It was 1884. Fifty years since the coming of the Pond brothers to Fort
Snelling--twenty-one years since the organization of the church in the
prison-pen at Mankato. One bright September day, from the heights of
Sisseton, South Dakota, a strangely beautiful scene was spread out
before the eye. In the distance the waters of Lake Traverse (source of
the Red River of the North), and Big Stone Lake (head waters of the
Minnesota), glistened in the bright sunshine, their waters almost
commingling ere they began their diverse journeyings--the former to
Hudson's Bay, the latter to the Gulf of Mexico. At our feet were
prairies rich as the garden of the Lord. The spot was Iyakaptapte, that
is the Ascension. Half-way up was a large wooden building, nestling in
a grassy cove. Round about on the hillsides were white teepees. Dusky
forms were passing to and fro and pressing round the doors and windows.
We descended and found ourselves in the midst of a throng of Sioux
Indians. Instinctively we asked ourselves, Why are they here? Is this
one of their old pagan festivals? Or is it a council of war? We
entered. The spacious house was densely packed; we pressed our way to
the front. Hark! They are singing. We could not understand the words,
but the air was familiar. It was Bishop Heber's hymn (in the Indian
tongue):
"From Greenlands icy mountains,
From India's coral strand.
* * *
Salvation! O Salvation!
The joyful sound proclaim,
Till each remotest nation
Has learned Messiah's Name.
Waft, waft, ye winds, His story,
And you, ye waters, roll,
Till like a sea of glory
It spreads from pole to pole."
With what joyful emphasis, this strange congregation sang these words.
We breathed easier. This was no pagan festival, no savage council of
war. It was the fifteenth grand annual council of the Dakota Christian
Indians of the Northwest.
The singing was no weaklunged performance--not altogether harmonious,
but vastly sweeter than a war-whoop; certainly hearty and sincere and
doubtless an acceptable offering of praise. The Rev. John Baptiste
Renville was the preacher. His theme was Ezekiel's vision of the Valley
of Dry Bones. We did not knew how he handled his subject. But the ready
utterance, the sweet flow of words, the simple earnestness of the
speaker and the fixed attention of the audience marked it as a complete
success. When the sermon was finished, there was another loud-voiced
hymn and then the Council of Days was declared duly opened.
Thus they gather themselves together, year by year to take counsel in
reference to the things of the kingdom. The Indian moderator, Artemas
Ehnamane, the Santee pastor, was a famous paddle-man, a mighty hunter
and the son of a great conjuror and war-prophet, but withal a tender,
faithful, spiritual pastor of his people. Rev. Alfred L. Riggs, D.D.,
the white moderator, who talked so glibly alternately in Sioux and
English and smiled so sweetly in both languages at once, was "Good
Bird," one of the first white babes born at Lac-qui-Parle. John, The
Beloved, one of the chief white workers, as a boy had the site of
Minneapolis and St. Paul for a play-ground, and the little Indian lads
for his playmates. That week we spent at Iyakaptapte was a series of
rich, rare treats. We listened to the theological class of young men,
students of Santee and Sisseton. We watched the smiling faces of the
women as they bowed in prayer, and brought their offerings to the
missionary meetings. Such wondrous liberality those dark-faced sisters
displayed. We marked with wonder the intense interest manifested hour
by hour by all classes in the sermons, addresses, and especially in the
discussion: "How shall we build up the church?" Elder David Grey Cloud
said, "We must care for the church if we would make it effective. We
must care for all we gather into the church." The Rev. James Red-Wing
added, "The work of the church is heavy. When a Red River cart sticks
in the mud we call all the help we can and together we lift it out; we
must all lift the heavy load of the church." The Rev. David Grey Cloud
closed with: "We must cast out all enmity, have love for one another
and then we shall be strong."
"Does the keeping of Dakota customs benefit or injure the Dakota
People?"
Deacon Boy-that-walks-on-the-water responded emphatically. "The ancient
Dakota customs are all bad. There is no good in them. They are all sin,
all sorrow. All medicine men are frauds. Jesus is the only one to hold
to." Rev. Little-Iron-Thunder said "When I was a boy I was taught the
sacred dances and all the mysteries; to shoot with the bag; to hold the
sacred shell. To gain a name, the Dakotas will suffer hunger, cold,
even death. But all this is a cheat. It will not give life to the
people. Only one name will give life,--even Jesus." Rev. Daniel
Renville declared: "Faith is the thing our people need; not faith in
everything, but faith in Christ; not for hope of reward."
There were evening gatherings in the interest of the Young Men's
Christian Associations and the Young People's Christian Endeavor
Societies. These are two of the most hopeful features of the work. With
the young men and maidens of the tribe in careful training in Christian
knowledge and for Christian service, there must be far-reaching and
permanent beneficent results.
Sabbath came! A glorious day! A fitting crown of glory for a week of
such rare surprises. A strange chanting voice, like that of a herald
mingled with our day-break dreams. Had we been among the Moslems, we
should have thought it the muezzin's cry. It was all Indian to us, but
it was indeed a call to prayer with this translation in English:--
"Morning is coming! Morning is coming! Wake up! Wake up! Come to sing!
Come to pray."
Very soon, the sweet music of prayer and praise from the white teepees
on the hillside, rose sweetly on the air, telling us that the day of
their glad solemnities had begun. The great congregation assembled in
the open air. Pastor Renville, who as a little lad played at the feet
of the translators of the Bible into the Sioux language, and who as a
young man organized a counter revolution among the Christian Indians in
favor of the government in the terrible days of '62, presided with
dignity, baptizing a little babe and receiving several recent converts
into the church. A man of rare powers and sweet temperament is the Rev.
John Baptiste Renville, youngest son of the famous Joseph Renville. A
wonderfully strange gathering is this. Hundreds of Indians seated in
semi-circles on the grass, reverently observing the Lord's Supper.
Probably one-third of the males in that assemblage were participants in
the bloody wars of the Sioux nation. The sermon was delivered by
Solomon His-Own-Grandfather, who had taken an active part in the war of
1862, but was now a missionary among his own people in Manitoba. The
bread was broken by Artemas Ehnamane ("Walking Along"), who was
condemned and pardoned, and then converted after that appalling tragedy
in 1862. The wine was poured by the man whom all the Sioux lovingly
call John (Dr. John P. Williamson) who led them in the burning revival
scenes in the prison-camp at Fort Snelling in 1863. And as he referred
to those thrilling times, their tears flowed like rain. It is said that
Indians cannot weep, but scores of them wept that day at Ascension. One
of the officiating elders was a son of the notorious chieftain Little
Crow, who was so prominent against the Anglo-Saxons in those days of
carnage. As we partook of those visible symbols of our Saviour's broken
body, and shed blood, with this peculiar congregation, so recently
accustomed to the war-whoop and the scalp-dance, we freely mingled our
tears with theirs. And as our minds ranged over the vast Dakota field
and as we remembered the thousands of Christian Sioux, their Presbytery
and their Association, their scores of churches and their many Sabbath
Schools, their Y.M.C.A. and their Y.P.S.C.E. associations, their
missionary societies and other beneficent organizations, their farms
and homes, their present pure, happy condition, and contrasted it with
their former superstition, nakedness and filthy teepee life, we sang
joyfully;
Behold! What wondrous works
Have, by the Lord, been wrought;
Behold! What precious souls
Have, by His blood, been bought.
As the shades of evening drew on, the different bands held their
farewell meetings in their teepees. There were sounds of sweet
music--joyous ones--echoing and re-echoing over the prairies--"He
leadeth me, Oh precious thought," "Nearer, my God to thee," "Blessed
Assurance, Jesus hath given"--until the whole was blended in one grand
refrain:--
"Blest be the tie that binds
Our hearts in Christian love;
The fellowship of Christian minds
Is like to that above."
The Council Tent was in darkness! The lights were out in the teepees.
The whole camp was wrapped in solid slumber. And as we sunk to rest in
our bed of new-mown hay, we breathed a prayer for the slumbering Sioux
around us; May the Cloud, by day, and the Pillar of Fire, by night,
guide the Sioux Nation through the Red Sea of Savagery, superstition
and sin to the Promised Land of Christian Civilization.
The Native Missionary Society.
It is well worth a journey to the land of the Dakotas to witness an
anniversary gathering of their Woman's Missionary Society. You enter
the great Council Tent. It is thronged with these nut-brown women of
the plains. A matronly woman welcomes you, and presides with grace and
dignity. A bright and beautiful young maiden--a graduate of Santee or
Good Will--controls the organ and sweetly leads the service of song.
And oh how they do sing! You cannot understand the words, but the airs
are familiar. Now it is Bishop Coxe's "Latter Day" sung with vim in the
Indian tongue;
"We are living, we are dwelling,
In a grand and awful time;
In an age on ages telling,
To be living is sublime."
And now some sedate matron rises and reads a carefully written paper,
contrasting their past, vile teepee life of ignoble servitude to Satan,
with their present, pure life of glorious liberty in the Lord Jesus
Christ. And then they sing, so earnestly for they are thinking of their
pagan sisters of the wild tribes, sitting in darkness and the shadow of
death, in the regions beyond. The hymn is Draper's "Missionary Chant."
"Ye Christian heralds, go proclaim
Salvation through Emmanuel's name;
To distant lands the tidings bear
And plant the Rose of Sharon there."
And now a lively young lass, neatly attired, comes forward and with a
fine, clear accent, recites a poem of hope, touching the bright future
of their tribe, when the present generation of young men and maidens,
nourished in Christian homes, educated in Christian schools and trained
in the Young People's societies for efficient service, shall control
their tribe, and move the great masses of their people upward and
God-ward, and elevate the Sioux Nation to a lofty plane of Christian
civilization and culture; and enable them to display to the world the
rich fruition of Christian service. And, by request, their voices ring
out in song these thrilling words;
"Watchman, tell us of the night,
For the morning seems to dawn;
Traveller, darkness takes its flight,
Doubt and terror are withdrawn.
Watchman, let thy wanderings cease;
Hie thee, to thy quiet home;
Traveller, lo, the Prince of Peace,
Lo, the Son of God is come!"
Fervent prayers are frequently interspersed in these exercises. And oh,
what wondrous liberality these dark-skinned sisters of the Dakota
plains display!
How full their hands are with rich gifts, gleaned out of their poverty
for the treasury of their Saviour-King. For many years, the average
annual contributions per capita to missions, by these Sioux sisters,
have fully measured up to the standard of their more highly favored
Anglo-Saxon sisters of the wealthy Presbyterian and Congregational
denominations, of which they form a humble part.