A VISIT TO FORT SULLY INDIAN MISSION.
BY REV. C. O. BROWN.
We had anticipated it with keenest interest, and Providence favored us. A delightful morning of the first week in August smiled on our programme, when our party of four persons was ready for the carriage ride from Pierre to the mission,—Rev. S. Norton, pastor of the Congregational Church of Pierre; Mr. J. Kimball, of Huron, Dakota, missionary of the American Sunday-school Union; Timothy Hudson, Esq.; and the writer, of Kalamazoo, Mich.
The scenery for the first six miles, from the heights which border the Missouri River, was most charming. At our left, and beneath us, was the river and its narrow strip of foliage and bottom lands, having here and there a picturesque dotting of Indian tents; beyond that, westward turned the grass-covered hills; to our right were the boundless prairies, beautifully variegated with cultivated squares of green and golden grain and settlers’ homes.
MISSION HOME, FORT SULLY.
An abrupt descent from such an outlook brought us to the valley beneath, through which the remaining eight miles of our ride lay. We had only fairly entered the valley when we began to see evidences of the faithful mission work which has here been done. For several miles along the river we were constantly passing the farms of mission Indians, where we saw established homes, quite as good as those of their white neighbors. We saw full-blooded Indians in civilized dress, riding their mowing-machines, raking their hay, and stacking their grain.
Rev. Thomas Riggs was away from home at the bedside of his venerable father in Beloit, but we were most kindly received by the lady missionaries in charge, Misses Collins and Irvine. The mission home into which we were ushered, is a long, tastefully-built log-house, standing sidewise to the road, having in front two bay windows, with porch between, and in the rear a large lean-to attachment for kitchen and laundry. The yard is beautiful with flowers and plants, and hallowed by a little inner enclosure which holds the sacred dust of Mrs. Riggs. (Shown in the picture just to the left of the home.) The large mission garden would be famous in any neighborhood. It is a sermon in vegetables and small fruits, well cultivated and highly productive. Just east of the home is the little chapel, a building capable of seating from 150 to 200 persons, having ceiled walls, and seated with chairs; having a neat pulpit and a good cabinet organ.
The interior of the home is most inviting. The spacious sitting-room has little of luxury; everything, however, is most cheery. The walls are ceiled and adorned with pictures. The bay window is beautiful with plants and vines and birds. A Steinway piano is at one end of the room, statuettes here and there, and books everywhere. During the twenty-four hours of our stay, our party wandered at liberty over the grounds, visited the chapel, were received by the Indians in their homes, and in the large room just described were several times entertained by their singing while their teachers led on the piano. No honest enemy of Indian missions could see and hear what we saw and heard, without a change of heart. Time and again we were melted to tears.
Our visit was entirely unexpected, so nothing could be “gotten up” for our benefit. We were the better pleased that it should be so. Everything was impromptu and natural.
The climax came unexpectedly just as we were about to go the next morning. While two of the brethren were hitching the horses a party of Indian women and two little boys, who with their baskets were about to pass the door, were called in by Miss Collins. They hesitated, and through their teacher apologized for their appearance, explaining that they had just started on a berrying trip. One of the men, who had come on some errand, was also invited in. Then Miss Irvine led on the piano and they all sang from open hymn books, one after another of the sweet gospel hymns which we could recognize only by the tunes. As they sang
“Jesus loves me, this I know,
For the Bible tells me so,”
and
“Oh, happy day that fixed my choice
On Thee, my Saviour and my God;
Well may this glowing heart rejoice
And tell its raptures all abroad,”
we could not refrain from tears. Our brethren, who had been attending the horses, heard the music and came in. One glance unsealed the fountain, and they too wept for joy. Then we all knelt in prayer. There were prayers in English and prayers in Dakota language, freely intermingled, and a pervading sense that the good Father understood it all. When we arose to our feet the Indians sang the Gloria, and Spotted Bear, by invitation, closed the meeting with a prayer which touched every heart, although we could not understand a word of it. The language of the heart is everywhere the same. And so with hearty hand-shakings and moist eyes this long-to-be-remembered meeting broke up. We came away feeling that for many a day we had not enjoyed such a refreshing, and saying one to another, “Surely God hath made of one blood all nations of men.”