Part 3

"You can turn in as soon as you please;" while, from politeness, I suppose, he waited for me to retire first, keeping the candle burning on a trunk at the head of the bed. Hoping the gazers would weary of their mood, and he of his, that I might extinguish the candle, I went out again. But when I returned, landlord was still up, and the feminines not a bit sleepy, so, "doing as the Romans do," by an ingenious gymnastic feat, I was quickly hidden beneath the coverlids, while my new friend laid aside his garments at leisure, got slowly into bed, pulled up the covering, turned over, and blew out the light!

A silver ray streaming through the aperture in the logs opposite, woke me, and rising, I saw that it was the morning star peeping in at our repose.

"You are not going now!" exclaimed mine host, rubbing open his eyes.

"Yes, I make such slow progress I must be off in season!"

"Won't you stop and eat a mouthful first?"

"No, I thank you. But if you will yoke the cattle, and tell me about the road, I shall be much obliged."

The directions were not over clear, and the prairie did not lack in wagon-tracks, and, as might be expected, some miles were added to those really necessary in order to reach the settlement at which I was to tarry for business and refreshment. The stay here was much delayed. A debtor proposed to settle his long-standing account by letting me have a cow. The offer might not be made again.

"Is she near by?" I asked.

"O, yes; just down by the fence there. 'Twill take but a moment to find her."

The moment was full two hours ere she was secured, and attached to the team. Then an estimable lady teacher wished to ride over with me to L—, and there was further waiting for "big box, little box, band-box, and bundle." Mooly, picture of meekness that she was, when we were a couple of miles from her accustomed pasturage, slipped her rope, and rapidly retraced her steps. Her homesickness met with no indulgence, however, for she was chased down and led captive back, which she retaliated by causing us innumerable vexations, keeping one or the other of us humans watching her, lest her horns became entangled in the wheels, or to urge her on when she held back at the risk of her neck, when the locomotives from Norway had an attack of the capers.

Despite every exertion, night fell while yet we were some miles from home, bringing with it, what is rarely seen in Minnesota, a dense fog, obscuring the stars, and hiding the surface of the country beneath its misty vail. An uninhabited tract of burr-oaks and hazel-bushes was yet to be passed. The dim and tortuous path was soon lost, and we were wildly beating about to strike it again. At length the wheels run smoothly.

"It is the road," said I; "our wanderings will soon be over!" But immediately thereafter the cattle stopped, and refused to proceed. Passing quickly to their side, how thankful I was for their obstinacy. They stood on the steep bank of the Iowa, facing the water. The flowing current revealed our course, however, and ere long we reached our destination.

My arrival was greeted with a merrier laugh than that which celebrated my departure. The sight, no doubt, was mirth-provoking as our procession passed before the door. Ragged and soiled, with a mammoth squash, which I had bought of my English friend, crowning the load, the cow tied behind the team; the lady teacher, who, unfortunately, had been obliged to walk most of the way, to attend to the manners of the turbulent cow, bringing up the rear;—the show, it appeared, was worth the trouble of standing, lamp in hand, to witness it.

As for the lumber, it did double duty; not only keeping the winds at bay, but in the gloomiest weather suggesting memories, which had a most enlivening influence on our household.

LIGHT FOR THE PRAIRIE.

ONE fine, spring morning, such as Minnesotians rejoice in, services had just commenced in our little sanctuary, when two strangers entered. One of them I soon recognized as Mr. L., whose son Judson had perished from cold on the prairie. Himself and friend,—a most exemplary Christian, as I afterward found,—having no preaching in their settlement, had walked eleven miles to attend our meeting. As they were returning at night, I accompanied them a short distance for religious conversation.

Their presence had a wider significance than I had supposed. Mr. L. said that the funeral services of his boy Judson had awakened a general wish for preaching; and hearing that I was not engaged, the settlers at L— were anxious that I should locate with them.

"We want the gospel," he said, with Western frankness, "and we don't mean to 'steal' it either!" Then followed considerations tending to show that the speaker, and those he represented, were in earnest.

Visits to L— convinced me that it was a promising field of effort, and I did not feel at liberty to "decline the call," though previously I had scarcely determined whether to remain West or not. Accepting the generous hospitality of Mr. L., I became an inmate of his household, until the arrival of my family from the east. The shadow of their great sorrow still rested on them, stimulating in me desire for their spiritual good.

One member of the family, especially, excited interest. They called her aunt Flora. She was over sixty, stout and robust; her plain, almost repulsive countenance, wearing ever a sullen, imbittered expression. A more hopeless, forbidding face one rarely sees. She had also this peculiarity. She uniformly absented herself from our devotions, and if in the room when the hour of prayer arrived, would immediately leave till the exercises were over. I supposed, for a time, that some labor called her away, and wondered that domestic arrangements were not such as to permit her to remain.

"I do not get acquainted with aunt Flora," I said to Mrs. L. one day.

"No, I suppose not," she answered.

"Is she a professor of religion?"

"No, indeed she 'hates' religion," was the intense reply. "I do not think she has read a word in the Bible or attended church since she was a child. You have noticed she is never present at family prayers?"

"Yes; I thought perhaps some duty made her absence necessary."

"Oh, no, she will not stay. No one can induce her to; it has been often tried, but in vain."

"What a pity! And she looks so unhappy. We must pray and labor for her; perhaps God will soften her heart, and lead her to peace."

"You would not speak thus," was the decided rejoinder, "if you know aunt Flora's history. I have no hope that she will ever be a different woman. She has for years been the bitterest enemy to the Bible and to Christians that I ever saw."

"But," I interposed, "how often were the vilest outcasts brought in under the Saviour's ministry!—the lowest, most abandoned, as well as the fiercest opposers. How the grace of Christ was magnified when he saved Zaccheus and Mary Magdalene; and met Saul of Tarsus, and made him a 'chosen vessel.'"

"Well, you can try," she replied; "but you will be disappointed. If you knew aunt Flora as I do, you would not attempt it."

Before I was half through the first line, most of the audience were singing; many, I doubt not, with a tearful memory of other days. The effect can not be described. Many a hallowed association was called up at that moment, to thrill the hearts of wanderers from earlier influences.

But what an hour was that when, after many struggles, the church was formed! The rain and the "bad going" did not keep the faithful few away. A venerated servant of Christ, living a "mile and a half off" on the prairie, seeking relief from the painful disease that had interrupted a useful pastorate, was punctually present, and, grasping my hand, said, "I did not know how I should get here; and when I came to the stream, and found there was no way to cross, I did not know for a moment, but I must turn back; it was hard to do it, however, and I just 'waded through,' and here I am!"

Then later came the longed-for blessing. The rain of the Spirit descended, and in many a household was heard the inquiry, "What shall I do?" and the rejoicing of new-born souls.

Mr. and Mrs. L. were both members of our little church, and the family altar was no longer neglected. Aunt Flora, however, remained outside of the widening circles of salvation; she continued to absent herself from family devotions. But at length there was a change, imperceptible at first to most. Her voice was losing its harshness, her manner becoming more genial, and, though taciturn still, various little offices of kindness attested her growing interest. The "two" who, by agreement, were laying her case day and night before the Hearer of prayer took courage.

I embraced an opportunity to say to Mrs. L., "Do yourself and husband discharge your duty toward aunt Flora? Do you pray for and labor with her? If I mistake not, the Holy Spirit is leading her to thoughtfulness—to God."

"You do not 'know' aunt Flora," she replied, with a look of surprise. "She will never change; I can not expect it!"

Oh, how prone God's people are to limit his grace.

On Sabbath days Mr. L., in his large-hearted way, loaded his long wagon with neighbors, and, in his zeal to get people to meeting, sometimes sent the ox-cart too. All the family, save aunt Flora, went. One Sunday morning, as we were setting out, she stood in the doorway, holding a babe left in her charge for the day. There was a tender, pensive expression on her face, and I said: "Good morning, aunt Flora. It makes us feel sad to leave you behind. God can bless you at home, however."

I had never ventured much on the subject so unpleasant to her, but the parting remark was well received. I detected symptoms of deep emotion as she turned away, and I said to Mrs. L., "It would not surprise me to learn that aunt Flora reads the Bible after we are gone." Still the same incredulity.

About sundown, a few weeks after this, a messenger called at our house—for we were then housekeeping, some two miles from Mr. L.'s,—stating that aunt Flora had been taken suddenly ill, and wished myself and wife to visit her immediately. We were speedily by her bedside; but what a happy place was that! Suffering intense physical anguish, her face was radiant with heavenly light, and, with shouts of joy, she was triumphing in the love of a faithful and almighty Saviour.

"O Jesus! Jesus! How lovely, how glorious! I am his, and he is mine!" she exclaimed.

"How is this?" I cried, seizing her hand. "Do you, indeed, love the Saviour?"

"Oh, yes," she replied; "he called after me; he sought me, and found me; and I will praise him forever."

"This is, indeed, joyful news. But when did this change take place?"

"It was the Sabbath morning when you all left me to go to meeting. After I entered the room, something seemed to tell me that I was soon to die, and that I must prepare for it. I did not know what to do, but took up the Bible, thinking perhaps God would show me the way. While reading the chapter to which I opened, it seemed as if a great light shone on the words, and I saw how kind and loving Jesus was; how he loved sinners like me, and how he would receive me if I would only come. I came to him; and, glory to his name! he did receive me, and I am so happy! Help me praise him, all of you!"

"What chapter was it, aunt Flora, that was so blessed to you?"

"I do not know," she replied. "It was in the New Testament. It was about the woman that broke the alabaster box of precious ointment on the Saviour's feet, and wiped them with the hair of her head. And after I am gone," she added, "I want you to preach my funeral sermon from that chapter. I do not know where it is, I have read the Bible so little; but you can find it."

"We hope that you will get well, and live to do much good yet."

"No, no; my time has come, I am sure of it; and I am going home. I'm going to Jesus."

Mr. and Mrs. L. stood by in joyful surprise at her change. In earnest words she exhorted them to faithfulness and diligence; then calling in members of the household still unrenewed, warned and entreated them to seek the Saviour; their tearful promises witnessing to the power of her appeals.

One thing perplexed me. During the fortnight that intervened till she "fell asleep," she would quote passages of Scripture from the Old and New Testaments with surprising accuracy, copiousness, and pertinency, expressing herself almost wholly in the language of inspiration.

I said to her, "How is it that you can thus quote from the Bible, when, for many years, you have not read or heard it read?" The answer should thrill the heart of every Christian parent and Sabbath school teacher.

"Oh," said she, with a happy smile, "those are passages that I heard my father read at family prayers when I was a little child!"

"Let those who sow in sadness wait Till the fair harvest come; They shall confess their sheaves are great, And shout the blessings home."

"How I love you!" she exclaimed, on one occasion; "you are my spiritual father; and you (turning to my wife) are my spiritual mother! But, oh! how much more I love Jesus. Now I long to be with him." And thus aunt Flora passed away,—smiling, shouting, triumphing,—a "more than conqueror!"

At sunset, one day, I had strolled down to the quiet nook, by the shaded lakelet selected as Mr. L.'s family burial ground. It was on his land, and in sight from the windows, as if they could not trust their treasures further off. Judson, an infant son, and aunt Flora, lay there side by side, under those three grassy mounds.

I thought of that first, sad visit to the stricken family; of the singular way it was brought about, through the suggestions of my infidel friend; of the death on the prairie, and how this event, to which the mother was so long unreconciled, led to my removal to L.; of the subsequent labor and blessing.

Returning to the house, conversation turned to that very theme. I reminded them of the remark at the funeral, that if they would cease looking at secondary causes, they would find that the Lord had gracious designs in his dealings with them. "Now," said I, "see what has resulted! you have the gospel here, a Sabbath school, a Christian church, a revival, and in your own circle, 'the blessing that maketh rich;' you are both in the church; the family altar, over the desolation of which your son mourned, is restored, and aunt Flora is in heaven. Is it not true that—

"'God moves in a mysterious way His wonders to perform'?"

"Yes," replied Mr. L., "it was hard losing our boy. But it has brought great blessings to us. God has done right," adding, in a husky voice,—

"'Behind a frowning providence He hides a smiling face.'"

A RIDE TO A WESTERN WEDDING.

AMONG the checkered scenes of missionary life on the frontier, there are not many more pleasant than a genuine Western wedding. The heartiness, the bold dash, the generous hospitality of the thing, and often the novel phases of social-life which it reveals, together, of course, with the "fee," which is rarely small in proportion to the ability of the parties, make the event quite welcome to the toiling preacher.

One day, on answering a modest knock, there stood before our log-house door a young man, barefooted, coatless, with coarse, well-patched pants and rimless straw hat, his face beaming with a bashful happiness, which would at once have suggested his errand were it not for his garb, or rather, want of garb.

"Are you the minister?" he asked.

"Yes," I replied.

Then followed a pause.

"Is there any thing," said I, breaking the silence, "that I can do for you?"

"Yes. I came to see if you could come down to Mr. Dearborn's next Thursday, and marry a couple."

"Where does Mr. Dearborn live?"

"Seven miles below here, on the other side of the river. They want you at two o'clock, Thursday afternoon."

"I will endeavor to be there at that time," said I; "but who are the parties?"

"Oh," he replied, with a look which was its own interpreter, "you will know when you get there."

After getting all the directions needful for finding the place, I was about closing the interview, but my caller lingered as if he had more to say; and, after evident embarrassment, asked what I "charged for marrying folks?"

"I generally leave that to the parties," said I.

Then ensued another pause, broken, at length, by his saying, in a depressed tone,—

"I have no money now; perhaps you wouldn't come down and marry us, and wait for your pay?"

"That I will," I replied. "And, Providence permitting, you will see me at precisely the hour named."

The cloud lifted from the sunburnt face, and smilingly thanking me, he hurried away with a light step.

Seven miles in prairie land is a short distance; but not being in a mood to walk, I engaged a horse of a neighbor. Meanwhile, for the two intervening days, it rained, or rather poured incessantly, moderating to a gentle fall on Thursday. On calling for the horse, however, the owner was reluctant to let him go.

"Elder," said he (he was a Methodist), "are you used to managing horses?"

"Somewhat—why?"

"Because," he added, "my horse is a high-spirited fellow, and has a bad trick of throwing folks. Few can ride him without getting hurt. The fact is, I didn't sleep a wink last night, worrying about consenting to let you have him; and I don't feel right to let him go without speaking of it."

"How does he throw his riders?" I asked.

"By suddenly jumping to one side. He's powerful at jumping—beats all the horses I ever saw in 'that' line," said he.

"I can look out for him!"

"He'll outwit you, elder; hope you won't try it."

But it was too late to go in search of another, and pleading urgent business and willingness to incur all risks, the formidable beast was led out—a powerful, intelligent, fiery animal, black as a raven.

What can be more inspiriting than a horseback jaunt across a rolling Northwest prairie. So, despite the cold and rain, and now and then a prodigious leap by Black Hawk, the ride was most exhilarating. It was two miles to the bridge. On arriving there, I found that the freshet had swept it away. Just in sight, however, in the margin of a fine grove, was a snug little cabin, and riding briskly there, the barking of dogs and my shouts brought the proprietor to the door, a bevy of flaxen-haired urchins at his heels, with eyes brimful of curiosity.

"Is there any way to cross the river?" I asked.

"Yes; on the bridge," he replied, curtly.

"The bridge is gone."

"Well, then there 'isn't' any way."

"But is there no place on the stream shoal enough to be forded?"

The settler scratched his head comically, scanned me and my beast leisurely, and said,—

"Take the road to the left, and you will come to the old ford; how it will be in this flood, can't say. You can try it, though, if you like; nothing like trying, they say."

There was "need" of trying, I found, on reaching the spot. There rolled the river, deep and wide, with steep banks on either side. What was to be done? Go back and wait till the waters subsided? That was not "Western." The genuine pioneer never thinks of giving up an enterprise. A short experience in the vicissitudes of frontier life wakes up a self-reliance and love of adventure, which make danger and difficulty to be courted rather than shunned,—indeed, they are every-day occurrences, adding piquancy to privation and hardship. And, as I looked down into the water of the river, there rose to view the image of that ragged, barefoot, coatless, moneyless bridegroom; and memory recalled certain facts which I had learned about his borrowing articles of apparel for himself and bride, and materials for a wedding supper. Now, to disappoint persons in their condition was hardly to be thought of. So, chirruping to my good steed, we made the plunge—and a deep plunge it was, for the animal above as well as the animal beneath—for the former went nearly to his neck. However, the horse soon rose to the surface, permitting his rider, by a happy exercise of unwonted agility, to strike the saddle "a la Turk," which position I prudently kept till the opposite shore was gained. Clambering up the steep bank, my borrowed steed went at a break-neck pace the remaining five miles to our destination. It was a small, framed house, perched on a swell of land in the midst of a wide prairie, dotted with an occasional cabin. The dwelling was covered only with rough boards, between which the over-restless winds came and went at will. Alighting at the gate, a gray-haired man—the bride's father, who was cutting wood in the little front yard—laid down his ax and came forward to take my horse. He had, as I afterwards learned, served in the Mexican war, and had still a soldierly bearing. Taking the bridle, he said,—

"You are the minister, I suppose. We had given you up, thinking you would not come in such a storm as this. But how did you cross the river? We heard the bridge was gone."

"Horseback," said I.

"Well," said the old soldier, his eye kindling, "'a minister that can do that can preach, I know'!"

I had fulfilled my engagement partly from sympathy and the pleasure of conquering obstacles; there was, beside, a sort of presentiment that urged me on; nor did I in the end regret that I yielded to it.

The interior of the humble dwelling, and its occupants, I shall not soon forget. What taste and neatness under the most discouraging circumstances! What method and fertility of arrangement where all was plain, and rough, and scant! It is on the frontier, where the appliances of elegant housewifery are impossible, that woman's fertile resources of tact and skill most strikingly appear—often making the rude log-house and simple, home-made furniture wear an aspect of comfort and taste not unfrequently wanting in homes of luxury.

The household consisted of the father, already introduced,—mother, three daughters, and the young man who had called for my services.

"Mother is not well, and would like to see you a moment," remarked one or the young ladies, showing me into an adjoining room, where loving hands had spared no pains to fortify its pining inmate against exposure, and soothe the anguish of suffering.

A bed, with its snowy counterpane and tasteful curtains, stood in a corner of the apartment. On it reclined the dying mother, the emaciated frame and hectic cheek marking her a victim of consumption.