of excellent girls and if you don’t gain
the first one you fix your affections upon, brace up and look around for
another.”
“And ’spose she likewise turns ye down, as was the case wid Tim
O’Shaughnessy in Ireland, who was rejected by more young leddies than he
could kaap count of?” gravely inquired Mike Murphy.
“Stick to it; never give up the ship.”
“I’ll sind yer advice to Tim, though I misgive me that he will die of
old age while the search is still going on, but he must find enj’yment
in coorting or he wouldn’t keep at it as he does and smile all the
time.”
“Well, to go back to Jonathan Chapman. He felt so bad that he packed up
his belongings and left New England forever. He started for the West as
it was then called and the next heard of him was in what are now the
states of Ohio, Illinois and Kentucky, which at that time formed a part
of the vast, wild Northwest Territory. He tramped by himself among the
scattered settlements and visited the different tribes of Indians, who
in those years were continually on the war path; but no red man, no
matter how fierce, ever tried to harm Chapman.”
“How was that?” asked Alvin Landon, voicing the surprise of the other
boys.
“The Indians believe that any one whose brain is unbalanced, or who is
seemingly lacking in some of his mental faculties, is under the special
care of the Great Spirit, and instead of trying to injure such a person
they will befriend him.”
Mike nudged Alvin and said in an undertone which, however, every one
heard:
“Ye needn’t be afeared, me friend, to spend your days among the same red
gintlemen.”
Alvin shook his fist at his friend, who dodged an imaginary blow. Uncle
Elk smiled at the by-play and continued:
“In some respects Chapman was a model Scout, for no kinder hearted man
ever lived. He would never kill an animal unless to save his own life
and even then he grieved over the necessity which made him do it. When
he almost stepped upon a coiled rattler, he would turn aside and leave
him unharmed. One cold night he started a fire at the base of a huge oak
in the woods. A few minutes later he heard a great scratching inside the
hollow trunk and the snout of a she-bear was thrust out of the opening
above his head. She and her cubs were alarmed by the unusual proceeding
and she seemed to be getting ready to make a change of quarters with her
family. Chapman instantly kicked apart the burning brands and left. The
story is that he sat and shivered in other quarters the night through,
but I can’t see the necessity for that and I must think he kindled a new
fire after making sure he did not disturb any wild creature.
“Chapman is remembered in the history of the Middle West as ‘Johnny
Appleseed,’ because he thought it was his mission to distribute apple
seeds among the settlers and Indians, asking only that they should be
planted and the king of all fruits cultivated. With a bag thus filled
and slung over his shoulder, he tramped for hundreds of miles through
all sorts of weather, sometimes paddling down or up a river, sleeping
wherever night overtook him, often in Indian lodges and again in the
lonely cabin of some settler, or by the camp fire of a party of scouts
far in the depths of the wilderness. Whoever his hosts might be he
presented them with handfuls of seeds and made them promise to plant and
tend the fruit. Very few failed to keep their promise to him.
“You will not be surprised when I add that Johnny Appleseed was deeply
religious. He spent hours in prayer and tried to employ his waking time
just as he believed his Heavenly Father wished him to use it. He was a
Swedenborgian in faith, and in addition to the stock of appleseeds he
always carried a number of tracts which he distributed among his
friends. Since the Indians could not read the printed words, he told
them of the Great Spirit as he believed him to be, and who shall say
that such precious seed did not bear fruitage?
“When his supply of tracts ran low, he tore them into separate sheets
and divided them among the scouts and settlers accompanying them with a
few words of counsel. The hardy men might jest with him at times but
they never purposely hurt his feelings. Simon Kenton, one of the
greatest of all the western scouts, kept for years the tracts which he
received from Johnny Appleseed. You may not know it, but Kenton in his
later days became a humble Christian. He had a fine voice and often led
the singing at the famous camp meetings in the West.
“But to return to Johnny Appleseed. Year after year, in summer and
winter, in storm and sunshine, he tramped the lonely wilderness, or
guided his dugout up and down the rivers and streams, distributing
tracts and seeds, giving good advice and showing by his conduct that he
lived as close to his Saviour as mortal man can live.
“One summer afternoon he landed on the shore of the Ohio, and with his
plump bag of seeds over his shoulder, plunged into the woods. He was on
his way to a village of Wyandots, where he was sure of welcome. Before
he reached the place, he came upon nearly a hundred warriors gathered in
a large natural clearing. They were running races, wrestling, throwing
the tomahawk and firing at targets. Moreover, their faces were daubed
with black and red paint.
“The first glance told Johnny the truth. These red men were about to go
on the war path. A raid had been planned upon the frontier settlements,
and fire, destruction and massacre would again sweep along the border as
it had done many times. Did Johnny argue or plead with them? He was too
wise to do that. He passed in and out among the fierce bucks, addressing
the leaders by name, giving them handfuls of seeds and saying something
pleasant to each. He even stood by and praised their skill in
marksmanship and athletic sports. Not an Indian showed the slightest
distrust, but treated him with as much kindness as if he belonged to
their own race and meant to take part with them in the raid near at
hand.
“Johnny stayed with them for more than an hour, then said good bye and
with the bag over his shoulder strolled toward the river bank where he
had left his dugout. As soon as he was beyond sight, he dropped his
burden to the ground and ran like a deer. Leaping into the crude craft,
he sent it skimming over the water like a swallow, never pausing until
he had gone five or six miles. Then he caught sight of that for which he
was hunting,—the gleam of a tiny point of light in the dense
undergrowth along shore. He sped like an arrow to it and hardly paused
to draw his boat on the bank when he dashed to the camp fire with a
shout. Had he not called out his name, he probably would have been shot
by one of the three scouts who were broiling their evening meal, for the
rule with those hardy fellows was to shoot first and investigate
afterward.
“One of the party was Simon Kenton. They were out on a scout because of
rumors of impending trouble among the Shawnees, Wyandots and other
tribes. The story which Johnny Appleseed told made further scouting on
their part unnecessary: the red men were about to start on the war path
and no time was to be lost in warning the settlements and exposed
pioneers.
“Ten minutes after the arrival of the messenger the four had scattered,
all taking different directions and hurrying with the speed of the wind
through the dark wilderness. It would have been throwing effort away to
keep together or to travel in couples. By breaking apart they could
reach as many different points without unnecessary delay and thus make
the warning more general.
“Now, while Kenton and each of his comrades made all haste toward the
settlements, Johnny Appleseed put forth every effort to reach the home
of a pioneer acquaintance who lived by himself with his wife and two
small children. It was only a few miles off and was certain to be
visited by a small party of Wyandots, who would draw away from the main
band long enough to destroy the family that, having no suspicion of
their danger, would be caught unawares.
“The incident which followed sounds unbelievable and yet it was only one
of several similar ones. Despite Johnny’s haste when he reached the
clearing in front of the cabin, he discovered a party of a dozen
Wyandots, in the act of surrounding the house with the intention of
setting it on fire and burning the inmates to death. The red men were
too powerful and well prepared to be beaten off by the single defender.
Johnny carried no gun, his only weapon being a large knife, which he
used in preparing food or his camp fire. Besides, he was ready at any
time to give up his life rather than fight.
“What he did do was to rush in among the painted warriors and address
them like some inspired prophet sent of heaven. He told them the Great
Spirit would be angry if they harmed the white man who had always been
their friend, and that disaster would assuredly overtake them in their
more important attack upon the settlements. His message was from the
Great Spirit and woe to them if they closed their ears to his warning
words!
“Well, he must have had a hard time of it, but he played his part to
perfection. In the end, the band of redskins drew off and went back to
the main company, the settler whom Johnny had saved never dreaming of
his danger or suspecting what had taken place, until Johnny told him the
story many years afterwards. I may add that the main campaign proved
what they called in those days a ‘flash in the pan,’ since the message
of Johnny Appleseed gave Kenton and his two companions just enough time
in which to reach the stockades that otherwise might have been captured.
“I might tell you many stories of the remarkable man known as Johnny
Appleseed, who spent his life in doing good in his own peculiar way. As
I said at the beginning, he was an ideal Boy Scout grown to maturity,
whose sole purpose was to help his fellow men. _That_ is the basis of
our organization. Every boy and girl, every man and woman, can do
something, and God judges you only by the improvement you make of your
opportunities. It may not be yours to wander through the woods,
distributing seeds and tracts and giving good counsel, but you can speak
the cheering word, encourage the discouraged one, cheerfully obey your
parents and teachers, help the feeble and downhearted and do hundreds of
things which, small of themselves, amount in the end to more than you
can estimate. The consciousness that comes to you when you do something
of that kind repays you a hundred fold.
“Some folks say that Jonathan Chapman or Johnny Appleseed was crazy.
Measured according to our standards, perhaps he was mentally unbalanced,
but I have sometimes fancied that he was one of the sanest of men, for
he gave his all for humanity. He thought and cared nothing for his own
comfort. He often went hungry, shivered with cold or panted with heat,
but so long as life lasted he never fainted by the way.”
“How long did he live?” asked the Scout Master.
“Until about three-score and ten. The last picture that we have of him
is standing on an eminence and looking down with radiant face on one of
the most beautiful panoramas that mind can picture. His long thin gray
hair dangled over his shoulders, his beard was white and scraggling, he
had no cap or coat, the only garment being a shaggy buffalo skin wrapped
about his gaunt body, with his legs below his knees bare. One of the
leather bags was slung over his shoulder, and a staff was in his hand.
“He died in 1847, and of him it may be said his labors bore fruit over a
hundred thousand square miles of territory. Limitless acres of choicest
apples in the Middle West sprang from the seeds which he scattered over
that vast region. His birthday—January 15—will always be honored by
the pomological societies of America.”