Part 8

The second day a shame-faced boy tore up that first bill and later on laid his head in his mother's lap and cried.--I guess you know why!

Before a train starts, the wipers go all over her to wipe and examine the engine; the fireman comes and builds and starts the fire; the engineer comes and goes carefully all over the machinery; the mechanic comes and tests all the wheels; and then she is linked on the train, the lever is pulled, and puff! puff!--away she goes, drawing her long line of passengers and freight!

You are going through the process now of getting ready. By-and-by you will be hitched on to some life job.

See you get ready properly, and get coupled to the right train; and then pull for all your might, and help serve humanity by bringing in your load to the final station where some day we all must land.

*XXXI*

*BETSY*

Henry W. Longfellow, the poet, tells us that

"Lives of great men all remind us We can make our lives sublime, And departing, leave behind us, Footprints in the sands of time.

"Footprints that perhaps another, Sailing o'er life's solemn main, A forlorn and shipwrecked brother, Seeing, may take heart again."

That is all beautifully true. It is also true that many a humble, obscure life can teach us lessons of trust and loyalty, and devotion to good things.

The story I am going to tell you is about a humble Indian girl, whose forefathers had been all savages, but whose home was a Christian one among the simple native children of the North.

Over fifty years before the time of our story, an unchristianized band of Indians fished in the inland waters, trapped in the forest for mink and otter, muskrat, bear or silver fox; and paddled the lake in birch barks; sometimes supplementing their paddle strokes by a sail contrived of a blanket fastened to a pole cut from a neighbouring bluff.

From far over the Atlantic came a brave man, with a heart full of peace, and anxious to acquaint the native with the brightness of his own life.

It meant much to settle in such a district in early days, long before the iron horse had made a path across the prairie; days when the trail wound its wandering way over rock and soil, skirting the bluffs, penetrating forest, mounting granite hills or hiding itself in rocky ravines.

And even after the perils of the trail were passed, there still remained the privations of the lonely Mission, cut off from companionship, with the keen biting winds of winter, the ice-locked lake, the powdery-dry snow falling and falling until one wondered if the air had turned to snow, and when morning came little was left of the buildings except the chimney tops; the whole Mission was buried in white as though shut up in the garments of the tomb.

Twice a year the mail carrier braved first the heat of summer and then the rigour of winter, and when the contents of the mail-bag were emptied on the parlour floor what delight in once more touching the outside world. It was like reading history after it was past to scan the doings of the year. It was like a breath from the dear old home to see the familiar postage stamps and to read the welcome words of dear ones from letters, enclosing home flowers and fragrant love messages.

In all this life no one made greater sacrifice than the missionary's wife, who saw no women save her dusky pagan sisters with the dark brown eyes with a yearning look in them.

Many years ago Keewatin, the "North Wind" with his little daughter Akwinanoh were sitting by their wigwam door looking down the long stretch of the Northern Lake, when suddenly a strange apparition some miles away startled them into attention. Their cry gathered almost the whole camp, which watched with wonder and amaze a changing object moving toward them, but unexplainable by even their keen Indian sight.

Whatever it was it gleamed and glistened in the setting sun until finally Keewatin, with a glimmer of inspiration in his eyes, said, "I know what it is. It is an island of light." He was nearer the truth than he knew, for it was the tin canoe of the English missionary, the tin reflecting, in scintillating rays, the sunlight, and the canoe bearing the messenger of a light that so far had never yet shone for them. Every stranger excites the curiosity of the savage man, but Akwinanoh had a new object of interest from that day, for with the white man came a tiny white baby that soon grew into the pet of the reserve!

The little daughter of the North Wind adopted the white man's child as her special charge, and while the missionary worked and prayed to bring the Gospel of the Christ-child into the hearts of the Saulteaux, another little child slowly but surely worked its way into the life of the brown maiden, transforming her, and through its gentle pressure Akwinanoh soon yielded to the influence of the Gospel of Bethlehem's babe.

Later she became the Christian mother of her who was known as Betsy. Betsy grew into a girlhood that was beautiful, even from the white man's point of vision.

She was gentle as the breath of the south wind, with a sweet grace of manner and a consistency of life that made her a strong support to the man who came to them in his canoe.

To be a follower of Christ seemed natural to her, for she had His spirit, and was full of unselfish thoughtfulness.

One day as she was walking along the river edge she saw a child slip and fall. Without a moment's hesitation she plunged into the deep, brown stream, six fathoms at the rock, and brought the child safe to its parents' tepee. It was early in the spring and the waters were cold, and before night a raging fever laid her low.

For weeks she suffered, waited upon by the heathen medicine man, uncomplainingly swallowing the hideous compounds from his mix-all bottles, and slowly sinking under the fatal grip of pneumonia.

The young husband refused at first to allow the approach of the white doctor, and the missionary could only pray and hope.

Finally, when one day the light burned low, the obstinate young Indian bowed before the compelling force of necessity, and proper medical attendance began. Then the doctor took hold, nursing her as though she were his own child; watching symptoms and succeeding in bringing back hopeful conditions into the wasted frame.

It was a gay day when the report circulated through the camp that Betsy, the beloved, was recovering under the magic spell woven around her by the English medicine man, for no one could fail to notice the sweet spirit and to wish for victory in the stern battle brought on through her unselfish act.

One day in the evening, the missionary found her, oh so quiet and worn, but gentle as ever. She could speak a little English and seemed glad to think that she was cared for.

"Well, Betsy," said the missionary, "you have been very ill."

"Yes," she answered sweetly, "very ill, but the good light the white man brought has been shining in my heart and all is well."

"We are glad, Betsy," said the missionary, "that God is going to spare you. We could ill do without you. Your life has been a benediction to the whole reserve."

"Oh, Missionary," said Betsy, weeping, "do not say that. When I think of the story of His love it makes me ashamed. But I do wish my people could feel and know as I do. I would like to stay among them for a little while, for I love them. But sometimes I have a feeling in my heart that perhaps it is not to be. I had a dream last night, Missionary. Would you like to hear it?"

"Yes, Betsy," he replied, "but are you strong enough to talk so long?"

"Oh, yes; I feel quite strong this evening, thanks to the white doctor.

"I dreamed I was going along the trail when suddenly away before me I saw a wonderful light. It was coming my way and as it got nearer it took on the form of a person. Soon it stood beside me and I saw that it was the face of Christ, but oh, it was too beautiful to describe! And I said, 'Have you come for me?' 'No,' said a voice, 'not yet.' And I thought I was so disappointed, and I said, 'Well, will you be long?' And the answer was, 'No, not very long.' And as it spoke it disappeared, and I awakened."

He listened, hushed and awestruck at the story of the dream of this dusky sister of the plain.

"Well, Betsy," said he, after a moment of silence, "it is all well. That dream may not come literally true, but the spirit of it is yours, and some day He will come to your people, and when the right moment arrives He will come for you too. Shall we pray, Betsy?"

"Oh, yes sir, pray," she said, "pray for me, but do not forget my people, and my man."

The night shadows were growing darker as reverently he knelt beside the prostrate form of that northern saint, Indian in race, but akin to God the Father of us all. A daughter of the King, if ever there was one.

Then reaching out her hand, she took from a corner of the tent near her couch a birch-bark basket, made by her own hands, and sewn with sweet grass. Giving it to the missionary, she said, "Keep that as a remembrance for your kindness in coming to see a poor sick Indian child."

That night the northwest wind began to moan. Soon it bore down with the terrific force of a gale, in howling wrath. Drenching rain fell; wild gusts of storm dashed against the Mission buildings.

The wildness of the storm howling in mercilessness in the deep night stillness struck chill to the heart of every one. It was one of those sudden storms that sometimes sweep in gales over the north country, gone in a few minutes, but ofttimes leaving a wake of destruction.

When morning dawned, some of the boats were driven fifty yards into the forest; trees around the camp were stripped of limbs, and great rents ran down the bark and fibre of more than one.

But the worst deed done by it was when it lifted the tent off Betsy's sleeping form, and left her to the wild elements whose work was soon finished in her death through shock and wet.

It was not long until the news spread throughout the settlement, and the Indian wailing could be heard in that lonely, long-drawn lamentation that is theirs.

Two days later crowds of Indians thronged the little Mission Chapel. They came dressed in their prints of all colours and fantastic variety of costume; some with yellow handkerchiefs on their heads. Purple, blue, white, red were seen everywhere, but mourning was on every face, and sorrow sat on every bowed form.

A touching service in Cree, with plaintive music set to the words of Christian hymns, and then, one by one, men, women and children came to the front and printed a kiss upon the cold brow of the dead woman, while some whispered messages to her to be taken to the land of blessed spirits.

It was a sad procession that wound its way through the Mission fields, over the hills, across the bridge and up the opposite side of the ravine. There, amid the wooden monuments that marked the resting-place of relatives and friends, was laid the sacred dust of Betsy.

As the coffin was lowered, the conquering wind whistled its triumph through the limbs of the trees in the near-by forest, but it was a hollow triumph, for beyond the forest were the hills of light and faith could see there the real conqueror, whose face once shone in beauty in Betsy's dream, and who had come now for her in the guise of the storm on which He rode, but who gave His weak one conquest through the storm.

Reverently they lowered her body, the worn-out jewel-case of Betsy, simple-hearted, large-souled, unselfish Betsy; heaped the clods upon her coffin; waved farewells across her grave and went back to the old life where storms still raged and duties dared and dangers sought to breed fears within. But many were made stronger now because of her.

Brave Betsy, dark of skin, but white of soul; true-hearted Betsy, beloved of all, foe of none; she got her death through giving another life, and for many a day her story will be told, and children will be carried to the little Indian burying-ground and shown the simple wooden cross, simple as herself, on which they will see in simple letters--

"BETSY"

*XXXII*

*A LIFE DEGREE*

The other day the papers announced that when the Prince of Wales returns from his recent tour, he is to be given the Order of the Garter, the highest honour in the Empire in civil life, just as the V.C. is the highest in military service.

And it is a great honour to do some deed or fulfill some duty, so that a college or a nation gives you some distinguished degree which allows you to put letters after your name.

But it is all right to be proud of honours, if a fellow really earns them by hard work or genuine service. The only kind to be shunned are the kind you buy with money or get through some second-hand institution without any standard of toil.

Yet, after all is said and done, the great majority of you will perhaps never have a college degree, and will never be called over to meet the king and kneel before him, dressed up in gorgeous court clothes, while he strikes your shoulder with a sword and says, "Rise up, Sir Knight." You may never be a big lawyer and write K.C. after your signature, to show you can plead in the king's name; or K.C.M.G., to show you are one of the select knights of the royal castle; but I want to suggest you can still wear a title, and use the letters that stand for things worth while.

"Say, Billy, would you not feel big if the day came when your friends called you Sir William?" Who knows but what they may! The big men were schoolboys with some one else, and you may be one of the coming big men.

You remember when Tom Brown went to Oxford, he used to walk around and read the names of men like Raleigh and Wycliffe, and feel two inches taller. He said, "Perhaps I may be going to make dear friends with some fellow who will change the history of England. Why shall not I? There must have been some freshmen once who were chums of Wycliffe and Raleigh!"

Now, my point is that even if you do not, you need not fail.

Some day when you read, or now when you are reading Tennyson, you will find a poem called "Idylls of the King," where he speaks of knights who are "wearing the white flower of a blameless life," and who "live pure, speak true, right wrong, follow the king----"

If you are that, then I have the power to confer on you titles, and although you may not put the letters after your name, you can if you care to--William Blank, K.C.

"K" stands for kindness, and you know,

"There's nothing so kingly as kindness; And nothing so royal as truth;"

and you know,

"So may we in bonds of love, Each living creature bind, And make them gentle as a dove, If we are only kind."

There is something very attractive about a kind man; and we should be that, for we live in lands where Jesus has been heard of, and He has filled the earth with kindness.

A street-car line was held up once in Brooklyn, the city with its roar and busy bustle, all because a kitten had got on the rails. In China, they would not have bothered, but we have learned to be kind, to be friends even to animals.

"C" means courtesy, the behaviour of a lady and gentleman in heart and home and street.

I met an Indian in the North land, which I have told you about in my talks in "Boucher" and "Betsy," whose name was John Everett.

He had been a pagan Cree, but his tribe were now Christian. His clothes were not the best and he was a poor fisherman, living in an Indian hut, but I could have put him into Buckingham Palace; and while a lot of things would have been new to him, he would not have disgraced himself, for he was a perfect gentleman.

Courtesy means being courtly; that is, fit to stand in a court and not be ashamed of your actions. Here is a definition I read of a gentleman, and which I pass on to you:

"A gentleman is clean inside and out--a man who looks neither down to the poor nor up to the rich; who is considerate of women, of children and of everybody; who is too generous to cheat and too brave to lie; who takes his share of the world and lets others have theirs; who can win without bragging and lose without squealing."

But I can add three more letters, just as sometimes you see men whose names have a lot of honours tacked on. John Smith, M.A., LL.D., C.M.S. So I would like to confer on you not only K.C., but also R.S.P.

LL. D. means Doctor of Laws; and the one who has it can wear a wonderful gown of red silk. K.G. means Knight of the Garter; the most distinguished decoration of Great Britain, bestowed by the king, and won only by a favoured few. It runs back nearly six hundred years, and gives the one who receives it the right to wear special garments; a black velvet hat with white ostrich feather plume, a gold collar with twenty pieces of gold in it, and a silver star.

P.C. means Privy Councillor; one who belongs to the council that gives special advice to the king on state affairs. They wear a Windsor uniform with buckled shoes and knee breeches, and embroidered coats and cocked hats, and they look quite dressed up when it is all on.

The trouble is, a man may be all this and yet not be very much else except a clothes horse. He may be a knight without being knightly, or have a degree and lack real worth.

But the degree I want you to get always stands for something real.

R.S.P.--

"R" means reverence, which is one of the chief titles, for if you have not that it matters nothing what else you have.

Reverence for God and for God's name; reverence for yourself, your body, the wonderful gift of mind, the power you have of choosing; reverence for yourself as a temple in which God wants to dwell; reverence for everything that is sacred and holy; reverence for the church and the Sunday School.

When the Prince came to Canada everything was made as beautiful as possible, and every one uncovered their head because he represented the king.

But, girls and boys, you are children of the King. You are sons and daughters of the Lord God Almighty. Do you not think you should be very reverent toward all your life, because you represent the King?

Up among the Indians I was struck with their reverence in church and in our camp. Every night before going to our tents we stood around the camp-fire and sang a hymn and had a good-night prayer and every one of those Indians stood, the very picture of reverence.

You have a chance in church service and Sunday School to show your reverence for all these sacred things and to be all that makes you very knightly. An irreverent boy or girl, who does not care, or who makes a mock at holy things, will never get very high; or if he does, will some day topple down, sure as fate.

"S" stands for self-control, and that means able to use yourself and to use your temper.

It means you are sitting on the wagon-seat doing the driving and not running between the shafts while something drives you. It means you are the engineer in the cab, with your hand on the lever, and if you can't be that, your life train will run away with you and then smash goes everything!

Out in the Rockies they used to have safety switches on the heavy grades so that if a train got away it would run into the switch and up-hill and stop. But a good, strong engineer, with a strong hand on the lever, usually does the work. Self-control means you are in charge and are keeping your lever well in hand.

You know, girls and boys, we are like gunpowder. We fire off easily. We have so many nerves and are so high-strung; and if we were not that, we would never do anything.

Appetites and passions do things and give us all life force, but they have to be held in, like a splendid horse kept under bit and bridle.

Out in California there is a shell called the Abalone. It attaches itself to the rock by a very strong muscle that holds so tight it has to be pried open often with a crowbar. When it is all cleaned up it is wondrously beautiful in varied colours of green and pink and opalescent pearl.

One day a little child was walking on the beach and stepped on an open shell, when quick as a flash it closed and held her there. They suppose she called out in terror, but no one heard, and the tide rose and covered her, and the body swaying at last, broke off and all they found was a boot, with bones, in the heart of the shell.

They tell of some fishermen going out to gather Abalone shells. One, in a hurry, reached out to pull it off the rock, when it closed on him and held him as in a vise, and the rising tide gradually drew him out of the boat and drowned him. You see, instead of possessing the shell it possessed him.

Lose self-control and you become possessed by something. Keep self-control and you are master.

Life's end is to be master and not mastered.

"P" stands for purity. You know how you love a flower and what a picture of purity a white flower is. The beautiful Easter lily, or a white rose with waxen petals and shining heart, what is there more lovely?

Perhaps there is something even more lovely than that. It is the face and eyes of a little child who has never yet learned to sin, and looks up into your face with a look so sweet and holy that you wonder how you could do or be anything mean in its presence.

All knights are said to seek purity. The poet says they swoop

"Down upon all things base and dash them dead;"

and one of the noblest was said to wear

"the white flower of a blameless life."

How can we be that?